IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Tell me everything, Montalbano,” he entreated him, his tone conspiratorial.

  “What can I say, Mr. Commissioner? Yesterday Sinagra called me up personally to tell me he wanted to see me at once.”

  “You could at least have let me know!” the commissioner reproached him, wagging his index finger in the air as if to say, “Naughty, naughty.”

  “I didn’t have the time, believe me. Actually, no, wait . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Now I remember: I did call you, but was told you were busy, I don’t know, in a meeting or something . . .”

  “That’s possible, very possible,” the other admitted. “But let’s come to the point: what did Sinagra tell you?”

  “Surely, Mr. Commissioner, you must know from the report that it was a very brief conversation.”

  Bonetti-Alderighi got up, glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk, then came and sat back down.

  “Forty-five minutes is not brief.”

  “Granted, but in those forty-five minutes you’ve got to include the drive up there and back.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Anyway, Sinagra didn’t really tell me anything outright. Rather, he gave me to understand his intentions. Better yet, he left it all up to my intuition.”

  “Sicilian-style, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could you try to be a little more specific?”

  “He said he was beginning to feel tired.”

  “I can imagine. He’s ninety years old!”

  “Exactly. He said his son’s arrest and his grandson’s life on the run were hard blows to take.”

  It sounded like a line from a B movie, and it had come out well. The commissioner, however, looked a tad disappointed.

  “Is that all?”

  “It’s already a lot, Mr. Commissioner! Think about it. Why did he want to tell me about his situation? You know these guys: they usually take things really slow. We need to remain calm, patient, and tenacious.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “He said he’d call me back soon.”

  Bonetti-Alderighi’s momentary discouragement turned into enthusiasm again.

  “He said that?”

  “Yes he did, sir. But we need to be very cautious; one false step could send it all up in smoke. The stakes are extremely high.”

  He felt disgusted by the words coming out of his mouth. A grab bag of clichés. But that was just the sort of language that worked at that moment. He wondered how much longer he could keep up the charade.

  “Yes, of course, I understand.”

  “Just think, Mr. Commissioner, I didn’t tell any of my men about this.You never know where there might be a mole.”

  “I promise to do the same!” the commissioner vowed, holding up his hand.

  It was as if they were at Pontida.The inspector stood up.

  “If you have no further orders . . .”

  “Fine, fine, Montalbano, you can go. And thanks.”

  They shook hands energetically, looking one another in the eye.

  “However . . . ,” said the commissioner, drooping.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s still that damned report. I can’t ignore it, you realize. I have to respond in one way or another.”

  “Mr. Commissioner, if somebody begins to suspect that there’s any contact, however minimal, between us and Sinagra, the rumor will spread and the whole deal will fall through. I’m sure of it.”

  “Right, right.”

  “And that’s why, a few minutes ago, when you told me my car had been spotted, I felt a twinge of disappointment.”

  How good he was at talking this way! Had he perhaps found his true mode of expression?

  “Did they photograph the car?” he asked after an appropriately long pause.

  “No. They just took down the license-plate number.”

  “Then there might be a solution. But I don’t dare tell you what it is, since it would offend your unshakable honesty as a man and civil servant.”

  Bonetti-Alderighi heaved a long sigh, as if on death’s doorstep.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Just tell them they copied the number wrong.”

  “But how would I know they got it wrong?”

  “Because during that very same half-hour they claim I was at Sinagra’s place, you were having a long conversation with me on the phone. No one would dare contradict you. What do you say?”

  “Bah!” said the commissioner, not very convinced. “We’ll see.”

  Montalbano left, feeling certain that Bonetti-Alderighi, though troubled by scruples, would do as he had suggested.

  Before setting out from Montelusa, he called headquarters.

  “Hallo? Hallo? Whozzat onna line?”

  “Montalbano here, Cat. Pass me Inspector Augello.”

  “I can’t pass ‘im t’ya ‘cause ’e ain’t here. But he was here before. He waited for you and seeing as how you din’t show up, he left.”

  “Do you know the reason he left?”

  “Yessir, because of the reason that there was a fire.”

  “A fire?”

  “Yessir. And an arsenal fire, too, like the firemen said. And ‘Spector Augello went there wit’ officers Gallo and Galluzzo, seeing as how Fazio wasn’t around.”

  “What did the firemen want from us?”

  “They said they was puttin’ out this arsenal fire. Then ‘Spector Augello grabbed the phone and talked to ’em hisself.”

  “Do you know where this fire broke out?”

  “It broke out inna Pisello districk.”

  Montalbano had never heard of such a district. Since the fire station was nearby, he raced down there and introduced himself. They told him the fire, a definite case of arson, had broken out in the Fava district.

  “Why did you call us?”

  “Because they discovered two corpses in a crumbling old farmhouse. Old folks, apparently, a man and a woman.”

  “Did they die in the fire?”

  “No, Inspector. The flames had already surrounded the ruined house, but our men got there in time.”

