14
And so, dear Salvo, as you see, such is the
wonderful result I get by putting those two words together. But, if
that’s the way it is, quite a few other questions still remain.
Question number one. How did Dolores find out that Giovanni had
been kidnapped and murdered by someone sent by Balduccio? Number
two (with follow-up): Why is Dolores so certain that it was
Balduccio who had Giovanni killed? What kind of relationship did
Giovanni and Balduccio have?
Number three: Why does Dolores want to control
the investigation through Mimì?
Possible answer to Question number
one:
Dolores told us she fell asleep at the wheel on
the way back from Gioia Tauro and didn’t get back to Vigàta until
the next day, after spending the night at a motel. It’s possible,
on the other hand, that what she said is not true. That is, that
she remained in Gioia Tauro for reasons of her own, and thus found
out that Giovanni had not been able to take ship because he’d been
kidnapped by Balduccio’s men. But why, then, not tell us this?
Perhaps because this would only be a conjecture on her part, if she
had no proof. Or perhaps because she didn’t know how her husband
had been killed and where the body was. She only learned this when
Mimì told her about the dismembered corpse at ’u critaru.
Possible answer to Question two:
Here there can be only one answer. Giovanni was
a courier for Balduccio. He must have been very good at it. And
Dolores must have been well aware of this activity. One day,
however, he “betrays” Balduccio, who then has him killed. Dolores
therefore hasn’t the slightest doubt about who ordered her
husband’s elimination.
Possible answer to Question three:
Dolores knows—because Giovanni has surely told
her—how intelligent and shrewd old Balduccio is. She is moved by an
irresistible desire for revenge. She wants Balduccio to pay, and
she knows that the old mafioso is capable of beating the justice
system, as he has done so many times in the past. With Mimì under
her control, she hopes to avert this danger, since she will never
let him give up the fight against Balduccio.
Dear Salvo, I have bored myself to tears writing
to you. I’ve said the essential. Now it’s up to you.
Good luck.
Day was dawning. As he stood up from the table,
cold shivers ran up and down his spine. He undressed and got into a
tub so hot it filled the bathroom with steam. When he came out he
was red as a lobster. He shaved, made a pot of coffee, and drank
his customary mugful. Then he went into the bedroom, got dressed,
took out an overnight bag, put in a shirt, a pair of underpants, a
pair of socks, two handkerchiefs, and a book he was reading. Going
back into the dining room, he reread the letter he’d written to
himself, brought it out to the veranda, and set fire to it with his
lighter. He glanced at his watch. Almost six-thirty. He went inside
and dialed a number on the land line, slipping his cell phone into
his pocket.
“Hello?” answered Fazio.
“Montalbano here. Did I wake you up?”
“No, Chief. What is it?”
“Listen, I have to leave.”
Fazio became alarmed.
“Are you going to Boccadasse? What happened?”
“I’m not going to Boccadasse. I hope to be back
this evening or tomorrow morning at the latest. If I get back
tonight I’ll give you a ring, even if it’s late. All right?”
“Whatever you say, Chief.”
“Don’t forget that thing I asked you about. You
absolutely must find out why Pecorini left Vigàta two years
ago.”
“Don’t worry.”
“This morning one of Alfano’s friends is coming to
the station. I talked with two others yesterday evening. I want you
to question the one today.”
“All right.”
“The keys Dolores gave you to the apartment in
Gioia Tauro, where are they?”
“On my desk, in an envelope.”
“I’m going to take them. Oh, and listen. If you
happen to run into Inspector Augello today, don’t tell him I’ve
gone to Gioia Tauro.”
“Chief, the guy doesn’t talk to any of us anymore.
But if he happens to ask me, what do I tell him?”
“Tell him I’ve gone to the hospital for a routine
checkup.”
“You, go to the hospital of your own will? He’ll
never believe it! Can’t you think of anything better?”
“You think of something. But he mustn’t suspect in
any way that I’m doing something related to the critaru
murder.”
“I’m sorry, Chief, but even if he does suspect
something, what’s the problem?”
“Just do as I say and don’t argue.”
