Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases

by Andrea Camilleri

  Livia might be hungry, but the inspector was a starving wolf.

  They took things slow and easy, so much so that by the time they’d finished drinking their second glasses of digestive limoncello, they both felt the need to take a long walk along the wet sand.

  A full moon hovered like a hot-air balloon in the sky above.

  When they got back in the car it was after midnight.

  “Drive really slowly.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because.”

  Having given her exhaustive explanation, Livia leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and went right to sleep.

  Ten minutes later Montalbano began to wonder whether sleep might not be contagious. His eyelids were drooping dangerously. Or had he perhaps had a little too much of that white wine?

  Whatever the case, it’s never a good idea to keep driving when sleepiness comes over you. So, seeing an open area beside the road, he pulled over, turned off the engine, got comfortable in his seat, and closed his eyes.

  I’ll wake myself up in half an hour, he thought.

  * * *

  Half an hour, right. When he opened his eyes again he realized it was four o’clock in the morning! The nap had done him good, however. He felt lucid and rested.

  He started up the car. Livia woke up at once.

  “Hey, what time is it?”

  “Four.”

  “Why aren’t we home yet?”

  “I fell asleep, too.”

  “Where are we?”

  “In about half an hour we’ll be at the salt ponds.”

  “As soon as you see them, pull over.”

  When they got there, they saw little or nothing of the salt ponds, despite the moonlight. Livia stepped out of the car and looked around in disappointment. Then she said:

  “Take me up there.”

  “To Erice?”

  “Yes. I want to see the sun rise over the salt ponds.”

  He didn’t feel up to refusing. And so they watched the sun rise over the salt ponds. And it was worth it, even though, by this point, the inspector, strangely enough, really wanted to lie down in a bed.

  They set off again.

  “When we get to Montallegro, turn off the main road and take the one that runs along the shore.”

  Montalbano didn’t breathe a word. The coastal road in this area was poorly maintained and chunks of the asphalt surface were missing in spots. There were also rises and dips, and occasional landslides, but the view was superb.

  They drove past Montereale and entered the municipal territory of Vigàta, which would soon appear almost directly beneath them, once past the curve they were taking at that very moment, which was known as the “Calizzi bend.”

  As soon as he’d rounded the bend, however, the inspector braked.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Livia.

  “I don’t know,” said Montalbano.

  “Are you going to take another nap right here?” Livia asked sarcastically.

  Montalbano didn’t reply. He put the car in reverse and slowly backed up. He could do whatever he liked, because there were never any cars on that road. He stopped to look at the guardrail.

  It had been broken some time before by a truck that ended up a hundred feet below on the beach, and no one had repaired it since then.

  “What’s wrong?” Livia asked again.

  “The fact is that I passed this way yesterday afternoon, and the guardrail was not . . .”

  “Was not what?” Livia pressed him, impatiently.

  “It wasn’t hanging over the void like that. It looks as though another car has crashed against it.”

  “So let’s go and have a look, no?”

  They got out of the car, looked out over the edge of the road and onto the beach below.

  There they saw a car completely upside down. One of the wheels was still turning ever so slowly and then stopped, right before their eyes.

  “Oh, my God!” said Livia.

  “You stay here,” said Montalbano. “I’m going down to have a look. If any cars pass, stop them. I’m going to need some help.”

  * * *

  He very nearly broke his neck twice. Had he looked, he probably could have found a little footpath leading to the beach, but he hadn’t wanted to waste any time. When he reached the sand, he was just four steps away from the car. By now the morning light was bright and he could see well.

  He flopped to the ground on his stomach. The driver’s-side window was shattered and half-gone. There was a woman inside, but he couldn’t see her face. He could tell her sex from her long, bloodied blond hair. Pushing her hair aside, he was able to put his hand under her throat . . . There was no doubt . . . No heartbeat. Something hard rolled out next to his hand. It was an apple. He put it in his pocket. He looked long and hard through what remained of the other windows until he was absolutely certain there were no other bodies in the car.

  He got back on his feet and looked up. Livia was above him, watching him from the edge of the road. He cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Have any other cars passed?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then get in the car and drive until you find a phone, then call my office and tell them there’s a dead body at the Calizzi bend. Then come back.”

  He took the apple out of his pocket and looked at it. The woman had probably brought it along to eat while driving. He tossed it back into the car, went down to the water’s edge, fired up a cigarette, and walked along the beach, smoking.

  He felt a little disoriented. Maybe from the strange night he’d just had. Or maybe there was something else . . .

  Yes, but what? That was the question.

  * * *

  Fazio and Gallo arrived about forty-five minutes later. Montalbano told Livia to go on ahead to Marinella in his car. He’d have the others take him home in the squad car. The firemen who arrived on the scene quickly concluded that without the help of a crane they would never be able to turn the car over to pull the body out. It had sunk too far down into the dry sand.

