“And why didn’t Dolores go to the carabinieri the way she did with the other lovesick suitor?”
Fazio grinned.
“Di Gregorio says she didn’t do anything because she actually liked the butcher. A lot, in fact.”
“Were they lovers?”
“Nobody can say for certain. But bear in mind that the butcher lived, and still lives, barely twenty yards away from the Alfanos. At night they could do as they pleased; the roads around there have hardly any traffic in the daytime, so imagine at night. But then the story reached Don Balduccio’s ears, and he wasn’t at all pleased to hear that the butcher was cuckolding a relative of his, a young man he was particularly fond of.”
“What did he do?”
“The first thing he did was call Dolores.”
“What did he say to her?”
“Nobody knows. But Di Gregorio says you can imagine. And he’s right. In fact, four days later, Dolores left for Colombia, telling everyone she was going to see her mother, who was unwell.”
“And what about Pecorini?”
“Chief, I’m going to preface this the same way Di Gregorio did for me: This is all only gossip, conjecture, surmise.”
“Let’s hear it anyway.”
“Pecorini, when he was twenty, raped a seventeen-year-old girl, the daughter of very poor parents. Pecorini’s father paid the girl’s family off, and in return they didn’t report it. But the girl got pregnant. And brought a little boy into the world. Who was called Arturo, like his father, and Manzella, like his mother. And, as these things go, Pecorini became fond of his unrecognized son, helped him to study, get his diploma, and find a job. He’s thirty years old now, with a degree in accounting, married and with a three-year-old little boy, Carmelo.”
“Come on, Fazio! What is this, the Bible?”
“We’re almost there, Chief. One day, when the kid was playing outside the front door of their building, he disappeared.”
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”
“Disappeared, Chief. Vanished. Twenty-four hours later, Arturo Pecorini shut down his butcher shop and left for Catania.”
“And what about the kid?”
“Thirty-six hours later, he was found playing outside the front door of his building.”
“And what’d he say?”
“He said a nice old gentleman, a grandfatherly sort, asked him if he wanted to go for a ride and took him in his car to a beautiful house with lots of toys inside. Three days later he left him in the same place where he’d picked him up.”
“That’s Balduccio’s style, all right. The old man wanted to carry out the operation himself. Then what happened?”
“Pecorini got the drift of Balduccio’s signals and moved out. And so Dolores was allowed to return. But Giovanni Alfano’s friends were approached by some of the Sinagra family’s men, and they were all given the same advice: that they shouldn’t mention this business about the butcher to Giovanni when he returned, because Don Balduccio didn’t want him to get upset.”
“But the last time you told me that nowadays Pecorini can come back to town every so often.”
“Yes, he comes for two days a week, Saturday and Sunday. A short while after he moved to Catania, he reopened his butcher shop here and put his brother in charge of it. They say he’s completely over Dolores now.”
“All right, then, thanks.”
“Chief, would you explain to me how you knew that the butcher had had an affair with Dolores Alfano?”
“But I didn’t know!”
“Oh, no? Then how come you immediately started asking me for information about Pecorini? Even before Dolores first came to the station!”
He couldn’t tell him the real reason—that is, that the butcher owned the house where Mimì was performing gymnastics with Dolores.
“Maybe one day I’ll tell you, or you’ll figure it out yourself. Do you know if Inspector Augello is in his office?”
“Yes, he is. Shall I go get him for you?”
“Yes. And come back with him.”
Fazio went out. Montalbano leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took two or three deep breaths, as if about to dive underwater. The scene he had in mind had to come out perfectly, without one word too many or too few. He heard them approaching. He kept his eyes closed. He looked rapt in meditation.
“Mimì, come in and sit down. Fazio, go tell Catarella I don’t want to be disturbed for any reason, then come back.”
He still had his eyes closed and Mimì said nothing. He heard Fazio’s footsteps returning.
“Come in, lock the door behind you, and sit down.”
At last he opened his eyes. It had been several days since he last saw Mimì. Augello’s face was sallow and unshaven, his eyes hollow, his clothes wrinkled. He sat on the edge of the chair and kept the heel of his right foot raised, nervously shaking his leg. He seemed tight as a rope that might snap at any moment. Fazio, for his part, looked worried.
“Lately,” Montalbano began, “the air we’ve been breathing in this department hasn’t been very good.”
“I’d like to explain—”
“Mimì, you’ll talk when I say you can. Most probably the responsibility for what has been happening is largely my own. I—and I’m the first to realize this—no longer have the energy and confidence that used to have you all following my lead, no matter what. We had become more than a team; we were a single body. But then the head of this body stopped working so well, and the whole body started feeling the effects. As the saying goes, a fish always starts to rot at the head.”
“But, Salvo—”
“I still haven’t given you permission to speak, Mimì . . . It’s therefore natural that some part of this body should refuse to decay with the rest. I’m referring to you, Mimì. But before saying what I feel I must say to you, I contest your assertion that I have never wanted to grant you any autonomy, any leeway for making your own decisions. Stop, no talking. On the contary, as Fazio can attest, I have been trying, especially lately, to unload practically every investigation on you, precisely because I felt, and feel, that I’m no longer the man I used to be. And if that hasn’t been the case as often as I would have liked, it’s because of your family obligations, Mimì. I’ve taken on certain investigations to leave you more time to devote to your family. And now you ask me, in writing, to assign you the case of the critaru murder. Are you getting ready to take over for me, Mimì?”
