“So?”
“So she seemed more like the owner of a fancy café than a tailor.”
Livia started laughing.
“I’m sure one look at you was enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to understand the shape of your body so she could tailor the suit.”
For whatever reason, Livia’s words triggered in Montalbano the same embarrassment he’d felt when under Elena’s penetrating gaze.
Moments later, Livia said:
“All right, then, good night.”
Montalbano returned her good-night wishes, though he knew that it was going to be anything but a good night.
By this point the pasta was certainly as hot as it needed to be. He removed it from the oven, served it into a wide bowl, and began to enjoy its bounty.
When he’d finished eating, he realized that it was past ten. And so he went into the bedroom to look for a heavy sweater.
* * *
He got to the station right on time, at half past eleven.
“Ah, Chief! Dacter Cosma be waitin’ f’yiz in the waitin’ room.”
“And where’s Damiano?” asked Montalbano.
Catarella balked.
“Ya waitin’ for ’im, too? ’E ain’t ’ere yet, but I’ll let ya know soon as ’e gets ’ere.”
“Okay. And don’t forget, Cat, Cosma and Damiano always appear together,” said the inspector.
But in fact, Catarella hadn’t mangled the name too badly. And deep down, there was something saintly about Dr. Osman.
Montalbano went into the small sitting room; Dr. Osman rose and they shook hands and smiled.
“You don’t know how much I appreciate your agreeing to come,” said the inspector.
“Allah is forgiving and merciful,” replied the doctor. “And I, a mere drop in the sea, try to follow His example.”
They went into Montalbano’s office and sat down.
“How can I be of use to you?” the doctor asked.
“An exceptionally large landing is expected for tonight. More than four hundred people, on two different ships.”
Dr. Osman literally thrust his hands in his hair.
Montalbano continued.
“And so it’s possible there’ll be some incidents, even serious ones. We must try to avoid this at all costs. And that’s why I need your help.”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
“It occurred to me that it would be better for us to board the ships before they dock. That way you can make a speech to these people and persuade them that a calm, orderly disembarkation will facilitate and accelerate their transfer to the processing center.”
“Then tell me what you think I should say.”
“You must explain to them that the rules have changed and that anyone who does not follow the police’s orders will be immediately arrested, declared undesirable and illegal, and will therefore be sent back to his country of origin.”
“Really?! Is that true?” Osman asked in shock.
“No, Doctor, it’s not. But it’s a necessary lie.”
“All right, then. I trust your judgment.”
The inspector told him a few other things he should say, after which they got into the car and headed for the port.
* * *
When they arrived, there were some ten or so buses and three ambulances parked a good distance away from the berthing point.
The buses were all clean and shiny, as though waiting for a delegation of Arab sheiks come to visit the Valley of the Temples. The drivers were gathered in a circle, smoking and making small talk, all dressed in rather elegant uniforms.
Montalbano thought that a lot of people must be lining their pockets with this bus contract.
The twenty policemen, plus Sileci, Mimì, and Fazio, were already on the edge of the quay. Sileci came over to Montalbano and Osman, greeted them, then said to the inspector:
“We’ve received a wire directly from one of the boats that there are two men and a woman that need to be taken immediately to the hospital.”
“Are there any dead aboard?” asked Montalbano.
“Luckily, apparently not.”
“How about on the other ship?”
“No injured, sick, or dead.”
“So much the better,” said the inspector.
At that moment a coast guard lieutenant came over, holding a cell phone to his ear.
“The first boat is at the mouth of the port. What should I tell them?”
“Tell them to stop there and wait for us. We’ll be there in ten minutes.” Then, turning to Fazio, Montalbano asked: “Is the pilot boat ready?”
“Absolutely. Come with me.”
“I also need two of our men to come with me.”
“Okay,” Fazio said promptly, then called in a loud voice: “Macaluso and Gianni Trapani, over here!”
Two policemen quickly peeled away from the group and came up to Fazio.
“You two go with Inspector Montalbano.”
They boarded the pilot boat, which then put out immediately.
Montalbano turned to the two uniformed cops and said:
“As soon as you board the ship, go to the stern at once and post yourselves beside the gangway.”
As they approached the ship Montalbano noticed a problematic little rope ladder hanging from its side. He wondered whether he would manage to climb it. He was afraid to look like a fool in front of everyone.
He summoned his courage.
“I’ll go up first,” he said.
That way, he thought, if his foot slipped and he fell into the water, there would definitely be someone to pull him out.
Meanwhile the ship had turned on all its lights, and one was pointed straight at the rope ladder, to make it easier to climb.
Montalbano raised one foot, set it down on the first rung of rope, closed his eyes because the light was blinding him, and then, just to be safe, commended himself to both God and Allah.