  “So how did they die?”

  “It looks like they were murdered, Inspector.”

  9

  Leaving behind the national route, he had to take a narrow, uphill dirt road that was all rocks and holes. The car groaned from the effort like a living being. At a certain point he could proceed no further, as the way was blocked by fire trucks and other vehicles that had parked all around.

  “Hey, you! Where do you think you’re going?” a fire corporal asked him rudely, seeing him get out of the car and proceed on foot.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano. I was told that—”

  “Okay, okay,” the fireman said brusquely. “You can go ahead, your men are already here.”

  It was hot.The inspector took off the tie and jacket he’d put on to go see the commissioner. Still, despite this alleviation, after a few steps he was already sweating like a pig. But where was the fire?

  He got his answer just round a bend. The landscape was suddenly transformed. There was no tree, shrub, or plant of any kind to be seen, not a single blade of grass, only a formless expanse, uniformly dark-brown in color, completely charred. The air was heavy, as on days when the sirocco is particularly fierce, but it stank of burning, and here and there a wisp of smoke rose up from the ground. The rustic house stood another hundred meters away, blackened by fire. It was halfway up the side of a small hill, at the top of which flames were still visible, and silhouettes of men rushing about.

  Somebody coming down the trail blocked his path, hand held out.

  “Ciao, Montalbano.”

  It was a colleague of his, chief inspector at Comisini.

  “Ciao, Miccichè. What are you doing in these parts?”

  “Actually, I should be the one asking you that question.”

  “Why?”

  “This is my territory. The firemen didn’t know whe
ther the Fava district was part of Vigàta or Comisini, so, just to be sure, they notified both police stations. The murder victims should have been my responsibility.”

  “Should have?”

  “Well, yes. Augello and I called up the commissioner, and I suggested we divvy them up, one corpse each.”

  He laughed. He was expecting a chuckle from Montalbano in turn, but the inspector seemed not even to have heard him.

  “But the commissioner ordered us to leave both of them to you, since you’re handling the case. Best of luck, see you around.”

  He went away whistling, obviously pleased to be rid of the hassle. Montalbano continued walking under a sky that turned darker and darker with each step. He started to wheeze and was having some difficulty breathing. He began to feel troubled, nervous, but couldn’t say why. A light breath of wind had risen, and the ash flew up in the air for a moment before falling back down impalpably. More than nervous, he realized he was irrationally scared. He picked up his pace, but then his quickened breath brought heavy, seemingly contaminated air into his lungs. Unable to go any farther alone, he stopped and called out:

  “Augello! Mimi!”

  Out of the blackened, tumbledown cottage came Augello, running towards the inspector and waving a white rag. When he was in front of him, he handed it to him: it was a little antismog mask.

  “The firemen gave them to us. Better than nothing.”

  Mimì’s hair had turned all gray with ash, his eyebrows as well. He looked twenty years older.

  As he was about to enter the farmhouse, leaning on his assistant’s arm, Montalbano smelled a strong odor of burnt flesh depite the mask. He backpedaled, and Mimi cast him a questioning glance.

  “Is that them?” he asked.

  “No,” Augello reassured him. “There was a dog chained up behind the house. We can’t figure out who he belonged to. He was burned alive. A horrible way to die.”

  Why, was the way the Griffos died any better? Montalbano asked himself the moment he saw the two bodies.

  The floor, once made of beaten earth, had now become a kind of bog from all the water the firemen had poured onto it. The two bodies were practically floating.

  They lay facedown, killed each by a single shot to the nape of the neck after being ordered to kneel down in a windowless little room, perhaps once a larder, that, as the house fell into ruin, had turned into a shithole that gave off an unbearable stench. The spot was fairly well shielded from the view of anyone who might look into the big, single room that had once made up the whole house.

  “Can a car make it up here?”

  “No. It can get up to a certain point, then you have to go the last thirty yards on foot.”

  The inspector imagined the old couple walking in the night, in the darkness, ahead of somebody holding them at gunpoint. They must have stumbled over the rocks, fallen, and hurt themselves, but they had to get back up and keep moving, maybe even with the help of a few kicks from their executioner. And, of course, they hadn’t rebelled, had not cried out, had not begged for mercy, but remained silent, frozen in the awareness that they were about to die. An interminable agony, a real Via Crucis, those last thirty yards.

  Was this ruthless execution the line that Balduccio Sinagra had said must not be crossed? The cruel, cold-blooded murder of two trembling, defenseless old people? No, come on. That couldn’t have been the limit; this double homicide wasn’t what Balduccio Sinagra was bailing out of. He and his ilk had done far worse, goat-tying and torturing old and young alike. They’d even strangled, then dissolved in acid, a ten-year-old boy, guilty only of being born in the wrong family. Therefore what he was looking at was still within their limits. The horror, invisible for now, lay another shade beyond. He felt slightly dizzy for a moment, and leaned on Mimi’s arm.

