A flash. For a moment, as a cramp wrenched his stomach, Montalbano saw himself taking the child by the hand, turning him over to the woman he thought was his mother . . . And that look, those gaping eyes, which he would never be able to forget.
“Why?” he asked, feigning indifference.
“You look pale.”
“Every now and then it happens to me. It’s a circulatory problem, nothing to worry about. But tell me something: if this odious traffic occurs in the Adriatic, why did you come here?”
“Simple. Because the slave traders, for a variety of reasons, have been forced to change course. The one they’ve used for years is too well known. The screws have been tightened, and it’s become much easier to intercept them. Bear in mind that last year alone, as I said, one thousand three hundred and fifty-eight minors came over from Morocco. The already established sea-lanes in the Mediterranean had to be broadened and increased in number. And this is what happened when the Tunisian, Baddar Gafsa, became the unchallenged leader of the organization.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. What was the name?”
“Baddar Gafsa, a character who, believe me, seems straight out of a novel. Among other things, he goes by the name of ‘Scarface,’ so you can imagine. He’s a giant who likes to load himself down with rings and bracelets and always wears leather jackets. Barely thirty years old, he has a veritable army of killers at his command, under the leadership of his three lieutenants, Samir, Jamil, and Ouled. He also has a fleet of trawlers, which are not, of course, used for fishing, but are secretly moored in the inlets at Capo Bono; these are under the command of Ghamun and Ridha, two highly experienced sea captains who know the Sicilian Channel as well as their bathroom sink. Though the law’s been after him for a long time, Gafsa has never been caught. It is said that dozens of corpses of enemies murdered by his own hand are hung on display in his hideouts. He keeps them out for a while where everyone can see them, to discourage potential traitors but also to indulge his own sense of invincibility. Like hunting trophies. You see, he travels a lot, going here and there to settle, in his own special way, disputes among his collaborators and to make examples of those who don’t obey his orders. And so his trophies keep growing in number.”
To Montalbano it seemed as if Spàlato were recounting the plot of a rather far-fetched adventure film of the kind the Italians used to call americanate.
“But how do you know these things? You seem very well informed to me.”
“Before coming to Vigàta I spent almost a month in Tunisia between Sfax and Sousse and all the way out to El Haduaria. I’d arranged beforehand to gain admission in the right places. And I’m experienced enough to know how to cut the fat of urban legends away from the truth.”
“You still haven’t explained to me why you came specifically here, to Vigàta. Did you find something out in Tunisia that brought you here?”
Fonso Spàlato’s vast mouth quadrupled in size as he smiled.
“You really are as intelligent as they say, Inspector. What I found out—and I won’t tell you how, because it’d be too complicated, though I can vouch for the reliability of the source—is that Baddar Gafsa was seen in Lampedusa, on his way back from Vigàta.”
“When?”
“A little over two months ago.”
“And did they say what he was doing here?”
“They hinted at it. Anyway, it’s important that you know that Gafsa has a huge sorting facility here.”
“In Vigàta?”
“Or nearby.”
“What do you mean by ‘sorting facility’?”
“A place where he has certain illegal aliens brought, the ones of great importance or value.”
“Such as?”
“Minors, as we were saying, or terrorists, or informers for infiltration, or persons already declared undesirable. He keeps them there before sending them out to their final destinations.”
“I see.”
“This sorting center was in the hands of an Italian before Gafsa became head of the organization. Gafsa let him run things for a while, but then the Italian started getting ideas of his own. So Gafsa came over and killed him.”
“Do you know who he replaced him with?”
“Nobody, apparently.”
“So the ‘facility’ is out of commission?”
“On the contrary. Let’s just say there’s no residing head, just local representatives who are informed, in due course, of imminent arrivals. When there’s a big operation in the offing, then Jamil Zarzis, one of the three lieutenants, gets directly involved. He goes back and forth between Sicily and the Korba lagoon in Tunisia, where Gafsa has his headquarters.”
“You’ve given me a lot of Tunisian names, but not the name of the Italian murdered by Gafsa.”
“I don’t know what his name was. I haven’t been able to find out. I do know, however, what Gafsa’s men called him. An utterly meaningless nickname.”
“What was it?”
“The dead man. That’s what they called him, even when he was alive. Isn’t that absurd?”
Absurd? Without warning, Montalbano stood up, threw his head back, and whinnied. It was a rather loud whinny, in every way like the noise a horse makes when it gets pissed off. Except that the inspector was not pissed off; quite the contrary. Everything had become clear. The parallel lines in the end had converged. Meanwhile the bouquet of irises, terrified, had slid off his chair and was heading for the door. Montalbano ran after him and grabbed him.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to call someone, you’re obviously not well,” the irises stammered.
The inspector smiled broadly, to reassure him.
“No, please, it’s nothing. These are just minor ailments, like my pallor a few minutes ago . . . I’ve been suffering from them for a long time. It’s nothing serious.”
“Couldn’t we perhaps open the door? I need some air.”
It was an excuse. Obviously the journalist wanted to keep a path of escape open.
“Sure, fine, we can open it.”
Mildly reassured, Fonso Spàlato went and sat back down. But he was clearly still nervous. He sat at the edge of the chair, ready to flee. He must have been wondering if he was indeed at Vigàta Police headquarters or in the province’s remaining insane asylum. What disturbed him more than anything was the loving smile Montalbano beamed in his direction as he gazed at him. Indeed, at that moment the inspector was swept up in a wave of gratitude towards the man, who looked like a clown but was not. How could he ever repay him?
“Listen, Mr. Spàlato. I haven’t quite understood the reasons for your various travels. Did you come to Vigàta expressly to talk to me?”
“Yes. Unfortunately I have to go immediately back to Trieste. Mama is not well and she misses me. We’re . . . very close.”
“Think you could stay another two days, three at the most?”
“Why?”
“Because I think I could get you, firsthand, some very important information.”
Fonso Spàlato thought about this a long time, his little eyes hidden behind closed lids. Then he decided to speak.
“At the start of our discussion, you told me you knew nothing about any of this.”
“It’s true.”
“But if you didn’t know anything, how can you say now that, in a very short space of time, you could get—” ”
“I didn’t lie to you, believe me. You told me some things I didn’t know before, but I now have the feeling those facts have put a current investigation of mine on the right track.”
“Well, I’m at the Regina in Montelusa. I think I could stay on another two days.”
“Excellent. Could you describe Gafsa’s lieutenant, the one who often comes here? What’s his name?”
“Jamil Zarzis. He’s about forty, short and stocky . . . Or so at least I’m told . . . Oh, yes, one more thing: he has hardly any teeth.”