IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Would you excuse me a moment, sir?”

  “By all means! I should be the one asking you ...”

  He let him go on talking, went into the bathroom, emptied his bladder, and gave his face a good washing. When talking to Guttadauro one had to be alert and vigilant, to catch even the most fleeting nuances in the words he used.

  “Here I am, Counsel.”

  “This morning, my dear Inspector, I went to see my old friend and client Don Balduccio Sinagra, whom you certainly must know, at least, by name, if not personally.”

  Not only by name, but also by reputation. Sinagra was head of one of the two Mafia families—the other being the Cuffaro family—that were vying for territorial control over the Montelusa province. Leading to at least one death per month, on each side of the fence.

  “Yeah, I know the name.”

  “Good. Don Balduccio is very advanced in years, and celebrated his ninetieth the day before yesterday. He’s got a few aches and pains, as is normal for his age, but his mind is still extremely lucid. He remembers everything and everyone, and keeps up with the newspapers and television. I go to see him often because the man simply charms me with his memories and, I humbly confess, with his enlightened wisdom. Just think—”

  Was this lawyer joking? Had he called him at home at one o‘clock in the morning just to bust his balls with details on the mental and physical health of a hood like Balduccio Sinagra, who would make the world a better place if he were to die tomorrow?

  “Mr. Guttadauro, don’t you think—”

  “Forgive me the long digression, Inspector, but when I start talking about Don Balduccio, for whom I harbor feelings of deep veneration—”

  “Look, Mr. Guttadauro—”

  “Please please please excuse me. Forgiven? Forgiven. I’ll get to the point. This morning, when talking of this and that, Don Balduccio mentioned your name.”

  “Was it during the this or the that?”

  The remark came out before Montalbano could stop it.

  “I don’t understand,” said the lawyer.

  “Never mind.”

  And he said no more. He wanted Guttadauro the lawyer to do the talking, and so he pricked up his ears all the more.

  “He asked about you. If you were in good health.”

  A chill ran down the inspector’s spine. If Don Balduccio asked after somebody’s health, in ninety percent of the cases that person, a few days later, would be climbing the hill to Vigàta Cemetery in a hearse. But again he didn’t open his mouth, to encourage Guttadauro to keep talking. Stew in your juices, asshole.

  “The fact is, he would really like to see you,” the lawyer shot out, finally coming to the point.

  “That’s not a problem,” said Montalbano with the aplomb of an Englishman.

  “Thank you, Inspector, thank you! You cannot imagine how happy I am with your answer! I was sure you would satisfy the wishes of an elderly man who, despite everything people say about him—”

  “Will he be coming to the police station?”

  “Who?”

  “What do you mean, who? Mr. Sinagra. Didn’t you just say he wanted to see me?”

  Guttadauro cleared his throat twice in embarrassment.

  “Inspector, the fact is that Don Balduccio has a great deal of difficulty moving about. He can’t stand on his feet. It would be very painful for him to come in to the police station. Surely you understand ...”

  “I certainly do understand how painful it would be for him to come to the police station.”

  The lawyer preferred not to notice the irony He remained silent.

  “So where can we meet?” the inspector asked.

  “Er, Don Balduccio suggested that ... well, if you would be so kind as to come to his place ...”

  “I’ve no objection. Naturally, I’ll have to inform my superiors first.”

  Naturally, he had no intention whatsoever of mentioning it to that imbecile, Bonetti-Alderighi. But he wanted to have a little fun with Guttadauro.

  “Is that really necessary?” the lawyer asked in a whiny voice.

  “Yes, I’d say so.”

  “Because, you see, Inspector, what Don Balduccio had in mind was a more private conversation, a very private conversation, possibly a preamble to some important developments ...”

  “A preamble, you say?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Montalbano sighed noisily, in resignation, like a peddler forced to sell cheap.

  “In that case ...”

  “How about tomorrow evening around six-thirty?” the lawyer promptly replied, as if fearing the inspector might reconsider.

  “All right.”

  “Thank you again, Inspector, thank you. Neither Don Balduccio nor I had any doubts as to your gentlemanly grace, your ...

  5

  The moment he stepped out of his car at eight-thirty the next morning, he could already hear, from the street, a tremendous uproar inside the police station. He went in.The first ten people summoned—five husbands and their respective wives—had shown up extremely early and were behaving exactly like children in a nursery school. They were laughing, joking, pushing one another, embracing. It immediately occurred to him that someone should perhaps consider creating community nursery schools for the aged.

  Catarella, assigned by Fazio to maintain public order, had the unfortunate idea to shout out:

  “The inspector himself in person has arrived!”

  In the twinkling of an eye, that kindergarten playground turned inexplicably into a battlefield. Barreling into one another, tripping each other up or holding one another back by an arm or by the coattails, all present assailed the inspector, trying to get to him first. And during the struggle, they spoke and shouted so loudly that a deafened Montalbano understood not a word amidst the clamor.

  “What is going on here?” he asked in a military voice.

  Relative calm ensued.

  “No favorites, now!” shouted one, barely taller than a midget, nestling up under the inspector’s nose. “We must proceed in strick flabettical order!”

