IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Shall we go eat?” asked Fazio, getting up.

  “You two go ahead. I’m going to stay a little while yet. Who’s on duty?”

  “Gallo.”

  Left to himself, he started studying the sketch Fazio had made of the bus’s layout. There was a small isolated rectangle at the top with the word “driver” written inside, followed by twelve rows of four little rectangles, each bearing the name of its occupant, or left empty when vacant.

  Eyeing it, the inspector became aware that Fazio must have resisted the temptation to draw much larger rectangles with the vital statistics of each occupant inside: first and last name, father’s name, mother’s maiden name, etc. In the last row of five seats, Fazio had written “Griffo” in such a way that each of the letters occupied one of the five little rectangles, except for the double f. Apparently he hadn’t managed to find out which of the five places the vanished couple had sat in.

  Montalbano started to imagine the journey to himself. After the initial greetings, a few minutes of inevitable silence as people got comfortable, unburdening themselves of scarves, caps, and hats, checking purses or pockets for reading glasses, house keys, etc. Then the first signs of cheer, the first audible conversations, the overlapping phrases ... And the driver asking: Want me to turn on the radio? A chorus of “no” ... And maybe, from time to time, somebody turning around towards the back, towards the last row where the Griffos sat next to each other, immobile and as though deaf, since the eight vacant seats between them and the other passengers formed a kind of barrier against the sounds, the words, the noise, the laughter.

  At this point Montalbano slapped himself on the forehead. He’d forgotten! The driver had told him something very specific, and he’d let it completely slip his mind.

  “Gallo!”

  What came out of his mouth was less the name than a strangled cry. The door flew open, a frightened Gallo appeared.

  “What’s wrong, Inspector?”

  “Call me the bus company on the double, I forget the name. If there’s anyone there, let me talk to them.”

  He was in luck. The accountant answered.

  “I need some information. On the excursion to Tindari last Sunday, was there anyone else in the coach besides the driver and passengers?”

  “Of course. You see, Inspector, our company allows sales representatives for certain businesses to present their products. Kitchenware, detergents, knickknacks, that sort of thing ...”

  This was said in the tone of a king granting a favor.

  “How much do you get paid for this?” asked Montalbano, the disrespectful subject.

  The accountant’s regal tone turned into a kind of painful stammering.

  “Well ... you h-have to c-consider ... that the percentage—”

  “I’m not interested. I want the name and telephone number of the salesperson who went on that excursion.”

  “Hello? Is this the Dileo household? Inspector Montalbano here. I’d like to speak to Mrs. or Miss Beatrice Dileo.”

  “This is Beatrice Dileo, Inspector. And it’s ”miss.“ I was wondering when you would get around to questioning me. If you hadn’t called by the end of the day, I was going to come to the station tomorrow.”

  “Have you finished your lunch?”

  “I haven’t started yet. I just got back from Palermo. I had an exam at the university. Since I live alone, I ought to be preparing something to eat, but I don’t really feel like it.”

  “Would you like to meet me for lunch?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Meet me in half an hour at the Trattoria San Calogero.”

  The eight men and four women eating in the trattoria at that moment all stopped, one after another, forks in midair, to stare at the girl who’d just walked in. A real beauty, tall, slender, long blond hair, blue eyes. The kind one sees on the covers of magazines, except that this one had the look of a nice family girl. What was she doing in the Trattoria San Calogero? The inspector had barely the time to ask himself this question when the creature headed straight for his table.

  “You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? I’m Beatrice Dileo.”

  She sat down. Montalbano remained standing for a moment, at a loss. Beatrice Dileo hadn’t a trace of makeup on her face; she looked that way naturally. Perhaps that was why the women present continued to eye her without envy. How can one envy a jasmine flower?

  “What’ll it be?” asked Calogero, approaching their table. “Today I’ve got a risotto in squid ink that’s really special.”

  “Sounds good to me. And what’ll you have, Beatrice?”

  “I’ll have the same, thanks.”

  Montalbano was pleased to note that she didn’t add the typically female admonition: Not too much, mind you. Just two spoonfuls. One spoonful. Three grains of rice, no more. Unbearable.

