The Safety Net

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Well, since we haven’t been able to come up with the slightest motive for the crime, isn’t it possible that the attackers went to the wrong address?”

  “The wrong address, no. If anything, the wrong classroom. Because they told the custodian they knew where to go.”

  “Okay, Chief, but it’s not like that changes things very much. So, not the wrong address, but the wrong classroom.”

  “If your hypothesis is true, Fazio, do you realize how much work we’ll have on our hands? How many students are there at the Pirandello, anyway? And how many teachers? No, thanks. I am absolutely certain that those two knew where to go and that we have the motive right under our noses but can’t see it.”

  “Well, then, you tell me, Chief, what moves I should make, because I just don’t know what to think anymore!”

  Montalbano thought about this for a moment.

  “Nothing. Don’t do anything. It’s better to wait for the wind to pick up before we hoist the sails.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’re gonna sit tight.”

  “Whatever you say,” said Fazio, getting up and going out.

  * * *

  Montalbano sat there for a long time, staring at the door that Fazio had just closed.

  And a question popped into his head: If the wind never picked up, wasn’t it better to give the boat a little push? He thought a long time about how he might set that boat in motion.

  Slowly, the image of the bottle sluggishly making its way out of the harbor, to the open sea, became projected on the white of the door as on a movie screen. Was it possible, as he had done in the boat with Ingrid, to intercept a bottle sailing on a different kind of sea? And, if so, how would you track the bottle back to the person who’d thrown it in? There might be a way.

  Of course there was no guarantee that the bottle sailing across the internet was empty, like the one he’d watched floating out to sea.

  These were questions he would never be able to answer.

  However . . .

  He quickly grabbed the phone and dialed.

  “Cat, get in here right away.”

  He hadn’t finished speaking when the door flew open and crashed against the wall with the force of a cannon blast.

  “Sorry ’bout tat, Chief, my ’and slipped.”

  “Come in and close the door behind you.”

  Catarella did as he was asked, and then stood stiff as a pole in front of the inspector’s desk.

  “Have a seat,” said Montalbano.

  “I can’t, Chief.”

  “That’s an order.”

  Catarella, deeply offended, settled onto the very edge of the chair.

  “What I’m about to ask you must remain between us,” the inspector began, looking him severely in the eye.

  Catarella’s eyes filled with tears from the emotion.

  And he raised his right hand and closed it, while leaving his fore- and middle fingers still extended, which he brought to his lips, kissed them on the back, then turned them around kissed them on the front as well.

  “Till death do us part.”

  It was a solemn oath.

  Finally he wiped away his tears with his left hand, then sat there staring at the inspector.

  “Tell you what. I’m going to stay here and sign papers, and after everyone goes home, I want you to come back here, to my office, and bring your computer with you.”

  Catarella nodded assent. Then he stood up, but was so overwhelmed with emotion that it took him a long time to reach the door. His legs were stiff, his arms open and extended à la Frankenstein, and it was hard for him to move his feet.

  * * *

  He didn’t know how long he’d been signing papers when the phone rang.

  “Ahh, Chief, ’at’d be the ’nchineer Sabatobello onna line wantin’ a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

  “Good evening, sir, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Inspector. I am truly mortified, in fact. I realize you have problems far more serious than mine, but I nevertheless had to tell you. I opened up the chests containing Papa’s old papers, and found something that seemed very important to me. If you can give me five minutes, I’d like to talk to you about it.”

  Montalbano didn’t hesitate.

  “Mr. Sabatello, I’m sorry, but as you stated correctly, I’m extremely busy these days. Tell you what: As soon as I manage to find a little free time, I’ll get in touch with you.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “That’s a promise. It’s in my own interest, too.”

  “Oh, by the way,” said Sabatello. “Have you heard what happened to poor old Sidoti?”

  “No, what happened to him?”

  “He was hit by a car and is in very grave condition. The doctors are giving up hope of saving him. I went to see him at San Giovanni Hospital a few hours ago, and will be going back tomorrow.”

  Montalbano was very sorry to hear this, and of course had not forgotten the wonderful meal he’d had with Sidoti.

  “Please keep me informed as to his condition.”

  “All right. Till next time.”

  “Till next time.”

  * * *

  The knock at the door was so soft that Montalbano wasn’t sure there’d been one. All the same, he said:

  “Come in.”

  The door opened extremely slowly, and then half of Catarella’s face appeared behind it, looking around with an air more conspiratorial than a Carbonaro in the days of Mazzini.

  “Come in, come in.”

  Catarella took two steps forward and closed the door behind him. He had his computer in his hand. Then he said softly:

  “Everybody’s gone. We’s alone, Chief.”

  “And who’s manning the switchboard?”

  “I left Costamagna at it an’ tol’ ’im not to put any phone calls troo to the phone. Did I do good?”

  “You did good. And now, do me a favor and grab a chair and sit down next to me.”

  Catarella, who was just then taking a step, froze at the sound of the words “next to me,” his left foot in midair, thunderstruck. A statue.

