He had anticipated this question, and the answer he had ready on his lips allowed him another at least partial omission, if not an outright lie.
“This Karima, you see, was a rather unusual sort of prostitute. She went not only with Lapècora, but with other people as well. All well on in years: retirees, businessmen, professors. By limiting the case to Lapècora, I’ve tried to prevent the poison, the insinuations, from spreading to a bunch of poor wretches who, in the end, didn’t really do anything wrong.”
He was convinced it was a plausible explanation. And in fact, the commissioner’s only comment was:
“You have strange morals, Montalbano.”
And then he asked:
“But has this Karima really disappeared?”
“Apparently, yes. When she learned her lover had been killed, she ran away with her little boy, fearing she might be implicated in the homicide.”
“Listen,” said the commissioner. “What was that business with the car all about?”
“What car?”
“Come on, Montalbano. The car that turned out to belong to the secret services. They’re nasty people, you know.”
Montalbano laughed. He’d practiced the laugh the night before, in front of a mirror, persisting until he got it right. Now, however, contrary to his hopes, it rang false, too high-pitched. But if he wanted to keep his excellent superior out of this mess, he no longer had any choice. He had to tell a lie.
“Why do you laugh?” asked the commissioner, surprised.
“Out of embarrassment, believe me. The person who gave me that license number phoned me the next day and said he’d made a mistake. The letters were right, but he’d got the number wrong. It was 837, not 237. I apologize. I feel mortified.”
The commissioner looked him in the eye for what seemed like an eternity. Then he spoke in a soft voice.
“If you want me to swallow that, I’ll swallow it. But be very careful, Montalbano. Those people don’t kid around. They’re capable of anything, and whenever they slip up, they blame it on certain colleagues who went astray. Who don’t exist. They’re the ones who go astray. It’s in their nature.”
Montalbano didn’t know what to say. The commissioner changed subject.
“Tonight you’ll dine at my house. I don’t want to hear any arguments. You’ll eat whatever there is. I’ve got two things I absolutely have to tell you. But I won’t say them here, in my office, because that would give them a bureaucratic flavor, which I find unpleasant.”
It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, and yet Montalbano had the impression that a shadow had fallen across the sun, making the room turn suddenly cold.
There was a letter addressed to him on the desk in his office. He checked the postmark, as he always did, to try and discover its provenance, but it was illegible. He opened the envelope and read:
Inspector Montalbano,
You dont know me and I dont know what your like. My name is Arcangelo Prestifilippo and I am your fathers business partner in the vineyard which is producing very well, thank the Lord. Your father never talks about you but I found out he collects all the newspapers that talk about you and when he sees you on tv sometimes he starts crying but tries to not let other people see.
Dear Inspector, I feel my heart give out because the news I got to tell you isnt good. Ever since Signora Giulia, your father’s second wife went up to Heaven four years ago, my partner and friend hasnt been the same. Then last year he started feeling bad, he would run out of breath even just from climbing some stairs and he would get dizzy. He didnt want to go to the doctor, nothing doing. And so I took advantage because my son who works in Milan and is a good doctor, came to town, and I took him to your father’s house. My son looked at him and got upset because he wanted your father to go to the hospital. He made such a big fuss and talked so much that he convinced your father to go to the hospital with him before he went back to Milan. I went to see him every night and ten days later the doctor told me they did all the tests and your father had that terrible lung disease. And so your father started going in and out of the hospital for treatment which made all his hair fall out but didnt make him one bit better. And he told me specially to not tell you about it, he said he didnt want you getting all worried. But last night I talked to the doctor and he said your father is near the end now, he got only one month maybe, give or take a few days. And so in spiter your dad’s strict orders I wanted you to know whats happening. Your fathers in the Clinica Porticelli, the telefone number is 341234. Theres a phone in his room. But its better if you come see him in person and pretend you dont know nuthin bout him being sick. You already got my phone number, its the same as the vineyard office where I work all day long.
I am very sorry.
Best regards,
ARCANGELO PRESTIFILIPPO
A slight tremor in his hands made him struggle to put the letter back in the envelope, and so he slipped it into his pocket. A profound weariness came over him, forcing him to lean heavily, eyes closed, against the back of his chair. He had trouble breathing; there seemed suddenly to be no air in the room. He stood up with difficulty, then went into Augello’s office.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mimì as soon as he saw his face.
“Nothing. Listen, I’ve got some work to do. I mean, I need a little time alone, some peace and quiet.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Yes. Take care of everything yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t have anybody call me at home.”
He passed by the càlia e simenza shop, bought a sizable cornet, and began his stroll along the jetty. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, but he was unable to seize a single one. When he arrived at the lighthouse he kept on walking. Directly below the lighthouse was a large rock, slippery with green moss. In danger of falling into the sea with each step, he managed to reach the rock and sat down, cornet in hand. But he didn’t open it. He felt a kind of wave surge up from some part of his lower body, ascend towards his chest, and from there continue rising towards his throat, forming a knot that took his breath away. He felt the need to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Then, amidst the jumble of thoughts crowding his brain, a few words forced their way into clarity until they came together in a line of verse:
Father, you die a little more each day . . .
