IM1 The Shape of Water (2002)

by Andrea Camilleri

Wait here till I get back, Montalbano said to them, and the two, resigned, didnt even reply. They both knew well that any time one fell in with the law, whatever the reason, it was going to be a long affair.

  Have any of you called the papers? the inspector asked his men. They shook their heads no.

  Well, I dont want them sticking their noses in this. Make a note of that.

  Timidly, Galluzzo came forward, raising two fingers as if to ask if he could go to the bathroom.

  Not even my brother-in-law?

  Galluzzos brother-in-law was a newsman with TeleVig who covered local crime, and Montalbano imagined the family squabbles that might break out if Galluzzo werent to tell him anything. And Galluzzo was looking at him with pitiful, canine eyes.

  All right. But he should come only after the bodys been removed. And no photographers.

  They set out in a squad car, leaving Giallombardo behind on duty. Gallo was at the wheel. Together with Galluzzo, he was often the butt of facile jokes, such as Hey, Inspector, whats new in the chicken coop?

  Knowing Gallos driving habits, Montalbano admonished him, Dont speed. Were in no hurry.

  At the curve by the Carmelite church, Peppe Gallo could no longer restrain himself and accelerated, screeching the tires as he rounded the bend. They heard a loud crack, like a pistol shot, and the car skidded to a halt. They got out. The right rear tire hung flabbily, blown out. It had been well worked over by a sharp blade; the cuts were quite visible.

  Goddamn sons of bitches! bellowed the sergeant.

  Montalbano got angry in earnest.

  But you all know they cut our tires twice a month! Jesus! And every morning I remind you: dont forget to check them before going out! But you ass- holes dont give a shit! And you wont until the day somebody breaks his neck!

  For one reason or another, it took a good ten minutes to change the tire, and when they got to the Pasture, the Montelusa crime lab team was already there. They were in what Montalbano called the meditative stage, that is, five or six agents circling round and round the spot where the car stood, hands usually in their pockets or behind their backs. They looked like philosophers absorbed in deep thought, but in fact their eyes were combing the ground for clues, traces, footprints. As soon as Jacomuzzi, head of the crime lab, saw Montalbano, he came running up.

  How come there arent any newsmen?

  I didnt want any.

  Well, this time theyre going to accuse you of trying to cover up a big story. He was clearly upset. Do you know who the dead man is?

  No. Who?

  None other than the engineer, Silvio Luparello.

  Shit! was Montalbanos only comment.

  And do you know how he died?

  No. And I dont want to know. Ill have a look at him myself.

  Offended, Jacomuzzi went back to his men. The lab photographer had finished, and now it was Dr. Pasquanos turn. Montalbano noticed that the coroner was forced to work in an uncomfortable position, his body half inside the car, wiggling his way toward the passenger seat, where a dark silhouette could be seen. Fazio and the Vig officers were giving a hand to their Montelusa colleagues. The inspector lit a cigarette and turned to look at the chemical factory. That ruin fascinated him. He decided he would come back one day to take a few snapshots, which hed send to Livia to explain some things about himself and his island that she was still unable to understand.

  Lo Biancos car pulled up and the judge stepped out, looking agitated.

  Is it really Luparello? he asked.

  Apparently Jacomuzzi had wasted no time.

  So it seems.

  The judge joined the lab group and began speaking excitedly with Jacomuzzi and Dr. Pasquano, who in the meantime had extracted a bottle of rubbing alcohol from his briefcase and was disinfecting his hands. After a good while, long enough for Montalbano to broil in the sun, the men from the lab got back in their cars and left. As he passed Montalbano, Jacomuzzi said nothing. Behind him, the inspector heard an ambulance siren wind down. It was his turn now. Hed have to do the talking and acting; there was no escape. He shook himself from the torpor in which he was stewing and walked toward the car with the dead man inside. Halfway there, the judge blocked his path.

  The body can be removed now. And considering poor Luparellos notoriety, the quicker we do it the better. In any case, keep me posted daily as to how the investigation develops.

  He paused a moment, and then, to make the words hed just said a little less peremptory:

  Give me a ring when you think its appropriate, he added.