“May I speak?”
“Only to answer my question.”
“The situation is not what you think.”
“Then you don’t need to explain anything else to me. I think what I say will be enough for you. You don’t need a written reply. Okay.”
“What do you mean, ‘okay’?”
“The Scorpio case is yours, Inspector Callahan.”
Mimì gave him a bewildered look. He hadn’t understood Montalbano’s cinematic allusion. Fazio did, however, and immediately turned red in the face.
“You mean you’re passing it off ?”
“Exactly.”
Mimì finally caught on.
“You’re giving me the case?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You’re not going to regret it later on?”
“I’m not going to regret it.”
“And you won’t interfere in the investigation?”
“No.”
“I’ll have complete freedom of action?”
“Of course.”
“And what do you want in exchange?”
“Mimì, we’re not at the market. All I want is for you to respect the rules.”
“Meaning?”
“That, before taking any step whatsoever—arrests, press conferences, public declarations—you will inform me first.”
“And what if you tell me not to do it?”
“I won’t. You can be sure of it. I only want to be informed daily on the developments of the case.”
“All right, then. Than
ks.”
Mimì stood up and held out his hand to him. Montalbano took it and squeezed it rather tight. Mimì couldn’t resist any longer.
“May I embrace you?” he asked.
“Of course.”
They embraced. Mimì’s eyes were moist.
“This morning I phoned Dr. Lattes,” said the inspector. “Today is Wednesday, and this evening I’m leaving for Boccadasse to see Livia. I’ll be away until Sunday. So you have to replace me in every respect, Mimì. Fazio will now go into your office and explain to you how far we’ve got on the case. And he’ll put himself at your disposal. As soon as you can, call Tommaseo and bring him up to speed on everything. Fazio’ll be with you in three minutes.”
Mimì went out looking so happy, he seemed he might start dancing at any moment.
“He looked like he was about to kiss your hand,” Fazio said disparagingly. “And now, would you please explain to me why you had this brilliant idea?”
“Because I’m tired.”
“Come on, you can’t be that tired. I don’t believe it.”
“Well, then, it’s because I can’t stand this investigation any longer.”
“Oh, yeah? When did you reach your breaking point? Yesterday at Gioia Tauro?”
“Well, then, it’s because Mimì deserves it.”
“No, sir, Mimì does not deserve it.”
“Fazio, can we put a little distance back between the two of us? I decided to do this because I felt like it. And I don’t feel like discussing it any longer.”
“Look, Chief, that guy’s going to send the department to hell in a handbasket. He’s not right in the head. I don’t know what’s got into Inspector Augello. And this is a delicate matter, with the Mafia smack-dab in the middle. I don’t want to work with Inspector Augello.”
“Fazio, it’s not a question of what you want or don’t want. It’s an order.”
Fazio stood up, pale as a corpse and stiff as a broomstick.
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait. Try to understand. It’s precisely because it’s such a delicate matter, as you said, that I want you working alongside Augello.”
“Chief, if the guy takes off like a rocket, I’m certainly not going to be able to stop him.”
“If you alert me in time, I’ll step in.”
“But you’ll be in Boccadasse!”
“I don’t think anything will happen in these next three days. In any case I’ll bring along my cell phone. And don’t you have Livia’s home phone number?”
He didn’t feel the least bit guilty leaving his cell phone at home in Marinella, actually hiding it in the drawer where he kept his clean linen. That way poor Fazio, too, at the right moment, would get his own taste of betrayal. This was the first time Montalbano had ever told him one thing while secretly intending to do another. It was, moreover, inevitable : Weren’t they all treading in the potter’s field now?
He retraced the same route as the day before, but this time he didn’t slow down to take in the landscape. At the junction, instead of turning towards the airport, he continued straight towards downtown Catania. A short while later he found himself caught in a traffic jam that slowed him down to barely five miles per hour, which was too slow even for him, to say nothing of the repeated gridlock that lasted a good ten minutes each time. During one of these stops, a traffic cop passed by his car.
“Excuse me, but what’s going on?”
“Where?”
“Here. Why is there all this traffic?”
“You call this traffic?” asked the policeman, surprised.
Which meant that this was perfectly normal. By the grace of God he came at last within view of the arcades of the port district. He asked where customs was, and as he was heading there, he drove slowly past three sparkling display windows full of meat, exhibited the way jewels used to be at Bulgari’s. A big, lit-up sign said: PECORINI—THE MEAT KING. Finding a legal parking space was, of course, a fantasy, and so he stopped the car inside a sort of great open doorway with its door unhinged and got out.
At Pecorini’s, the similarity with the former display windows at Bulgari’s was heightened by the prices accompanying the different cuts of meat.
As he entered the butcher shop he felt as if he were entering the reception room of a first-class beauty salon. Sofas, armchairs, little tables. As there was a group of people at the very elegant counter, he sat down in an armchair, and at once a girl of about eighteen appeared dressed as a chambermaid, in starched cap and apron.
