“Listen, Fazio, do you know if there are any illegal immigrants working under the table in our area?”
Fazio didn’t seem surprised by the question.
“There certainly are a lot of them everywhere, but right here, in our area, no.”
“Where are they, then?”
“Wherever there are greenhouses, vineyards, tomato fields, orange groves . . . Up north they work in industry, but around here, where there isn’t any industry, they work in agriculture.”
The discussion was turning too general. Montalbano decided to narrow the field.
“What towns in our province would offer such possibilities for illegal workers?”
“To be honest, Chief, I couldn’t really give you a complete list. Why are you interested?”
This was the question he feared most.
“Uh . . . I was just wondering, that’s all . . .”
Fazio stood up, went to the door, closed it, and sat back down.
“Chief,” he said, “would you be so kind as to tell me everything that’s on your mind?”
Montalbano opened up, telling him every last thing, from the ill-fated evening on the wharf to his last meeting with Marzilla.
“There are quite a few greenhouses in Montechiaro,” said Fazio, “with a hundred or so illegals working there. Maybe that’s where the kid ran away from. The place where the car ran him down is only about five kilometers away.”
“Could you look into it?” the inspector ventured. “But without telling anyone here at the station.”
“I can try,” said Fazio.
“You got something in mind?”
“Well . . . I could try drawing up a list of people renting out houses—no, not houses, I mean stables, cellars, sewers!—to illegals. They cram them in, ten at a time, in crawl spaces without windows! They do it under the table and charge them thousands. But maybe I could come up with something. Once I’ve got a list, I’ll ask around if any of these illegals was recently joined by his wife . . . It’s not going to be easy, I can tell you straight away.”
“I know. I’m very grateful for your help.”
But Fazio didn’t get up from his chair.
“What about tonight?” he asked.
The inspector immediately understood but assumed an angelic expression.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Where’s Marzilla going to pick up that guy at ten-thirty?”
Montalbano told him.
“And what are you going to do?”
“Me? What am I supposed to do? Nothing.”
“Chief, you wouldn’t be cooking up some brilliant scheme now, would you?”
“No, no, don’t worry!”
“Bah!” said Fazio, getting up.
In front of the door, he stopped and turned around.
“Look, Chief, if you want, I’m free tonight and—”
“Jeez, what a pain! You’re obsessed!”
“As if I didn’t know you,” Fazio muttered, opening the door and going out.
“Turn on the television, quick!” he ordered Enzo as soon as he entered the trattoria.
The restaurateur looked at him in astonishment.
“What is this? Every time you come in and it’s on, you want it turned off, and now that you find it off, you want it on?”
“You can turn the sound off,” Montalbano conceded.
Nicolò Zito kept his promise. At a certain point in the newscast (a collision between two tractor-trailors, a collapsed house, a man with his head split open for reasons that were unclear, a car on fire, a baby buggy overturned in the middle of the street, a woman tearing her hair out, a workman who fell from a scaffold, a man shot in a bar), the photo of Errera with the mustache appeared. Which meant all clear for Beba’s little drama sketch. Meanwhile, all those images on the screen had the effect of spoiling his appetite. Before going back to the office, he went on a consolatory walk to the lighthouse.
The door crashed, the plaster fell, Montalbano jumped, Catarella appeared. Ritual over.
“What the fuck! One of these days you’re going to bring down the whole building!”
“I beck y’ partin and fuggiveness, Chief, but when I’m ousside y’ door, I git ixcited and my hand slips.”
“What makes you so excited?”
“Everyting ’bout you, Chief.”
“What do you want?”
“Pontius Pilate’s ’ere.”
“Send him in. And hold all calls.”
“Even from the c’mishner?”
“Yes.”
“Even from Miss Livia?”
“Cat, I’m not here for anyone, can you get that through your head or do I have to do it for you?”
“Got it, Chief.”
14
Montalbano stood up to welcome the journalist and stopped halfway, dumbstruck. What appeared in the doorway had first looked to him like a gigantic, walking bouquet of irises. In reality, it turned out to be a man of about fifty, dressed entirely in shades of blue-violet, a kind of round little pipsqueak, with round face, round belly, round eyes, round glasses, round smile. The only thing not round was his mouth; the lips were so big and red that they looked fake, as though painted. The man could certainly have had great success as a clown in a circus. He shot forward like a top and held his hand out to the inspector, who, in order to shake it, had to stretch forward lengthwise, belly resting on the desktop.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said.
The bouquet of irises sat down. Montalbano couldn’t believe his nostrils. The man even smelled like the flower. Cursing to himself, the inspector got ready to waste an hour of his time. Or maybe less. Surely he could think up some excuse to get rid of the guy. In fact, it was best to lay the groundwork immediately.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Pilate.”
“Spàlato.”
Blasted Catarella!
“... Mr. Spàlato, you’ve caught me on an impossibly busy day. I’ve got very little time—”
The journalist raised a plump little hand, which to the inspector’s surprise was not violet, but pink.
“I understand perfectly. I’ll take up very little of your time. I wanted to begin with a question—”
“No, let me ask a question first: why and about what did you wish to talk to me?”
“Well, Inspector, a few nights ago I happened to be on the landing wharf at the port when two navy patrol boats were unloading some illegal immigrants and . . . I caught sight of you there.”
“Oh, so that’s why?”
“Yes. And I asked myself if there was any chance that a famous detective like you—”
The man was mistaken. The first mention of praise and flattery always put Montalbano on his guard. He closed up like a sea urchin and became a ball of thorns.
“Look, I was there entirely by chance. A question of eyeglasses.”
“Eyeglasses?” the other said in astonishment. But then he gave a sly little smile. “I get it. You’re trying to throw me off the trail!”
Montalbano stood up.
“I told you the truth and you didn’t believe it. I think it would be a waste of my time and yours to proceed any further. Good day.”
The bouquet of irises stood up, looking suddenly wilted. With his little hand he shook the inspector’s, which was held out to him.
“Good day,” he sighed, shuffling towards the door.
All of a sudden Montalbano felt sorry for him.
“Listen, if you’re interested in the immigration problem, I can arrange for you to meet a colleague of mine who—”
“You mean Commissioner Riguccio? Thanks, but I’ve already spoken to him. He only sees the larger problem of illegal immigration and nothing else.”