The Paper Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  He entered the little room and turned on the light. A table covered with newspapers and magazines. A refrigerator. A sofa bed for one person. Four long planks affixed to the wall served as a bookcase. There was a small liquor cabinet with bottles and glasses. A sink in a corner. A large leather armchair of the sort one used to see in offices. He’d set himself up nicely, this Angelo. Who lay collapsed in the armchair, half of his face blasted off by the shot that had killed him. He was dressed in a shirt and jeans. The jeans’ zipper was open, dick dangling between his legs.

  “What should I do, call?” asked Fazio.

  “Call,” said Montalbano. “I’m going downstairs.”

  What was he doing there anyway? Soon the whole circus would be there: prosecutor, coroner, crime lab, and Giacovazzo, the new Flying Squad chief, who would lead the investigation…If they needed him, they knew where to find him.

  When he went back in the master bedroom, Michela was sitting on the bed, frighteningly pale. Gallo was standing a couple of steps away from the bed.

  “Go up to the terrace and give Fazio a hand. I’ll stay down here.”

  Relieved, Gallo left.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Gunshot.”

  “Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” she cried, covering her face with her hands.

  But she was a strong woman. She took a sip of water from a glass that apparently Gallo had given her.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why was he killed? Why?”

  Montalbano threw his hands up. But Michela was already beset with another concern.

  “Mama! Oh my God! How am I ever going to tell her?”

  “Don’t.”

  “But I have to tell her!”

  “Listen to me. Call her up. Tell her we’ve discovered that Angelo was in a terrible car accident. That he’s been hospitalized and is in grave condition. And you’re going to spend the night at the hospital. Don’t tell her which one. Does your mother have any relatives around here?”

  “Yes, a sister.”

  “Does she live in Vigàta?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call up this sister and tell her the same thing. And ask her to go and stay with your mother. I think it’s better if you spend the night here. You’ll see, tomorrow morning you’ll be strong enough to find the right words to tell your mother the truth.”

  “Thank you,” said Michela.

  She stood up, and Montalbano heard her walk into the study, where there was a phone.

  He, too, walked out of the bedroom, went into the living room, sat down in an armchair, and lit himself a cigarette.

  “Chief? Where are you?”

  It was Fazio.

  “I’m in here. What is it?”

  “I gave the word, Chief. They’ll be here in half an hour, max. But Captain Giacovazzo’s not coming.”

  “And why not?”

  “He spoke to the commissioner, and the commissioner relieved him. Apparently Giacovazzo’s got some delicate matter on his hands. To make a long story short, the case is yours, like it or not.”

  “Fine. Call me when they get here.”

  He heard Michela come out of the study and lock herself in the bathroom between the two bedrooms. Ten minutes later he heard her come out. She’d washed herself and put on a woman’s dressing gown. Michela noticed that the inspector was looking at her.

  “It’s mine,” she explained. “I used to spend the night here sometimes.”

  “Did you talk to your mother?”

  “Yes. She took it pretty well, all things considered. And Aunt Iole is already on her way to be with her. You see, Mama’s not really all there in the head. At times she’s perfectly lucid, but at other times it’s as though she were absent. When I told her about Angelo, it was as if I were talking about some acquaintance. I guess it’s better this way. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No thanks. But if you’ve got a little whisky…”

  “Of course. I think I’ll have some myself.”

  She went out, then returned carrying a tray with two glasses and an unopened bottle.

  “I’ll go see if there’s any ice.”

  “I drink it straight.”

  “Me, too.”

  If there hadn’t happened to be a man shot to death on the terrace, it might have been the opening scene of an amorous encounter. All that was missing was the background music. Michela heaved a deep sigh, leaned her head against the back of the armchair, and closed her eyes. Montalbano decided to lower the boom.

  “Your brother was killed either during or after sexual relations. Or while masturbating.”

  She leapt out of her chair like a Fury.

  “Imbecile! What are you saying?”

  Montalbano acted as though he hadn’t heard the insult.

  “What’s so surprising? Your brother was a forty-two-year-old man. You yourself, who used to see him every day, told me Angelo didn’t have any girlfriends. So let me put the question differently: Did he have any boyfriends?”

  It got worse. She began to tremble all over and held out her arm, index finger pointed like a pistol at the inspector.

  “You are a…a…”

  “Who are you trying to cover for, Michela?”

  She fell back into the armchair, weeping, hands over her face.

  “Angelo…my poor brother…my poor Angelo…”

  Through the front door, which had been left open, they heard the sounds of people coming up the stairs.

  “I have to go now,” said Montalbano. “But don’t go to bed yet. I’ll be back in a little bit, so we can continue our discussion.”

  “No.”

  “Listen, Michela. You can’t refuse. Your brother has been murdered, and we must—”

  “I’m not refusing. I said no to the thought of your coming back without warning and asking me more questions, when I need to take a shower, take a sleeping pill, and go to bed.”

  “All right. But I’m warning you, tomorrow will be a very hard day for you. Among other things, you’ll have to identify the body.”

  “Oh God oh God oh God. But why?”

  One needed the patience of a saint with this woman.

