“What’s he doing, going to Mass?” he had asked in dismay.
“Yessir, the man’s religious,” someone had explained.
“Wha‘? Didn’t the priests teach him nuthin’?”
Don Balduccio’s younger son, ‘Ngilino, had gone completely mad, and began speaking an incomprehensible tongue that he claimed was Arabic. And from that moment on, he’d begun dressing like an Arab as well, so that in town he became known as “the sheikh.” The sheikh’s two sons spent more time abroad than in Vigàta. Pino, known as the “reconciler” for the diplomatic skill he was able to summon up at difficult moments, was constantly traveling back and forth between Canada and the United States. Caluzzo, on the other hand, spent eight months of the year in Bogota. The burden of conducting the family’s business had therefore fallen back onto the shoulders of the patriarch, who was now being lent a hand by a cousin, Saro Magistro. It was ru mored that this Magistro, after killing one of the Cuffaros, had eaten the man’s liver, roasted on a spit.
As for the Cuffaros, it could not be said things were going any better for them. One Sunday morning two years ago, the ultraoctogenarian head of the family, Don Sisino Cuffaro, got in his car to attend Holy Mass, as he was devoutly and unfailingly in the habit of doing. At the wheel was his youngest son, Birtino. When the latter turned on the ignition, there was a terrible blast that shattered windows up to five kilometers away. One Arturo Spampinato, accountant, who had nothing whatsoever to do with any of this, thinking a frightful earthquake was taking place, threw himself out of a sixth-floor window, smashing himself to bits. All that was found of Don Sisino were his left arm and right foot; of Birtino, only four charred bones.
The Cuffaros did not hold this against the Sinagras, as everyone in town had expected. The Cuffaros as well as the Sinagras knew that the deadly bomb had been put in the car by some third party, elements of an emergent new Mafia, ambitious young punks with no respect and ready to do anything, who’d got it in their heads to fuck over the two historic families and take their place. And there was an explanation for this. If the narcotics road had always been rather wide, it had now become a six-lane superhighway. One therefore needed young, determined manpower with good hands and the ability to use Kalashnikovs and computers with equal skill.
All these things were going through the inspector’s head as he drove to Ciuccàfa. A tragicomic scene he’d witnessed on television also came back to him. In it, some guy from the Anti-Mafia Commission who’d arrived in Fela after the tenth murder in a single week was dramatically ripping up his own clothes while asking in a strangled voice:
“Where is the state?”
Meanwhile the handful of carabinieri, four policemen, two coast guard agents, and three assistant prosecutors who represented the state in Fela, risking their own skin each day, looked at him in amazement. The distinguished anti-Mafia commissioner was apparently suffering a memory lapse. He had forgotten that he, at least in part, was the state. And if things were what they were, it was he, along with others, who made them what they were.
At the very bottom of the hill, where the solitary paved road leading to Don Balduccio’s house began, stood a one-story cottage. As Montalbano’s car drew near, a man appeared at one of the two windows. He eyed the car and brought a cell phone to his ear. Those in charge had been alerted.
On either side of the road were electrical and telephone poles, and every hundred and fifty yards or so there was an open space, a kind of rest area. Without fail, in each rest area, there was a person, now inside a car, plumbing the depths of his nose with his finger, now standing and counting the crows overhead, now pretending to fix a motor scooter. Sentinals. There were no weapons anywhere to be seen, but the inspector knew full well that, should the need arise, they would promptly appear from behind a pile of rocks or a telephone pole.
The great cast-iron gate, sole opening in the high defense wall surrounding the house, was wide open. In front of it stood Guttadauro the lawyer, bright smile slicing across his face, bowing frantically.
“Go straight, then immediately turn right. There you’ll find the parking lot.”
In the parking area were some ten cars of every kind, from luxury to economy models. Montalbano stopped and got out, as Guttadauro came running up, breathless.
