13
It was still raining buckets when he stepped into his house, even though the worst seemed almost over.
He decided to eat his dinner in the kitchen, since there was no question, with the powerfully gusting wind outside, of opening the French doors to the veranda.
The sea had covered the beach, taken it over, made it disappear. Another few feet and it would be crashing against the walls of the house.
He more than made up for his sparse midday meal by savoring, one bite at a time, the fanciful seafood salad and swordfish involtini Adelina had prepared for him.
Then he cleared the table and rang Livia.
“It’s been raining very hard here, too, ever since this morning. But I had to go out anyway.”
“Why?”
“Selene was being naughty. I guess she got sick of being cooped up at home. I took advantage of a break in the weather and . . .”
She broke off and sneezed.
“You see?” Montalbano said, irritated. “You really shouldn’t be so careless, Livia, you haven’t really fully recovered yet, and it would take very little to . . . You have to take care . . .”
“Are you lecturing me now? Over a common cold? Is this some kind of joke?”
So much the better. How nice it was to surrender to a combative Livia! Thank you, Selene, blessed be thy name.
Afterwards he sat down in his armchair and turned on the TV to watch the Free Channel’s news report:
. . . the collapse of one wing of Building B occurred around seven-thirty p.m., at the height of a violent storm. The complex’s security guard, Augusto Pillitteri, fifty-six years old, who by chance was present when it happened, sustained injuries to the head and chest. He was taken to the Sant’Antonio Hospital of Montelusa and is in guarded condition. A few months ago another building in the same school complex in Villaseta . . .
Upon hearing these last words, Montalbano sat up in his chair and listened very carefully.
. . . was declared unfit for use shortly after it was turned over to the municipal government. We asked engineer Emanuele Riggio, site superintendent of the complex for Albachiara Construction, for an explanation, which he was courteous enough to provide us with. Here is what he said.
Zito’s face vanished and Engineer Riggio’s appeared. A fiftyish man with rather drawn features, hair cut down almost to zero, cold eyes, and a little gash in the place of a mouth.
There is very little to explain. The entire complex sits on a site chosen not by us, mind you, but by the municipal governments of Vigàta and Montelusa, where the land is subject to dangerous shifts. Naturally, before beginning construction our firm sought the opinion of distinguished professor Augusto Maraventano, who declared the area perfectly suitable for construction. After one building was declared unfit for use, the court ordered a further geological study, which unfortunately found inexplicable errors in the evaluation made by Professor Maraventano. For this reason, Albachiara has been cleared of all responsibility. Today’s collapse must therefore be attributed solely and exclusively to the violent storm which, owing to internal leakages, caused the ground to further give way.
The engineer’s hard face, which had hardened even more while uttering the last sentence, disappeared, and Zito’s reappeared.
This storm has caused other damage as well in various towns around the province. In Montelusa—
Montalbano turned it off.
He got up and started pacing about the room.
Though the engineer was playing it safe, the collapse was sure to revive and fan the gossip and insinuations that had arisen the previous time around, when the first building had suffered damage.
Albachiara was sure to find itself again at the center of suspicions and doubts at a rather delicate moment, since its Riguccio site had already been shut down for irregularities.
And this all meant that an article from Gambardella based on Asciolla’s revelations might deal a mortal blow to the firm and even send a few people to jail.
Now, if the Albachiara people had no qualms about shooting a poor stonemason who knew next to nothing about the firm’s shady dealings, imagine what they might do to Asciolla, who knew quite a few things about them.
Enough to ruin them forever.
He went to bed feeling worried for the journalist and the worksite foreman.
They had to be more than cautious. Would they be able?
By the time he fell asleep the wind had died down, but the rain was still falling.
He woke up later than usual.
It was still raining, and although it was eight o’clock, one could barely see inside the house. The power was out.
An hour later he was ready to leave.
The dirt track that led from his house to the main road to Vigàta had turned into a torrent of mud. The inspector’s car had trouble making it up the hill. The Vigàta road was jammed with an interminable queue of stationary cars, bumper to bumper. It took him well over an hour to get to the station.
“Ah, Chief! Inna waitancy room ’ere’d be a lawyer called Cahoney wit’ ’is client, an’ ’ey wanna talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“Cat, what kind of nonsense are you telling me?”
“Whassat, Chief?”
“That couldn’t possibly be the lawyer’s name.”
“It seemed a li’l strange to me, too, Chief, bu’ I swear onna stack o’ Bybers, iss true.”
“Fazio here?”
“Yeah, ’e’s onna premisses.”
“Send me Fazio first and then the lawyer.”
“Got any news?” he asked Fazio as soon as he walked in.
“Yeah.”
“You can tell me later. For now, have a seat and let’s listen together to a lawyer who’s come to talk to us.”
