“I’m going to be busy here till one or one-thirty this morning. If you want to drop by now, then all right.”
“I can’t make it right now. I’ll see you at your place at two.”
“Tonight?!”
“Yes, and if you’re not there, I’ll wait.”
~
“Hello, darling? It’s Livia. Sorry to call you at work, but—”
“You can call me whenever and wherever you want. What is it?”
“Nothing important. I was reading in a newspaper just now about the death of a politician in your parts. It’s just a brief notice. It says that Inspector Salvo Montalbano is conducting a thorough investigation of the possible causes of death.”
“So?”
“Is this death causing you any problems?”
“Not too many.”
“So nothing’s changed? You’re still coming to see me Saturday? You don’t have some unpleasant surprise in store for me?”
“Like what?”
“Like an awkward phone call telling me the investigation has taken a new turn and so I’ll have to wait but you don’t know how long and so it’s probably better to postpone everything for a week? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Don’t worry, this time I’ll manage.”
~
“Inspector Montalbano? This is Father Arcangelo Baldovino, secretary to His Excellency the bishop.”
“It’s a pleasure. What can I do for you, Father?”
“The bishop has learned, with some astonishment, I must say, that you think it advisable to prolong your investigation into the sad and unfortunate passing of Silvio Luparello. Is this true?”
It was indeed, Montalbano confirmed, and for the third time he explained his reasons for acting in this manner. Father Baldovino seemed persuaded, yet begged the inspector to hurry up, “to avoid untoward speculation and spare the already distraught family yet another torment.”
~
“Inspector Montalbano? This is Mr. Luparello.”
“What the hell! Didn’t you die?” Montalbano was about to say, but he stopped himself in the nick of time.
“I’m his son,” the other continued, in a very educated, polite tone that had no trace of dialect whatsoever. “My name is Stefano. I’m afraid I must appeal to your kindness and make what may seem to you an unusual request. I’m calling you on my mother’s behalf.”
“By all means, if I can be of any help.”
“Mama would like to meet you.”
“What’s unusual about that? I myself was intending to ask your mother if I could drop by sometime.”
“The thing is, Inspector, Mama would like to meet you by tomorrow at the latest.”
“My God, Mr. Luparello, I really haven’t got a single free moment these days, as you can imagine. And neither do you, I should think.”
“Don’t worry, we can find ten minutes. How about tomorrow afternoon at five o’clock sharp?”
~
“Montalbano, sorry to make you wait, but I was—”
“On the toilet, in your element.”
“Come on, what do you want?”
“I wanted to let you in on something very serious.
The pope just phoned me from the Vatican, really pissed off at you.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“He’s furious because he’s the only person in the world who hasn’t received your report on the Luparello autopsy. He felt neglected and told me he intends to excommunicate you. You’re screwed.”
“Montalbano, you’ve completely lost your mind.”
“Can you tell me something, just out of curiosity?”
“Sure.”
“Do you kiss ass out of ambition or natural inclination?”
“Natural inclination, I think.”
The sincerity of the response caught the inspector by surprise.
“Listen, have you finished examining the clothes Luparello was wearing? Did you find anything?”
“We found what you’d expect. Traces of semen on the underwear and trousers.”
“And inside the car?”
“We’re still examining it.”
“Thanks. Now go back to the toilet.”
~
“Inspector? I’m calling from a phone booth on the provincial road, near the old factory. I did what you asked me to do.”
“Tell me about it, Fazio.”
“You were absolutely right. Luparello’s BMW
came from Montelusa, not Vigàta.”
“Are you certain?”
“On the Vigàta side the beach is interrupted by cement blocks. You can’t get through. He would have had to fly.”
“Did you find out which way he might have come?”
“Yes, but it’s totally crazy.”
“Why? Explain.”
“Because, even though from Montelusa to Vigàta there are dozens of roads and byways that one can take to avoid being seen, at a certain point, to get to the Pasture, Luparello’s car would have had to pass through the dry bed of the Canneto.”
“The Canneto? But it’s impassable!”
“Well, I did it, and therefore somebody else could have done it. It’s completely dry. The only problem is, my car’s suspension is ruined. And since you didn’t want me to take a squad car, I’m going to have to—”
“I’ll pay for the repairs myself. Anything else?”
“Yes. As it was pulling out of the riverbed and turning onto the sand, the BMW’s tires left some tracks. If we tell Jacomuzzi right away, we can get a cast of them.”
“Fuck Jacomuzzi.”
“Yes, sir. Need anything else?”
“No, Fazio, just come back to headquarters. And thanks.”
5
The little beach of Puntasecca, a compact strip of sand sheltered by a hill of white marl, was deserted at that hour. When the inspector arrived, Gegè was already there waiting for him, leaning against his car and smoking a cigarette.
“Come on out, Salvù,” he said to Montalbano.
“Let’s enjoy the fine night air a minute.”
They stood there a bit in silence, smoking. Then Gegè, having put out his cigarette, began to speak.
“I know what you want to ask me, Salvù. I’m well prepared. You can ask me anything you like, even jumping around.”
They smiled at this shared memory. They’d known each other since La Primina, the little private kindergarten where the teacher was Signorina Marianna, Gegè’s sister, some fifteen years his senior. Salvo and Gegè were listless schoolboys, learning their lessons like parrots, and like parrots repeating them in class. Some days, however, Signorina Marianna wasn’t satisfied with those litanies, so she’d start jumping around in her questions; that is, she wouldn’t follow the order in which the information had been presented. And this meant trouble, because then you had to have understood the material and grasped the logical connections.
“How’s your sister doing?” asked Montalbano.
“I took her to Barcelona. There’s a specialized eye clinic there. They say they can work miracles. They told me they can get the right eye, at least, to recover in part.”
“When you see her, give her my best.”
“I will. But as I was saying, I’m well prepared, so you can start firing away with the questions.”
“How many people do you have working for you at the Pasture?”
“Between whores and fags of various sorts, twenty-eight. Then there’s Filippo di Cosmo and Manuele Lo Pìparo, who are there just to make sure there’s no trouble. The smallest thing, you know, and I’m screwed.”
“Gotta keep your eyes open.”
“Right. Do you realize the kind of problems I’d have if there was a brawl or somebody got knifed or OD’d?”
“Still sticking to light drugs?”
“Yeah. Grass, coke at the most. Ask the street cleaners if they ever find a single syringe, go ahead and ask ’em.”
“I believe you.”
“Then there’s Giambalvo, chief of vice, who’s always breathing down my neck. He says he’ll put up with me as long as I don’t create any complications and bust his balls with something big.”