IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002)

by Andrea Camilleri

  How did you come to that conclusion?

  Easy. The terra-cotta dog, as Mr. Burruano told us, was sold after Christmas of 42, which reasonably means after the Epiphany of 43. The coins found inside the bowl went out of circulation in October that same year.

  He paused.

  And this can mean only one thing, he added.

  But what that one thing was, he didnt say. He patiently waited while Burgio collected his thoughts, stood up, and took a few steps around the room.

  I get it, said the old man. Youre saying that during this period, the Crasticeddru cave belonged to the Rizzitanos.

  Exactly. And as you told me, the cave was already sealed off by the boulder at the time, because the Rizzitanos kept merchandise to be sold on the black market in it. They must have known about the other cave, the one where the dead couple were brought.

  The headmaster gave him a confused look.

  Why do you say they were brought there?

  Because they were killed somewhere else. Of that I am absolutely certain.

  But it doesnt make any sense. Why put them there and set them up as if they were asleep, with the jug, the bowl of money, and the dog?

  Ive been asking myself the same question. And maybe the only person who could tell us something is your friend Lillo Rizzitano.

  Signora Angelina came in.

  Its ready.

  The soft vegetables, which consisted of the leaves and flowers of Sicilian zucchinithe long, smooth kind, which are white, lightly speckled with greenhad come out so tender, so delicate, that Montalbano actually felt deeply moved. With each bite he could feel his stomach purifying itself, turning clean and shiny the way hed seen happen with certain fakirs on television.

  How do you find them? asked Signora Angelina.

  Beautiful, said Montalbano. Seeing the couples surprise, he blushed and explained himself. Im sorry. Sometimes I abuse my adjectives.

  The striped mullet, boiled and dressed in olive oil, lemon, and parsley, was every bit as light as the vegetables. Only when the fruit was brought to the table did the headmaster come back to the question Montalbano had asked himbut not before hed had his say on the problem of the schools and the reform the new minister of education had decided to carry out, which would abolish mandatory secondary-school attendance.

  In Russia at the time of the tsars, said Burgio, they had secondary schools, though they called them whatever theyre called in Russian. In Italy it was Gentile who called them lyceums when he instituted his own reform, which

  placed humanistic studies above all others. Well, Lenins Communists, being the kind of Communists they were, didnt have the courage to abolish secondary schools. Only an upstart, a semi-illiterate nonentity like our minister, could conceive of such a thing. Whats he called, Guastella?

  Vastella, said Signora Angelina.

  Actually, he was called something else as well, but the inspector refrained from pointing this out.

  Lillo and I were friends in everything, but not in school, since he was a few years ahead of me. When I entered my third year of lyceum, he had just graduated. On the night of the American landing, Lillos house, which was at the foot of the Crasto, was destroyed. From what I was able to find out once the storm had passed, Lillo had been at home alone and was seriously injured. A peasant saw some Italian soldiers putting him on a truck; he was bleeding profusely. That was the last I heard of Lillo. I havent had any news since, though God knows Ive searched far and wide!

  Is it possible nobody from his family survived?

  I dont know.

  The headmaster noticed that his wife looked lost in thought, absent, her eyes half-closed.

  Angelina! Burgio called.

  The old woman roused herself, then smiled at Montalbano.

  Forgive me. My husband says Ive always been a woman of fantasy, but he doesnt mean it as a compliment. He means I sometimes let my fantasies run away with me.