He was advancing nicely when he suddenly felt himself being held back by something pulling on his trouser pocket. It must have got caught on a hook. He was too afraid to let go of the ladder with one hand, and so he merely hoisted himself vigorously upwards to keep on climbing, and at that moment he heard the hiss of his trousers ripping.
Once he came even with the deck, he felt himself embraced by the powerful arms of an officer and pulled aboard.
“Commander De Luca’s the name,” said the man, lowering his paper face mask.
Despite an initial cleaning of the ship, the smell of shit, piss, and menstrual blood still filled the air.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Montalbano.”
They waited for the others to join them. The inspector and Dr. Osman were taken to the bridge while the two uniformed cops headed towards the stern.
When they looked out from the bridge, they saw a formless mass, since the refugees were all bundled up under the thermal blankets they’d been given on board. All that could be seen were their eyes, glistening wide in the dark, as keen as those of a dog awaiting a bone.
Unable to bear the sight of those desperate, rapid-fire glances, the inspector looked away.
Dr. Osman brought to his mouth the megaphone that De Luca had handed to him, and started speaking in Arabic.
Montalbano was certain that the doctor was repeating word for word what he had asked him to say. Though he didn’t know any Arabic, he had the impression he understood a few words. As he was listening he remembered that once upon a time all the fishermen in the Mediterranean spoke a common language, known as “Sabir.” It was anyone’s guess how it had come into being, and it was anyone’s guess how it had died. Nowadays it would have been extremely useful to everyone.
Then the doctor must have finished his speech with a
question, because the inspector heard two hundred voices replying in unison.
“They’ve agreed to cooperate,” said Osman. “We can go now.”
De Luca gave the order for the boat to continue its approach to port.
When Montalbano and the doctor came down from the bridge, they immediately found themselves facing the crowd, which then slowly opened for them as they passed. The inspector felt a few hands stroking him gently, and a few voices saying:
“Shukran.”
Astern, Montalbano noticed three people lying on the deck in front of the still raised gangway, and two sailors giving them aid. Taking out his cell phone, he called Sileci and told him to send the three ambulances to the quay.
When the ship came to a halt and lowered the gangway, nobody moved.
They’d kept their word.
The stretcher-bearers were now able to board quickly, grab the injured, and carry them away. Dr. Osman then said something in Arabic, and at once the crowd lined up two by two, and the migrants began descending onto the quay in perfect order, without making any noise. All one heard was a kind of litany of laments and a few whispered words.
When the first forty people were on dry land, Osman ordered the others to remain on the ship. The police escorted those who had disembarked towards the bus. Then it was the turn of another forty to come ashore.
Once the last migrant had landed, the commanding coast guard officer told Montalbano and Dr. Osman that the second ship was waiting for them at the mouth of the port.
And so they boarded the pilot boat once again.
The second landing likewise unfolded without incident. Apparently Montalbano’s lie that he would arrest and immediately repatriate anyone who made any trouble had worked to perfection.
* * *
Since the migrants were disembarking in groups of forty, the last group to touch ground fell short, consisting of only twelve people. Montalbano, Osman, and the two policemen came up behind them.
Once the inspector was on the wharf, Fazio and Augello approached him.
“Chief,” said Fazio, “your trousers are all torn. We can see your underpants.”
“What’s wrong with that? Does it shock you?” Montalbano replied rudely.
“No, Chief. I just thought I’d let you know,” Fazio said resentfully.
At this point Sileci came over to greet his colleagues. But the handshakes were interrupted by two angry shouts that came from the last group of people to disembark, who were now near the bus. The men turned around to look.
One policeman was saying to a migrant:
“Take that blanket off. Take it off now!”
“No! No! No!” the man replied desperately, wrapping himself more tightly in it.
The cop tried to grab the blanket and tear it away from him.
Then something strange happened. The migrant let go of the blanket and started running wildly away. He was dressed like a Westerner, in a pair of corduroy trousers, a kind of sports jacket, and shoes so fancy they looked out of place.
“Stop him! He’s armed!” the policeman yelled.
Upon hearing these words, Fazio dashed off like a rabbit, followed by Mimì Augello. In the twinkling of an eye, they seized the man and threw him to the ground, and when Montalbano and Osman caught up to them, they saw Mimì trying to open the man’s hands, which were clutching his chest with all his might while he kicked out wildly and shouted:
“No! No! No!”
Finally Augello succeeded in making him let go. He stuck one hand under the man’s jacket and pulled out a long, black object.
“It’s a flute!” he said in utter astonishment, showing it to the others. Upon seeing the instrument, they were all speechless.
A flute, in that situation, seemed so extraneous an object that it might as well have fallen out of the sky.
Stripped of his flute, the man lay on the ground with his arms spread and his head tilted to one side.
