Rounding the Mark

by Andrea Camilleri

  And he pointed his pistol at Fazio. But in so doing, he took his eye off Montalbano, who, feeling fed up by this point, sprang forward, grabbed the old man’s wrist, and disarmed him. He was not, however, able to dodge the fierce blow dealt him to the head by the old lady with her iron rod. All at once his vision fogged, his knees buckled, and he passed out.

  After losing consciousness, he must have drifted into sleep, since when he awoke in his bed and looked at the clock, it was eleven-thirty. The first thing he did was sneeze, one sneeze after another after another still. He’d caught cold, and his head hurt like hell. He heard Adelina, his housekeeper, call to him from the kitchen.

  “You awake, signore?”

  “Yes, but my head hurts. Want to bet the old lady broke it?”

  “Even bombs couldna brake dat head of yours, signore.”

  The telephone rang. He tried to get up, but a sort of vertigo knocked him back down into bed. How could that old bag have had such strength in her arms? Adelina, meanwhile, answered the phone. He heard her saying:

  “He jes’ woke uppa now. Okay, I tell him.”

  She appeared with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Dat was Signor Fazziu. He says he comma to see you here in haffa nour atta most.”

  “Adelì, what time did you get here?”

  “At nine, as usual, signore. They ha’ put you inna bed, an’ Signor Gallu he stay behind to help. So I says, now I’m here, I can look afta you, an’ so he left.”

  She went out of the room and came back with a glass in one hand and a pill in the other.

  “I brung you some aspirin.”

  Obediently, Montalbano took it. Sitting up in bed, he felt a few chills run through his body. Adelina noticed and, muttering to herself, opened the armoire, grabbed a plaid blanket, and spread it over the bedspread.

  “At your age, signore, you got no business doin’ them kinda things.”

  At that moment, Montalbano loathed her. He pulled the blanket up over his head and closed his eyes.

  He heard the telephone ringing repeatedly. Why didn’t Adelina answer it? He staggered to his feet and went into the living room.

  “H’lo?” he said in a congested voice.

  “Inspector? Fazio here. I can’t come, I’m sorry to say. There’s been a snag.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “No, little shit. I’ll drop by in the afternoon. You take care of that cold in the meantime.”

  He hung up and went in the kitchen. Adelina was gone. She’d left a note on the table.

  You was sleeping and I din’t wanna wake you up. Annyway signor Fazziu’s gonna come soon. I make some food and put it in the fridge. Adelina.

  He didn’t feel like opening the refrigerator. He had no appetite. Realizing he was walking around naked as Adam, he put on a shirt, a pair of underpants, and some trousers, and sat down in his usual armchair in front of the TV. It was a quarter to one, time for the midday news on TeleVigàta, a progovernment station whether the government was of the extreme Left or extreme Right. The first thing he saw was himself, stark naked, wild-eyed, mouth agape, hands cupped over his pudenda, looking like a chaste Susannah getting on in years, and a whole lot hairier. A caption under the image said:

  “Inspector Montalbano (in the photo) saving a dead man.”

  Montalbano remembered the photographer who had arrived behind Fazio and Gallo, and sent him, in his mind, best wishes for a long and prosperous life. Then the purse-lipped, chicken-ass face of Pippo Ragonese, the inspector’s sworn enemy, appeared on the screen.

  “Shortly after sunrise this morning . . .”

  For those who might not understand, a generic shot of a sunrise appeared.

  “... our hero, Inspector Salvo Montalbano, went out for a nice long swim . . .”

  A stretch of sea appeared, with some guy swimming far in the distance, tiny and unrecognizable.

  “You’re probably thinking that not only is it no longer the season for swimming, but it’s not really the most appropriate time of day for it, either. But what are you going to do? That’s our hero for you. Maybe he felt the need to take a dip to dispel the strange ideas that are often swirling about in his brain. Swimming far offshore, he ran into the corpse of an unknown man. Instead of calling the authorities . . .”

  “. . . with the cell phone installed in my dick,” Montalbano chimed in, enraged.