  Another pause. Then:

  During office hours, of course.

  He walked away. During office hours, not at home. At home, it was well known, Judge Lo Bianco was busy penning a stuffy, puffy book, The Life and Exploits of Rinaldo and Antonio Lo Bianco, Masters of Jurisprudence at the University of Girgenti at the Time of King Martin the Younger (14021409). These Lo Biancos, he claimed, however nebulously, were his ancestors.

  How did he die? he asked the doctor.

  See for yourself, said the doctor, standing aside.

  Montalbano stuck his head inside the car, which felt like an oven (more specifically, a crematorium), took his first look at the corpse, and immediately thought of the police commissioner.

  He thought of the commissioner not because he was in the habit of turning his thoughts up the hierarchical ladder at the start of every investigation, but merely because some ten days earlier he had spoken with old Commissioner Burlando, who was a friend of his, about a book by Ari Western Attitudes Toward Death, which they had both read. The commissioner had argued that every death, even the most abject, was sacred. Montalbano had retorted, in all sincerity, that in no death, not even a popes, could he see anything sacred whatsover.

  He wished the commissioner were there beside

  him now, to see what he saw. This Luparello had always been an elegant sort, extremely well-groomed in every physical detail. Now, however, his tie was gone, his shirt rumpled, his glasses askew, his jacket collar incongruously half turned up, his socks sagging so flaccidly that they covered his loafers. But what most struck the inspector was the sight of the trousers pulled down around the mans knees, the white of the underwear showing inside the trousers, the shirt rolled up together with the undershirt halfway up his chest.

  And the sex organ obscenely, horridly exposed, thick and hairy, in stark contrast with the meticulous care shown over the rest of his person.

  But how did he die? he asked the doctor again, coming out of the car.

  Seems obvious, dont you think? Pasquano replied rudely. You did know hed had heart surgery, he continued, performed by a famous London surgeon?

  No, I did not. I saw him on TV last Wednesday, and he looked in perfect health to me.

  He may have looked healthy, but he wasnt. You know, in politics theyre all like dogs: the minute they realize you cant defend yourself, they attack. Apparently he had a double bypass in London. They say it was a difficult operation.

  Who was his doctor in Montelusa?

  My colleague Capuano. He was getting weekly checkups. His health was very important to himyou know, always wanted to look fit.

  You think I should talk to Capuano?

  Absolutely unnecessary. Its plain as day what happened here. Poor Mr. Luparello felt like having a good lay in the Pasture, maybe with some exotic foreign slut, and he had it, all right, and left his carcass behind.

  He noticed that Montalbano had a faraway look in his eyes.

  Not convinced?

  No.

  Why not?

  I dont really know, to tell you the truth. Can you send me the results of the autopsy tomorrow?

  Tomorrow?! Are you crazy? Before Luparello Ive got that twenty-year-old girl who was raped in a shepherds hut and found eaten by dogs ten days later, and then theres Fofeco, who had his tongue cut out and his balls cut off before they hung him from a tree to die, and then

  Montalbano cut this macabre list short.

  Pa
squano, lets get to the point. When can you get me the results?

  Day after tomorrow, if in the meantime I dont have to run all over town looking at other corpses.

  They said good-bye. Montalbano called over the sergeant and his men and told them what they had to do and when to load the body into the ambulance. He had Gallo drive him back to headquarters.

  You can go back afterward and pick up the others. And if you speed, Ill break your neck.

  Pino and Saro signed the sworn statement. In it their every movement before and after they discovered the body was described. But it neglected to mention two important things, which the garbage collectors had been careful not to reveal to the law. The first was that they had almost immediately recognized the dead man, the second that they had hastened to inform the lawyer Rizzo of their discovery. They headed back home, Pino apparently with his thoughts elsewhere, Saro now and again touching the pocket that still held the necklace.

