The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  “So, what can I bring you?” asked Enzo.

  “Your wife’s pasta,” said Montalbano, giving up.

  Enzo smiled and said:

  “And after the pasta?”

  “Just some vegetables in season, with no sauce,” said Montalbano, not giving up entirely.

  Afterwards, since it was getting late, instead of taking his usual stroll along the jetty, he went to the bar, drank a double espresso, and then headed off, ever so slowly, for the tailor’s.

  Like the first time, the person to greet him was Meriam.

  “Leena was so happy to see her parents again,” she said as she led him down the corridor. “And you know what? Inspector Sileci told me that the two attackers, who were also the boatmen, just as you said, have been charged with rape of a minor and aiding and abetting illegal immigration. The boy’s testimony was crucial.”

  * * *

  The first thing Montalbano noticed upon entering the great room were two large parcels, which the old man and the youth were fussing around with.

  Elena came up to him with a smile, wearing an ultramarine green dress.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector. It’s a pleasure to see you back here. I’ve brewed some tea for you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, unsheathing a big, fake smile. “I was hoping you would.” And he sat down in an armchair Elena had gestured towards.

  The woman then sat down beside him and handed him his cup of tea.

  Montalbano decided to use the same approach as the last time, and go one better. He emptied the cup in a single gulp.

  Elena didn’t understand.

  “Would you like some more?”

  “No, thank you. I’m good.”

  Then, just to make conversation, he gestured towards the two large parcels, which were now almost completely opened up, and asked:

  “New arrivals?”

  “Yes,” said Elena, “and I’m curious to see if they’ve sent me everything.”

  “Why don’t you check?” said Montalbano.

  “Thank you,” she replied, getting up and going over to the table.

  From one package she started pulling out a great many bolts of fabric, which she lined up on the tabletop. Then one of her helpers grabbed the now empty boxes and took them out of the room.

  Montalbano was spellbound by Elena’s gestures. Lightly caressing the fabric with her hands, she didn’t touch them so much as seem to feel them with all five of her senses. She would close her eyes and bring the material to her cheek, sniff it, set it back down, then pick it up again, rubbing it repeatedly between her thumb and forefinger.

  All at once she stopped.

  Then she said:

  “Hey! Look at this beautiful gray. If it had come sooner, it would have been perfect for your suit.” She picked up the roll, approached Montalbano, and had him look at it and touch it. “Don’t you think?” she asked.

  But before the inspector could answer, she continued:

  “On the other hand, maybe not. Actually, I think you’ll like the rust-colored light wool.”

  She went back to unrolling and rerolling the different bolts.

  At a certain point her eyes lit up even more.

  “Finally! I’d been trying to find this cotton for years!” Then, raising her voice, she called out: “Meriam, come quick, this is the muslin I was talking to you about.”

  Meriam approached, her curiosity aroused.

  “Touch it,” Elena continued, still holding the fabric. “It feels just like raw cotton or, better yet, like a cotton plant moving in the sunlight.”

  Then there occurred a sort of freeze-frame of her person, while everything around her kept on moving. In the middle stood Elena, completely still, eyes faraway in thought.

  Afterwards, as if her image were set back in motion, Elena shook herself and started opening the bolts of fabric one after another until they covered everything that was on the table.

  They had all the colors of the desert: sandy beiges, luminous oasis greens, boundless sky-blues, and the midnight blue of Tuareg turbans.

  Meriam meanwhile was touching the fabrics ever so lightly, as though afraid to damage them.

  “These are so wonderful, Elena! They remind me of the bands my mother used to use to swaddle infants. We should be careful. It’s a rather treacherous fabric, very delicate, and tears easily.”

  And she began to fold them up again ever so gently.

  “Come and see, Salvo,” said Elena.

  Montalbano got up and went over to her.

  “Feel how soft this is. I have no idea how this muslin can be so light and have such a dense, complicated weave, unlike all the other similar kinds of cotton.”

  Despite not knowing the first thing about these matters, Montalbano touched the fabric. And indeed it was like having air between one’s fingers, but not just any air: an air of effervescence and beauty.

  “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for this fabric. I had two rolls of it in a prior life, when I had my tailor’s shop in the north. It’s Lebanese cotton, and you won’t believe what it’s called: ‘Princess Sicilia.’”

  “Why’s that?” the inspector asked with a smile.

  “I don’t quite remember the whole story, but apparently there was once a Lebanese princess named Sicilia, who was forced to sail long and far to reach these shores, which were deserted at the time.”

  “I’ve never heard of her,” said Montalbano.

  “Here, feel this,” Elena continued. Then she stopped, looked at the inspector, and suddenly seemed very rushed. “I’m taking too much of your time,” she said.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Nicola, let’s start the fitting, if you don’t mind.”

  And with a quick step, she preceded Montalbano down the corridor towards the fitting room, followed by the old tailor holding a hanger with clothes on it.