  “For the second course, there’s last night’s catch of seabass, or else—”

  “Forget the ‘or else.’ I’ll have the bass. How about you, Beatrice?”

  “The bass.”

  “For you, Inspector, the usual mineral water and Corvo white. For you, signorina?”

  “The same.”

  What were they, married?

  “By the way, Inspector,” Beatrice said with a smile, “I have a confession to make. When I’m eating, I’m unable to speak. So you should interrogate me now, before the risotto comes, or between courses.”

  Jesus! So it was true: the miracle of meeting one’s spiritual twin did sometimes happen. Too bad that, at a glance, she looked to be twenty-five or so years younger than he.

  “Never mind the interrogation. Tell me about yourself instead.”

  And so before Calogero arrived with the special risotto, which was more than simply special, Montalbano learned that Beatrice was indeed twenty-five years old, had finished her course work in literature at the University of Palermo, and served as a representative of Sirio Kitchenware to support herself while continuing her studies. Sicilian despite appearances, surely of Norman extraction, she was born at Aidone, where her parents still lived. Why did she herself live and work in Vigàta? Simple: two years earlier in Aidone, she’d met a boy from Vigàta, also a student at Palermo, but in law. They fell in love, she had a terrible quarrel with her parents, and she followed the boy to Vigàta. They took an apartment on the sixth floor of an ugly tenement in Piano Lanterna. But from the bedroom balcony you could see the sea. After four months of bliss, Roberto—that was her boyfriend’s name—left her a polite little note telling her he was moving to Rome, where his fiancée, a distant cousin, was waiting for him. She hadn’t had the nerve to go back to Aidone. End of story.

  Then, with their noses, palates, and throats invaded by the heavenly scent of the risotto, they fell silent, as agreed.

  They resumed speaking while waiting for the bass. The subject of the Griffos was broached by Beatrice herself.

  “That couple who disappeared—”

  “Excuse me, but if you were in Palermo, how did you know—”

  “The manager of Sirio phoned me yesterday and said you summoned all the passengers for questioning.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “I naturally have to bring a collection of samples with me. If the coach is full, the samples—which are cumbersome and fill two big boxes—are put in the baggage compartment. But if the coach isn’t full, I usually put them in the last row, the one with five seats. I fit the two boxes into the two seats farthest from the exit, so as not to get in the way of people getting on or off the bus. Well, the Griffos went straight to the last row and sat down there.”

  “Which of the three remaining places did they take?”

  “Well, he sat in the center seat, the one with the aisle in front of it. His wife sat beside him. The seat left unoccupied was the one closest to the exit. When I arrived at seven-thirty that morning—”

  “With the samples?”

  “No. The boxes had already been put on the bus the evening before, by an employe
e of Sirio. The same employee also comes and takes them away when we return to Vigàta.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I saw them sitting right next to the boxes, I suggested they might want to find better seats, since the coach was still almost entirely empty and no places were reserved. I pointed out that, since I had to display the merchandise, I might be a nuisance to them, always going back and forth. The woman didn’t even look at me. She only stared straight ahead; I thought she was deaf. The husband, on the other hand, looked worried—no, not worried, but tense. He replied that I could do whatever I needed to do, but they preferred to stay where they were. Halfway through the journey, when I had to get down to work, I asked him to move.You know what he did? He bumped his hip against his wife‘s, forcing her to move into the open seat beside the exit, and slid into her seat, so I could get my frying pan. But when I turned around, with my back to the driver, microphone in one hand and frying pan in the other, the Griffos were already back in their old places.”

  She smiled.

  “I feel pretty ridiculous when I do that routine. But then ... There’s one passenger who’s almost always there, Cavaliere Mistretta, who’s forced his wife to buy three full sets. Get it? He’s in love with me! You can’t imagine the looks his wife gives me. Anyway, to each buyer we give a complimentary talking watch, the kind the vù cumprà sell for ten thousand lire apiece. But all passengers get a free ballpoint pen with the company name, Sirio, written on it. Well, the Griffos didn’t even want the pen.”