  “... our inspector decided to tow the corpse to shore without anyone’s help, tying it to his leg with the bathing suit he was wearing. ‘I can do it all myself,’ that’s his motto. These maneuvers did not escape the attention of Signora Pina Bausan, who had been looking out to sea with a pair of binoculars.”

  On-screen appeared the face of Signora Bausan, the lady who’d cracked his skull with an iron bar.

  “Where are you from, signora?”

  “My husband Angelo and I are both from Treviso.”

  “Have you been in Sicily long?”

  “We got here four days ago.”

  “On vacation?”

  “This is no vacation, believe me. I suffer from asthma, and my doctor told me that some sea air would do me good. My daughter Zina is married to a Sicilian who works in Treviso . . .” Here Signora Bausan interrupted her speech with a long, pained sigh, as if to lament the fate that had given her a Sicilian for a son-in-law. “... And she told me to come and stay here, at her husband’s house, which they use only one month out of the year, in the summer. So we came.”

  The pained sigh was even longer this time. Life is so hard and dangerous on that savage island!

  “Tell me, signora, why were you looking out to sea at that hour?”

  “I get up early, and I have to do something, don’t I?”

  “And you, Signor Bausan, do you always carry that weapon with you?”

  “No, I don’t own any weapons. I borrowed that pistol from a cousin of mine. Since we were coming to Sicily, you understand . . .”

  “So you think one should come to Sicily armed?”

  “If there’s no rule of law down here, it seems logical, don’t you think?”

  Ragonese’s purse-lipped face reappeared on the screen.

  “And this gave rise to a huge misunderstanding. Believing—”

  Montalbano turned it off. He felt enraged at Bausan, not for having shot at him, but for what he had said. He picked up the phone.

  “H’lo, Cadarella?”

  “Listen, you motherfucking sonofabitch—”

  “Hey, Cad, dode you regogdize me? Id’s Modtadbado.”

  “Ah, izzat you, Chief? You gotta cold?”

  “No, Cad, I just like talking this way. Lebbe talk to Fadzio.”

  “Straight away, Chief.”

  Fazio’s voice came on the line: “What is it, Chief?”

  “Fazio, what ever happedd to the ode mad’s pistol?”

  “You mean Bausan’s? I gave it back to him.”

  “Has he god a license for it?”

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  “I don’t know, Chief. In all that confusion, it slipped my mind.”

  “All righd. I mead, it’s dot all righd. I wad you to go fide this mad, righd this middit, and see if his papers are id order. If they’re dot, you’re to edforce the law. We cad’t let sub sedile ode geezer go aroud shooding eddythig that booves.”

  “Got it, Chief.”

  Done. That would show Signor Bausan and his charming wife that, even in Sicily, there were a few laws. Just a few, but laws all the same. He was about to get back in bed when the phone rang.

  “H’lo?”

  “Salvo, darling, what’s wrong with your voice? Were you sleeping or are you sick?”

  “The ladder.”

  “I tried your office, but they said you were at home. Tell me what happened.”

  “Whad do you wad me to say? It was like sub cobbedy routeed. I was daked and the guy shod ad me. Add zo I gaughd a gode.”

  “You you you you—”

&n
bsp; “Whad’s ‘youyouyouyou’ mead?”

  “You . . . took off your clothes in front of the commissioner and he shot you?”

  Montalbano balked.

  “And why would I wad to take my clodes off id frod of the cobbissioder?”

  “Because last night you said that this morning, come hell or high water, you were going to hand in your resignation!”

  With his free hand, Montalbano slapped his forehead hard. His resignation! He’d forgotten all about it!

  “Whad happedd, Livia, is, dis mordig, I was doig the dead mad’s float whed a dead mad—”

  “Goodbye, Salvo,” Livia said testily. “I have to go to work. Call me when you can talk again.”

  The only thing to do was to take another aspirin, get under the covers, and sweat like a hog.

  Before entering the country of sleep, he began to review, quite involuntarily, his whole encounter with the corpse.

