IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002)

by Andrea Camilleri

  Hearing himself personally addressed and seeing Zitos eyes looking out at him from the screen as he was eating,

  Montalbano let the wine he was drinking go down the wrong way and started coughing and cursing.

  After finishing his meal, he put on his bathing suit and dived into the sea. It was freezing cold, but the swim brought him back to life.

  Now tell me exactly how it all happened, said the commissioner.

  After admitting the inspector into his office, he had stood up and gone right over to him, embracing him warmly.

  One thing about Montalbano was that he was incapable of deceiving or stringing along people he knew were honest or who inspired his admiration. With crooks and people he didnt like, he could spin out the flimflam with the straightest of faces and was capable of swearing hed seen the moon trimmed in lace. The fact that he not only admired his superior, but had actually at times spoken to him as to a father, now put him, after the others command, in a state of agitation: he blushed, began to sweat, kept squirming in his chair as if he were under cross-examination. The commissioner noticed his uneasiness but attributed it to the discomfort that Montalbano genuinely felt whenever he had to talk about a particularly successful operation. The commissioner had not forgotten that at the last press conference, in front of the TV cameras, the inspector had expressed himselfif you could call it thatin long, painful stammerings at times devoid of common meaning, eyes bulging, pupils dancing as if he were drunk.

  Id like some advice, before I begin.

  At your service.

  What should I write in the report?

  What kind of question is that? Have you never written a report before? In reports you write down what happened, the commissioner replied curtly, a bit astonished. And since Montalbano hadnt yet made up his mind to speak, he continued. In other words, you say you were able to take advantage of a chance encounter and turn it into a successful police operation, skillfully, courageously, its true, but

  Look, I just wanted to say

  Let me finish. I cant help but notice that you took a big risk, and exposed your men to grave dangeryou should have asked for substantial reinforcements, taken due precaution. Luckily, it all went well. But it was a gamble. Thats what Im trying to tell you, in all sincerity. Now lets hear your side.

  Montalbano studied the fingers on his left hand as if they had just sprouted spontaneously and he didnt know what they were there for.

  Whats wrong? the commissioner asked.

  Whats wrong is that its all untrue! Montalbano burst out. There wasnt any chance encounter. I went to talk with Tano because he had asked to see me. And at that meeting we made an agreement.

  The commissioner ran his hand over his eyes.

  An agreement?

  Yes, on everything.

  And while he was at it, he told him the whole story, from Geg phone call to the farce of the arrest.

  Is there anything else? the commissioner asked when it was over.

  Yes. Things being what they are, in no way do I deserve to be promoted to assistant commissioner. If I were promoted, it would be for a lie, a deception.

  Let me be the judge of that, the commissioner said brusquely.

  He got up, put his hands behind his back, and stood there thinking a moment. Then he made up his mind and turned around.

  Heres what well do. Write me two reports.

  Two? said Montalbano, mindful of the effort it normally cost him to apply ink to paper.

  Dont argue. The fake report Ill leave lying around for the inevitable mole who will make sure to leak it to the press or to the Mafia. The real one Ill put in the safe.

  He smiled.

  And as for this promotion business, which seems to be what terrifies you most, come to my house on Friday evening and well talk it over a little more calmly. My wife has invented a fabulous new sauce for sea bream.

  Cavaliere Gerlando Misuraca, who carried his eighty-four years belligerently, was true to form, going immediately on the offensive as soon as the inspector said, Hello?

  Who is that imbecile who transferred my call?

  Why, what did he do?

  He couldnt understand my surname! He couldnt get it into that thick head of his! Bizugaga, he called me!

  He paused warily, then changed his tone:

  Can you assure me, on your word of honor, that hes just some poor bastard who doesnt know any better?

  Realizing that it was Catarella who had answered the phone, Montalbano could reply with conviction.

  I can assure you. But why, may I ask, do you need my assurance?

  Because if he meant to make fun of me or what I represent, Ill be down there at the station in five minutes and will give him such a thrashing, by God, he wont be able to walk!

  And just what did Cavaliere Misuraca represent? Montalbano wondered while the other continued threatening to do terrible things. Nothing, absolutely nothing from a, so to speak, official point of view. A municipal employee long since retired, he did not hold nor had he ever held any public office, being merely a card-carrying member of his party. A man of unassailable honesty, he lived a life of dignified quasi- poverty. Even in the days of Mussolini, he had refused to seek personal gain, having always been a faithful follower, as one used to say back then. In return, from 1935 onwards, he had fought in every war and been in the thick of the worst battles. He hadnt missed a single one, and indeed seemed to have a gift for being everywhere at once, from Guadalajara, Spain, to Bir el Gobi in North Africa by way of Axum,

  Ethiopia. Followed by imprisonment in Texas, his refusal to cooperate, and an even harsher imprisonment as a result, on nothing but bread and water. He therefore represented, Montalbano concluded, the historical memory of what were, of course, historic mistakes, but he had lived them with a na faith and paid for them with his own skin: among several serious injuries, one had left him lame in his left leg.