  The fish arrived and, once again, silence reigned.

  “Would you like some fruit? Coffee?” Montalbano asked when, sadly, all that was left of the bass were the bones and the heads.

  “No,” said Beatrice, “I like to keep that aftertaste of the sea.”

  Not just a twin, but a Siamese twin.

  “Anyway, Inspector, the whole time I was giving my sales talk, I kept looking over at the Griffos. They just sat there, stock-still, only he turned around a few times to look back through the rear window. As if he was afraid some car might be following the bus.”

  “Or the opposite,” said the inspector. “To make sure that some car was still following the bus.”

  “Maybe. They didn’t eat with us in Tindari. When we all got off the bus, they remained seated. When we got back on, they were still there. On the drive back they didn’t once get out, not even when we stopped for caffellatte. Of one thing I’m certain, however: it was Mr. Griffo who asked that we stop at the café-trattoria Paradiso. We were almost home, and the driver wanted to keep going. But he protested. And in the end almost everybody got out. I stayed inside. Then the driver honked the horn, the passengers reboarded, and the bus left.”

  “Are you sure the Griffos also got back on?”

  “I can’t say for certain. During the stop, I started listening to music on my Walkman, so I was wearing headphones. And my eyes were closed. In the end I dozed off. I didn’t reopen my eyes till we were back in Vigàta and most of the passengers had already got off the bus.”

  “So it’s possible the Griffos were already walking back home.”

  Beatrice opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

  “Go on,” the inspector said. “Whatever it is, even if it seems silly to you, might be of use to me.”

  “Okay. When the company employee went into the bus to take away the samples, I gave him a hand. As I was pulling the first of the big boxes toward me, I leaned one hand on the seat where Mr. Griffo should have been sitting just a few minutes before. Well, it was cold. If you ask me, those two did not get back on the bus after the stop at the café Paradiso.”

  6

  Calogero brought the bill, Montalbano paid, Beatrice stood up, and the inspector did likewise, though with a twinge of regret. The girl was a veritable wonder of nature, but there was nothing to be done. It ended there.

  “Let me give you a lift,” said Montalbano.

  “I’ve got my own car,” replied Beatrice.

  At that very moment, Mimi Augello walked in. Seeing Montalbano, he headed straight for him, then all at once stopped dead in his tracks, eyes agape. It was as though the angel of popular legend had passed, the one that says “Amen,” and everyone remains exactly as they were, frozen. Apparently he had brought Beatrice into focus. He suddenly turned around and made as if to leave.

  “Were you looking for me?” the inspector asked, stopping him.

  “Yes.”

  “So why were you leaving?”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “What do you mean, disturb me! Come, Mimi. Miss Dileo, this is my right-hand man, Deputy Inspector Augello. This young woman traveled with the Griffos last Sunday and has told me some interesting things.”

  Mimì knew only that the Griffos had disappeared, but was entirely ignorant of the investigation. In any case he was unable to open his mouth, his eyes still fixed on the girl.

  It was at that moment that the Devil, the one with a capital D, materialized beside Montalbano. Invisible to all present except the inspector, he was wearing his traditional costume: hairy skin, cloven feet, pointed tail, short horns. The inspector felt his fiery, sulfurous breath burn his left ear.

  “Let them get to know each other better,” the Devil ordered him.

  Montalbano bowed to His Will.

  “Have you got another five minutes?” he asked Beatrice with a smile.

  “Sure. I’m free all afternoon.”

  “And you, Mimi, have you eaten?”

  “Uh ... n-no, not yet.”

  “Then sit down in my place and order something while the young lady tells you what she told me about the Griffos. I, unfortunately, have an urgent matter to attend to. See you later at the office, Mimi. And thank you again, Miss Dileo.”

  Beatrice sat back down. Mimì lowered himself into his chair, as stiff as if he was wearing a suit of armor. He still couldn’t grasp how this gift of God had fallen to him, but the topper was the fact that Montalbano had been so unusually nice to him.