  By now familiar with the routine, Montalbano took off his jacket as the tailor had him put on the left side of half a jacket. He adjusted it well on the inspector’s shoulder, then stepped aside for Elena.

  Elena started looking at how the garment hung on the inspector’s body. Drawing close to him, she grabbed the lower hem and jerked it down, then took a few steps back to have another look. Then she approached again and folded the hem of the sleeve back a little, after which she asked Montalbano to raise and lower his arm. She asked her assistant for the chalk and started making marks, in a kind of circle, around the sleeve. Then she started carefully studying the sleeve join, made a face, raised the sleeve two or three times, and made another chalk mark on the shoulder. Finally, with a quick jerk, she yanked the sleeve off of him and started looking at the inside of the sort of half vest that remained on Montalbano’s body.

  Here, too, she made two or three mysterious marks, and said:

  “Nicola, please help the inspector take it off. We’re all done.”

  The tailor also helped him put his jacket back on.

  “Nicola, in your opinion, when will we be ready for our final appointment with the inspector?” asked Elena.

  “In three days,” the assistant said.

  “Then we’ll be expecting you at the same time, Inspector. And we’ll have you try on the full suit, trousers included.”

  They left the room and headed back towards the big hall.

  Montalbano approached the table where Meriam was folding all the bolts back up.

  “Meriam, I wanted to thank you again for your help. And thank you, too, Elena, for being so understanding.”

  His left hand was resting on the table as he spoke, and all at once he felt something scratch the back of his hand and saw a white cloud moving across the table.

  “Ouch!” he exclaimed, more out of surprise than pain.

  “Did he scratch you?” asked Elena.
>
  “No,” said Montalbano. “It’s nothing. Just a little superficial scratch.”

  “Naughty boy!” Elena said to the white cloud, which had meanwhile turned into a cat.

  “I’m sorry, but Rinaldo has been acting strangely all day and bothering everybody. He won’t stop sticking to me. Maybe he senses an earthquake on the way.”

  “Or maybe he just doesn’t like me,” said Montalbano, about to leave the big room after saying good-bye to Elena’s assistants.

  Elena followed him out with the cat in her arms and, opposite the fitting room, opened a small door through which he could see some stairs.

  She set the cat down and tapped him lightly on the rump.

  “Go back upstairs, Rinaldo,” she said, pushing him towards the first stair. “As you can see,” she said, closing the door, “I work at home. I live upstairs from my shop.”

  They’d barely taken three steps down the corridor when Montalbano nearly tripped over something. He looked down and saw that it was Rinaldo.

  “But is it your cat?” he asked. “How did he manage to open the door?”

  Elena smiled.

  “He’s a very smart cat. He just jumps up, hangs from the handle, and opens the door!”

  She bent down to pick him up again.

  “Be a good kitty, Rinaldo. What’s got into you today? Mamma is not going out; she’ll be here with you all day. She’s not going anywhere.”

  Then, turning to Montalbano:

  “I really don’t know what’s got into his head. He’s so restless, he’s just adding to my agitation.”

  “Why, is there anything wrong?” asked the inspector.

  “Oh, no, never mind.”

  For a brief moment her face was transformed. A small dark cloud had momentarily obscured the light in her eyes.

  Elena then showed him out and gave him a peck on the cheek by way of good-bye, but it seemed to Montalbano that her head was elsewhere.

  He’d just stepped out of the tailor’s shop when a man came up to him and stood before him.

  “Hello, Inspector! What a lucky coincidence! I was just thinking I needed to have a few words with you.”

  Though he’d recognized him at once, Montalbano made a puzzled face, because the man was someone he really didn’t like.

  “I’m sorry, but who are you?” he asked brusquely.

  “I’m Filippo Zirafa,” said the man. “I work for the Gazzettino Siciliano. We’ve spoken to each other before . . .”

  Zirafa was known for his particularly vehement anti-migrant articles. That was the main reason the inspector couldn’t stand him.

  “I don’t remember. What do you want?”

  “I would like to ask you a few questions about—”

  “I don’t grant interviews,” said Montalbano, cutting him off.

  But the man would not give up.

  “All right, then allow me to make a comment. I’ve gotten wind of the fact that a young migrant girl has been admitted to Montelusa Hospital after she was raped during the crossing.”

  “Oh, really?!” said Montalbano, feigning surprise.

  “Yes. So I would like to know what you think of these so-called migrants who pretend to be desperate wretches seeking safety and instead end up raping a young girl. It seems clear to me that they’re just crooks, terrorists who come first to steal jobs from our working people and then to rape our women. Don’t you agree?”

  “Totally,” said Montalbano. “And I’ll tell you something else. But you have to promise me not to reveal your source.”

  “Of course. I promise.”

  “Apparently while out at sea these migrants engage in veritable orgies. I was told that one time they actually organized a birthday party replete with music, singing, Chinese lanterns, and dancing.”