  The fire chief looked thoughtfully up at the cliff the car had fallen from.

  “Notice anything?” Montalbano asked him.

  “The car must have flipped when it crashed into that spur there, as it fell. You see?”

  “Yes. And so?”

  “This means that the car was not speeding as it took the curve. Actually, I would even say it was going very slowly.”

  “What makes you—”

  “If it had jumped the curve with even a little speed, it would have flown past that spur, which doesn’t stick out very far, and would certainly not have flipped over.”

  “I see. So you think the accident may have occurred when the driver suddenly fell asleep or passed out?”

  “I would say so.”

  It was possible that if he hadn’t pulled over and taken that little nap, he might have met the same end as the poor woman who crashed onto the beach.

  Dr. Pasquano arrived and completely lost it when he saw the situation.

  “What the fuck is the point of calling me if I can’t even examine the body?”

  Then, when told that it would be another hour, maybe more, before the crane arrived, he told the orderlies to bring the body to the morgue when it was freed, then got back into his car and drove off cursing, and without saying good-bye to anyone.

  The crane arrived an hour later and had to maneuver for another hour before finding the right position for lifting the car.

  Now the dead woman could finally be pulled out, and Montalbano could get a look at her face. She must have been very pretty, and looked to be in her early twenties.

  Seeing that the prosecutor still hadn’t deigned to arrive, the inspector had Gallo drive him home.

  He found Livia on the beach in
a bathing suit.

  “I’m going to take a shower, and then I’ll join you,” he said.

  Livia, keeping her eyes closed all the while, mumbled something he didn’t understand.

  As he was undressing in the bathroom, he looked at his watch. It was already eleven o’clock. He stayed a long time in the shower. Then he put on his bathing suit, came out of the bathroom, and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  It was Livia. Who was lying on the bed, laughing.

  * * *

  “Listen, if we get up now and hurry, we can still make it to Calogero’s.”

  “Mmmm . . .”

  “Is that a yes mmmm or a no mmmm?”

  “Mmmm.”

  She probably meant no, Montalbano decided.

  And he fell asleep without realizing.

  * * *

  He was in his car alone and driving. He’d been going for hours and hours, on his way back to Marinella from Paris, where he’d gone to do something he couldn’t remember. But when he reached the Italian border, the French customs agent said he had to go the long way, through Switzerland.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a state secret. And you have to reach the Swiss border within three hours, otherwise you won’t be able to cross there, either.”

  So he’d driven off and come to a stop in front of a fruit-and-vegetable stand and bought three apples and a pear. He couldn’t stop to eat; that would waste too much time. When he reached the Swiss-Italian border, the Swiss customs agents started kicking up a row when they saw, in the passenger’s seat, the pear he hadn’t eaten beside the only remaining apple.

  “Get out of the car. You are under arrest.”

  “But what for?”

  “You tried to illegally export a pear.”

  “What about the apple?”

  “That’s all right. Apples are not under restriction.”

  Had everyone gone insane? He got out of the car and grabbed the customs agent by the shoulders, who responded with a punch. Montalbano then dealt him a swift kick, yelling desperately.

  He was woken up by his own yells and lay there panting and sweaty. He looked at his watch: a little after seven.

  Livia was asleep. He shook her.

  “Come on, wake up. I don’t feel like skipping dinner.”

  2

  The moment he walked into headquarters, Catarella snapped to attention and assailed him.

  “Ahh, Chief, Chief! Ahh, Chief! Hizzoner the C’mishner jess called jess now not a minnit ago!”

  “What did he want?”

  “I dunno, ’e dun’t truss me to take a messitch.”

  “But did he tell you anything?”

  “Yessir. ’E said ya gotta call me as soon as ya gets in.”

  “He wants me to call you?”

  “Nossir, Chief, not me insomuch as ’im, nossir. But me meanin’ Hizzoner the C’mishner.”

  Montalbano went into his office and dialed the commissioner’s number.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Nothing in particular, Montalbano. But is it true that your girlfriend from Genoa is here?”

  Was it ever possible to keep anything secret in that town? How the hell did everybody know everything about everyone?

  “Yes, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “And is it true that her surname is Burlando, like mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, why don’t the two of you come to dinner at our place this evening? It was my wife’s idea. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

  Could he possibly back out? He couldn’t.

  “We’d be delighted to come. Thank you. See you this evening.”

  The commissioner was a fine gentleman whom the inspector liked, and his wife was someone who knew what to do with a cooker. At any rate Livia wouldn’t have any objection.

  Fazio then appeared and asked for permission to enter.

  “What time did you guys finish up at the Calizzi bend yesterday?”