“I never once doubted your sensibility, understanding, and intelligence! Don Balduccio will be most pleased! Come, Inspector, I’ll show you in.”
The start of the entrance lane was marked by two giant monkey puzzle trees. Under each tree, on either side, was an odd sort of sentry box, odd because they looked like playhouses for children. And, in fact, one could see decals of Superman, Batman, and Hercules on their walls. But the sentry boxes also each had a little door and a window. The lawyer intercepted the inspector’s gaze.
“Those are playhouses Don Balduccio had built for his grandchildren, I mean, his great-grandchildren. One of them’s called Balduccio, like him, and the other is Tanino. They’re ten and eight years old. Don Balduccio’s just crazy about those kids.”
“Excuse me, Counsel,” Montalbano asked with an angelic expression on his face, “but that man with the beard who came to the window in the playhouse on the left, was that Balduccio or Tanino?”
Guttadauro gracefully ignored the question.
They were now in front of the main door, a monumental affair of copper-studded black walnut, vaguely reminiscent of an American-style coffin.
In one corner of the garden, all prissy beds of roses, vines, and flowers, and graced by a pool of goldfish (where the hell did the bastard get the water?), was a big, powerful cage with four Dobermans inside. In utter silence, they were sizing up the weight and texture of the guest, with a manifest desire to eat him alive with all his clothes on. Apparently the cage was opened at night.
“No, Inspector,” said Guttadauro when he saw Montalbano heading towards the coffin serving as the front door. “Don Balduccio is waiting for you in the parterre.”
They went towards the left-hand side of the villa. The “parterre” was a vast space, open on three sides, with the terrace of the floor above serving as the ceiling. Through the six slender arches that marked its boundary on the right, one enjoyed a splendid view of the landscape. Miles of beach and sea, interrupted on the horizon by the jagged profile of Capo Rossello. On the opposite side, the panorama left much to be desired: a prairie of cement without the slightest breath of green, and Vigàta, distant, drowning in it.
In the “parterre” were a sofa, four comfortable armchairs, and a low, broad coffee table. Ten or so chairs were lined up against the only wall, for use, no doubt, in plenary meetings.
Don Balduccio, little more than a skeleton in clothes, was sitting on the two-seater sofa with a plaid blanket over his knees, even though it wasn’t cold and no wind was blowing. Sitting beside him in an armchair was a ruddy-faced priest of about fifty in collar and gown, who rose when the inspector came in.
“And here’s our dear Inspector Montalbano!” Guttadauro joyously announced in a shrill voice.
“Excuse me for not getting up,” said Don Balduccio in a faint voice, “but I can’t stand on my own two legs anymore.
He made no sign of wanting to shake the inspector’s hand.
“This is Don Saverio, Saverio Crucillà, who was and still is the spiritual father of Japichinu, my blessed young grandson, slandered and hounded by evil men. It’s a good thing he’s a boy of deep faith; he suffers his persecution by offering it up to God.”
“Having faith is always best!” sighed Father Crucillà.
“If you don’t sleep, you still can rest,” Montalbano chimed in.
Don Balduccio, Guttadauro, and the priest all looked at him in shock.
“I beg your pardon,” said Don Crucillà, “but I think you’re mistaken. The proverb is about the bed, and it goes like this:‘Of all things the bed is best/If you can’t sleep you still can rest.’ No?”
“You’re right, I was mistaken,” the inspector admitted.
He really was mistaken. What the fuck did he think he was doing, cracking a joke by mangling a proverb and paraphrasing the hackneyed line about religion being the opium of the people? If only religion actually was an opium for a murderous thug like Balduccio Sinagra’s precious grandson!
“I think I’ll be going,” said the priest.
He bowed to Don Balduccio, who gestured with both hands in reply, then he bowed to the inspector, who replied with a slight nod of the head, then he took Guttadauro by the arm.
“You’re coming with me, aren’t you, Counsel?”
