The inspector turned off the television and decided to start reading the latest novel by Vázquez Montalbán, which featured Pepe Carvalho as the protagonist and took place in Buenos Aires. He read the first three lines and then the phone rang. It was Mimi.
“Am I disturbing you, Salvo?”
“Not in the least.”
“Are you busy?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to talk to you. I’ll come over to your place.”
So Mimi’s attitude when he’d reproached him that morning was sincere, not just an act. What could have happened to the poor guy? In matters of women, Mimì was easy to please and belonged to that line of male thinking according to which every neglected woman is lost to her mate. Maybe there’d been a scene with a jealous husband. Like the time he was caught by Perez, the accountant, while kissing the naked breasts of his lawfully wedded spouse. Things turned nasty, and an official grievance was filed with the Office of the Commissioner. But Mimi had wiggled out of it, because the commissioner—the old one, that is—had managed to settle the matter. If it had been the new commissioner, Bonetti-Alderighi, that would have been all for the career of Deputy Inspector Mimi Augello.
Somebody rang the doorbell. It couldn’t possibly be Mimi, since he’d called not a moment before. But it was.
“Did you fly to Marinella from Vigàta?”
“I wasn’t in Vigàta.”
“Where were you, then?”
“Here, nearby. I called you from my cell phone. I’d been circling the area for an hour.”
Uh-oh. Mimi’d been wandering around the neighborhood before deciding to call. A sign that the matter was more serious than he had imagined.
Suddenly, a terrible thought occurred to him: What if Mimi had caught a disease from all his whoring?
“How’s your health, Mimi?”
Mimi gave him a confused look.
“My health? Fine.”
Oh God. If the burden he was bearing didn’t involve the body, then it must concern the opposite realm. The soul? The mind? Whom are we kidding? What did Mimi know about any of that?
As they were heading toward the veranda, Mimi said:
“Would you do me a favor, Salvo? Could you pour me a couple of shots of whisky, neat?”
He was trying to get up the nerve, clearly. Montalbano started to feel extremely agitated. He set the bottle and glass down in front of Mimi, waited for him to pour out a substantial serving, and then spoke.
“Mimì, I’m getting sick of this charade. Tell me what the hell is happening to you.”
Augello downed the glass in a single gulp and, looking out at the sea, said in a very low voice:
“I’ve decided to take a wife.”
Montalbano reacted on impluse, prey to an uncontrollable rage. With his left hand he swept the glass and bottle off the table, while with his right he dealt Mimì, who’d turned towards him, a ringing slap on the cheek.
“You stupid shit! What the fuck are you saying? As long as I’m alive, I’ll never let you do a thing like that! I won’t allow it! How could you ever think of such a thing? For what reason?”
Augello, meanwhile, had stood up, back against the wall, a hand on his reddened cheek, bug-eyed and terrified.
The inspector managed to get hold of himself, realizing he’d overreacted. He came towards Augello with his arms extended. Mimi managed to flatten himself even closer to the wall.
“For your own good, Salvo, don’t touch me.”
So it was definitely contagious, Mimì’s disease.
“Whatever it is you have, Mimi, it’s still better than death.”
Mimi’s jaw literally dropped.
“Death? Who ever said anything about death?”
“You did. Just now, you said: ‘I’ve decided to take my life.’ Do you deny it?”
Mimi didn’t answer, but began to slide down the wall. Now he had his hands on his belly as if in unbearable pain. Tears came out of his eyes and began to roll down beside his nose. The inspector felt a sense of panic come over him. What to do? Call a doctor? Whom could he wake up at that hour? Mimi, meanwhile, had jumped to his feet, cleared the balustrade in a single bound, recovered the whisky bottle, unbroken, from the sand, and was now guzzling its contents. Montalbano froze. Then he gave a start, as Augello began to howl. But, no, he wasn’t howling. He was laughing. What the hell was so funny? At last Mimi managed to speak.
