The Safety Net

by Andrea Camilleri

“What’s wrong?”

  “I did something on my own initiative. Sorry.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, since you seemed pretty caught up in this affair . . . on my way here I ran into an old friend of my father’s, Peppi Cannizzaro, who’s a master builder. I thought he’d probably know a little more about walls than we do, and so . . .”

  “And so?”

  “So I mentioned the enigma to him, and I asked him if he could give us a hand . . . He’s in the waiting room right now, in fact.”

  The inspector didn’t hesitate for a second.

  “Well done, Fazio. Let’s all go into Augello’s office.”

  * * *

  Cannizzaro was tall and fat, with a likable face. He must have been a little over sixty years old, but he wore them well.

  He watched the DVD in silence, and when it was over, he said:

  “Could I see that again?”

  After the second viewing, he gave his opinion:

  “If you ask me, that’s probably not a boundary wall.”

  “How can you say that?” asked Montalbano, his curiosity aroused.

  “The tistette are too big for a small wall.”

  “What are tistette?”

  “Blocks of tufa.”

  “Could it be a dividing wall between one room and another?”

  “No, sir, also because of the tistette.”

  “So that leaves only the outer wall of a residential building.”

  Cannizzaro twisted up his mouth.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “Maybe of a sorry little shack . . .”

  “Can you explain a little better?”

  “It’s very sloppy work. You can tell from the way the plaster fell off. Nah, if you ask me, that’s the outside wall of a building, but not a house; something more like a warehouse or a garage . . . But that’s about all I can tell you.”

  Montalbano had an idea.

  “If we went to the place itself, would you be willing to come along?”

  “Sure, anything to help.”

  “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ve got all the time in the world. Just give me a ring.”

  Fazio and Montalbano took down his home phone number—Cannizzaro didn’t own a cell phone. Then they said good-bye, and the master builder left.

  “If you won’t be needing me any longer . . .” said Fazio.

  “Sure, you can go.”

  Left to himself, the inspector thought things over for a moment, then turned on the DVD player.

  The quality of the images was actually better in the digital copies than in the original films, and this was why, as he was watching them with the master builder, he thought he’d noticed a few new details.

  After half an hour of careful study, he became convinced of three things.

  The first was that at the time of day in which those films were shot—that is, at half past ten in the morning—the sun was not shining on that wall.

  The second was that in five of the six reels, a kind of brighter frame appeared in the right-central part of the image, rather like the effect of some indirect light. But what kind of light would be turned on at ten-thirty in the morning? On second thought, maybe it was reflected sunlight. In fact, the brighter square didn’t appear in the film shot on the windy day, when the sky was probably overcast . . .

  The third and last thing was the fact that the sixth reel, the one shot as the filmer was practically dying, displayed not the slightest tremor in the hand of the person filming. The image was stable, with no jerks or sudden movements, just as in the five reels filmed before it. Could the hands of a dying man possibly be so steady? No. All six times, the camera was surely resting on a flat, solid surface.

  He had an idea, and didn’t waste any time.

  He rang his friend Nicolò Zito, editorial director of the Free Channel.

  “Sorry to bother you, Nicolò.”

  “What’s going on? Was somebody killed?” the newsman asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  “Damn. I’m getting really sick of talking only about this fucking TV movie they’ve been inflicting on us! What do you need?”

  “Do you know anyone who knows anything about those old Super 8 movie cameras?”

  “Do I ever! And he’s right here. Our lighting director collects the things!”

  “And he’s there in your offices?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour, max.”

  He put the DVD in his pocket, grabbed the box with the reels and the projector, and headed off for Montelusa.

  * * *

  “The news director is on the air at the moment, but he’s almost done. You can wait for him in his office,” said the Free Channel secretary as soon as the inspector came in.

  Montalbano went into the office and flopped into an armchair. On the TV screen beside the desk, Zito’s big face signed off to the viewers until the next edition of the news and then disappeared, and in its place appeared the face of a young woman announcing the start of a cooking program.

  “Man, are you a sight for sore eyes!” Nicolò greeted him.

  They embraced.

  “Sciuto will be right with us,” said the newsman, sitting down behind the desk. “Why are you so interested in Super 8s?”

  The inspector was about to reply when Sciuto poked his head inside the door. He and Montalbano had known each other for a while.

  “Here I am!”

  The inspector explained briefly what he wanted to know and handed him the box. Sciuto gave it a quick glance and said they needed to project the films.

  “You can do it right here,” said Zito.

  Sciuto diligently watched all six, with the other two looking on. A bewildered Zito then began to ask:

  “What on earth—?”

  But Montalbano interrupted him.

  “Please don’t ask any questions or we’ll be here till morning. I’ll ask the questions, okay?”