  When he got to the point where he raised the body’s arm to slip his bathing suit over it, then wrapped the garment tightly around the wrist, the film in his brain stopped and then backed up, as on an editing table. Arm raised, bathing suit slipped over arm, bathing suit wrapped tight . . . Stop. Arm raised, bathing suit slipped over arm . . . Then sleep won out.

  At six that evening he was on his feet. He’d slept like a baby and felt nearly recovered from his cold. He had to be patient, however, and stay home for the rest of the day.

  He still felt tired, and he knew why. It was the combined effect of the treacherous night, the swim, the exertion of towing the corpse to land, the iron rod to the head, and, above all, the drop in tension from not having gone to see the commissioner. He locked himself in the bathroom, took an extremely long shower, shaved with great care, and got dressed as if to go to the office. But, calm and determined, he phoned the commissioner’s office instead.

  “Hello? Inspector Montalbano here. I want to speak to the commissioner. It’s urgent.”

  He had to wait a few seconds.

  “Montalbano? This is Lattes. How are you? How’s the family?”

  Good God, what a pain in the ass! This Dr. Lattes, informally known as “Caffè-Lattes,” was an avid reader of such publications as L’Avvenire and Famiglia Cristiana. He was convinced that any respectable man had to have a wife and children. And since, in his own way, he admired Montalbano, he simply couldn’t get it into his head that the inspector wasn’t married.

  “They’re all fine, thanking the Lord,” said Montalbano.

  By now he’d learned that invoking the Lord was the best way to achieve maximum cooperation on Lattes’s part.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to confer with the commissioner.”

  Confer! Montalbano felt a twinge of self-loathing. But when dealing with bureaucrats it was best to talk like them.

  “The commissioner’s not in. He was summoned to Rome by (pause) His Excellency the Minister of Justice.”

  The pause—Montalbano could see it clearly in his mind’s eye—had been prompted by Dr. Lattes’s respectful need to stand at attention when invoking His Excellency the Minister.

  “Oh,” said Montalbano, feeling his body go limp. “Do you know how long he’ll be away?”

  “Another two or three days, I think. Can I be of any help?”

  “Thank you, Doctor, it’s all right. I can wait till he returns.”

  E passeranno i giorni . . . ,he sang to himself angrily, slamming down the receiver. The minute he decided to hand in—or rather, to use the proper expression, to tender—his resignation, something arose to thwart his intention.

  He realized that, despite his fatigue, which was aggravated by the phone call, he felt hungry as a wolf. It was ten past six, not yet dinnertime. But who ever said you have to eat at an appointed time of day? He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Adelina had prepared a dish fit for a convalescent: boiled cod. On the other hand, they were huge, extremely fresh, and six in number. He didn’t bother to reheat them; he liked them cold, dressed with olive oil, a few drops of lemon, and salt. Adelina had bought the bread that morning: a round scanata loaf covered with giuggiulena, those delicious sesame seeds you are supposed to eat one by one as they fall onto the tablecloth, picking them up with your forefinger moistened by saliva. He set the table on the veranda and had himself a feast, savoring each bite as though it were his last.

  When he cleared the table, it was a little past eight. So now what was he going to do to kill time until bedtime? The question was answered at once when Fazio knocked at the door.

  “Good evening, Chief. I’m here to report. How are you feeling?”

  “A lot better, thanks. Have a seat. What did you do with Bausan?”

  Fazio got comfortable in his chair, pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket, and began to read.

  “Angelo Bausan, son of the late Angelo Bausan senior and Angela Crestin, born at—”

  “Nothing but angels up there,” the inspector interrupted. “But now you have to decide. Either you put that piece of paper back in your pocket, or I’m going to start kicking you.”

  Fazio suppressed his “records office complex,” as the inspector called it, put the piece of paper back in his pocket with dignity, and said:

  “After you called, Chief, I immediately went to the house where Angelo Bausan is staying. It’s a few hundred yards from here and belongs to his son-in-law, Maruizio Rotondò. Bausan’s got no gun license. But you have no idea what I had to go through to get him to turn in his pistol. His wife even bashed me in the head with a broom. And a broom, in Signora Bausan’s hands, becomes an improvised weapon. That old lady is so strong . . . You know a little about that yourself.”