“I said ‘wife,’ Salvo, not ‘life’!”
The inspector felt simultaneously relieved and pissed off. He went into the house, into the bathroom, put his head in the sink, turned on the cold water, and stayed there a bit. When he returned to the veranda, Augello was sitting down again. Montalbano took the bottle from his hands, brought it to his lips, and polished it off.
“I’ll go get another.”
He returned with a brand-new bottle.
“You know, Salvo, when you reacted like that, you scared the shit out of me. I thought you’d become a fag and were in love with me!”
“Tell me about the girl,” Montalbano cut in.
Her name was Rachele Zummo. He’d met her in Fela, at the house of some friends. She worked in Pavia, in the north, but was there visiting her parents.
“What’s she do in Pavia?”
“Want to hear something funny? She’s a policewoman!”
They laughed. And they kept laughing for another two hours, finishing the bottle.
“Hello, Livia? It’s me, Salvo. Were you asleep?”
“Of course I was asleep. What’s happening?”
“Nothing. I wanted to—”
“What do you mean, nothing? Do you know what time it is? It’s two o‘clock in the morning!”
“Oh, really? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late ... or so early. No, really, it’s nothing, just some silly matter, believe me.”
“Well, even if it’s some silly matter, you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“Mimi Augello said he’s going to get married.”
“Well, isn’t that the latest news! He already told me, three months ago, and begged me not to tell you.”
An extremely long pause.
“Are you still there, Salvo?”
“Yeah, I’m here. So you and Mr. Augello have your little secrets and keep me in the dark, is that how it is?”
“Oh, come on, Salvo!”
“No, Livia, allow me for once to be pissed offl”
“And you allow me the same!”
“Why?”
“Because you called marriage a silly matter, asshole! When in fact you should follow Mimì’s example! Good night!”
He woke up around six o‘clock in the morning, his mouth gluey, his head throbbing slightly. He drank half a bottle of ice water and tried to go back to sleep. No dice.
What to do? The question was answered by the ringing telephone.
At that hour? It was probably that idiot Mimi calling to tell him he’d changed his mind about getting married. He slapped his forehead. So that’s what created the misunderstanding last night! Since when does a Sicilian “take a wife?” In Sicily, one simply gets married! He picked up the receiver.
“Have you changed your mind?”
“No, Chief, I haven’t. That’d be rather difficult, since I don’t know what I would’ve changed my mind about. Care to tell me?”
“Sorry, Fazio, I thought you were someone else. What’s up?”
“Sorry to wake you at this hour, but ...”
“But?”
“We can’t find Catarella. He disappeared yesterday afternoon, leaving the office without saying where he was going. And nobody’s seen him since. We even asked at Montelusa Hospital ...”
Fazio kept on talking, but the inspector was no longer listening. Catarella! He’d completely forgotten about him!
“I’m sorry, Fazio, I apologize to all of you. He went to do something for me and I forgot to tell you. There’s nothing to be worried about.”
He distinctly heard Fazio sigh with relief.
It took him about twenty minutes to shower, shave, and get dressed. He felt battered. When he arrived at Via Cavour 44, the concierge was sweeping the street in front of the door. She was so skinny, that there was practically no difference between her and the broomstick. She looked remarkably like Olive Oyl, Popeye’s girlfriend. He took the elevator, got off on the third floor, and opened the door to Nenè Sanfilippo’s apartment with a picklock. The lights were on inside. Catarella was sitting in front of the computer in his shirtsleeves. Upon seeing his superior, he immediately shot to his feet, put on his jacket, and adjusted the knot on his tie. He was unshaven, his eyes red.
“Awaiting your orders, Chief!”
“You still here?”
“Just finishing up, Chief. Another coupla hours oughta do it.”
“Find anything?”
“Beggin’ pardon, Chief, but d‘you wan’ me to talk technical or simple?”
“As simple as possible, Cat.”
“All right. I din’t find a goddamn thing in this computer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said, Chief. It’s got no interneck connection. Inside it’s only got sumpin he’s writing ...”