They had clearly planned in advance to leave him alone with Don Balduccio. The lawyer would reappear later, after allowing enough time for his client—as he liked to call the man who in reality was his boss—to say what he had to say to Montalbano, without witnesses.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the old man said to the inspector, gesturing towards the armchair in which Father Crucillà had been sitting.
Montalbano sat down.
“Have anything to drink?” asked Don Balduccio, extending his hand towards a three-button control panel on the arm of the sofa.
“No, thank you.”
Montalbano couldn’t help but wonder what those other two buttons were for. If the first one rang for the maid, the second probably summoned the in-house killer. And the third? Maybe that one set off a general alarm capable of unleashing something along the lines of World War III.
“Tell me something, I’m curious,” said the old man, readjusting the blanket over his legs. “A moment ago, when you came in, if I‘da held out my hand to you, would you have shaken it?”
Good question, you son of a bitch! thought Montalbano.
He decided at once to answer sincerely.
“No.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“Because you and I stand on opposite sides of the barricade, Mr. Sinagra. And for now, at least—though perhaps not for long—no armistice has been declared.”
The old man cleared his throat.Then he cleared it again, and only then did the inspector realize that Don Balduccio was laughing.
“Not for long?”
“There are already signs.”
“Let’s hope so. But let’s get down to serious matters.You, Inspector, must be curious to know why I wanted to see you.”
“No.”
“Is that all you know how to say: no?”
“To be honest, Mr. Sinagra, I already know everything about you that might interest me as a cop. I’ve read all the dossiers on your case, even the ones that go back to before I was born. As a man, you don’t interest me at all.”
“So then why did you come?”
“Because I don’t rate myself so highly that I can say no to someone who asks to speak to me.”
“Right answer,” said the old man.
“Mr. Sinagra, if you have something to say to me, fine. Otherwise ...”
Don Balduccio seemed to hesitate. He bent his turtlelike neck even further towards Montalbano and stared at him fixedly, straining his glaucoma-glazed eyes.
“When I was a kid, my vision was so good it was scary. Now I see more and more fog, Inspector. Fog that’s getting thicker and thicker. And I’m not just talking about the disease in my eyes.”
He sighed and leaned against the back of the sofa as if to sink down into it.
“A man should live only as long as is right. Ninety years, that’s a lot. Too long. And it gets even harder if you’re forced to pick things back up that you thought you was rid of. And this business with Japichinu’s worn me out, Inspector. I’m so worried I can’t sleep. He’s even gotTB. So I said to him: turn yourself in to the carabinieri, at least they’ll cure you. But Japichinu’s a kid, stubborn like all kids. Anyways, I had to think about taking control of the family again. And it’s hard, real hard. ‘Cause in the meanwhile, time’s gone by and people have changed. You don’t understand how they think anymore, you don’t understand what’s going through their heads. Used to be—just to give you an example—used to be, you had a problem, you could reason about it. Even for a long time, maybe days and days, maybe even till things got hot and tempers flared, but you could still reason. Nowadays people don’t wanna reason anymore, they don’t wanna waste time.”
“So what do they do?”
“They shoot, Inspector, they shoot. And we’re all really good at shooting, even the dumbest of the bunch. Right now, for instance, if you pull your gun out of your pocket—”
“I haven’t got one, I don’t carry a gun.”
“Really?” Don Balduccio’s astonishment was sincere. “But that’s very careless, Inspector! With all the criminals running around these days—”
“I know. But I don’t like weapons.”
“I didn’t like ‘em either. But as I was saying, if you point a gun at me and say, ’Balduccio, get down on your knees,‘ I got no choice. Since I’m unarmed, I gotta get down on my knees. That’s logical, no? But it doesn’t mean you’re a man of honor, it only means—pardon my language—that you’re a piece of shit with a gun in your hand.”
“And how does a man of honor act?”