  The journalist gawked, slack-jawed, but immediately recovered.

  “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said the inspector. “I have nothing but the greatest respect for the press.”

  And he reached out, moved Zirafa to one side, and resumed walking, as the man stood there speechless, watching him.

  * * *

  At the usual four o’clock meeting with Augello and Fazio, Mimì told them, in full detail, about the case of the little boy who’d disappeared the previous night, before he was later found in the engine room.

  “The problem,” said Montalbano, “is that we must try in every way possible to prevent these kinds of mishaps during the landings.”

  “And how can we do that?” asked Fazio.

  “I think I have an inkling.”

  At that moment Sileci came in. Fazio vacated his chair for him.

  “So, what can we expect this evening?” the inspector asked him.

  “The situation’s looking pretty serious.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that two boats are expected around one o’clock, with a total of four hundred and twenty migrants, including at least four dead and ten with grave injuries.”

  “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Fazio. “I’ll inform Dr. Osman at once.”

  “How many men do you have available?” Montalbano asked Sileci.

  “The usual ten.”

  “Come on!” said Montalbano. “Tonight you have to bring at least fifteen. My guys are totally exhausted and I can’t give you any more than ten men.”

  Sileci, who realized he’d been pushing his luck, threw up his hands and gave in.

  “And there’s another thing,” said Montalbano. “The buses are too far from the boat. The migrants disembark in groups of forty. From now on let’s arrange it so that the bus is at the foot of the gangway, on the dock, as soon as they come down, so that there will be little room for escape. I also wanted to request that you have all the bus drivers remain at the wheel and have their vehicles arranged in a semicircle so that, if the lights go out, they can turn on their headlights and enable us to see. Got that?”

  “Got it,” said Sileci.

  The meeting broke up. Montalbano lingered a bit in his office. Before going out he rang Livia and told her he’d gone for a fitting and would be busy all night at the docks. Then he left and headed home.

  In the fridge he found a platter of marinated sardines in a sauce of olive oil and oranges. Montalbano ate them cold while watching TV.

  That evening the program Chi l’ha visto? was on. It was a show he found interesting, because a strange thing often happened: In certain cases of disappearance or murder, he would immediately think of what would be the best lead to follow, whereas his colleagues, without fail, would always choose a different one.

  Why, moreover, even though extremely advanced technologies were now available that previously only James Bond had possessed, did these new means always end up complicating things instead of making them easier?

  It was the same with medicine. Doctors had lost their “clinical eye” and relied only on test results. Meanwhile the police were losing their intuition and passively accepting scientific findings.

  This, in a country where everyone suddenly turns into cops, coroners, judges, and prosecutors for every case, splitting up into “guilty” and “innocent” camps with the same intensity with which they root for their favorite soccer teams.

  It was time. He turned off the television set and started getting ready for the night ahead.

  7

  The first thing he did was take a pair of old jeans out of the armoire. He didn’t want to ruin another good pair of trousers. But he had some trouble actually fitting into the jeans, and so he lay down on the bed, sucked in his gut, held his breath, and, counting one, two, three in his mind, was finally able to zip them up.

  The second thing he did was drink a double mug of espresso with a dash of whisky thrown in to balance things out.

  Then h
e put on the usual jacket, went out, locked the door, and drove off.

  Once he was on the dock, he realized at once that Sileci had taken his advice. The buses were parked in a semicircle and the drivers were all in their seats.

  This time, in addition to the ambulances, there were also some small vans with body bags.

  Dr. Osman and Sileci came over to the inspector.

  “Naturally,” said the doctor, “we’re in agreement that the injured should disembark first, then the migrants, and then we’ll have the dead brought down.”

  “That’s fine with me,” said Montalbano.

  “How far from the gangway should the first bus pull up?” asked Sileci.

  “Let’s put three men on each side of the gangway to form a kind of corridor leading the migrants directly to the bus’s entrance. If that approach works, then clearly we’ll be able, in the future, to reduce considerably the number of men needed for these landings. What do you think?”

  “It’s worth a try,” replied Sileci, who looked dead tired.

  Then his cell phone rang. Sileci answered, listened, ended the exchange, and said:

  “The first ship is stopped at the entrance to the harbor.”

  “And where’s the pilot boat?” asked Montalbano.

  “It’s waiting at the usual place.”

  “Then let’s go,” the inspector said to Osman.

  He had barely taken three steps when he heard a car pull up at high speed and come to a screeching halt.

  The bus drivers, for whatever reason, all turned their headlights on at the same time.

  Out of the car popped Catarella, completely dazed by the lights; shielding his eyes with his hands, he yelled:

  “Inspector Montalbano! Inspector Montalbano! Stop, fer peetie’s sake! Don’ get onna boat, fer peetie’s sake!”

  Montalbano balked. What the hell was going on?