What was it? A poem? By whom? And when had he read it? He repeated the line under his breath:
“Father, you die a little more each day . . .”
And at last, out of his previously blocked, closed throat came the cry, but more than a cry it was the shrill wail of a wounded animal, followed, at once, by a rush of unstoppable, liberating tears.
A year before, when he’d been wounded in a shoot-out and ended up in the hospital, Livia had told him his father was phoning every day. He’d come only once to see him in person, when he was convalescing. He must have already been sick at the time. To Montalbano he’d merely looked a little thinner, nothing more. He was, in fact, even better dressed than usual, having always made a point of looking smart. On that occasion he’d asked his son if he needed anything. “I can help,” he’d said.
When had they started to grow silently apart? His father had always been a caring, affectionate parent. That, Montalbano could not deny. He’d done everything in his power to lessen the pain of the loss of his mother. Whenever Montalbano fell ill as an adolescent—which luckily was not very often—his father used to stay home from work so he wouldn’t be alone. What was it, then, that hadn’t worked? Perhaps there had always been a nearly total lack of communication between the two; they never could find the words to express their feelings for each other. So often, when very young, Montalbano had thought: My father is a closed man. And probably—though he realized it only now—his father had sat on a rock by the sea and thought the same of him. Still, he’d shown great sensitivity; before remarrying, for example, he’d waited for his son to finish university and win the placement competition. And yet when his fat
her finally brought his new wife home, Montalbano had felt offended for no reason. A wall had risen between them; a glass wall, it’s true, but a wall nonetheless. And so their meetings had gradually decreased in number to one or two a year. His father would usually arrive with a case of the wines produced by his vineyard, stay half a day, and then leave. Montalbano would always find the wine excellent and proudly offer it to his friends, telling them his father had made it. But had he ever told his father the wine was excellent? He dug deep in his memory. Never. Just as his father collected the newspapers that talked about him and felt like crying whenever he saw him on television, and yet had never, in person, congratulated him on the success of an investigation.
He sat on that rock for over two hours, and when he got up to go back into town, his mind was made up. He would not go to visit his father. The sight of him would surely have made his father realize how gravely ill he was. It would have made things worse. Anyway, he didn’t really know if his father would be happy to see him. Montalbano, moreover, had a fear, a horror, of the dying. He wasn’t sure he could stand the fear and horror of seeing his father die. On the brink of collapse, he might run away.
When he got back to Marinella he still had that harsh, heavy feeling of weariness inside. He undressed, put on his bathing suit, and dived into the sea. He swam until his legs began to cramp. Returning home, he realized he was in no condition to go to the commissioner’s for dinner.
“Hello? Montalbano here. I’m very sorry, but—”
“You can’t come?”
“No, I’m really very sorry.”
“Work?”
Why not tell him the truth?
“No, Mr. Commissioner. It’s my father. Somebody sent me a letter. It looks like he’s dying.”
At first the commissioner said nothing; the inspector only heard him heave a long sigh.
“Listen, Montalbano. If you want to go see him, even for an extended stay, go ahead, don’t worry about anything. I’ll find a temporary replacement for you.”
“No, I’m not going. Thanks anyway.”
Again the commissioner didn’t speak. He must have been shocked by some of the inspector’s words; but he was a polite, old-fashioned man, and did not bring the subject up again.
“Montalbano, I feel awkward.”
“Please don’t, not with me.”
“Do you remember I said I had two things to say to you at dinner?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’ll say them to you over the phone, even though, as I said, I feel awkward doing so. And this probably isn’t the most appropriate moment, but I’m afraid you might find out from another source, like the newspapers. . . . You don’t know this, of course, but almost a year ago I put in a request for early retirement.”
“Oh God, don’t tell me they—”
“Yes, they granted it.”
“But why do you want to retire?”
“Because I no longer feel in step with the world, and because I feel tired. To me, the betting service for soccer matches is still called Sisal.”
The inspector didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry, I don’t get it.”
“What do you call it?”
“Totocalcio.”
“You see? Therein lies the difference. A while ago, some journalist accused Montanelli of being too old, and as proof, he cited the fact that Montanelli still called Totocalcio Sisal, as he used to call it thirty years ago.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything! It was only a wise-crack!”
“It means a lot, Montalbano, a lot. It means unconsciously holding on to the past, not wanting to see certain changes, even rejecting them. And I was barely a year away from retirement, anyway. I’ve still got my parents’ house in La Spezia, which I’ve been having refurbished. If you like, when you come to Genoa to see Miss Livia, you can drop in on us.”
“And when are—”
“When am I leaving? What’s today’s date?”
“The twelfth of May.”
“I officially leave my job on the tenth of August.”
The commissioner cleared his throat, and the inspector understood that they had now come to the second thing, which was perhaps harder to say.