  Tell me, Montalbano had mischievously asked him one day face-to-face, if youd been able, would you have gone to fight at Sallongside the Germans and the repubblichini? In his way, the inspector was sort of fond of the old Fascist. How could he not be? In that circus of corrupters and corrupted, extortionists and grafters, bribe-takers, liars, thieves, and perjurersturning up each day in new combi- nationsMontalbano had begun to feel a kind of affection for people he knew to be incurably honest.

  At this question, the old man had seemed to deflate from within, the wrinkles on his face multiplying as his eyes began to fog over. Montalbano then understood that Misuraca had asked himself the same question a thousand times and had never been able to come up with an answer. So he did not insist.

  Hello? Are you still there? Misuracas peevish voice asked.

  At your service, Cavaliere.

  I just remembered something. Which is why I didnt mention it when I gave my testimony.

  I have no reason to doubt you, Cavaliere. Im all ears.

  A strange thing happened to me when I was almost in front of the supermarket, but at the time I didnt pay it much mind. I was nervous and upset because these days there are certain bastards about who

  Please come to the point, Cavaliere.

  If one let him speak, Misuraca was capable of taking his story back to the foundation of the first Fascist militias.

  Actually, I cant tell you over the phone. I need to see you in person. Its something really big, if I saw right.

  The old man was considered someone who always told things straight, without overstating or understating the case.

  Is it about the robbery at the supermarket?

  Of course.

  Have you already discussed it with anybody?

  Nobody.

  Dont forget: not a word to anyone.

  Are you trying to insult me? Silent as the grave, I am. Ill be at your office early tomorrow morning.

  Just out of curiosity, Cavaliere: what were you doing, alone and upset, in your car at that hour of the night? You know, after a certain age, one must be careful.

/>   I was on my way back from Montelusa, from a meeting of the local party leaders. Im not one of them, of course, but I wanted to be present. Nobody shuts his door on Gerlando Misuraca. Someone has to save our partys honor. They cant continue to govern alongside those bastard sons of bastard

  politicians and agree to an ordinance allowing all the sons of bitches who devoured our country out of jail! You must understand, Inspector

  Did the meeting end late?

  It went on till one oclock in the morning. I wanted to continue, but everyone else was against it. They were all falling asleep. Theyve got no balls, those people.

  And how long did it take you to get back to Vig?

  Half an hour. I drive slowly. But as I was saying

  Excuse me, Cavaliere, Im wanted on another line, Montalbano cut him off. See you tomorrow.

  5

  Worse than criminals! Worse than murderers! Thats how those dirty sons of bitches treated us! Who do they think they are? The fuckers!

  There was no calming down Fazio, who had just returned from Palermo. GermanGallo, and Galluzzo served as his psalmodizing chorus, wildly gesticulating to convey the exceptional nature of the event.

  Total insanity! Total insanity!

  Simmer down, boys. Lets proceed in orderly fashion, Montalbano ordered, imposing his authority.

  Then, noticing that Galluzzos shirt and jacket no longer bore traces of the blood from his crushed nose, the inspector asked him:

  Did you go home and change before coming here?

  Home? Home? Didnt you hear what Fazio said? Weve just come from Palermo, we came straight back! When we got to the Anti-Mafia Commission and turned over Tano the Greek, they took us one by one and put us in separate rooms. Since my nose was still hurting, I wanted to put a wet handkerchief over it. Id been sitting there for half an hour, and

  still nobodyd shown up, so I opened the door and found an officer standing in front of me. Where you going? he says. Im going to get a little water for my nose.You cant leave, he says, go back inside. Get that, Inspector? I was under guard! Like I was Tano the Greek!

  Dont mention that name and lower your voice! Montalbano scolded him. Nobody is supposed to know that we caught him! The first one who talks gets his ass kicked all the way to Asinara.

  We were all under guard, Fazio cut in, indignant.

  Galluzzo continued his story:

  An hour later some guy I know entered the room, a colleague of yours who was kicked upstairs to the Anti-Mafia Commission. I think his name is Sciacchitano.

  A perfect asshole, the inspector thought, but said nothing.

  He looked at me as if I smelled bad or something, like some beggar. Then he kept on staring at me, and finally he said: You know, you cant very well present yourself to the Prefect looking like that.

  Still feeling hurt by the absurd treatment, he had trouble keeping his voice down.

  The amazing thing was that he had this pissed-off look in his eye, like it was all my fault! Then he left, muttering to himself. Later a cop came in with a clean shirt and jacket.

  Now let me talk, Fazio butted in, pulling rank. To make a long story short, from three oclock in the afternoon to midnight yesterday, every one of us was interrogated eight times by eight different people.

  What did they want to know?

  How the arrest came about.

  Actually, I was interrogated ten times, said German with a certain pride. I guess I tell a good story, and for them it was like being at the movies.

  Around one oclock in the morning they gathered us together, Fazio continued, and put us in a great big room, a kind of large office, with two sofas, eight chairs, and four tables. They unplugged the telephones and took them away. Then they sent in four stale sandwiches and four warm beers that tasted like piss. We got as comfortable as we could, and at eight the next morning some guy came in and said we could go back to Vig. No good morning, no good-bye, not even get outta here like you say to get rid of the dog. Nothing.

