The Paper Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  Identical. All that changed were the numbers in the second column. But he didn’t feel like giving himself a headache.

  He left the old pages, the new pages, and the coded songbook on the desk, grabbed the canvas bag, and went out of the room. Passing by the closet at the entrance, he heard Catarella yelling.

  “No, sir, no, sir, I’m sorry but the inspector ain’t in, this morning he said this morning he wasn’t coming in this morning. Yessir, I’ll tell ’im, certifiably. Have no fears, I’ll tell ’im.”

  “Was that for me, Cat?” asked the inspector, appearing before him.

  Catarella looked at him as if he were Lazarus risen from the dead.

  “Matre santa, Chief, where djouse come from?”

  It was too complicated to explain that he’d been sleeping, drained from a night of battle with passwords, when the inspector came in. Never in a million years, moreover, would the diligent Catarella have admitted nodding off on the job at the switchboard.

  “Who was it?” the inspector asked.

  “Dr. Latte wit’ an s at the end. He said that seeing as how Mr. C’mishner can’t see you today, neither, the day we’re at now, as you guys prearraigned, he says he rearraigned it for tomorrow, atta zack same time as was sposed to be on the day of today.”

  “Cat, do you know you are brilliant?”

  “For as how the way I ’splained what that Dr. Latte wit’ an s at the end said?”

  “No, because you managed to open the second file.”

  “Ahhh, Chief! I straggled all night wit’ it! You got no idea what kinda trouble I had! It was a past word that looked like one past word but rilly was—”

  “Tell me about it later, Cat.”

  He was afraid to waste time. The herring and salmon in the bag might start to spoil.

  But the moment he got home and opened the first container, the persuasive aroma invading his nostrils made him realize he needed to equip himself at once with a plate, a fork, and a fresh loaf of bread.

  At least half the contents of those containers needed to go not in the refrigerator but straight into his belly. Only the salmon went into the fridge. The rest he took outside onto the veranda, after setting the table.

  The herring, which were high caliber, turned out to be marinated in a variety of preparations ranging from sweet-and-sour sauce to mustard. He had a feast. He really wanted to scarf them all down, but realized that he would spend the whole afternoon and evening wanting water like someone stranded for days in the desert.

  So he put what remained into the fridge and replaced his customary walk along the jetty with a long walk on the beach.

  Then he took a shower and lolled about the house a bit before returning to the station around four-thirty. Catarella was not at his post. In compensation he ran into a glum-faced Mimì Augello in the corridor.

  “What’s wrong, Mimì?”

  “Where are you coming from? What are you doing?” Augello fired back edgily, following him into his office.

  “I come from Vigàta, and I’m doing my job as inspector,” Montalbano crooned to the tune of “Pale Little Lady.”

  “Yeah, go ahead and play the wise guy. This is really not the time for that, Salvo.”

  Montalbano got worried.

  “Salvuccio’s not feeling well?”

  “Salvuccio’s feeling great. It’s me that’s the problem, after receiving a heavy dose of Liguori, who practically went nuts.”

  “Why?”

  “See, I was right to ask you where you’ve been! Don’t you know what happened yesterday in Fanara?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t turn on your TV?”

  “No. Come on, what happened?”

  “MP Di Cristoforo died.”

  Di Cristoforo! Undersecretary for communications! Rising star of the ruling party—not to mention, according to gossips, a young man much admired in those circles where admiration goes hand in hand with staying alive.

  “But he wasn’t even fifty years old! What’d he die of?”

  “Officially, a heart attack. Owing to the stress of all the political commitments to which he so generously devoted himself…and so on and so forth. Unofficially, from the same illness as Nicotra.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Exactly. Now you understand why Liguori, feeling the seat of his pants starting to burn, demands that we arrest the supplier before any more illustrious victims fall.”

  “Listen, Mimì, weren’t these gentlemen doing cocaine?”

  “Of course.”

  “But I’d always heard that coke wasn’t—”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Except Liguori, who’s a first-class asshole but knows his trade well, explained to me that when coke isn’t properly cut, or is cut with certain other substances, it can turn poisonous. And in fact both Nicotra and Di Cristoforo died of poisoning.”

  “But I don’t get it, Mimì. What interest could a dealer have in killing his clients?”

  “Well, in fact, it wasn’t intentional. It’s just a little collateral damage. According to Liguori, our dealer didn’t just deal. He also further cut the merchandise, by himself and with inadequate means, doubling the quantity before putting it on the market.”

  “So there might be other deaths.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And what’s lighting a fire under us all is the fact that this dealer supplies a high-flying circle of politicians, businessmen, established professionals, and so on.”

  “You said it.”

  “But how did Liguori come to the conclusion that the dealer is in Vigàta?”

  “He merely hinted that he deduced it from clues provided by an informer.”

  “Best wishes, Mimì.”

  “What do you mean, ‘best wishes’? Is that all you have to say?”

  “Mimì, I told you yesterday what I had to say. Make your moves very carefully. This is not a police operation.”

  “It’s not? Then what is it?”

  “It’s a secret service operation, Mimì. For the guys who work in the shadows and are followers of Stalin.”