“And what’s that?”
“Looks to me like a novel book, Chief.”
“And what else?”
“Then there’s copies of all the litters ‘e wrote and alla those writ to him. There’s a lot of ’em.”
“Business?”
“No bizniss, Chief. They’re skin litters.”
“I don’t understand.”
Catarella blushed.
“It’s like love litters, but—”
“I get the picture. And what’s on those diskettes?”
“A lotta filth, Chief. Guys wit’ girls, guys wit’ guys, girls wit’ girls, girls wit’ animals ...”
Catarella’s face looked like it was about to catch fire at any moment.
“Okay, okay, Cat. Print ‘em up for me.”
“All of ‘em? The guys wit’ girls, guys wit’ guys, girls—”
Montalbano halted the litany.
“I meant the novel book and the litters. But right now we’re going to do something else.You’re coming with me to a café, you’re going to have a caffellatte and a couple of crois- sants and then I’ll bring you back here.”
The moment he returned to his office, Imbrò, who’d been assigned to the switchboard, came in.
“Chief, the Free Channel called with a list of the names and phone numbers of all the people who contacted them after seeing the Griffos’ photo on TV. I wrote ‘em all down here.”
Fifteen or so names. At a glance, the phone numbers all looked to be from Vigàta. So the Griffos were not as evanescent as they had first seemed. Fazio came in.
“Jesus, what a scare we got when we couldn’t find Catarella! We didn’t know he’d been sent on a secret mission. You know what that wicked Galluzzo called him? Agent Double-oh-oh.”
“Spare me the comedy. Got any news?”
“I went to see Sanfilippo’s mother. The poor lady has no idea what her son did for a living. She told me that at age eighteen, with his passion for computers, he got a good job in Montelusa. Pretty well paid, and with his mother’s pension they got on okay. Then all of a sudden Nenè quit his job, had a personality change, and went off to live by himself. He had a lot of money, but he let his mother go around with holes in her shoes.”
“Tell me something, Fazio. Did they find any money on his person?”
“Are you kidding? Three million lire in cash and a check for two million.”
“Good, so at least Mrs. Sanfilippo won’t have to go into debt to pay for the funeral. Who was the check from?”
“From Manzo and Company of Montelusa.”
“Try to find out what it was for.”
“All right. As for the Griobs—”
“Have a look at this,” Montalbano interrupted him. “It’s a list of people with information on the Griffos.”
The first name on the list was Saverio Cusumano.
“Hello, Mr. Cusumano. This is Inspector Montalbano.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Wasn’t it you who called the television station when you saw the photo of Mr. and Mrs. Griffo?”
“Yessir, that was me. But what’s that got to do with you?”
“We’re handling the case.”
“Nobody ever told me that! I’m only talking to their son Davide. Good-bye.”
A joyous start is the best ofguides, as Matteo Maria Boiardo once said.
The second name on the list was Gaspare Belluzzo.
“Hello, Mr. Belluzzo? This is Inspector Montalbano, Vigàta Police. You called the Free Channel about Mr. and Mrs. Griffo.”
“Right. Last Sunday, the wife and I saw them, they were on the bus with us.”
“Where were you going?”
“To the Sanctuary of the Madonna of Tindari.”
Tindari, gentle as I know you—the line by Quasimodo echoed in his head.
“And what were you going there for?”
“It was an excursion organized by Malaspina Tours in Vigata. The wife and I went on one last year, too, to San Calogero di Fiacca.”
“Tell me something. Do you remember the names of the other passengers?”
“Sure, there was Mr. and Mrs. Bufalotta, the Continos, the Domenidòs, the Raccuglias ... There were about forty of us in all.”
Messrs. Bufalotta and Contino were on the list of those who’d called.
“A final question, Mr. Belluzzo. When you got back to Vigàta, did you see the Griffos with everyone else?”