  “Good God, Chief, I don’t even want to hear about it! The prosecutor made us wait three hours! And even the Road Police showed up!”

  “And wha’d they say?”

  “They came to the conclusion that, even though she was going slow, the girl showed no sign of having tried to take the curve, but drove straight off the edge. So it must be a case of suicide or an accident caused by falling asleep at the wheel or some other malaise on the driver’s part.”

  “Tell me something. I saw an apple inside the car. Were there any others?”

  “Yessir, there were three apples. She was keeping them in a large paper bag, probably on the passenger’s seat.”

  “Did anyone find the remains of the other apples she’d eaten?”

  “No, she probably threw them out the window.”

  The dream he’d had suggested the next question.

  “Were there any pears?”

  “Nah. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Never mind. Do you know what her name was?”

  “Of course. Annarosa Testa. She was twenty-three years old and lived alone, here in Vigàta, at Via Mistretta, number forty-eight.”

  “Why alone?”

  “Her father and mother live in Milan. They moved there two years ago. But I’m told the girl didn’t spend much time at home, hardly any at all. She traveled a lot.”

  “Who traveled a lot?” asked Mimì Augello, walking in.

  “Some girl who died yesterday morning in a car accident,” the inspector replied.

  “Ah,” said Mimì. “Poor Annarosa! I knew her!”

  As if he wouldn’t have known her! How could you go wrong? Mimì had exclusive rights to all the pretty girls not only in Vigàta, but the entire province.

  “Then tell me a little about her.”

  “But they said on TV that it was an accident! Why would you want to know—”

  “Think you can muster the effort to tell me what she did for a living?”

  “Salvo, she did what so many other girls do these days! One day she modeled, another day, when possible, she worked in advertising, or else served as an usherette at some convention . . . Stuff like that.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “For about a year, maybe a little longer, she was with Giuliano Toccaceli, the son of Fofò Toccaceli, the clothing wholesaler. But they’d broken up recently because he was very jealous, and she used to allow herself an occasional, well, ‘remunerative escapade.’ More than that, I can’t tell you.”

  They then started discussing a pair of burglaries in two different apartments that appeared to be the work of the same hand.

  * * *

  Livia came by to pick him up in the car she’d rented, and they went to eat at Calogero’s.

  When the inspector told her about the dinner invitation at the commissioner’s house, she twisted up her mouth and protested.

  “But I didn’t bring anything to wear!”

  “What are you thinking? They’re very informal people. You’ll see, you’ll fit right in.”

  After lunch, she dropped him back off at the station and went to the Scala dei Turchi for a solitary swim.

  * * *

  At around five o’clock, Annarosa all of a sudden came charging back into his thoughts. The uneasiness he’d felt when looking at the overturned car on the beach overcame him again, this time more clearly and insistently. He had to do something to calm himself down. The only solution was to find out more.

  He picked up the receiver and dialed a number.

  “Inspector Montalbano here. Is Dr. Pasquano in?”

  “Yes. Do you want me . . .”

  It was probably best to talk to him in person.

  “No, that’s okay. Do you know whether he’ll be in his office
much longer?”

  “Definitely until seven. If he’s not called out of the office, that is.”

  He got in his car, drove off, pulled up in front of the Caffè Castiglione, bought a tray of six cannoli, and headed off again. Less than half an hour later he was parking in front of the Institute of Forensic Science.

  “The doctor’s in his office,” said the assistant.

  Montalbano knocked.

  “Come in!”

  He opened the door and went in. Pasquano, who was sitting at his desk, writing, looked up and cursed.

  “What’s the ballbusting about this time?”

  “No ballbusting, Doctor. I took the liberty of bringing you six perfectly fresh cannoli.”

  He set the packet down on the desk. Pasquano, who had a severe sweet tooth, opened it, took out a cannolo, and started eating it.

  “Not bad. And what, may I ask, is the price of this corruption?” he asked with his mouth full.

  “I want to know why the girl who drove off the cliff didn’t take the curve but went straight.”

  “Ah.”

  He gestured to Montalbano to sit down. Before answering, he inhaled another cannolo.

  “Have you ever found yourself with a piece of meat or bread stuck in your throat that won’t go down and won’t come up?”

  “Yes, that happened to me once. A chunk of meat too big and insufficiently chewed.”

  “Do you remember how it felt?”

  “It felt like I was choking to death. I couldn’t breathe. I flew into a panic.”

  “You’re describing exactly what happened to that poor girl.”

  “A piece of apple got stuck in her throat and she lost control of herself and her car?”

  “That’s exactly right. But why did you mention an apple?”

  “Because there were still three apples in the car.”

  “Yes, but what stuck in her throat was the pit of a large apricot.”

  “But there weren’t any apricots in the car!”