  “You all right, Salvo?”

  “It’s this mask, it’s sort of oppressive.”

  No, the weight on his chest, the shortness of breath, the aftertaste of infinite sadness, the feeling of oppression, in short, was not caused by the mask. He bent forward to have a better look at the corpses. And that was when he noticed something that finally bowled him over.

  Under the mud one could see the shapes of the woman’s right arm and the man’s left arm. The two arms were extended and touching each other. He leaned even further forward to look more closely, all the while clinging to Mimi’s arm. And he saw the victims’ hands: the fingers of the woman’s right hand were interlaced with those of the man’s left hand. They had died holding hands. In the night, in their terror, with only the darker darkness of death before them, they had sought each other out, found each other, comforted each other as they had surely done so many other times over the course of their lives. The grief, the pity, assailed the inspector, two sudden blows to the chest. He staggered, and Mimi was quick to support him.

  “Get out of here, you’re not leveling with me,” said Augello.

  Montalbano turned his back and left. He looked around. He couldn’t remember who, but somebody from the Church had once said that Hell does indeed exist, though we don’t know where it is. Why didn’t he try visiting these parts? Maybe he’d get an idea as to its possible location.

  Mimi rejoined him, looking him over carefully.

  “How do you feel, Salvo?”

  “Fine, fine. Where’s Gallo and Galluzzo?”

  “I sent them off to lend the firemen a hand. They didn’t have anything to do around here anyway. And you too, why don’t you go? I’ll stay behind.”

  “Did you inform the prosecutor? And the crime lab?”

  “Everybody. They’ll get here sooner or later. Go.”

  Montalbano didn’t budge. He just stood there, staring at the ground.

  “I made a mistake,” he said.

  “What?” said Augello, puzzled. “A mistake?”

  “Yes. I took this business of the old couple too lightly, from the start.”

  “Salvo,” Mimi reacted, “didn’t you just see them? The poor wretches were murdered Sunday night, on their way home from the excursion. What could we possibly have done? We didn’t even know they existed!”

  “I’m talking about afterward, after the son came and told us they’d disappeared.”

  “But we did everything we could!”

  “That’s true. But I, for my part, did it without conviction. Mimi, I can’t stand it here anymore. I’m going home. I’ll see you back at the office around five.”

  “All right,” said Mimi.

  He kept watching the inspector, concerned, until he saw him disappear behind a bend.

  Back home in Marinella he didn’t even open the refrigerator to see what was inside. He didn’t feel like eating; his stomach was in knots. He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The ash, aside from turning his hair and mustache gray, had highlighted his wrinkles, turning them a pale, sickly white. He washed only his face, stripped down naked, letting his suit and underwear fall to the floor, put on his bathing suit, and ran down to the beach.

  Kneeling down in the sand, he dug a wide hole with his hands, stopping only when the water began to well up from the bottom. He grabbed a handful of seaweed still green and threw it into the hole. Then he lay facedown and stuck his head inside. He inhaled deeply, once, twice, thrice, and with each new breath of air, the smell of the brine and algae cleansed his lungs of the ash that had entered them. Then he stood up and dived into the sea. With a few vigorous strokes he propelled himself far from shore. Filling his mouth with seawater, he gargled a long time, rinsing palate and throat. After this, he let himself float for half an hour, not thinking of anything.

  He drifted like a branch, a leaf.

  Returning to headquarters, he phoned Dr. Pasquano, who answered in his customary fashion.

  “I was expecting your ball-busting call. Actually, I was wondering if something had happened to you, since I hadn’t heard from you yet. I was worried, you know! What do you want? I plan to work on the two corpses tomorrow.”<
br />
  “In the meantime, Doctor, you need only answer me with a simple yes or no. As far as you can tell, were they killed late Sunday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “A single shot to the nape of the neck, execution-style?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were they tortured before they were killed?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. See how much breath I saved you? That way you’ll still have plenty left, when you’re on death’s doorstep.”

  “How I’d love to perform your autopsy!” said Pasquano.

  For once Mimì Augello was punctual, showing up at five o‘clock on the dot. But he was wearing a long face. It was clear he was stewing about something.

  “Did you find time to rest a little, Mimì?”

  “When would I have done that? We had to wait for Judge Tommaseo, who in the meantime had driven his car into a ditch.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Beba made me a sandwich.”

  “And who’s Beba?”

  “You introduced her to me yourself. Beatrice.”

  So he was already calling her Beba! Things must be proceeding very nicely. But then why was Mimì wearing that funereal face? He didn’t have time to probe any further, however, because Mimì asked him a question he hardly expected.

  “Are you still in touch with that Swedish woman, what’s her name, Ingrid?”

  “I haven’t seen her in a while. But she did call me last week. Why do you ask?”

  “Can we trust her?”

  Montalbano hated it when somebody answered a question with another question. He did it himself at times, but always with a specific purpose in mind. He played along.