The inspector calculated that there were two rather dangerous spots in the house, the ones facing the beach: the French door to the veranda and the bedroom window. Whereas in the kitchen and bathroom he could turn on the light without any worry, because the windows did not give onto the seaside.
And so he went into the kitchen, turned on the light, and opened the fridge. Not a thing inside. Disappointed but still hopeful, he ran over to the oven and opened it, and at once bells started ringing in his head in celebration. Mullet with Adelina’s special sauce!
The mere sight of it dispelled his bad mood.
And as the fish was warming in the oven, he set the table in the kitchen and went and looked again to see what was going on outside. Now there was no less than a sailboat there, having been brought on a sort of tractor-trailer, and the crew was building a slipway to guide it into the water.
He grabbed the casserole, sat down at the table, and decided that he would better appreciate the flavor of the fish by eating them just like that, without a proper plate.
With the first forkful he brought to his lips, he had the impression the fish had a strange taste. He took another bite. Worse than the first. The fish was decidedly bitterish. How could Adelina have possibly gone so wrong? He took a third bite and, closing his eyes, scientifically analyzed the flavor between his palate and tongue.
No! It wasn’t the fish or the sauce. They were fine; indeed marvelous.
It was his mouth that tasted bitter.
And he knew why his mouth wasn’t functioning properly. He’d wanted to keep the reason for his unease, and thus for that nasty taste, hidden from himself, but it nevertheless rose up from the depths of his consciousness to the surface.
And if he was ever going to be able to eat his mullet in peace, it was best to let the idea come out in full. And to give it some thought. It was possible that, by dint of reflection, his mouth would get rid of the bitter taste.
Stop kidding yourself, Montalbà. The reason is that right after sending the message to Luigino, you felt ashamed of yourself and what you had done.
You’ve laid traps and played tricks on dozens and dozens of people over the years, but they were always crooks, people with skins thick as armor or who didn’t want to tell the truth.
Never, never with a little kid. Never with a thirteen-year-old boy.
That was beneath you. That was beneath you.
So why did you do it?
Well, Montalbà, you did it because you had no other paths open to you that might lead you to a solution.
And yet . . . And yet . . .
He was ashamed of his act and deeply worried about it. Because the reactions of a killer, a crook, a man accustomed to dealing with the law, were one thing. But the way a young kid might react—a kid still naïve, still whole and lacking armor against adversaries—was something else entirely.
And so?
And so, in short, he decided that the only thing he could do at the moment was to eat his mullet just the same, despite the unpleasant taste . . .
* * *
When he’d finished, he went into the bathroom, turned on the light, took a shower, and dried himself off. As he was getting into bed, he heard the phone ring.
He blindly walked into the dining room and picked up the receiver. It was Livia.
“Ciao, Livia,” he said in a muffled voice.
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Because I’m a ghost.”
“Cut the clowning.”
“I’m not joking, Livia.”
And he told her about the shoot and everything that was going on around him. Livia laughed heartily.
“Well, then, I won’t keep you. I hope they let you sleep.”
“Me, too. Good night.”
And he went and lay down in bed, thinking primarily of how the kid would react upon receiving his message and what kind of countermoves he might make. But he realized that it was going to be hard to think, because suddenly it was as if a dozen people had entered the dining room, laughing and shouting rudely. He imagined it was the extras getting dressed and made up on the veranda. Shit. All that racket was going to prevent him not only from thinking, but from sleeping as well. So he got up, went into the bathroom, opened the medicine chest, took two balls of cotton, and stuffed these in his ears. All the noise on the veranda now became muffled. And tolerable.
So, if Luigino had perchance resolved to—
A sudden, violent, blinding white light inundated the room, blazing through the shutter slats. Apparently they’d pointed the floodlights directly at his house. What next? How was he going to sleep with that light shining in? The worst of it was that even when he closed his eyes, the light filtered in through his eyelids. He was positive that even with his eyes sealed shut he would never manage to fall asleep. Cursing the saints, he got up out of bed again and went and opened the armoire. He started looking for something, and after throwing underpants, shirts, and socks all over the floor, he finally found a pair of Livia’s silk scarves, took one, and covered his eyes with it, knotting it behind his head. Then he got back into bed.
A waste of time. The light came through just the same. He got up again, this time stringing together a litany of curses, reopened the armoire, took out the other scarf, and doubled his blindfold with it. The light was now just a faint glow that wouldn’t be any bother.
At that point he started thinking of something he wasn’t able at first to bring into focus, and it didn’t have anything to do with Luigino. So what was it? Then he remembered the dream he’d had a few nights before. Actually, truth be told, the dream about Livia’s dream. Because he’d dreamt that Livia was telling him about a dream she’d had about a blindfolded man who was running away from another man who wanted to kill him. No, no, wait. The man in Livia’s dream wasn’t blindfolded but running with a large woman’s kerchief on his head. But what did this have to do with anything? Nothing at all.
He thrashed about in bed for a long time. Then, he didn’t know when or how, he was snatched away by sleep’s talons and cast deep down into a dense, black, leaden liquid.