There was a faint knock at the door.
“Come in!” the inspector said, standing up.
In came a tall, distinguished man of about forty-five, with a cordial smile and a relaxed manner. In his left hand he held an elegant man-purse that must have cost him a whole stock portfolio.
“Hello, my name is Eugenio Mahoney, attorney-at-law.”
He exchanged handshakes with Montalbano and Fazio.
“And this is my client, Pino Pennisi.”
Who held out his hand to no one, but only stood there with his arms dangling at his sides, eyes downcast and knees slightly bent.
“Please sit down,” said Montalbano, indicating the two chairs opposite his desk.
Fazio, who’d remained standing, quickly wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it to the inspector.
“Here’s that phone number you asked me for,” he said, going and sitting down on the little sofa.
On the piece of paper were the words:
Pen brought Ing to Vig.
Montalbano then remembered what Terrazzano had told him.
Inge had left Germany to come to Vigàta because she was engaged to a construction worker here. This same Pino Pennisi who was now sitting in front of him.
“What can I do for you?” the inspector asked cordially.
The lawyer’s friendly smile then suddenly disappeared, and his face turned very serious.
“My client, Giuseppe Pennisi, known as Pino, has come to turn himself in,” he said solemnly.
But it was as if he’d merely said that it was raining outside. Fazio remained impassive. Montalbano, for his part, seemed to lend no weight to these words.
He opened a drawer, riffled around for something inside, didn’t find it, closed the drawer, then asked Fazio:
“You got any candy?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry.”
Montalbano then felt obliged to explain to the lawyer, who looked at him in bewilderment:
“Sometimes I get this itch in my throat, and only hard can
dies . . . I’m sorry, you were saying your client has come to turn himself in?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer.
He was drooping a little now. The business of the candy had ruined the effect he’d hoped to create.
“What did he do?”
“It was he who killed Gerlando Nicotra, in self-defense.”
Montalbano and Fazio exchanged a glance and understood each other.
Act three had begun.
“Ah,” the inspector said.
And that was all. Silence fell. Montalbano seemed to lose himself watching the raindrops pattering against the windowpanes, hurled by the gusting wind.
At last he spoke.
“If only I had a candy . . .”
“Want me to go look for one?” Fazio suggested, standing up.
“Yeah, would you?”
Fazio went out. Montalbano went ahem, ahem twice, stood up, went over to the window, went ahem, ahem twice again, then sat back down. The lawyer was watching his movements with stupefaction.
Fazio returned, placed a piece of hard candy on the desk, and sat down. The inspector unwrapped it and put it in his mouth with visible satisfaction.
“Ah,” he said, “I feel better already.”
“Do you want to hear how it happened?” the lawyer asked, wanting to retake control of the situation.
“Sure, why not?” said Montalbano.
“My client—” Mahoney began.
“I’d like to hear Signor Pennisi tell the story.”
Pennisi gulped twice before beginning to speak. Then he opened his mouth and immediately closed it again, as though he suddenly lacked the strength to speak.
“Come on, don’t be shy,” the lawyer said to him.
“From the beginning?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He heaved a long sigh and began.
“I met Inghi when I was workin’ construction in Germany. She was about to turn twenty at the time. We fell in love and moved in together. She din’t have no father or mother. ’Bout a year later I foun’ out there was work down here an’ so I decided to come back, an’ Inghi came with me. We moved into a house with one o’ my mother’s sisters, and Inghi started workin’ as a checkout girl in a supermarket. Six months later, one day I come home from work an’ she’s not there. My aunt said she came by in the afternoon, packed a suitcase in a hurry, and went away with a man who was waiting for her in his car. After that, I didn’t see her again for a few years.”
“Wait a second,” the inspector interrupted him. “Are you telling me you immediately accepted the situation? Didn’t you try to find her and bring her home?”
“No, sir.”
“Weren’t you even curious to know the name of the man she ran off with?”
“I already knew his name. It was Gaetano Pasanisi, the owner of the supermarket.”
“How did you find out?”
“Inghi tol’ me he was always chasin’ after her and giving her presents and propositioning her. And since she used to complain about me not bringin’ home enough money, I ’mmediately realized who the man was she ran away with, and that there was no point in goin’ lookin’ for her.”
“So you confirm that you hadn’t seen each other again for all these years, not even by chance?”
“Yessir. Also ’cause she wasn’t a checkout girl anymore at the supermarket. She was a kept woman.”
“Go on.”
“Then, two months ago, since I work at the Rosaspina site in Pizzutello, one morning, I’s on my way there when I saw her right in front of me, looking at me an’ smilin’. I just kept on goin’ but then she called me, so we talked a little, an’ then she got on her bike and rode off.”
“Do you remember what you said to each other?”