  “Cat! What’s wrong?”

  “Matre santa! Sit down nex’ to youse! Whatta honor! Matre santissima, whatta honor!”

  “C’mon, Cat, let’s stop wasting time.”

  With great effort, and all sweaty and red in the face, Catarella came forward, grabbed a chair, and dragged it behind the desk, though at a considerable distance from the inspector’s.

  “Come closer,” Montalbano ordered him.

  “Maria santissimissima!” Catarella wailed, moving his chair a little bit closer to the inspector’s.

  Then he picked up the computer and held it suspended over the desk.

  “May I, Chief? May I?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  Catarella set the computer down.

  “Now listen to me, Cat. Cat! Can you hear me???”

  Catarella’s eyes were staring into the void, lost.

  “Catarella!!!” the inspector yelled, grabbing his assistant’s chin with his left hand and turning it towards him so he could look him in the eye. “Cat! Now listen carefully!”

  “Yessir, Chief, I’m all ears.”

  “I need to get in touch with somebody through the computer. Okay? You got that?”

  “Yessir, Chief, got it.”

  But it was clear that he was having great difficulty snapping out of his trance.

  “All right, then, ask me all the questions you need to ask to conduct this operation.”

  “Yessir, Chief,” said Catarella, lifting the lid of the computer. “Ah, lissen. Does this poisson got a blog?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is ’e a tweeter?”<
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  “No, he only eats threes. What kind of a question is that?!”

  “Nah, nah, Chief, I mean summon ’at tweets on Twitter.”

  “What are you talking about! Must one be a twit to tweet?”

  “Nah, nah, ’a’ss not it, neither, Chief, it jess means ya can’t write more than a hunnert-forty carataracts atta time.”

  “Ah, I see. No, I don’t think a hundred and forty characters would be enough for this person.”

  “Well, if ’e ain’t a tweeter, then I’m sure ’e’s on Fessebook. Whattya tink, Chief? Is ’e onnit er nat?”

  “I would guess he probably is on Facebook, Cat.”

  “Ah, well, ’a’ss awriddy sum’n, Chief. So wha’ss ’iss poisson’s name?”

  “Luigi Sciarabba,” said Montalbano.

  15

  “Awright, then, we’ll ax the ’pewter to ’elp us,” said Catarella, starting to poke around on the keyboard.

  Montalbano leaned forward to see whether he’d written the name correctly.

  A minute later, Catarella said:

  “Well, well, Chief! I found five o’ these Sciarabbis!”

  Confused, Montalbano asked:

  “So how are we going to find the one I’m looking for?”

  “Iss easy, Chief. Where’s ’iss Sciarabba got ’is risidence?”

  “Here in Vigàta.”

  “’Ere’s two of ’em ’ere in Vigàta, an’ bote of ’em’s called Luici. But one’s a legalized adult an’ the utter’s a minoritarian. Which one’s we innerested in?”

  “The minoritarian,” said Montalbano.

  Catarella poked around again and then cried out:

  “Oh, man! ’A’ss bad, bad luck!”

  “What is?”

  “Google’s tellin’ me ’iss kid’s Fessebook account was scancilled tree days ago.”

  “Are you sure about those three days?”

  “Yeah, says so right ’ere.”

  Montalbano realized the account was canceled on the same day the school was attacked.

  “So there’s nothing else we can do?” he asked.

  Catarella threw his hands up disconsolately.

  “Chief, wittout a account I dunno what to do.”

  Montalbano suddenly had an idea. He reached out, grabbed the phone, and then stopped.

  Should he or shouldn’t he?

  He had no other choice.

  He dialed Augello’s home phone, and Beba picked up.

  “Ciao, Salvo. Mimì’s not back yet . . .”

  “That’s okay, Beba, sorry to bother you, but I wanted to talk to Salvuzzo.”

  A second later he heard the boy’s voice.

  “Ciao, Zio. I’m all yours.”

  “Listen carefully, Salvù. I’m going to ask you something that nobody—not even your father and mother—must know about.”

  “Okay, Zio.”

  “Man to man. How do I get in touch with the computer whiz kid?”

  “Do you want me to give you Luigino’s phone number?”

  “No, no. No phones. Don’t you have his email address?”

  “Sure I do.”

  He gave it to him.

  “Thanks, Salvù. Good night.”

  “Good night, Zio.”

  “Okay, Cat, we’ve done it. I have Sciarabba’s email address,” and he dictated it to him.

  A smile lit up Catarella’s face like sunlight, as he resumed poking around on the keyboard again.

  Montalbano stopped him.

  “Wait a second. Will the kid know who sent him the email?”

  “O’ course, Chief. See? From: . . .”

  “Then it’s not gonna work,” Montalbano said decisively.

  But Catarella, who was already off and running, went on:

  “But, Chief, if ya don’ wanna be rec’nized, ’ere’s sum’n we can do: open a ’nomynous account ’at can’t be idinnified an’ ’ll remain top secret. ’At way, we c’n write to this minoritant from tha’ account.”