  15

  When he returned home after supper with the Burgios, it wasnt even ten oclock. Too early to go to bed. On TV there was a debate on the Mafia, another on Italian foreign policy, still another on the economic situation, a roundtable on conditions in the Montelusa insane asylum, a discussion about freedom of information, a documentary on juvenile delinquency in Moscow,another documentary on seals,still another on tobacco farming, a gangster film set in Thirties Chicago, a nightly program in which a former art critic, now a parliamentary deputy and political opinion-maker, was raving against magistrates, leftist politicians, and various adversaries, making himself into a little Saint-Just when his rightful place was among the ranks of carpet salesman, wart-healers, magicians, and strippers who were appearing with increasing frequency on the small screen. Turning off the television, Montalbano switched on the outdoor light, went out on the veranda, and sat down on the little bench with a magazine to which he subscribed. It was nicely printed, with interesting articles, and edited by a group of young environmentalists in the province. Scanning the table of contents, he found nothing of

  interest and thus started looking at the photographs, which occasionally realized their ambition of illustrating news events in emblematic fashion.

  The ring of the doorbell caught him by surprise. He wasnt expecting anyone, he said to himself, but a second later he remembered that Anna had called in the afternoon. When she had suggested coming by to see him, he couldnt say no. He felt indebted to the girl for having used hercontemptibly, he had to admitin that whole story hed concocted to save Ingrid from persecution by her father-in-law.

  Anna kissed him on each cheek and handed him a package.

  I brought you a petrafula.

  This was a cake now very hard to find, which Montalbano loved, but it was anyones guess why the pastry shops had stopped making it.

  I had to go to Mittica for work and saw it in a window, so I bought it for you. Careful with your teeth.

  The harder the cake was, the tastier.

  What were you doing?

  Nothing, just reading a magazine. Why dont you come outside?

  They sat down on the bench. Montalbano went back to looking at the photographs, while Anna rested her head on her hands and gazed out at the sea.

  Its so beautiful here!

  Yes.

  All you hear are the waves.

  Yes.

  Does it bother you if I talk?

  No.

  Anna fell silent. After a brief pause, she spoke again.

  Im going inside to watch TV. I feel a little chilly.

  Mm-hmm.

  The inspector didnt want to encourage her. Anna clearly wanted to abandon herself to a solitary pleasure, that of pretending she was his partner, imagining they were spending a quiet evening together like so many others. On the very last page of the magazine, he saw a photo that showed the inside of a cave, the grotto of Fragapane, which was actually a necropolis, a network of Christian tombs dug out of ancient cisterns. The picture served in its way to illustrate the review of a recent book by one Alcide Maraventano entitled Funerary Rites in the Montelusa Region. The publication of this richly documented essay by Maraventano, the reviewer claimed, filled a void, giving us a work of great scholarly value that investigated, with keen intelligence, a subject spanning the period from prehistory to the Byzantine-Christian era.

  He sat there a long time meditating on what he had just read. The idea that the jug, the bowl with coins, and the dog might be part of some burial rite had never even crossed his mind. And perhaps hed been wrong not to think of this; in fact, the investigation should probably have started from this very premise. He suddenly felt uncontrollably pressed. He went inside, unplugged the phone, then picked up the whole apparatus.

  What are you doing? asked Anna, who was watching the gangster movie.

  Im going into the bedroom to make some phone calls. I dont want to disturb you out here.

  He dialed the Free Channels number and asked for his friend Nicolto.

  Quick, MontalbI go on the air in
a few seconds.

  Do you know someone by the name of Maraventano who wrote

  Alcide? Sure, I know him. What do want from him?

  Id like to talk to him. Do you have his phone number?

  He hasnt got a phone. Are you at home? Ill track him down myself and let you know.

  I need to talk to him by tomorrow.

  Ill call you back in an hour at the latest and tell you what to do.

  He turned off the bedside lamp. In the dark it was easier to think about the idea that had just come to him. He tried to imagine the Crasticeddrus cave the way it had looked when he first entered. If you removed the two bodies from the picture, that left the rug, a bowl, a jug, and a terra-cotta dog. If you drew lines between the three objects, they formed a perfect triangle, though upside down with respect to the caves entrance. At the center of the triangle lay the two corpses. Did it mean anything? Maybe he needed to study the triangles orientation?

  Between thinking, musing, and fantasizing, he ended up

  dozing off. After a spell of indeterminate length, he was awakened by the ring of the telephone. He answered in a thick voice.