  “Michela, were you absolutely certain that was your brother there when I broke open the door?”

  “Absolutely certain? It was too dark. I caught a glimpse…I thought I saw a body in the armchair and…”

  “Therefore you cannot confirm that it was your brother in that chair. And theoretically, I can’t either. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Great big tears started flowing down her face. She muttered something the inspector didn’t understand.

  “What did you say?”

  “Elena,” she repeated more clearly.

  “Who’s she?”

  “A woman my brother used to…”

  “Why did you want to cover up for her?”

  “She’s married.”

  “How long had they been seeing each other?”

  “Six months, at the most.”

  “Did they get along well?”

  “Angelo told me they quarreled every now and then…Elena was…is very jealous.”

  “Do you know all about this woman? Her husband’s name, where she lives, and so on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  She told him.

  “What sort of relationship do you have with this Elena Sclafani?”

  “I only know her by sight.”

  “So you have no reason to tell her what happened to your brother?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You can go to bed now. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow morning around nine-thirty.”

  3

  Somebody must have found the switch for the two lights that lit up the part of the terrace nearest the former laundry room. Judge Tommaseo was walking back and forth in the illuminated area, carefully
avoiding the surrounding darkness. Sitting on the balustrade with lighted cigarettes in hand were two men in white smocks. They must have been ambulance workers, waiting for the go-ahead to pick up the body and take it to the morgue.

  Fazio and Gallo were standing near the entrance to the room. They’d removed the door from its hinges and propped it against the wall. Montalbano saw Dr. Pasquano washing his hands, which meant he’d finished examining the body. The coroner looked angrier than usual. Maybe he’d been interrupted during a game of briscola or tressette, which he played every Thursday night.

  Tommaseo ran up to the inspector.

  “What did the sister say?”

  Apparently Fazio had told him where the inspector was and what he was doing.

  “Nothing. I didn’t interrogate her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wouldn’t have dared without you being present, Dr. Tommaseo.”

  The public prosecutor puffed up his chest. He looked like a turkey-cock.

  “So what were you doing all this time with her?”

  “I put her to bed.”

  Tommaseo look a quick glance around, then huddled up conspiratorially next to the inspector.

  “Pretty?”

  “That’s not the right adjective, but I’d say yes.”

  Tommaseo licked his lips.

  “When could I…interrogate her?”

  “I’ll bring her to your office tomorrow morning, around ten-thirty. Is that okay with you? Unfortunately, I’ve a meeting with the commissioner at eleven.”

  “That’s fine, go right ahead.”

  He licked his lips again. Pasquano came up.

  “So?” asked Tommaseo.

  “So what? Didn’t you see him yourself? He got shot in the face. One shot. That was enough.”

  “Do you know how long he’s been dead?”

  Pasquano gave him a dirty look and didn’t answer.

  “Roughly speaking,” Montalbano bargained.

  “What day is today?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Roughly speaking, I’d say he was shot late Monday evening.”

  “Is that all?” Tommaseo cut in again, disappointed.

  “I don’t think I saw any wounds from assegais or boomerangs,” Pasquano said sarcastically.

  “No, no, I was referring to the fact that his member was—”

  “Oh, that? You want to know why he had it out? He’d just performed a sexual act.”

  “Do you mean that he was taken by surprise right after masturbating and killed?”

  “I didn’t say anything about masturbation,” said Pasquano. “It might have been oral sex.”

  Tommaseo’s eyes started to flash like a cat’s. He lived for these sorts of details. Gloried in them. Wallowed in them.

  “You think so? So the murderess killed him right after giving him a—”

  “What makes you think it was a murderess?” asked Pasquano, who, no longer angry, was beginning to amuse himself. “It could just as easily have been a homosexual relation.”

  “True,” Tommaseo reluctantly admitted.

  The homoerotic hypothesis clearly didn’t appeal to him.

  “Anyway, it’s not sure there were only oral relations.”

  Pasquano had cast the bait, which the prosecutor immediately swallowed.

  “Think so?”

  “Yeah. It’s possible the woman—assuming, for the sake of hypothesis, that it was a woman—was straddling the man.”

  Tommaseo’s eyes turned more catlike than ever.

  “Right! And as she was bringing him to orgasm and looking in his eyes, she already had her hand on the weapon, and—”

  “Wait a second. What makes you think the woman looked her victim in the eyes?” Pasquano cut in, a seraphic expression on his face.

  Montalbano felt like he couldn’t take Pasquano’s shenanigans any longer and would burst out laughing at any moment.

  “But how could she not look him in the eyes, in that position!” said Tommaseo.

  “We’re not certain that was the position.”

  “But you yourself just finished saying—”

  “Listen, Tommaseo, the woman might well have straddled the man, but we don’t know how—that is, whether facing him or with her back to him.”

  “True.”

  “And in the latter case, she would not have been able to look her victim in the eye, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, from that position, the man would have had an embarrassment of riches. Well, I’m going to go. Good night. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Oh, no you don’t! You have to explain yourself! What do you mean by ‘an embarrassment of riches’?” said Tommaseo, running after the coroner.