  Nothing would happen for at least another twenty-four hours. In the afternoon Montalbano went back to his house, threw himself down on the bed, and fell into a three-hour sleep. When he woke, as the mid-September sea was flat as a mirror, he went

  for a long swim. Back inside, he made himself a dish of spaghetti with a sauce of sea urchin pulp and turned on the television. Naturally, all the local news programs were talking about Luparellos death. They sang his praises, and from time to time a politician would appear, with a face to fit the occasion, and enumerate the merits of the deceased and the problems created by his passing. But not a single one of them, not even the news program of the oppositions channel, dared to mention where and in what circumstances the late lamented Luparello had met his end.

  3

  Saro and Tana had a bad night. There was no doubt Saro had discovered a secret treasure, the kind told about in tales where vagabond shepherds stumble upon ancient jars full of gold coins or find little lambs covered in diamonds. But here the matter was not at all as in olden times: the necklace, of modern construction, had been lost the day before, this much was certain, and by anyones guess it was worth a fortune. Was it possible nobody had come forward to declare it missing? As they sat at their small kitchen table, with the television on and the window wide open, like every night, to keep the neighbors from getting nosy and gossiping at the sight of the slightest change, Tana wasted no time opposing her husbands intention to go and sell it that very day, as soon as the Siracusa brothers jewelry shop reopened.

  First of all, she said, were honest people. We cant just go and sell something thats not ours.

  But what are we supposed to do? You want me to go to the foreman and tell him I found a necklace, turn it over to him, and have him give it back to its owner when they come to reclaim it? That bastard Pecorillall sell it himself in ten seconds flat.

  We could do something else. We could keep the necklace at home and in the meantime tell Pecorilla about it. Then if somebody comes for it, well give it to them.

  What good will that do us?

  Theres supposed to be a percentage for people who find things like this. How much do you think its worth?

  Twenty million lire, easy, Saro replied, immediately thinking hed blurted out too high a figure. So lets say we get two million. Can you tell me how were going to pay for all of Nen treatments with two million lire?

  They talked it over until dawn and only stopped because Saro had to go to work. But theyd reached a temporary agreement that allowed their honesty to remain intact: they would hang on to the necklace without whispering a word to anyone, let a week go by, and then, if nobody came forward, theyd pawn it.

  When Saro, washed up and ready to leave, went to kiss his son, he had a surprise: Nenas sleeping

  deeply, peacefully, as if he somehow knew that his father had found a way to make him well.

  Pino couldnt sleep that night either. Speculative by nature, he liked the theater and had acted in several well-meaning but increasingly rare amateur productions in and around Vig. So he read theatrical literature. As soon as his meager earnings would allow him, he would rush off to Montelusas only bookstore and buy his fill of comedies and dramas. He lived with his mother, who had a small pension, and getting food on the table was not really a problem. Over dinner his mother had made him tell her three times how he discovered the corpse, asking him each time to better explain a certain detail or circumstance. Shed done this so that she could retell the whole story the next day to her friends at church or at the market,proud to be privy to such knowledge and to have a son so clever as to get himself involved in such an important affair. Finally, around midnight, shed gone to bed, and shortly thereafter Pino turned in as well. As for sleeping, however, there was no chance of that; something made him toss and turn under the sheets. He was speculative by nature, as we said,and thus,after wasting two hours trying to shut his eyes, hed convinced himself it was no use, it

  might as well be Christmas Eve. He got up, washed his face, and went to sit at the little desk he had in his bedroom. He repeated to himself the story he had told his mother, and although every detail fit and it all made sense, the buzz in his head was still there, in the background. It was like the hot-cold guessing game: as long as he was reviewing everything hed said, the buzz seemed to be saying,Youre cold. Thus the static must be coming from something hed neglected to tell his mother. And in fact what he hadnt told her were the same things he, by agreement with Saro, had kept from Inspector Montalbano: their immediate recognition of the corpse and the phone call to Rizzo. And here the buzz became very loud and screamed, Youre hot hot hot! So he took a pen and paper and wrote down word for word the conversation hed had with the lawyer. He reread it and made some corrections, forcing himself to remember even the pauses, which he wrote in,as in a theatrical script. When he had got it all down, he reread the final draft. Something in that dialogue still didnt work. But it was too late now; he had to go to Splendor.