“She did most of the talkin’. She said she was married to Nicotra, the accountant, but they didn’t have any kids, an’ she showed me where she lived, right by the worksite. She wanted to know if I was married, an’ so I told her I was and that I had two kids.”
“Did you know Nicotra?”
“I knew who he was. I sometimes seen him go by in his car, but I didn’t know he was married to Inghi.”
“And how did you say good-bye?”
Pennisi looked confusedly at the lawyer, then the inspector.
“What’s ’at mean?”
“I just want to know whether, when you said good-bye to her, did you shake hands, did you embrace, or did you not do anything like that?”
Pennisi looked again at his lawyer; he seemed distressed.
“Tell him everything,” said Mahoney.
“She . . . hugged me.”
“And what did you do?”
“I hugged her, too.”
“Did you kiss?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you remember what time it was?”
“It was probably ’round eight-thirty in the morning. I was gettin’ into work a little late.”
“And this happened on the road leading to the construction site?”
“Yessir.”
“Wasn’t there the risk someone might see the two of you?”
“Sure there was, but I don’t think no one saw us.”
“Go on.”
“’Bout a week later, when I’d just turned onto the road to the site—”
“Were you in your car?”
“No, I’s on my scooter. Then a week later the same thing happened. She asked me if I wanted to come an’ see her after work, ’cause she felt like talkin’ about old times. She also said her husband wouldn’t be back till eight, an’ so we’d have a good hour or so. I said I’s busy, but she insisted, an’ so in the end I said okay.”
“And you went to her house?”
“Yessir.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.”
“Were you in love with her again?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you still desire her physically?”
“Yessir. An’ maybe also because she still seemed taken with me, an’ so I thought I could get revenge on her for leaving me.”
“Did you sleep together?”
“Not that time, no.”
“Tell me exactly what the two of you did.”
“As soon as I got there, she said there was an uncle of hers from Germany stayin’ in a room upstairs, but he wouldn’t be comin’ downstairs, an’ so he wouldn’t bother us.”
“Wait a second. Did she ever talk to you about this uncle when you were together in Germany?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Go on.”
“We sat down on the couch an’ she started talkin’ to me an’ holdin’ my hand tight.”
“What did she talk to you about?”
“She said she wasn’t happy in her marriage, that her husband neglected her, that he’d made her so many promises but hadn’t kept a single one, that it was better when she was with me and worked as a checkout girl . . .”
“Did you kiss?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make plans to meet again?”
“Yessir. She explained she wasn’t always free between six an’ eight, but she said I could definitely come back three days later. An’ that time we made love.”
“Where?”
“In the same big room downstairs where the couch was.”
“Tell me something. This uncle—did you ever hear him at least walking around upstairs?”
“Sure. But Inghi said he wouldn’t come downstairs. An’ in fact I never saw him once, not even by accident.”
“Did you ever hear his voice?”
“Once, when he was talkin’ on the phone.”
“What was he speaking?”
Upon hearing the question, Pennisi’s eyes op
ened wide, just like Pitrineddru’s.
“What’s that mean?”
The lawyer intervened.
“The inspector wants to know whether he was speaking Italian or German.”
He’d stressed the last word.
“German,” Pennisi said, echoing him.
“How many other times did you meet with Inge before the time Nicotra caught you together?”
“Four times.”
“Always between six and eight?”
“Yessir.”
“Now tell me about that night.”
“The last time, Inghi’d told me her husband said he had to go to Palermo the following evening after dinner, and he wouldn’t be back until late the next morning. It was a good opportunity to finally spend a whole night together. So we planned for me to go there right after midnight, just to be safe. And before knocking, I was supposed to check whether the car was still in the garage. Which I did.”
“What excuse did you give your wife?”
“I told her I was doin’ some moonlighting.”
“At night? In the rain?”
“I made up a story about an internal wall inside a house and said it was an emergency.”
“And?”
“So I got there, saw that the car wasn’t in the garage, and Inghi, who was waiting for me, let me inside. She told me to take off my shoes.”
“Why?”
“First of all, because she didn’t want me trackin’ mud all over the house, and second, so I wouldn’t make any noise comin’ up the stairs. She herself was wearing slippers. So I took my shoes off, and she grabbed them and put them under the radiator at the other end of the room, so they could dry off. She did the same with my raincoat.”
“So the two of you went upstairs to the bedroom?”
“Yessir, after Inghi turned off the light.”
“Do you remember whether the door to her uncle’s room was open or closed?”
“It was about three-quarters open.”
“Was the light on?”
“No. I heard him snoring.”
“And then?”
“Inghi led me into the bedroom and closed the door.”
“Did she lock it?”
“No. Then I got undressed, she took off her bathrobe, and we got into bed. Outside the wind and the rain was just terrible.”
The Pyramid of Mud Page 14