  All right, said Montalbano. What can you do? Go on home now, rest up, and come back here in the late afternoon. I promise you Ill take this whole business up with the commissioner.

  Hello? This is Inspector Salvo Montalbano from Vig. Id

  like to speak with Inspector Arturo Sciacchitano.

  Please hold.

  Montalbano grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. He started doodling without paying attention and only later noticed he had drawn a pair of buttocks on a toilet seat.

  Im sorry, the inspectors in a meeting.

  Listen, please tell him Im also in a meeting, that way

  were even. He can interrupt his for five minutes, Ill do the

  same with mine, and well both be happy as babies.

  He appended a few turds to the shitting buttocks.

  Montalbano? What is it? Sorry, but I havent got much time.

  Me neither. Listen, Sciacchitanov

  Eh? Sciacchitanov? What the hell are you saying?

  Isnt that your real name? You mean you dont belong to the KGB?

  Im not in the mood for jokes, Montalbano.

  Whos joking? Im calling you from the commissioners office, and hes very upset over the KGB-style treatment you gave my men. He promised me hed write to the interior minister this very day.

  The phenomenon cannot be explained, and yet it happened: Montalbano actually saw Sciacchitano, universally known as a pusillanimous ass-lick, turn pale over the telephone line. His lie had the same effect on the man as a billy club to the head.

  What are you saying? You have to understand that I, as defender of public safety

  Montalbano interrupted him.

  Safety doesnt preclude politeness, he said pithily, sounding like one of those road signs that say: be polite, for safetys sake.

  But I was extremely polite! I even gave them beer and sandwiches!

  Im sorry to say, but despite the beer and sandwiches,

  there will be consequences higher up. But cheer up, Sciacchitano, its not your fault. You cant fit a square peg into a round hole.

  What do you mean?

  I mean that you, being a born asshole, will never be a decent, intelligent person. Now, I demand that you write a letter, addressed to me, praising my men to the skies. And I want it by tomorrow. Good-bye.

  Do you think if I write the letter, the commissioner will let it drop?

  To be perfectly honest, I dont know. But if I were you, Id write that letter. And I might even date it yesterday. Got that?

  He felt better now, having let off some steam. He called

  Catarella.

  Is Inspector Augello in his office?

  No sir, but he just now phoned. He said that, figuring he was about ten minutes away, hed be here in about ten minutes.

  Montalbano took advantage of the time to start writing the fake report. The real one hed written at home the night before. At a certain point Augello knocked and entered.

  You were looking for me?

  Is it really so hard for you to come to work a little earlier?

  Sorry, but in fact I was busy till five oclock in the

  morning. Then I went home and drifted off to sleep, and that was that.

  Busy with one of those whores you like so much? The kind that pack two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh into a tight little dress?

  Didnt Catarella tell you?

  He told me youd be coming in late.

  Last night, around two, there was a fatal car accident. I went to the scene myself, thinking Id let you sleep, since the thing was of no importance to us.

  To the people who died, it was certainly important.

  There was only one victim. He took the downhill stretch of the Catena at high speedapparently his brakes werent workingand ended up wedged under a truck that had started coming up the slope in the opposite direction. The poor guy died instantly.

  Did you know him?

  I sure did. So did you. Cavaliere Misuraca.

  Montalbano? I just got a call from
Palermo. They want us to hold a press conference. And thats not all: they want it to make some noise. Thats very important. Its part of their strategy. Journalists from other cities will be there, and it will be reported on the national news. Its going to be a big deal.

  They want to show that the new government is not letting up in the fight against the Mafia, and that, on the contrary, they will be more resolute, more relentless than ever

  Is something wrong, Montalbano?

  No. I was just imagining the next days headlines.

  The press conference is scheduled for noon tomorrow. I just wanted to give you advance warning.

  Thank you, sir, but what have I got to do with any of it?

  Montalbano, I am a nice man, a kind man, but only up to a point. You have everything to do with it! Stop being so childish!

  What am I supposed to say?

  Good God, Montalbano! Say what you wrote in the report.

  Which one?

  Im sorry, what did you say?

  Nothing.

  Just try to speak clearly, dont mumble, and keep your head up. AndOh, yes, your hands. Decide once and for all where youre going to put them and keep them there. Dont do like last time, where the correspondent of the Corriere offered aloud to cut them off for you, to make you feel more comfortable.

  And what if they question me?

  Of course theyll question you, to use your odd phrasing. Theyre journalists, arent they? Good day.

  Too agitated by everything that was happening and was going to happen the following day, Montalbano had to leave

  the office. He went out, stopped at the usual shop, bought a small bag of ca e simenza, and headed toward the jetty. When he was at the foot of the lighthouse and about to turn back, he found himself face-to-face with Ernesto Bonfiglio, the owner of a travel agency and a very good friend of the recently deceased Cavaliere Misuraca.

  Isnt there anything we can do? Bonfiglio blurted out at him aggressively.

  Montalbano, who was trying to dislodge a small fragment of peanut stuck between two teeth, merely looked at him, befuddled.

  Im asking if theres anything we can do, Bonfiglio repeated resentfully, giving him a hostile look in return.

  Do about what?