  “What do you want to know?” asked Sciuto. “In the meantime I can tell you that they were filmed with a Bolex Paillard dating from before 1956.”

  “And in fact,” said Montalbano, “the first reel was made in 1958. What I want to know now is whether those cameras had a zoom at the time.”

  “Not yet,” said Sciuto. “Distance was controlled directly through the lens and couldn’t be altered during the filming.”

  “In your opinion, how far away was the person filming from the wall being filmed?”

  “I’d say about five meters at the most.”

  “Were they using a tripod?”

  “No. The cameras were handheld, using a special strap right on the device.”

  “So they couldn’t be set down on a flat surface?”

  “Some models could, yes. This one certainly was.”

  “One final question,” said Montalbano. “Did you notice that in five of the reels, there’s a little square that appears, brighter than the rest of the frame, off to the right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you explain that? Could it be a defect in the camera itself?”

  “No, Inspector. I’m almost certain that’s just reflected sunlight.”

  “Can I assume the movie camera in all six reels is resting on a windowsill?”

  “That seems the most likely explanation,” said Sciuto.

  “Thank you,” said Montalbano. “For me that’s enough,” he added, standing up and grabbing the parcel.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” said Zito. “You can’t just leave me here without the slightest explanation of any of this.”

  “I swear I’ll explain it all in fine detail in due time,” said Montalbano, cutting the conversation short and leaving the room, thinking all the while that it
was quite possible there would never be any explanation at all.

  * * *

  He went back to the station, put the box in a small cabinet, and then sat down, took the letter Sabatello had sent him, and dialed his cell phone number.

  “Montalbano here, Signor Sabatello. Sorry to bother you, but—”

  “Have you already found something out?” Sabatello asked excitedly.

  “Not yet. But I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m happy to oblige. Unfortunately, I’m in Palermo at the moment and have to be here for another two days. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I get back to Vigàta, all right?”

  They said good-bye, and Montalbano headed home.

  * * *

  The first thing he did as soon as he got home was go and look inside the refrigerator. Adelina had prepared a platter of finger-lickin’ swordfish involtini, and there was also a small frying pan containing a vegetable dish he loved: boiled tinnirume of baby zucchini and their leaves.

  He put the involtini in the oven to warm, set the pan of tinnirume over a lighted burner, and then went out to the veranda to set the table, because the evening deserved it.

  During the entire meal he didn’t allow a single thought to stray from the subject of the fragrant delicacy of the tinnirume and the intense flavor of the swordfish, which certainly hadn’t come from the waters of the Baltic Sea.

  * * *

  As he was smoking an after-dinner cigarette, the telephone rang.

  It was Livia. Who immediately told him in great detail how, when she went shopping at the supermarket, Selene, her dog, had disappeared for two hours, only to reappear with the most innocent of faces and holding a box of spaghetti in her mouth.

  Montalbano laughed heartily, because, despite his own more catlike personality, he really liked Selene and was grateful to her for giving comfort to Livia.

  Then it was his turn to explain that nothing whatsoever was happening at the station, but he felt embarrassed to reveal that he was spending hours on end staring at identical films of a patch of wall.

  At this point Livia asked the most logical question.

  “Well, if you’ve got nothing to do down there, why don’t you come and see me?”

  She’s right, thought Montalbano. Why not go and see her? Here I can’t even talk to Engineer Sabatello at the moment.

  “You know what? I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said.

  “Do you really mean that?” asked Livia, incredulous.

  “I’m serious. Tomorrow morning I’ll drop in at the station and reserve a flight to Genoa. I’ll let you know what time I get in.”

  “Are you really sure?” Livia asked again.

  “Absolutely.”

  They spoke for another five minutes, then said good night.

  Montalbano went and got a small suitcase and put what he would need for a two-day stay in it. Then he decided it would be best if he changed his suit. He took out everything he had in his pockets and set it down on the dining room table. Since it was still too early to go to bed, he watched a documentary on the cultivation of corn to make himself sleepy. The documentary did the job, and he got up, brushed his teeth, and went to bed.

  He slept deeply all night long.

  * * *

  When he woke up, after his ritual shower and mug of espresso he put on his travel suit and went to have a look at what he could bring among the things he’d left on the table the previous evening. In his hand he found a piece of paper with a telephone number that meant nothing whatsoever to him. He read it and reread it, and then finally remembered that it belonged to the master builder, Cannizzaro. He put the piece of paper in his pocket, along with his wallet and a number of other scraps with notes on them, got into the car, and headed off for Vigàta.

  * * *

  “Any news?” he asked when passing Catarella.

  “Nah, nuttin’, Chief.”

  “Listen up, Cat. This afternoon I’m leaving for Genoa for two days. If you or anyone else here needs me, you know where to find me.”

  “Yessir, Chief.”