“To be honest, I can’t really say. You know, Inspector, it was late, eleven o‘clock at night, it was dark, we were all tired ...”
There was no point wasting more time with other phone calls. He summoned Fazio.
“Listen, all these people went on an excursion to Tindari last Sunday. The Griffos were there too. The trip was organized by Malaspina Tours.”
“I know them.”
“Good. Go there and get the whole list.Then call everyone who went on the tour. I want them all at the station at nine o‘clock tomorrow morning.”
“And where are we going to put them?”
“I don’t give a damn where we put them. Set up a field hospital or something. ‘Cause the youngest of the lot’s probably sixty-five. Another thing: find out from Malaspina who was driving the bus that Sunday If he’s in Vigàta and he’s not working, I want him here within the hour.”
Catarella—eyes even redder than before, hair standing on end, making him look like a textbook maniac—came in with a fat stack of pages under his arm.
“Here’s all of it, Chief, all printed up and all.”
“Good. Leave it here and go get some sleep. I’ll see you late this afternoon.”
“Whatever you say, Chief.”
Jesus! Now he had a ream of at least six hundred pages on his desk!
Mimi came in looking splendid, and a twinge of envy came over Montalbano, who immediately remembered the spat he’d had over the phone with Livia. He darkened.
“Listen, Mimi, about that Rebecca ...”
“What Rebecca?”
“Your fiancée, no? The girl you want to marry, not take as wife, as you said ...”
“It means the same thing.”
“No, it doesn‘t, believe me. Anyway, about this Rebecca—”
“Her name is Rachele.”
“Fine, whatever. I think I remember you saying she’s a policewoman in Pavia, right?”
“Right.”
“Has she requested a transfer?”
“Why would she do that?”
“Mimi, try to think for a minute. What are you going to do after you’re married? Stay in Vigata while Rebecca stays in Pavia?”
“C‘mon, get it straight! Her name is Rachele. No, she hasn’t requested a transfer. That would be premature.”<
br />
“But, sooner or later, she’ll have to, won’t she?”
Mimi took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive underwater.
“I don’t think she will.”
“And why not?”
“Because we’ve decided that I should be the one to ask for a transfer.”
Montalbano’s eyes turned into a serpent’s: motionless, gelid.
Now a forked tongue’s gonna dart out of his mouth, thought Augello, feeling himself bathed in sweat.
“Mimi, you’re a motherfucking sonofabitch. Last night, when you came to my house, you sang only half the Mass. You talked to me about marriage, not about reassignment. Which for me is the more important of the two. And which you know perfectly well.”
“I was going to tell you, Salvo, I swear it! If not for your crazy reaction, which threw me for a loop ...”
“Mimi, look me in the eye and tell me the whole truth: have you already put in your request?”
“I have, but—”
“And what did Bonetti-Alderighi say?”
“He said it would take a little time. And also that ... never mind.”
“Speak.”
“He said he was pleased, and that it was high time that band of mafiosi at Vigàta Police—his exact words—started to break up.”
“And what’d you do?”
“Well ...”
“Come on, out with it.”
“I took back the request that was on his desk. I told him I needed to think it over.”
Montalbano sat there in silence for a spell. Mimi looked like he’d just walked out of a shower. The inspector then gestured towards the stack of pages Catarella had brought him.
“This is everything that was in Nenè Sanfilippo’s computer. There’s a novel and a lot of letters—let’s call them love letters. Who better than you to read this stuff?”
4
Fazio rang to give him the name of the man who’d driven the bus from Vigàta to Tindari and back: one Filippo Tortorici, son of Gioacchino and ... He stopped himself in time. Even over the telephone, he could sense the inspector’s growing exasperation. He added that the driver was out on a job, but Mr. Malaspina, with whom he was compiling a list of the people who’d gone on the excursion, had assured him he would send Tortorici on to police headquarters as soon as he got back, which would be around three in the afternoon. Montalbano looked at his watch: he had two free hours.
IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005) Page 4