* * *
When he woke up, he sensed that it was already morning. But then why didn’t he hear the splashing of the surf? Total silence. Why was no light filtering in through the window? Pitch blackness. What was happening? Had he gone deaf and blind during the night? All at once? Maybe he’d had some kind of stroke. He broke out in a cold sweat, terrified. Then he remembered the great fuss he’d gone to the previous evening, untied the two scarves around his eyes, thinking what an idiot he was, and removed the cotton from his ears. Relieved, he took a deep breath and glanced over at the clock. It was almost seven and the alarm was about to ring. He didn’t get out of bed in time before it started ringing.
“Already taken care of,” he said, borrowing Fazio’s expression.
Before he went into the kitchen to make coffee, there was something extremely urgent he had to do. He grabbed the phone.
“Chief. What’s going on?” asked Fazio, a bit alarmed.
“I need the phone number of Mr. Puleo, the schoolteacher.”
“Okay, give me a minute and I’ll get it for you.”
As soon as the inspector got the number, he rang up Puleo.
“Hello, who is this?”
“Montalbano here.”
“Good morning, Inspector. What can I do for you?”
“Sorry to bother you first thing in the morning, but—”
“No bother at all. I was just getting ready to go to school.”
“Well, in fact, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Are you teaching in class III B today?”
“Yes, it’s my first class of the day.”
“Excellent. I’d like to ask a favor of you . . .”
“Go right ahead.”
But Montalban
o didn’t have the words ready to describe the anxiety he felt inside, and therefore his voice came out hesitant.
“Well, what I’d like is for you to keep an eye on a student of yours, Luigi Sciarabba.”
Silence. Apparently surprised, Mr. Puleo let a few moments pass before speaking.
“About that bullying business you told me about?”
“Yes,” said Montalbano, taking advantage of the pretext being offered him.
“What exactly would you want me to do?”
“Nothing, actually. I simply would like for you to report to me on Luigi. If he seemed normal today, more nervous, more distracted, that kind of thing. It’s just a silly idea I had.”
“All right, then,” said Puleo. “I’ll give you a ring as soon as the class lets out.”
“Thank you,” said Montalbano, hanging up.
He went and opened the French doors to the veranda. A few workers had finished dismantling the mini railway, while others were loading the parts onto a truck. But even after the truck eventually left, the traces of the night before would remain visible. Indeed the whole beach looked as if it had been raped, dug out, bombed. Luckily a bit of wind was rising.
And little by little, the sea, too, would erase the damage that man had done.
He went into the kitchen with the firm intention of drinking at least two big mugs of espresso.
* * *
Since it took Gallo only ten minutes to drive him from Marinella to the station in Vigàta, the inspector got to work just a few minutes past eight o’clock.
“Fazio in?” he asked Catarella.
“Nah, Chief, ’e ain’t onna premisses.”
“How about Augello?”
“’E ain’t onna premisses, neither.”
“Okay, whoever is the first to come in, tell him to come to my office.”
Catarella gave him a bewildered look.
“An’ whaddo I tell the seckin’ one?”
“Tell him the same thing.”
He went into his office when, all at once, the door flew open and crashed loudly against the wall.
“Sorry, Chief. My ’and slipped again! I fergat to tell yi’ som’n.”
“So tell me.”
“I fergat to tell yiz ’at jess a few seccuns ago Mr. Muleo the schoolteacher ast f’yiz onna phone.”
“Puleo?” Montalbano asked, not comprehending. Hadn’t they left it that he was going to call after the first class?
“And what did he say?”
“’E said ’e wannit a talk t’yiz rilly oigently an’ poissonally in poisson an’ ’e leff me ’is sill phone number in case ya wannit a call ’im back yisself.”
“All right, then, call him up and then put it through to me.”
Catarella vanished. And Montalbano was overcome with anguish. What could this early phone call mean? Why didn’t he wait to call?
The telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver.
“Mr. Puleo?”
“Yes, it’s me, Inspector. There’s something I have to tell you. You may not know that ever since there was the attack on the school, we’ve been . . . well, we’ve been in a state of alert. The principal has asked us teachers and the students’ families to inform her of any absences so we can monitor the situation.”
“And so?”
“And so this morning there were two kids absent from class III B,” said Puleo.
“Who?”
“Giuseppe Portolano, whose father phoned in an excuse; the other one is our same Luigi Sciarabba, who, however . . .”
“However?”
“Well . . . it’s a little strange,” said Puleo. “He called in person to give his reasons. He said he had a slight fever and was going to stay home and rest.”
“Thank you, Mr. Puleo,” said Montalbano, his mouth all dry.
He called in person to give his reasons. A thirteen-year-old kid calls the school principal to say he can’t come to class? No, it made no sense. Anyway, he could very well have been lying. It was anybody’s guess where Luigino was calling from.
Montalbano feared that the push he’d given the boat had been a bit too strong.