  He went into his office, sat down, and immediately dialed the phone number of Palermo Airport Police to reserve a flight.

  “Montalbano here.”

  “So, Inspector, what do you say? Shall we go do this inspection?”

  Montalbano balked. What did the guy say? What inspection was he talking about?

  “Hello!” said the voice at the other end of the line. “When do you want me to come to the station, Inspector?”

  At last he understood. He’d dialed—or rather, his finger, independently of his will, had dialed—the wrong number, ringing the home of master builder Cannizzaro. And now what? Now he must surrender to fate. This meant the inspection had to be done that very day.

  He would inevitably have to make up some lie for Livia.

  “All right,” he said. “You can come in to the station now, if you like.”

  And he headed towards Fazio’s room. It was empty. So he went into the hallway and shouted to Catarella:

  “Find me Fazio and send him to me immediately!”

  And he went back into his office.

  “’E ain’t onna premisses, Chief,” Catarella replied, appearing suddenly before him as if by magic.

  Montalbano froze.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “To the sit, Chief.”

  The sit? A sit-in?

  “Is this some kind of political protest, Cat?”

  “Nah, nuttin’ pillitical, Chief. Ain’t ’at wha’ they call the place where they film a film? The sit?”

  “It’s called the set, Cat. And what did he go there to do?”

  “Ahh, Chief, Chief! Alls o’ ’eaven ’n’ ’ell broke loose!”

  “Meaning?”

  “Alls I know izzat ’ey tol’ ’im it was a ’mergency.”

  The inspector went into his office and sat down. He rang Fazio on his cell phone and had to wait a long time for him to answer.

  “I’m sorry, Chief, but at the moment I really can’t talk,” said Fazio, immediately hanging up.

  What the hell was going on? Montalbano called back.

  “But is it going to take a while?”

  “Chief, I won’t see any daylight for at least another hour.”

  There was a knock at the door. It was Catarella.

  “Chief, ’ere’d a happen a be a Signor Accanizzaro presently onna premisses waitin’ f’yiz.”

  “Where?”

  “’Ere. Jess ousside the front door.”

  The inspector went out.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Signor Cannizzaro, but I had you come all the way here for nothing. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to do that inspection this morning. Could we postpone it till ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “All right,” said Cannizzaro.

  They shook hands, and the master builder left.

  Montalbano’s mind was elsewhere. He could get no rest over the mystery of what was happening on the sit, as Catarella called it. He decided to go and have a look for himself.

  “Do you know where they’re filming?” he asked Catarella.

  “Sure, Chief. Ya remember where there useta be the Sicilian Discount Bank where Gallo’s mutter’s auntie woiked? Well, iss not azackly right there innat buildin’, but behine the buildin’ in front.”

  “Good God, stop right there,” said Montalbano, growing more and more confused. “How long’s it take to get there?”

  “You c’n go afoot, Chief. Iss jest a five-minnit walk. Ya jess take the second toin onna right anna toid onna left.”

  Montalbano headed out.

  * * *

  “Do you think you’re more clever than everyone else?”

  “In all honesty, no,” replied Montalbano, looking up.


  Before him stood a carabinieri corporal with a malevolent glint in his eye.

  “Then turn back,” said the corporal.

  Montalbano weighed his options and came to the conclusion that it was best not to reveal who he was. And so he turned around and saw that, without realizing, he’d cut in front of a group of some thirty people being kept at bay by three carabinieri, who were preventing everyone from turning the corner.

  As he rejoined the group, he heard, from rather close by, a great deal of commotion—a confusion of shouts, yells, commands, and sirens from ambulances and carabinieri patrol cars.

  “What’s happening, anyway?” he asked a man.

  “Looks like war has broken out.”

  “War?”

  “Between Sweden and Vigàta.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  A second person intervened.

  “Apparently as they were filming the scene of the first kiss between the Swedish heroine and the Vigatese fisherman she falls in love with, someone in the crowd watching started yelling, ‘With your tongue, with your tongue!’ But, since they were filming live, the director became furious, stood up, and went and grabbed the guy who’d started shouting. And then some men from Vigàta came to his defense, so the Swedes felt obliged to come to the director’s defense, and the whole thing went downhill from there.”

  “That’s not at all how it went,” said a well-dressed man with glasses and a stern air.

  “Then please tell me what happened,” Montalbano invited him.

  “It was all a misunderstanding. The person who called out was actually saying ‘In the same tongue!’—meaning that they should all be reciting their lines in the same language, because the way it was going nobody could understand anything, since the Swedish girl was speaking Swedish and the Vigàta boy was speaking Italian.”

  “The truth of the matter,” said a third, “is that up until they made our towns sister cities, everything went fine between the Swedes and the Vigatese, but after the sistering, things changed—we started seeing the kind of hostility that’s typical between siblings . . .”