  Around ten oclock in the morning, Montalbanos reading of the two Sicilian dailies, one from Palermo

  and the other from Catania, was interrupted by a phone call from the commissioner.

  I was told to send you thanks, the commissioner began.

  Oh,really? On whose behalf?

  On behalf of the bishop and our minister. Monsignor Teruzzi was pleased with the Christian charity those were his exact wordswhich you, how shall I say, put into action by not allowing any unscrupulous, indecent journalists and photographers to paint and propagate lewd portraits of the deceased.

  But I gave that order before I even knew who it was! I would have done the same for anybody.

  Im aware of that; Jacomuzzi told me everything. But why should I have revealed such an irrelevant detail to our holy prelate? Why should I disabuse him, or you, of your Christian charity? Such charity, my dear man, becomes all the more precious the loftier the position of the object of charity, you know what I mean? Just imagine, the bishop even quoted Pirandello.

  No!

  Oh, yes. He quoted Six Characters in Search of an Author, the line where the father says that one cannot be held forever to a less-than-honorable act, after a life of great integrity, just because of one moment of weakness. In other words, we cannot pass on to pos

  terity the image of Luparello with his pants momen

  tarily down.

  What did the minister say?

  He certainly didnt quote Pirandello, since he wouldnt even know who that is, but the idea, however tortuous and mumbled, was the same. And since he belongs to the same party as Luparello, he took the trouble to add another word.

  What was that?

  Prudence.

  Whats prudence got to do with this business?

  I dont know, but thats the word he used.

  Any news of the autopsy?

  Not yet. Pasquano wanted to keep him in the fridge until tomorrow, but I talked him into examining him late this morning or early in the afternoon. I dont think were going to learn anything new from that end, though.

  No
, probably not, Montalbano concurred.

  Returning to his newspapers, Montalbano learned much less from them than he already knew of the life, miracles, and recent death of Silvio Luparello, engineer. They merely served to refresh his memory. Heir to a dynasty of Montelusa builders (his grandfather had de

  signed the old train station, his father the courthouse), young Silvio, after graduating with highest honors from Milan Polytechnic, had returned to his hometown to carry on and expand the family business. A practicing Catholic, he had embraced the political ideals of his grandfather, a passionate follower of Don Luigi Sturzo (the ideals of his father, who had been a Fascist militiaman and participated in the March on Rome, were kept under a respectful veil of silence), and had cut his teeth at the FUCI, the national organization of Catholic university students, creating a solid network of friendships for himself. Thereafter, on every public occasion demonstration, assembly, or galaSilvio Luparello had always showed up alongside the party bigwigs, but always one step behind them, half smiling as if to say that he stood there by choice, not out of hierarchical protocol. Officially drafted numerous times as a candidate in both the local and parliamentary elections, he had withdrawn every time for the noblest of reasons (always duly brought to the publics attention), invoking that humility, that desire to serve in silence and shadow, proper to every true Catholic. And in silence and shadow he had served for nearly twenty years, until the day when, fortified by all that his eagle eyes had seen in the shadow, he took a few servants of his own, first and foremost Deputy Cusumano. Later he would likewise get Senator

  Portolano and Chamber Deputy Tricomi to wear his livery (though the papers called them fraternal friends and devoted followers). In short, the whole party, in Montelusa and its province, had passed into his hands, as had some 80 percent of all public and private contracts. Not even the earthquake unleashed by a handful of Milanese judges, unseating a political class that had been in power for fifty years,had touched him. On the contrary: having always remained in the background, he could now come out into the open, step into the light, and thunder against the corruption of his party cronies. In barely a years time, as the standard-bearer for renewal, he had become provincial secretary,to the acclaim of the rank and file. Unfortunately, however, this glorious appointment had come a mere three days before his death. One newspaper lamented the fact that cruel fate had not granted a man of such lofty and exemplary stature the time needed to restore his party to its former splendor. In commemorating him, both newspapers together recalled his great generosity and kindheartedness, his readiness to lend a hand, in any circumstance, to friend and foe alike, without partisan distinction.