  Did you fall asleep?

  Yeah, nodded off.

  And here I am putting myself out for you. So: Alcide is expecting you tomorrow afternoon at five-thirty. He lives in Gallotta.

  Gallotta was a village a few miles outside of Montelusa, a handful of peasant houses once famous for being inaccessible in winter, when the rains were heavy.

  Give me the address.

  What address? If youre coming from Montelusa, its the first house on the left, a big tumbledown villa that would delight any horror-film director. You cant miss it.

  He fell back asleep as soon as he put down the receiver. Then he woke with a start, feeling something moving on his chest. It was Anna, whom hed completely forgotten about, lying down beside him on the bed and unbuttoning his shirt. On every piece of skin she uncovered, she planted her lips and held them there a long time. When she reached his navel, the girl raised her head, slipped one hand under his shirt to caress his nipple, then plastered her mouth against Montalbanos. Since he made no sign of reacting to her passionate kiss, Anna let her hand slide farther down his body. She caressed him there as well.

  Montalbano decided to speak.

  See, Anna? Its hopeless. Nothing happens.

  In a single bound Anna sprang out of bed and locked herself in the bathroom. Montalbano didnt move, not even when he heard her sobbinga childish wail, like that of a little girl denied a toy or some sweets. Against the light of the bathroom, whose door she left open on her way out, Montalbano saw her fully dressed.

  A wild animal has more feelings than you, she said, leaving.

  Sleep then abandoned Montalbano. At four in the morning, he was still up, trying to finish even one a game of solitaire, though it was clear he would never succeed.

  He arrived at work grumpy and troubled, the encounter with Anna weighing on his mind. He felt remorseful for treating her the way he did. On top of this, that morning hed started wondering: had it been Ingrid instead of Anna, would he have behaved the same way?

  I urgently need to speak to you, said Mimugello, standing in his doorway looking agitated.

  What do you want?

  To bring you up to date on the investigation.

  What investigation?

  Okay, I get the message. Ill come by later.

  No, you stay right here and tell me what fucking investigation youre talking about.

  What do you mean? The one into the weapons traffic!

  And I, in your opinion, put you in charge?

  In my opinion? We talked about it! Remember? It seemed implicit to me.

  Mimthe only implicit thing around here is that youre a goddamned son of a bitch, no offense to your mother, of course.

  Lets do this: Ill tell you what Ive done, and you can decide if I should continue.

  All right, lets hear what youve done.

  First of all, I thought Ingrassia should be kept on a leash, so I assigned two of our men to tail him day and night. He cant even take a piss without me knowing about it.

  Two of our men? You put two of ours on his tail? Dont you know that that guy knows everything about our men down to the hairs on their ass?

  Im not stupid. Theyre not actually ours, not from the Vig force, I mean. Theyre two officers from Ragthat the commissioner transferred to my service after I spoke to him.

  Montalbano looked at him in admiration.

  Ah, so you spoke to the commissioner. Well done, Mimyou really do know how to get around!

  Augello did not respond in kind, preferring to continue his exposition.

  We also listened in on a phone conversation that might mean something. Ive got the transcript in my room, Ill go get it.

  Do you know it by heart?

  Yes, but if you hear it, you might be able to discover

  Mimat this point I think youve discovered everything there was to discover. Dont make me waste time. Now tell me what they said.

  Well, from his supermarket, Ingrassia phones the Bran- cato company in Catania. He asks for Brancato himself, who comes to the phone. Ingrassia complains about the snags that occurred during the last delivery, he says you cant send the truck so far ahead of schedule, that this caused him a lot of problems. He wants them to meet so they can study different, safer means of delivery. Here Brancatos answer is shocking, to say the least. He raises his voice in anger and asks Ingrassia, How dare you call me here? Ingrassia, now stammering, asks for an explanation. Which Brancato provides, saying that Ingrassia is insolvent, and that the banks have advised him to cease doing business with him.