“Not how does he act, Inspector, but how did he use to act.You come to my place unarmed and you talk to me, you explain the problem to me, you give me the pros and cons, and if at first I don’t agree with you, next day you come back and we reason, we talk it out until I’m convinced that the only solution is for me to get down on my knees like you asked, for my own good and everyone else’s.”
Suddenly, a passage from Manzoni’s Colonna Infame flashed through the inspector’s brain, the one where some poor wretch is driven to the point where he can only utter: “Tell me what you want me to say,” or something along those lines. But Montalbano didn’t feel like getting into a discussion of Manzoni with Don Balduccio.
“But I’m under the impression that even in the happy times you mention, the custom was to kill people who wouldn’t get down on their knees.”
“Of course!” the old man said with gusto. “Of course! But killing a man for refusing to obey, you know what that used to mean?”
“No.”
“It meant you lost the battle, because that man’s courage left you no other choice. You get my point?”
“Yeah, I get it. But, you see, Mr. Sinagra, I didn’t come here to listen to you tell me the history of the Mafia from your point of view.”
“But you already know the history from the point of view of the law!”
“Of course. But you’re a loser, Mr. Sinagra, or almost. And history is never written by the losers. For the moment, it’s the people who won’t reason and just shoot who’re more likely to write it. The winners of the moment. And now, if you don’t mind ...”
He made as if to rise, but the old man stopped him with a gesture.
“Excuse me. Us old folks, along with all our other ailments, we run at the mouth. In two words, Inspector: it’s possible we made some big mistakes. Really big mistakes. And I say ‘we’ ’cause I’m also talking on behalf of the late Sisino Cuffaro and his people. He was my enemy for as long as he was alive.”
“What, are you starting to repent?”
“No sir, Inspector, I’ll never repent before the law. Before the Good Lord in Heaven, yes, when the moment comes. What I wanted to say is this: we made some really big mistakes, but we always knew there was a line that should never be crossed. Never. Because, you cross that line, and there ain’t no difference between a man and a beast.”
He closed his eyes, exhausted.
“I understand,” said Montalbano.
“But do you really understand?”
“Really.”
“Both things?”
“Yes.”
“Then I said what I wanted to say to you,” the old man continued, opening his eyes. “If you wanna go, you’re free to go. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” the inspector replied, getting up. He retraced his steps through the courtyard and down the lane an
d didn’t encounter anybody When passing the two playhouses under the monkey puzzles, he heard children’s voices. In one of the houses was a little boy with a water pistol in hand, in the opposite playhouse another little boy was holding an intergalactic machine gun. Apparently Guttadauro had turned out the bearded watchman and promptly replaced him with Don Balduccio’s great-grandsons so the inspector wouldn’t get the wrong idea.
“Bang! Bang!” said the boy with the pistol.
“Ratatatatatat!” answered the boy with the machine gun.
They were training for when they became adults. But maybe they didn’t even need to grow up. The previous day, in fact, at Fela, the police had arrested someone the papers called the “killer baby,” a boy barely eleven years old. One of those people who’d decided to squeal (Montalbano couldn’t bring himself to call them “repenters,” much less state’s witnesses) had revealed that a kind of public school existed where children were taught how to shoot and kill. Of course, Don Balduccio’s great-grandsons had no need to attend such a school. They could get all the education they wanted at home.
No sign of Guttadauro anywhere. At the gate was a man with a beret, who tipped his cap as the inspector drove past, then immediately closed the gate behind him. Descending the hill, Montalbano couldn’t help but notice how perfect the road surface was. Not a single pebble, not the tiniest crack in the asphalt. The maintenance must have cost the Marchese Lauricella his estate. In the rest areas, the situation hadn’t changed, even though more than an hour had passed. One man kept watching crows in the sky, a second was smoking inside his car, the third was still trying to fix his motorbike. Seeing the latter, Montalbano felt tempted to fuck with the guy’s head. When he was in front of him, he stopped.
IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005) Page 9