  Mimì scowled.

  “What’s Stalin got to do with this?”

  “Apparently Uncle Joe once said that when a man becomes a problem, you need only eliminate the man to eliminate the problem.”

  “What’s that got to do with this?”

  “I’ve already told you, and I repeat: The only solution is to kill this dealer or have him killed. Think about it. Let’s say you go by the book and arrest him. When you’re writing the report, you can’t very well say he’s responsible for the deaths of Nicotra and Di Cristoforo.”

  “I can’t?”

  “No, you can’t. Mimì, you’re more thickheaded than a Calabrian. Senator Nicotra and MP Di Cristoforo were respectable, honorable men, paragons of virtue—all church, family, public service. No drugs of any sort, ever. If need be, ten thousand witnesses will testify in their favor. So you weigh the pros and cons and come to the conclusion that it’s better to gloss over this business of their deaths. And you end up writing that the guy’s a dealer and that’s all. But what if the guy starts talking to the prosecutor? What if he blurts out the names of Nicotra and Di Cristoforo?”

  “Nobody would voluntarily incriminate himself in two homicides, even unintentional ones! What are you saying?”

  “Okay, let’s say he doesn’t incriminate himself. There’s still the risk that someone else might link the dealer to the two deaths. Don’t forget, Mimì, Nicotra and Di Cristoforo were politicians with many enemies. And in our neck of the woods, and not only our neck of the woods, politics is the art of burying one’s adversary in shit.”

  “What’s politics got to do with me?”

  “A lot, even if you don’t realize it. In a case like this, do you know what your role is?”

  “No. What’s my role?”

  “You supply the shit.”

  “That sounds a little excessive.”

  “Excessive? Once it come
s out that Nicotra and Di Cristoforo used drugs and died from it, their memory will be unanimously dumped on in direct proportion with the equally unanimous praise that will be heaped on you for having arrested the dealer. Some three months later, at most, somebody from Nicotra and Di Cristoforo’s party will start by revealing that Nicotra took very small doses of drugs for medicinal purposes and that Di Cristoforo did the same for his ingrown toenail. We’re talking medicine here, not vice. Then, little by little, their memory will be rehabilitated, and people will start saying that it was you who first started slinging mud at the dear departed.”

  “Me?!”

  “Yes, sir, you, by making a careless arrest, to say the least.”

  Augello stood there speechless. Montalbano threw down his ace.

  “Don’t you see what’s happening to the ‘Clean Hands’ judges? They’re being blamed for the suicides and heart attacks of some of the accused. The fact that the accused were corrupt and corrupters and deserved to go to jail gets glossed over. According to these sensitive souls, the real culprit is not the culprit who in a moment of shame commits suicide but the judge who made him feel ashamed. But we’ve talked enough about this. If you get it, you get it. If you don’t, I’m tired of explaining it to you. Now get out of here, I got work to do.”

  Without a word, Mimì got up and left the room, even glummer than before. Montalbano started eyeing four pages densely covered with numbers, unable to make anything whatsoever of them.

  After five minutes of this, he pushed them away in disgust and called the switchboard. A voice he didn’t recognize answered.

  “Listen, I want you to find me the phone number of a Palermo contractor named Mario Sciacca.”

  “Home phone or business phone?”

  “Home.”

  “All right.”

  “But just find me the number, understand? If the home phone’s not listed, ask our colleagues in Palermo. Then I’ll call myself from a direct line.”

  “I understand, Inspector. You don’t want them to know it’s the police calling.”

  Smart kid. Knew his stuff.

  “What’s the name?”

  “Sciacca, Inspector.”

  “No, yours.”

  “Amato, Inspector. I started working here a month ago.”

  He made a mental note to talk to Fazio about this Amato. The kid might be worth having on the squad. A few minutes later, the phone rang. Amato had found Mario Sciacca’s home phone number.

  The inspector dialed it.

  “Who’s this?” asked an old woman’s voice.

  “Is this the Sciacca residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Antonio Volpe. I’d like to speak with Signora Teresa.”

  “My daughter-in-law’s not home.”

  “Is she away?”

  “Well, she’s gone to Montelusa. Her father’s sick.”

  What a stroke of luck! This might spare him the boring drive to Palermo. He looked for the number in the phone book. There were four people named Cacciatore. He would have to be patient and call them all.

  “The Cacciatore residence?”

  “No, the Mistrettas’. Look, this whole thing is a big pain in the ass,” said an angry male voice.

  “What whole thing, if I may ask?”

  “The fact that you all keep calling, when the Cacciatores moved away a year ago.”

  “Do you know their number, by any chance?”

  Mr. Mistretta hung up without answering. A fine start, no doubt about it. Montalbano dialed the second number.

  “The Cacciatore residence?”

  “Yes,” replied a pleasant female voice.

  “Signora, my name is Antonio Volpe. I tried to get in touch with a certain Teresa Sciacca in Palermo and was told—”

  “I’m Teresa Sciacca.”

  Astonished by his sudden good fortune, Montalbano was speechless.

  “Hello?” said Teresa.

  “How’s your father? I was told that—”

  “He’s doing much better, thank you. So much better that I’ll be going back to Palermo tomorrow.”