16
He couldn’t remain hanging in the air like that much longer, in the midst of uncertainty. He had to find a solution at once. Okay, but what? He sat there for five minutes racking his brain, and then he remembered that Salvuzzo’s friend, Tindaro, had told him something about his grandmother, something to do with Luigi’s mother . . . Right, that was it: Tindaro’s grandmother lived right across the landing from the Sciarabbas. Not wasting one second, the inspector grabbed the telephone and rang Beba.
“Ciao, Salvo. Mimì is—”
“I don’t care where Mimì is—”
“But Salvuzzo’s not here, either. He went to school—”
“Beba, let me speak for a second. I need you. Now listen closely: I remember that Tindaro said his grandmother is a friend of Luigino Sciarabba’s mother.”
“Luigino, the computer whiz? Yes, that’s true, but why do you ask? Has something happened to him?”
“No, nothing’s happened to him, but I need to know if Luigino is sick and if that’s why he didn’t go to school today.”
“Salvo,” said Beba, interrupting him, “the principal asked us all to call in if any of our kids were going to be absent. So if you call the school—”
“No, this is something private. I need to know whether Luigino is at home or not.”
“But what can I do about it? You want me to give you the Sciarabbas’ home phone number?”
“Good God, no. I wouldn’t want to upset Luigino’s mother. That’s why I was asking you about Tindaro’s grandmother. Do you know her?”
“Sure, absolutely. Her name is Anna, Anna Amato, she’s a wonderful woman. Just think, once, before summer, she took half the class on a field trip to Tindari at her own expense. If you want I can give you her number and address.”
Montalbano, meanwhile, was lost in his thoughts.
Anna Amato?!
Want to bet this was the same beautiful Anna Amato he’d met shortly after first moving to Vigàta? And whom he’d almost lost his head over? The one who’d worked as a waitress at the San Calogero restaurant?
Anna Amato, a grandmother?
And why not? He remembered she had a fifteen-year-old daughter at the time, and then he did a quick mental calculation. Hell, yes! Anna Amato could very easily be a grandmother now. Just as he, too, could have been a grandfather.
“Hello?!” said Beba. “Hello?!”
“Oh, sorry. I was thinking of something else. Okay, go ahead.”
He wrote down the number and address on the same sheet of paper with the kid’s email, but he already knew he would never have the courage to go and see Nonna Anna Amato.
“Listen, Beba. You’re the mother of a good future cop and the wife of a police inspector, and so a bit of coppishness must have rubbed off on you, too. Do you feel up to asking this Anna whether Luigi is at home or not? Without arousing her suspicions, of course.”
“There’s no need to be a cop, Salvo. It’s enough just to be a woman,” Beba said, laughing. “I’ll call you back as soon as I know something.”
He was unable to sit there, doing nothing. So he got up, went over to the window, and smoked a cigarette. Then he lit a second one with the butt of the first. To chase the dark thoughts from his head he started reciting the poet Trilussa’s “La vispa Teresa” and got to the point where Teresa repents and goes into church to pray to the Lord, when the Lord made the phone on his desk ring. He ran over to it. It was Beba.
“You know, Salvo, it was easier than I thought. Anna, among other things, even told me that she ran into Luigino in the stairwell on his way to school. Is that enough for you?”
“Yes,” Montalbano said bitterly, and h
e thanked her.
It wasn’t just enough, it was too much. In fact, it was confirmation that Luigino had worked out a detailed plan: He’d told his mother he was going to school and phoned the principal to tell her he was staying home, whereas it was in fact anyone’s guess where he might be now and what he was doing. And it was also possible that in carrying out his plan he would fuck up big-time. And the responsibility would be all his—that is, it would fall entirely on the brilliant but ever so slightly doddering Inspector Montalbano, because of those goddamn words he’d sent through cyberspace.
“May I?” asked Mimì, appearing in the doorway with Fazio behind him.
“Come on in, close the door, and sit down,” Montalbano said gloomily.
But when he had the two sitting in front of his desk, words suddenly failed him. He didn’t know where to start.
“What’s wrong, Inspector?” asked Fazio, who knew him well.
“I got some troubling news just now, and I’m worried the situation might be dire.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that, this morning, Luigino Sciarabba—”
“Salvuzzo’s friend?” Augello interrupted him.
“Yes, that’s right. He didn’t go to school today.”
The others looked at him wide-eyed.
“So?” asked Mimì.
“So, the situation seems troubling to me.”
“Why?” asked Augello, raising his voice.
“Because the kid called the principal himself to excuse his absence. He said he had a little fever. But he’s not at home.”
This time Fazio and Augello looked at each other wide-eyed. Then they turned towards the inspector.
“I’m sorry, but are you feeling all right?” asked Mimì.
“I feel fine. Why do you ask?”
“Because you seem to be making no sense,” Mimì said by way of reply. “What the hell do you care if Luigino told his principal a lie? Want to know how often I used to play hooky and then fake my dad’s signature when I brought in my excuse? What are you so worried about?”
The Safety Net Page 19