  For whatever reason, the mere mention of the words “top secret” made Montalbano think of James Bond, who in his super-equipped London office was always given, along with the requisite beautiful blonde, the latest technological gadgets to help him do his job, whereas he, Montalbano, was there in a stinky closet with Catarella, using a computer from the prior millennium.

  “But is this something we can do right away?”

  “Assolutely straightaways, Chief. Alls we gotta do is make up a fake name for our two-poisson account.”

  “Okay, you make something up,” said Montalbano, who was starting to lose patience.

  “I got an idea, but I’m ambarrassed to say it.”

  “C’mon, Cat, let’s not waste any time.”

  “What if you an’ me got married?”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Cat!”

  “Beckin’ yer partin, Chief, bu’ I jess meant we could marry our lass names. We cou’ call our account Montarella or Catalbano, or som’n like ’at.”

  The idea made Montalbano want to drop the whole thing. But he restrained himself and said, through clenched teeth:

  “Call it Montarella.”

  Two tears sprang from Catarella’s adoring eyes.

  “Tanks, Chief, tanks so much. An’, whiles we’re at it, fer the passwoid we c’n do a crass ’tween our boit dates.”

  “Do whatever you want, but just hurry up.”

  Catarella started writing, repeating aloud what he was writing:

  “From . . . ; To . . . ; Re . . . ,” and then he looked over at the inspector.

  “For ‘Re,’” said Montalbano, “write ‘from a friend.’”

  “Okay. Now star’ dictatin’.”

  “Dear Luigi, you’ve been found out. If you don’t do at once what I say, I will report you to the police for the chaos you caused at the school. Do not reply to this message. More soon.”

  “Done,” said Catarella.

  Montalbano reread the message.

  “Okay, you can send it.”

  “Done,” Catarella repeated proudly a moment later.

  “Thanks,” said Montalbano. “That’s all for now.”

  Catarella asked permission to use their “marritch account” in exceptional circumstances, and only exceptional circumstances, which the inspector granted, but only on the condition that Catarella leave his office. The problem was that Catarella was now as limp as an empty sack, and Montalbano had to accompany him to the door, holding him up.

  So he’d cast his bottle into the sea. This time it would not get lost among the waves, but go where it had to go.

  * * *

  He was unlocking his car, getting ready to go home to Marinella, when Catarella appeared in the doorway and called out to him.

  “Chief! Chief!”

  “What is it?”

  “’Ere’s the Signura Sciosciostrom onna line an’ she wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

  Montalbano went back inside, stopped in front of Catarella’s closet, and took the receiver Catarella was holding out to him.

  “Ciao, Ingrid, what’s up?”

  “Listen, Salvo, did you by any chance go home this afternoon to Marinella?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “Because if you had, you would have noticed that there’s work being done for the film shoot there.”

  “For tonight?”

  “Yes. We have to shoot a scene that’s going to last all night, right in front of your house.”

  A punch in the face would surely have had less of an effect, and he would have absorbed it much better. The whole thing seemed to him an out-and-out desecration, which he wanted no part of whatsoever.

  “What are you saying?” he asked, still incredulous.
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  “As I said, we’ll be shooting all night long, right in front of your house. So, the director and I were thinking that maybe, during a break, we could come in and visit you.”

  A lie of defense rolled off his tongue at once.

  “But I . . . tonight I won’t be at home, unfortunately.”

  “You won’t?”

  “No, we’ve been given word that there’s a fugitive at large in the area, and we’re going to have to set up some stakeouts. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” said Ingrid. “Oh, listen, since you won’t be there, could we use your veranda for making up the extras?”

  “Okay, okay,” said Montalbano.

  “Have fun on your stakeout.”

  “Work well,” the inspector replied, then hung up.

  And now what? Should he go stay in a hotel? No way. His only option was to go home but make sure nobody saw him.

  “Listen, Cat. Is Gallo around?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Ring him and tell him I need him to drive me home to Marinella.”

  “Straightaways, Chief.”

  Gallo arrived almost at once. Montalbano got in the car, and they drove off. Near the turnoff that led to his house, Montalbano said:

  “Turn off the headlights and go down the drive with the motor off.”

  Gallo looked at him in shock.

  “Why?”

  “Because it never snows in Cuba.”

  Gallo rolled with the punch and did as he was told.

  “And I want you to come and get me tomorrow morning at eight,” Montalbano said before getting out of the car.

  “Okay,” said Gallo.

  The inspector opened the front door of the house very carefully, without turning on any lights.

  He made his way through the darkness into the dining room and looked outside onto the veranda. Through the slats in the shutter, by the glow of the floods illuminating the set like daylight, he could see that they’d set up a sort of very long railway track parallel to the water’s edge.

  There weren’t yet any actors around, but he could see other members of the crew running about at high speed between two trucks, unloading movie cameras, costumes, and scenery props, and generally creating a great deal of confusion.