  “I absolutely must speak to you before you leave.”

  “Signor Volpe, I—”

  “Actually, my name’s not Volpe. I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  Teresa Sciacca let out a kind of gasp between fright and surprise.

  “Oh my God! Has something happened to Mario?”

  “Don’t worry, signora, your husband is fine. I need to talk to you about something involving you.”

  A very long pause. Then a “yes” that was a sigh, a breath.

  “Believe me, I would have preferred not to stir up unpleasant memories, but—”

  “I understand.”

  “I guarantee you that our meeting will remain confidential, and I give you my word never to mention your name in the investigation, for any reason whatsoever.”

  “I don’t see how I could be of any use to you. It’s been so many years since…In any case, you can’t come here.”

  “Could you come out?”

  “Yes, I could leave for about an hour.”

  “Tell me where you want to meet.”

  Teresa gave him the name of a café in the elevated part of Montelusa. For five-thirty. The inspector glanced at his watch. He had just barely enough time to get in his car and go. To arrive in time, he would have to drive at the insane speed of forty to forty-five miles per hour.

  Teresa Sciacca, née Cacciatore, was a thirty-eight-year-old woman who looked like a good mother, and it was immediately clear that this look was not façade but substance. She was quite embarrassed by their meeting, and Montalbano immediately came to her aid.

  “Signora, in ten minutes, at the most, you’ll be able to go back home.”

  “Thank you, but I really don’t see how what happened twenty years ago could have anything to do with Angelo’s death.”

  “It has nothing to do with it, actually. But it’s essential for me to establish certain modes of behavior. Understand?”

  “No, but go ahead and ask your questions.”

  “How did Angelo react when you told him you were expecting?”

  “He was happy. And we immediately talked about getting married. In fact, I started looking for a house the very next day.”

  “Did your family know?”

  “My folks didn’t know anything; they didn’t even know Angelo. Then one evening he told me he’d changed his mind. He said it was crazy to get married, that it would ruin his career. He showed a lot of promise as a doctor, that was true. And so he started talking about abortion.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I took it badly. We had a terrible row. When we finally calmed down, I told him I was going to tell my parents everything. He got really scared. Papa’s not the kind of man to kid around with, and he begged me not to do it. I gave him three days.”

  “To do what?”

  “To think about it. He phoned me on the second day, in the afternoon. It was a Wednesday. I remember it well. He asked if we could meet. When I got there, he immediately told me he’d found a solution and needed my help. His solution was this: The following Sunday he and I would go to my parents and tell them everything. Then Angelo would explain to them why he couldn’t marry me right away. He needed at least two years without any ties. There was a famous doctor who wanted him for an assistant, which meant he would have to live abroad for eighteen months. In short, after giving birth, I would live at home with my parents until Angelo had set himself back up here. He even said he was ready to acknowledge paternity of the child, to set my parents’ mind at rest. And then he would marry me in about two years’ time.”

  “How did you take this?”

  “It seemed like a good solution to me. And I told him so. I had no reason to doubt his sincerity. So he suggested we celebrate, and he even invited Michela, his sister.”

  “Had you already met?”

  “Yes, we’d even got together a few times, t
hough she didn’t seem to like me very much. Anyway, we were all supposed to meet at nine P.M. in the medical office of a colleague of Angelo’s, after visiting hours.”

  “Why not at his own office?”

  “Because he didn’t have one. He worked out of a little room this colleague let him use. When I got there, the colleague had already left and Michela hadn’t arrived yet. Angelo gave me a glass of bitter orange soda to drink. As soon as I drank it, everything started to turn foggy and confused. I couldn’t move or react…I remember Angelo putting on his smock, and…”

  She tried to go on, but Montalbano interrupted her.

  “I get the picture. No need to continue.”

  He fired up a cigarette. Teresa wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “What do you remember after that?”

  “My memory is still cloudy. Michela in a white smock, like a nurse, Angelo saying something…Then I’m in Angelo’s car, I remember…then at Anna’s place…She’s a cousin of mine who knows everything. I spent the night there—Anna had called my parents and told them I’d be sleeping over. The next day I had a terrible hemorrhage and was rushed to the hospital and had to tell Papa everything. And so Papa pressed charges against Angelo.”

  “So you never saw Angelo’s colleague?”

  “Never.”

  “Thank you, signora. That’ll be all,” said Montalbano, standing up.

  She looked surprised and relieved. She held out her hand, to say good-bye. But instead of shaking it, the inspector kissed it.

  13

  He arrived a bit early for his appointment with Marshal Laganà.

  “You’re looking good,” said the marshal, eyeing him.

  Montalbano got worried. Often of late that statement didn’t sound right to him. If someone tells you you’re looking good, it means they were expecting you not to look so good. And why were they thinking this? Because you’ve reached an age where the worst could happen overnight. To take one example: Up to a certain point in life, if you slip and fall, you get right up, because nothing’s happened to you. Then the moment comes when you slip and fall and you can’t get up anymore, because you’ve broken your femur. What’s happened? What’s happened is you’ve crossed the invisible boundary between one age of life and the next.