  “Why didn’t he want to give you the gun?”

  “Because he said he had to give it back to the friend who lent it to him. The friend’s name is Roberto Pausin. I sent his vital statistics on to Treviso Police and put the old man in jail. He’s the judge’s baby now.”

  “Any news on the corpse?”

  “The one you found?”

  “What other ones are there?”

  “Look, Chief, while you were here recovering, two more bodies were found in or around Vigàta.”

  “I’m interested in the one I found.”

  “No news, Chief. He must have been an illegal alien who drowned before reaching land. In any case, Dr. Pasquano’s probably done the autopsy by now.”

  As if on cue, the telephone rang.

  “You answer,” said Montalbano.

  Fazio reached out and picked up the receiver.

  “Inspector Montalbano’s residence. Who am I? I’m Sergeant Fazio. Oh, it’s you? Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. I’ll put him on right away.” He handed the inspector the receiver. “It’s Pasquano.”

  Pasquano? When had Dr. Pasquano ever called him at home before? It must be something big.

  3

  “Hello? Montalbano here. What is it, Doctor?”

  “Could you explain something for me?”

  “I’m at your service.”

  “How is that every other time you’ve kindly sent a corpse my way, you busted my balls demanding immediately to know the results of the autopsy, and this time you don’t give a flying fuck?”

  “Well, what happened is—”

  “I’ll tell you what happened. You decided that the dead body you hauled ashore belonged to some poor third-world bastard whose boat had capsized, one of the five hundred-plus corpses that are lately so crowding the Sicilian Channel that you can practically walk to Tunisia across the water. And you just washed your hands of it. Since, one more, one less, what’s the difference?”

  “Doctor, if you want to vent your frustrations on me for something that didn’t go right, be my guest. But you know perfectly well that’s not how I feel about these things. Furthermore, this morning—”

  “Ah, yes, this morning you were busy displaying your masculine attributes for the ‘Mr. Police Universe’ comp
etition. I saw you on TeleVigàta. I’m told you got very high—what’re they called?—very high audience ratings. My sincerest compliments.”

  Pasquano was like that. Crass, obnoxious, aggressive, offputting. The inspector knew, however, that it was an instinctive, exasperated form of self-defense against everyone and everything. Montalbano counterattacked, adopting the requisite tone of voice.

  “Doctor, could you tell me why you’re harassing me at home at this hour?”

  Pasquano was appreciative.

  “Because things are not what they seem.”

  “Meaning?”

  “For one, the dead man’s one of us.”

  “Oh.”

  “And secondly, in my opinion, he was murdered. I’ve only done a superficial examination, mind you; I haven’t opened him up yet.”

  “Find any gunshot wounds?”

  “No.”

  “Stab wounds?”

  “No.”

  “Atom-bomb wounds?” asked Montalbano, losing patience. “What is this, Doc, a quiz? Would you just come out with it?”

  “Come by tomorrow morning, and my illustrious colleague Mistretta, who’ll be performing the autopsy, will give you my opinion—which he doesn’t share, mind you.”

  “Mistretta? Why, won’t you be there?”

  “No, I won’t. I’m leaving tomorrow morning to see my sister, who’s not doing so well.”

  Montalbano now understood why Pasquano had phoned him. As a gesture of courtesy and friendship. The doctor knew how much Montalbano detested Dr. Mistretta, an arrogant, presumptuous man.

  “As I was saying,” Pasquano went on, “Mistretta doesn’t agree with me about the case, and I wanted to tell you in private what I thought.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there, to your office.”

  “I’m not at my office, I’m at home. We’re packing our bags.”

  “Then I’ll come to your place.”

  “No, it’s too messy here. Listen, let’s meet at the first bar on Viale Libertà, okay? But don’t make me waste too much time, because I have to get up early tomorrow.”