He looked like Christ on the Cross.
He was quietly weeping.
“Help him up,” Montalbano said to Fazio and Augello.
When the man, with the help of the other two, was back on his feet, Osman took a step forward and looked him over carefully. Then he said something in Arabic.
But the man interrupted him at once.
“I speak good Italian.”
“I’m sorry, but aren’t you Abdul Alkarim?”
“Yes,” the man said in a faint voice.
“I heard you play a couple of years ago at the Maggio Fiorentino. I think it was L’après-midi d’un faune, by Debussy.”
“Yes,” the man repeated in an increasingly weak voice. “That was my last concert in Italy. Could I have a cigarette?”
Montalbano pulled out his pack, the man took a cigarette, and the inspector lit it for him.
“You can keep the pack,” he said, giving him the lighter as well.
“Thank you,” said the man, taking a deep drag.
“But how did you end up in this situation?” Montalbano asked.
“Shortly after that concert,” the man replied, “I learned that my brother had been arrested by Assad’s men and that his wife and eleven-year-old daughter had been left without means and fearing for their lives. I felt I had to go back to my country, but secretly, because I, too, had expressed my feelings against the regime. But then, six months ago, I managed to deliver my sister-in-law and niece to safety, and so I took ship myself.”
Mimì Augello handed the flute back to him. The man took it and brought it to his chest, stroking it lightly.
“You may still need it,” said Osman.
“I doubt it,” said the man. “If I’m lucky enough to be granted political asylum, I hope to get a job picking olives.”
Sileci, who had approached the group and witnessed the scene, said:
“I think it’s time to go.”
“Thank you,” the Arab man said to all of them.
And they watched him walk towards the group of refugees. The policeman gave him back his blanket, which the man draped over his shoulders before climbing into the bus. Montalbano told Fazio to send their men home.
Sileci got in his car and drove to the head of the column, and they all headed off. Bringing up the rear of the queue was a large, covered flatbed truck with Sileci’s men inside.
* * *
The dock seemed suddenly deserted.
Montalbano glanced at his watch. Half past three a.m.
Too early for the morning fishermen, too early for the fishing trawlers that had spent the night at sea to return to port.
“Where’d you leave your car?” he asked Osman.
“In the police station parking lot.”
“I’ll take you back there.”
They said good-bye to Fazio and Augello, and the rest split up and went their separate ways.
In the car Montalbano and Osman didn’t say a word.
When they pulled up in the parking lot, the inspector and the doctor got out.
They shook hands.
“Thank you for your tremendous generosity.”
Osman made a gesture as if waving away a fly.
“I’ll always be here when you need me, inshallah. Try to get some rest.”
And he got into his car.
* * *
Though tired, Montalbano didn’t feel like going straight to bed. He opened the French door, equipped himself with whisky and glass, went looking for the reserve cigarette pack and lighter he always kept in the drawer of his nightstand, and sat down outside.
He knew it was a cold night, but he didn’t feel it much, because the adrenaline in his body was still having an effect.
He thought again of the flautist.
The man’s dignity and composure had impressed him.
Then he had
a thought: How many people were there, among all those wretched souls, with the ability to enrich the world with their art? How many of the corpses now buried in the invisible cemetery of the sea might have been able to write poetry capable of consoling, cheering, filling the hearts of those who read them?
But, aside from that, how many chances for altruism, for generosity towards one’s fellow man, were being lost in the tragedy that was enacted every single night?
The flautist had given up a comfortable life, free of danger, refused the joy of applause, renounced his art in order to rush to his family’s rescue, at the risk of ending up in jail like his brother.
What was drowning in the sea was not only all those poor victims, but the better part of mankind.
He got up, went into the kitchen, took his trousers off, threw them away, and went into the bathroom, intending to stay in the shower for at least half an hour.
* * *
He slept in the blackest darkness for three hours straight, and woke up in the same position he was in when he’d fallen asleep, like some sort of deadweight that had been tossed onto the mattress.
All the same, he now felt completely rested and lucid.
It was past nine o’clock.
Today he made himself two mugfuls of espresso.
When he got to the station he found Catarella sleeping in his chair, head thrown back.
He reached out and slammed his hand down on the table.
Catarella jumped straight into the air, eyes popping out in terror.
“Wha’ss goin’ on? Wha’ss goin’ on?”
Then he recognized the inspector and immediately shot to his feet and snapped to attention.
“Beggin’ yer partin an’ all, Chief, bu’ I kinda dozed alluva sudden.”
“Tell me something, Cat. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Nah, Chief. I’s waitin’ f’yiz to come.”
“Then find yourself a replacement at once, and if in five minutes I find you still here at your post, I’m gonna kick you out.”
The Other End of the Line Page 4