  And how did Ingrassia react?

  He didnt. He didnt even make a peep. He just hung up.

  Do you realize what that phone call means?

  Of course. Ingrassia was asking for help, and they cut him loose.

  Stay on top of Ingrassia.

  I already am, as I told you.

  There was a pause.

  What should I do? continued MimContinue the investigation?

  Montalbano wouldnt answer.

  Youre such a fucking jerk! commented Augello.

  Salvo? Are you alone in your office? Can I speak openly?

  Yes. Where are you calling from?

  From home. Im in bed with a bit of fever.

  Im sorry.

  Well, you shouldnt be. Its one of those growing fevers.

  I dont understand. What do you mean?

  Its one of those fevers little children get. They last two or three days, around one hundred one or one hundred two degrees, no cause for alarm. Its natural, its a growing fever. When it passes, the child has grown an inch or so. And Im sure that when my fever is over, I too will have grown. In my head, not my body. What I mean is, never, as a woman, have I been so offended as with you.

  Anna

  Let me finish. You really did offend me. Youre mean, Salvo, wicked. I didnt deserve that kind of treatment.

  Be reasonable, Anna. What happened last night was for your own good

  Anna hung up. Even though he had made her understand a hundred different ways that what she wanted was out of the question, Montalbano, realizing that the girl at that moment was suffering terribly, felt like considerably less than a pig, since pork, at least, can be eaten.

  Montalbano easily found the villa upon entering Gallotta, but it did not seem possible to him that anyone could live in that ruin. Half the roof was visibly caved in, which must surely have let in the rain on the third floor. The faint wind in the air was enough to rattle a shutter that remained attached by means not immediately apparent. The outer wall on the upper part of the fae had cracks the width of a fist. The second, first, and ground floors looked in better shape. The surface plaster had long disappeared; the shutters were all broken and flaking, but at least they closed, however askew. There was a wrought-iron gate, half-open and leaning outward, apparently in this position since time immemorial, amid we
eds and peaty soil. The yard was an amorphous mass of contorted trees and dense shrubbery, a thick, closely knit tangle. He proceeded up the path of disconnected stones and stopped when he reached the peeling front door. Darkness was already falling. The switch from daylight time to standard time really did shorten the days. There was a doorbell, and he rang it. Or, rather, he pushed it, since he heard no sound whatsoever, not even far away. He tried again before realizing that the doorbell hadnt worked since the discovery of electricity. He rapped on the door with the horse-head knocker, and finally, after the third rap, he heard some shuffling footsteps. The door opened, without any noise from a lock or bolt, only a long wail as of a soul in purgatory.

  It was open. You needed only to push, come inside, and call me.

  It was a skeleton speaking to him. Never in his life had Montalbano seen anyone so thin. Or, rather, he had seen a few such people, on their deathbeds, dried up, shriveled by illness. This man, however, was standing, though bent over in two, and appeared to be alive. He was wearing a priests cassock whose original black now tended towards green, the once-stiff white collar now a dense gray. On his feet, two hobnailed peasant boots of the kind you couldnt buy anymore. He was completely bald, and his face looked like a deaths-head on which somebody, as a joke, had placed a pair of gold eyeglasses with extremely thick lenses, behind which the eyes foundered. Montalbano thought the couple in the cave, whod been dead for fifty years, had more flesh on their bones than this priest. Needless to say, he was very old.

  In ceremonious fashion, the man invited him inside and led him into an enormous room literally crammed with books, not only on the shelves but stacked on the floor in piles that stretched nearly to the lofty ceiling and remained standing by means of some impossible equilibrium. No light entered through the windows; the books amassed on their ledges covered them completely. The furniture consisted of a desk, a chair, and an armchair. The lamp on the desk looked to Montalbano like an authentic oil lantern. The old priest cleared the armchair of books and told the inspector to sit down.

  I cannot imagine how I could be of any use to you, but go ahead and talk.

  As you were probably told, Im a police inspector and I