  They disappeared into the darkness. Montalbano approached Fazio.

  “Did Forensics get lost?”

  “They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Listen, I’m going home. You stay here. See you tomorrow at the office.”

  He got home in time for the local news. Nobody, of course, knew anything yet about the death of Angelo Pardo. But the two local stations, TeleVigàta and the Free Channel, were still talking about another death, a truly distinguished corpse.

  Around eight o’clock on Wednesday, the night before, the honorable Armando Riccobono, a deputy in parliament, had gone to see his party colleague, Senator Stefano Nicotra, who for the previous five days had been staying at his country house between Vigàta and Montereale, taking a modest breather from his normally intense political activity. They’d spoken by telephone on Sunday morning and agreed to meet on Wednesday evening.

  A seventy-year-old widower with no children, Senator Nicotra, a Vigàta native, was sort of a local and national hero. A former minister of agriculture and twice undersecretary, he had skillfully navigated all the different currents of the old Christian Democratic Party, managing to stay afloat even through the most frightful storms. During the horrific hurricane “Clean Hands,” he had turned into a submarine, navigating underwater by means of periscope alone. He resurfaced only when he’d sighted the possibility of casting anchor in a safe port—the one just constructed by a former Milanese real-estate speculator–cum–owner of the top three private nationwide television stations–cum–parliamentary deputy, head of his own personal political party, and finally prime minister. A number of other survivors of the great shipwreck had gone along with Nicotra, and Armando Riccobono was one of these.

  Arriving at the senator’s villa, the honorable Riccobono had knocked a long time at the door to no avail. Alarmed—because he knew that the senator was at home alone—he’d walked around the house and looked inside a window, seeing his friend lying on the floor, either unconscious or dead. Since, given his age, he couldn’t very well climb up through the window and enter, he’d called for help on his cell phone.

  In brief, Senator Nicotra had, as the newspapers like to put it, “died of heart failure” that same Sunday evening after speaking to the Honorable Riccobono. Nobody’d been to see him either Monday or Tuesday. He himself had told his secretary he wanted to be left alone and undisturbed and that, at any rate, he was going to unplug the phone. If he needed anything, he would call for it.

  TeleVigàta, through the pursed lips of their political commentator Pippo Ragonese, was explaining to one and all the vast sweep of Italy’s grief over the loss of the eminent politician. The chief executive—the very same into whose party the senator had fled with all his belongings—had wired a message of condolence to the family.

  “What family?” Montalbano asked himself.

  It was well known that the senator had no family. And it would have been going too far, indeed it was entirely beyond the realm of possibility, for the chief executive to wire a message of condolence to the Sinagra crime family, with whom the senator had apparently had, and continued to have, long and fruitful—but never proven—ties.

  Pippo Ragonese concluded by saying that the funeral would be held the following day, Friday, in Montelusa.

  T
urning off the television, the inspector didn’t feel like eating anything. He went and sat out on the veranda for a bit, enjoying the cool sea air, then went to bed.

  The alarm went off at seven-thirty, and Montalbano shot out of bed like a jack-in-the-box. Shortly before eight o’clock, the phone rang.

  “Chief, ohh, Chief! Dr. Latte wit an s at the end jess called!”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said that ’cause that they’re having the furinal services for that sinator that died and seeing as how the c’mishner gotta be there poissonally in poisson, atta furinal, I mean, the c’mishner can’t come to see youse like he said he was gonna do. Unnastand, Chief?”

  “Perfectly, Cat.”

  It was a lovely day, but the moment he set down the phone, it seemed downright heavenly to him. The prospect of not having to meet with Bonetti-Alderighi made him practically idiotic with joy, to the point that he composed a perfectly ignoble couplet—ignoble in terms of both intelligence and meter—for the occasion:

  A dead senator a day

  Keeps the commissioner away.

  Michela had mentioned that Emilio Sclafani, Elena’s husband, taught Greek at the liceo classico of Montelusa, which probably meant he got in his car every morning and drove to school. Thus when the inspector knocked at the door of Apartment 6, Via Autonomia Siciliana 18, at 8:40, he was reasonably certain that Signora Elena, the professor’s wife and the late Angelo Pardo’s mistress, would be at home alone. But in reality when he knocked, there was no answer. The inspector tried again. Nothing. He started to worry. Maybe the woman had asked her husband for a lift and gone into Montelusa. He knocked a third time. Still nothing. He turned around, cursing, and was about to descend the stairs when he heard a woman’s voice call from inside the apartment.

  “Who is it?”

  This question is not always so easy to answer. First of all, because it may happen that the person who’s supposed to reply is caught at a moment of identity loss and, second, because saying who one is doesn’t always facilitate things.

  “Administration,” he said.

  In so-called civilized societies, there is always an administrator administrating you, thought Montalbano. It might be the condominium administrator or a legal administrator, but it really makes no difference, since what matters is that he’s there, and stays there, and that he administrates you more or less carefully, or even secretly, ready to make you pay for mistakes you perhaps don’t even know you’ve made. Joseph K. knew a thing or two about this.