  “No sir, no sir! We’ll proceed in order of age!” another proclaimed angrily.

  “What’s your name?” the inspector asked the quasi-midget, who’d managed to speak first.

  “Abate’s the name, first name Luigi,” he said, looking around, as if to rebut any differences of opinion.

  Montalbano congratulated himself for guessing right. He’d made a bet with himself that the pipsqueak who was advocating that they proceed in alphabetical order was named either Abate or Abete, since there were no names like Alvar Aalto in Sicily.

  “And yours?”

  “Arturo Zotta. And I’m the oldest person here!”

  The inspector was right about the second one, too.

  Having wended his adventure-filled way through those ten people, who seemed more like a hundred, the inspector barricaded himself in his office with Fazio and Galluzzo, leaving Catarella on guard to contain any further geriatric riots.

  “But why are they all here already?”

  “If you really want to know the full story, Inspector, four of the people you summoned, two husbands with their wives, showed up at eight o‘clock this morning,” Fazio explained. “What do you expect? They’re old, they don’t get enough sleep, the curiosity was eating them alive. Just think, there’s a couple out there that wasn’t supposed to be here till ten.”

  “Listen, let’s agree on a plan. You’re free to ask whatever questions you think most appropriate. But there are a few that are indispensable. Write this down. First question: Did you know the Griffos before the excursion? If so, where, how, and when? If anyone says they knew the Griffos beforehand, don’t let them leave, because I want to talk to them. Second question: Where were the Griffos sitting on the bus, both on the way there and on the way back? Third question: During the excursion, did the Griffos talk to anyone? And if so, what about? Fourth question: Do you know what the Griffos did during the day they spent
at Tindari? Did they meet anyone there? Did they go into anyone’s house? Any information they may have is essential. Fifth question: Did the Griffos get off the bus at any of the three extra stops made on the way back at the request of the passengers? If so, at which of the three? Did they see them get back on the bus? Sixth and final question: Do they remember seeing the Griffos after the bus returned to Vigàta?”

  Fazio and Galluzzo looked at each other.

  “Sounds like you think something happened to the Griffos on the way back,” said Fazio.

  “It’s just a conjecture. But it’s what we’re going to work with. If someone then comes out and says he saw them get off in Vigàta and go quietly home, we’ll take our conjecture and stick it where the sun don’t shine. And we’ll start all over again. One important thing, however. Try not to get side-tracked; if we give these geezers too much rope, they’re likely to tell us their life stories. And another thing: when questioning couples, arrange it so that one of you gets the wife and the other the husband.”

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise the one will affect what the other says, in all good faith.You two will take three apiece, I’ll take the rest. If you do as I say, with the Virgin’s blessing we’ll be done in no time.”

  From the first interrogation, the inspector realized that he’d almost certainly been wrong in his prediction, and that every dialogue could easily stray into absurdity.

  “We met a few minutes ago. I believe your name is Arturo Zotta, is that right?”

  “Of course it’s right. Arturo Zotta, son of Giovanni Zotta. My father had a cousin who was a tinsmith, an’ people often mistook him for my father. But my father—”

  “Mr. Zotta, I—”

  “I also wanted to say that I’m very pleased.”

  “About what?”

  “‘Cause you did as I said you should do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Go by age. ‘Cause I’m the oldest of the lot, I am. I’ll be seventy-seven in three months and five days. You gotta respect the elderly.That’s what I keep tellin’ my grandchildren, who’re a nasty bunch. It’s lack of respect that’s screwin’ up the whole stinking world! You weren’t even born in Mussolini’s day. With Mussolini around, there was respect and plenty of it. And if you didn’t have no respect, wham! He’d cut your head right off. I remember—”

  “Mr. Zotta, to be honest, we decided not to follow any order at all, alphabetical or—”

  The old man giggled to himself, all in ee sounds.

  “Was I right, eh? Was I? I‘da bet my life on it! In this place, which should be a temple of order—nosirree! They don’t give a good goddamn about order! Ass-backwards, that’s how they do things here! Anything goes! Pell-mell, harum-scarum, topsy-turvy! You like walking on your hands? That’s what I say. And then we complain when our kids take drugs and steal and kill ...”

  Montalbano cursed himself. How did ever let himself get trapped by this ancient motormouth? He had to stop the avalanche. Immediately, or he would be inexorably swept away by it.

  “Mr. Zotta, please, let’s not digress.”

  “Wha‘?”

  “Let’s not get off the subject!”

  “Who’s gettin’ off the subject? You think I got up at six in the morning just to come here and talk about the first thing that comes into my head?You think I don’t got better things to do? I know I’m retired and all, but—”

  “Did you know the Griffos?”

  “The Griffos? Never seen ‘em before the tour. And after the tour, neither, can’t say as I met ’em even then. The name, yes. I heard ‘em call it out when the driver was calling the roll before leaving, and they said ’Present.‘We didn’t even say hello or talk. Not a peep. They just stayed real quiet and all by themselves, mindin’ their own business. Now I say, Mr. Inspector, these excursions are nice when everybody stays together.You joke, you laugh, you sing songs. But if—”

  “Are you sure you never met the Griffos?”