“About the other matter . . .”
He was hesitant, clearly. Montalbano bailed him out.
“It couldn’t possibly be worse than what you just told me.”
“It’s about your promotion.”
“No!”
“Listen to me, Montalbano. Your position can no longer be justified. In addition, now that I’ve been granted early retirement, I’m not, well, in a strong bargaining position. I have to recommend your promotion, and there won’t be any obstacles.”
“Will I be transferred?”
“There’s a ninety-nine percent chance of it. Bear in mind that if I didn’t recommend you for the appointment, with all your successes, the ministry might see that in a negative light and could end up transferring you anyway, but without a promotion. Couldn’t you use a raise?”
The inspector’s brain was running at full speed, smoking, in fact, trying to find a possible solution. He glimpsed one and pounced on it.
“And what if, from this moment on, I no longer arrested anyone?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean, what if I pretend not to solve any more cases, if I mishandle investigations, if I let slip—”
“—rubbish, Montalbano, the only thing you’re letting slip is idiocies. I just don’t understand. Every time I talk to you about promotion, you suddenly regress and start reasoning like a child.”
He killed an hour lolling about the house, putting some books back on the shelf and dusting the glass over the five engravings he owned, which Adelina never did. He did not turn on the television. He looked at his watch: almost ten P.M. He got in his car and drove to Montelusa. The three cinemas were showing the Taviani brothers’ Elective Affinities, Bertolucci’s Stealing Beauty, and Travels with Goofy. Without the slightest hesitation, he chose the cartoons. The theater was empty. He went back to the man who had torn his ticket.
“There’s nobody there!”
“You’re there. What do you want, company? It’s late. At this hour, all the little kids are asleep. You’re the only one still awake.”
He had so much fun that, at one moment, he caught himself laughing out loud in the empty theater.
There comes a moment—he thought—when you realize your life has changed. But when did it happen? you ask yourself. And you have no answer. Unnoticed events kept accumulating until, one day, a transformation occurred—or perhaps they were perfectly visible events, whose importance and consequences, however, you never took into account. You ask yourself over and over, but the answer to that “when” never comes. As if it mattered!
Montalbano, for his part, had a precise answer to that question. My life changed, he would have said, on the twelfth of May.
Beside the front door to his house, Montalbano had recently had a small lamp installed that went on automatically when night fell. It was by the light of this lamp that he saw, from the main road, a car stopped in the clearing in front of the house. He turned onto the small lane leading to the house, and pulled up a few inches from the other car. As he expected, it was a metallic gray BMW. Its license-plate number was AM 237 GW. But there wasn’t a soul to be seen. The man who’d driven it there was surely hiding somewhere nearby. Montalbano decided it was best to feign indifference. He stepped out of the car, whistling, reclosed the door, and saw somebody waiting for him. He hadn’t noticed him earlier because the man was standing on the far side of the car and was so small in stature that his head did not exceed the height of the car’s roof. Practically a midget, or not much more than one. Well dressed, and wearing small, gold-rimmed glasses.
“You’ve made me wait a long time,” the little man said, coming forward.
Montalbano, keys in hand, moved towards the front door. The quasi-midget stepped in front of
him, shaking a kind of identity card.
“My papers,” he said.
The inspector pushed aside the little hand holding the documents, opened the door, and went inside. The man followed behind him.
“I am Colonel Lohengrin Pera,” said the elf.
The inspector stopped dead in his tracks, as if someone had pressed the barrel of a gun between his shoulder blades. He turned slowly around and looked the colonel up and down. His parents must have given him that name to compensate somehow for his stature and surname. Montalbano felt fascinated by the colonel’s little shoes, which he must surely have had made to measure; they wouldn’t even have fit in the “sottouomo” category, as the shoemakers called it—that is, for “sub-men.” And yet the services had enlisted him, so he must have been tall enough to make the grade. His eyes, however, behind the lenses, were lively, attentive, dangerous. Montalbano felt certain he was looking at the brains behind the Moussa affair. He went into the kitchen, still followed by the colonel, put the mullets in tomato sauce that Adelina had made for him into the oven, and started setting the table, without once opening his mouth. On the table was a seven-hundred-page book he’d bought from a bookstall and had never opened. He’d been drawn by the title: The Metaphysics of Partial Being. He picked it up, stood on tiptoe, and put it on the shelf, pressing the button on the videocamera. As if somebody had said “roll ’em,” Colonel Lohengrin Pera sat down in the right chair.
18
Montalbano took a good half hour to eat his mullets, either because he wanted to savor them as they deserved, or to give the colonel the impression that he didn’t give a flying fuck about what the man might have to say to him. He didn’t even offer him a glass of wine. He acted as if he were alone, to the point where he even once burped out loud. For his part, Lohengrin Pera, once he’d sat down, had stopped moving, limiting himself to staring at the inspector with beady, viperlike eyes. Only when Montalbano had downed a demitasse of espresso did the colonel begin to speak.
IM03 - The Snack Thief Page 18