“Would you like a coffee?”
“No, thank you. There are too many people. I’ll come back later.”
As he stood up, the man at the cash register looked up and eyed him.
In a flash, Montalbano was sure of two things: one, that the man was Arturo Pecorini, and two, that Pecorini had recognized him, because he had frozen in the act of giving change to a customer. Perhaps he had seen the inspector on television.
After parking the car at the airport, Montalbano broke into a sprint, as there were only twenty minutes left before takeoff. Glancing at a monitor to see what gate the flight was leaving from, he saw only a blank. He looked more closely: the flight would be leaving with a delay of an hour and a half. And this, too, was perfectly normal, just like the traffic.
16
After they’d had breakfast together, Livia went to the office. Left alone, Montalbano unplugged the telephone, dawdled about the apartment for an hour or so, then took a shower, got dressed, and spent another hour smoking and gazing at the landscape through Livia’s big picture window. Then he left Boccadasse and went into Genoa. He went to the aquarium and, after a half-hour wait in line, managed to get in. He spent the rest of the morning among the fish, charmed and bemused. At lunchtime he went to a trattoria that Livia had recommended. In every place he’d ever been in his life, he had always adapted to the local cuisine. He was sure that, if he ever ended up in the godforsaken mountains of Afghanistan, a waiter would say to him something like:
“We have an excellent dish of worms with a side helping of fried cockroaches,” and he would confidently accept.
This time the waiter asked him:
“Pesto?”
“Of course,” he replied.
But when the waiter listed the main dishes for him, which were all fish, Montalbano felt it wasn’t right to eat them after seeing all those beautiful, living fish at the aquarium.
“Could I have a vitello alla milanese?”
“Sure, if you go to Milan,” the waiter replied.
He ended up eating an excellent fried sole, begging forgiveness. Back in Boccadasse, he lay down in bed. He woke up around four o’clock, got out of bed, and went back to the picture window to read the newspaper he had bought. Dress rehearsal for life in retirement, he thought to himself, half amused, half dejected.
Livia came home at six.
“You know what? When I told my friend Laura you were here, she invited us to spend the weekend at her villa in Portofino. Feel like going?”
“But I have to be back in Vigàta by Sunday evening.”
“Let’s do this. We can leave tomorrow morning, spend all of Saturday there and then, Sunday morning, after breakfast, I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“Okay.”
“Why did you unplug the telephone?”
“Because I didn’t want to be bothered by any calls from Vigàta.”
Livia looked at him in shock.
“You used to fret when you had no news from Fazio or Mimì. You’ve changed, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” he admitted.
They went out to eat at the trattoria the inspector had chosen as the Boccadassian alternative to Enzo’s in Vigàta. Before the food arrived, Livia brought up the subject of Mimì. She was worried.
“When was the last time Beba called you?”
“Three days ago.”
“You’ll see, the next time she calls she’ll tell you things are going better with Mimì.”
“Have the stakeouts ended?”
“Not yet, unfortunately. But since I know the commissioner is going to commend him for his work, his mood will definitely change, you’ll see.”
Is it possible that one is never done telling lies in life?
He got back to Vigàta at nine in the evening, went to eat at Enzo’s, and was home in Marinella by ten-thirty. He undressed, sat down in the armchair, and turned on the television. The Free Channel was running their umpteenth program on the arrival of illegal immigrants on Italian shores. TeleVigàta, for its part, featured the thousandth roundtable discussion on the construction of the bridge over the Straits of Messina. As there was still half an hour to go before the nighttime news broadcasts, he went out of the house for a walk along the beach.
On his way back, he thought he heard the telephone ring. He didn’t run to pick up. It couldn’t have been Livia, since he had phoned her from the restaurant. Surely it was Fazio. Once inside, he turned the television back on and tuned in to TeleVigàta. He was more than certain that during his absence Mimì had taken some initiative of his own and Fazio hadn’t been able to inform him in time because there was no way to reach him in Boccadasse. And, indeed, the news he was expecting was the first item on the program.
“Major new developments are expected in the case of the man whose dismembered body was found at the so-called critaru,” the anchorman began.
Then, in order of importance, he ran through the other headlines of stories he would cover during the broadcast—fatal crashes on the Montelusa–Palermo highway; sheep stolen in Fela; robbery of a supermarket in Fiacca; a three-year-old boy who fell from a fourth-floor balcony in Montelusa and was unharmed thanks, according to his mother, to the miraculous intervention of Padre Pio; two regional deputies arrested for collusion with the Mafia—before returning to the first story, which featured footage of ’u critaru itself; of Pasquale Ajena, the owner, showing the place where he had first seen the bag with the corpse inside; of the beautiful Dolores Alfano in tears, being supported by Prosecutor Tommaseo, who couldn’t hide his pleasure at putting his hands all over those gifts from God; of Mimì in glory and triumph displaying some tiny thing that Montalbano only afterwards realized was the famous bridge that Alfano had swallowed; of Fazio performing an acrobatic leap to get out of camera range.
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