  “Where wouldIamet ‘em?”

  “I dunno, at the market, the tobacco shop ...”

  “My wife does the shopping an’ I don’t smoke. On the other hand ...”

  “On the other hand?”

  “I used to know a guy named Pietro Giffo. Mighta been a relative, only the r was missing. This Giffo was a traveling salesman, the kind of guy who liked a good joke. One time—”

  “Did you by any chance run into the Griffos at any time during the day you spent in Tindari?”

  “Me and the wife, we never see anyone from the group when we get to where we’re going. We go to Palermo? I got a brother-in-law there. We go down to Erice? I got a cousin lives there. They roll out the red carpet, invite us to lunch. And Tindari, forget about it! I got a nephew there, Filippo, he come to pick us up at the bus stop, took us to his house, and his wife served us a sfincione for the first course, and for the second—”

  “When the driver called roll for the return home, were the Griffos present?”

  “Yessir, I heard ‘em answer.”

  “Did you notice if they got off the bus at any of the three extra stops the bus made on the way back?”

  “I was just telling you, Inspector, what my nephew Filippo gave us to eat. Well, we couldn’t even get up out of our seats, that’s how stuffed we were! On the way back, when we stopped for caffellatte like we planned, I didn’t even want to get off the bus. But then the wife reminded me it was all paid for anyways. What we gonna do, waste our money? So I just had a little spot of milk with two cookies. And immediately I start to feel sleepy. Always happens to me after I eat. Anyways, I nodded off. And it’s a good thing I didn’t have any coffee! ‘Cause, lemme tell you, when I drink coffee—”

  “—You can never get to sleep. Once you got back to Vigàta, did you see the Griffos get off the bus?”

  “Dear Inspector, at that hour, dark as it was, with me practically not knowing if.my own wife was gettin’ off the bus!”

  “Do you remember where you sat?”

  “That I do, I remember where we was sittin‘, the wife and me. Right in the middle of the bus. In front of us was the Bufalottas, behind us was the Raccuglias, and beside us the Persicos. We already knew all of them, it was our fifth tour together. The Bufalottas, poor things, they need to take their mind off their troubles. Their oldest boy, Pippino, died when—”

  “Do you remember where the Griffos were seated?”

  “In the last row, I think.”

  “The one with five seats in a row, without armrests?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. That’s all, Mr. Zotta, you can go now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’re done. You can go home.”

  “What? What the hell is this anyway? You trouble a seventy-seven-year-old man and a seventy-five-year-old woman for this kind of bullshit? We got up at six in the morning for this! You think that’s right?”

  ,When the last of the old folks had left it was nearly one o‘clock, and the police station looked as if it had been the site of a very crowded picnic. Granted, there was no grass in the office, but where are you going to find grass nowadays? That stuff that still manages to grow on the outskirts of town, you call that grass? Four stunted, half-yellowed blades where, if you stick your hand in there, chances are ninety-nine out of a hundred you’ll get pricked by a hidden syringe?

  With these fine thoughts, a bad mood was descending again on the inspector when he realized that Catarella, assigned cleanup duty, had come to a sudden halt, broom in one hand and something not clearly identifiable in the other.

  “My, my, my! Wouldja look at that!” Catarella muttered, flabbergasted as he eyed what he’d picked up off the floor.

  “What is it?”

  All at once Catarella’s face turned a flaming red.

  “A profellattict, Chief!”

  “Used?!” the inspector asked, astonished.

  “No, Chief, still in its wrapper.”

 
There: that was the only difference from the trash left behind at a real picnic. As for everything else, the same depressing filth, tissue paper, cigarette butts, cans of Coca-Cola and orangeade, bottles of mineral water, pieces of bread and cookies, even an ice-cream cone slowly melting in a corner.

  As Montalbano had already tabulated from an initial comparison of the answers given to him, Fazio, and Galluzzo—and this, no doubt, was another, if not the main reason for his foul mood—it turned out that they knew not a whit more much about the Griffos than they had before.

  The bus had exactly fifty-three seats, not counting the driver’s. The forty passengers had all gathered in the front part of the coach, twenty on one side of the aisle, twenty on the other. The Griffos, on the other hand, had sat in two of the five seats in the final row, on both the outward and return journeys, with the big rear window behind them. They had spoken to no one and no one had spoken to them. Fazio reported that one of the passengers had said to him: “You know what? After a while we forgot all about them. It was as if they weren’t traveling in the same coach with us.”

  “But,” the inspector cut in, “we still don’t have the deposition of that couple whose wife is sick. Scimè, I think they’re called.”

  Fazio gave a little smile.

  “Did you really think Mrs. Scimè was going to miss the party? With all her girlfriends there? No, she came, together with her husband, though she could barely stand up. She had a fever of a hundred and two. I talked to her, Galluzzo talked to the husband. No dice. The lady could have spared herself the strain.”

  They looked at each other in dejection.

  “A night wasted, and it’s a girl,” commented Galluzzo, quoting the proverbial saying—Nottata persa e figlia fìmmina—of the husband who has spent a whole night beside his wife in labor, only to see her give birth to a baby girl instead of that much-desired son.