  The inspector, meanwhile, left the trattoria humming to himself. He had planted a seed. If the ground was fertile (and he had no doubt as to the fertility of Mimì’s ground), that seed would grow. Which meant good-bye Rebecca, or whatever the hell her name was, good-bye transfer request.

  “Excuse me, Inspector, but don’t you think you’re being a bit of a stinker?” asked the indignant voice of Montalbano’s conscience.

  “Jeez, what a pain in the ass!” was his reply.

  In front of the Caffe Caviglione stood its owner, Arturo, leaning against the doorjamb and basking in the sun. He was dressed like a beggar, in stained, threadbare jacket and trousers, despite the four to five billion lire he’d made loan- sharking. A skinflint from a legendary family of skinflints. He once showed the inspector an old sign, yellowed and covered with fly shit, that his grandfather used to display in the café at the start of the century: “Anyone sitting at a table must also drink a glass of water. And a glass of water costs two cents.”

  “Have a coffee, Inspector?”

  They went inside.

  “A coffee for the inspector!” Arturo ordered the barman as he dropped into the register the coins Montalbano had extracted from his pocket. The day Arturo decided to offer a few scraps of brioche free of charge would be the day the world witnessed a cataclysm to delight Nostradamus.

  “What is it, Artù?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about this Griffo business. I know them. In the summer, every Sunday evening, they sit down at a table, always by themselves, and order two pieces of ice-cream cake: cassata for him and hazelnut with cream for her. I saw them that morning.”

  “What morning?”

  “The morning they left for Tindari. The bus terminus is just down the street, in the piazza. I open at six, give or take a few minutes. Well, the Griffos were already here that morning, standing in front of the closed shutters. And the bus wasn’t supposed to leave until seven! Go figure!”r />
  “Did they have anything to drink or eat?”

  “They each had a hot brioche the baker brought to me about ten minutes later. The bus pulled in at six-thirty. The driver, whose name is Filippu, came in and ordered a coffee. Mr. Griffo went up to him and asked if they could board the bus. Filippu said yes, and they left without even saying good-bye. What were they afraid of, missing the bus?”

  “Is that everything?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Listen, Artù. That kid that was killed, did you know him?”

  “Nenè Sanfilippo? Until a couple of years ago he used to come in regularly to shoot pool. Then he started showing up a lot less. Only at night.”

  “What do you mean, at night?”

  “I close at one A.M., Inspector. He’d come in sometimes and buy a few bottles of whisky, gin, that kind of thing. He’d pull up in his car, and there’d almost always be a girl inside.”

  “Did you ever recognize anybody?”

  “Nah. He probably brought ‘em here from Palermo, or Montelusa, or wherever the hell he found them.”

  Pulling up outside the entrance to headquarters, he didn’t feel like going in. A teetering pile of papers to be signed awaited him on his desk; the mere thought of it made his right arm ache. Checking his pocket to make sure he had enough cigarettes, he got back in his car and headed in the direction of Montelusa. Exactly halfway between the two towns was a little country road, hidden behind a billboard, which led to a ramshackle rustic cottage, behind which stood an enormous Saracen olive tree that was easily two hundred years old. It looked like a fake tree, a stage prop, something out of the imagination of Gustave Doré, perhaps an illustration for Dante’s Inferno. The lowest branches dragged and twisted along the ground, unable, try as they might, to hoist themselves skyward, and thus at a certain point of their progress they reconsidered their effort and decided to turn back towards the trunk, creating a kind of elbowlike bend or, in some cases, an out-and-out knot. Shortly thereafter, however, they changed their minds and turned around again, as if frightened at the sight of the powerful though pocked, burnt, time-wrinkled trunk. And in turning around, the branches took a different direction from the one before. They looked just like vipers, pythons, boas, and anacondas that had suddenly metamorphosed into olive branches. And they seemed to despair, forever damned by the sorcery that had frozen them—“crystallized” them, the poet Montale might have said—in an eternity of tragic, impossible flight. The middle branches, having reached more or less one meter in length, were immediately beset by doubt as to whether they should head skyward or turn earthward to rejoin the roots.