The inspector hung up.
Ah, how foul and swampy, how treacherous the ground
was around the potter’s field!
Could he have spared himself the journey he was
about to make? A journey which, for as poor a driver as he,
represented a major effort? Of course, with the help of a good road
atlas, he needn’t even have left home. But going in person to see
how things stood wasn’t only the better, more serious course of
action; it was also possible that the place itself, when seen with
his own eyes, would suggest some other, new hypotheses for him to
consider. But despite all the justifications he kept coming up with
for making this trip, he knew he hadn’t yet admitted the real
reason for it. Once past Enna, however, when, on the left, he began
to glimpse the mountains in whose folds lay towns like Assoro,
Agira, Regalbuto, and Centuripe, he understood why he had left
Marinella. Without a doubt, the investigation did have something to
do with it, and how. But the truth of the matter was that he had
wanted to see the landscape of his youth again, the one he had all
around him when he was a deputy inspector at Mascalippa. Wait a
second! Hadn’t he found that same landscape depressing at the time?
Didn’t the very air in Mascalippa get on his nerves, because it
smelled of straw and grass? All true, all sacrosanct. A line of
Brecht came to mind: “Why should I love the windowsill from which I
fell as a child?” But that line still didn’t quite say it, he
thought. Because sometimes, when you’re already almost old, the
hated windowsill from which you fell as a little kid comes urgently
back into your memory, and you would even go on a pilgrimage to see
it again, if you could see it the way you did then, with the eyes
of innocence.
Is this what you’ve come looking for? he
asked himself as he rolled along the Enna to Catania autostrada at
a snail’s pace, driving to distraction all the other motorists
unfortunate enough to be traveling the same route as he. Do you
think that seeing those mountains from afar, breathing that air
from afar, will bring back the ingenuousness, the naivety, the
enthusiasm of your first years with the police? Come on, Inspector,
get serious; accept that what you’ve lost is gone
forever.
He suddenly accelerated, leaving that landscape
behind. The Catania–Messina autostrada wasn’t too busy. And, in
fact, he was able to board the twelve-thirty ferry across the
Strait. Thus, since he had left home at seven, it had taken him
five and a half hours to go from Vigàta to Messina. It would have
taken somebody like Fazio, driving as he normally did, two hours
less.
As soon as the ferryboat had passed the statue of
the Blessed Virgin that wishes happiness and good health to all
voyagers, and began to dance on the mildly choppy sea, the salty
air stirred up a beastly hunger in Montalbano’s stomach. The night
before, he hadn’t had a chance to eat anything. He quickly climbed
a small staircase that led to the bar. On the counter was a small
mountain of piping hot arancini. He bought two and went out
onto the deck to eat them. Attacking the first, he reduced it by
half with a single bite, and of this half, he swallowed a good
portion. He realized his grave mistake at once. How could they call
arancini these rice balls fried in hundred-year-old oil and
cooked by a cook suffering from violent hallucinations? And how
acidic the meat sauce was! He spit the rest of the arancino
he still had in his mouth into the sea, and the remaining half and
whole arancini met the same watery end. He went back to the bar and
drank a beer to get rid of the nasty taste in his mouth. Later, as
he was easing his car out of the ferryboat, that little bit of foul
arancino, combined with the beer, bubbled up into his
throat. The acid burned so badly that, without realizing it, he
swerved and suddenly found himself sideways on the ramp, with the
car’s nose pointing out over the water.
“What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you
doing?” yelled the sailor who was directing the disembarking
vehicles.
Sweating all over, the inspector coaxed the car,
one millimeter at a time, back into the proper position, while the
eyes of the man driving the tractor trailer behind him seemed to
say he was ready to slam him from behind and send him the fuck onto
the dock or into the sea, take your pick.
At Villa San Giovanni he went and ate at a
truckers’ restaurant where he’d already been twice before. And this
third time he was not disappointed either. After an hour and a half
at table, that is, around three o’clock in the afternoon, he got
back in his car and headed toward Gioia Tauro. He took the
autostrada, and in a flash he was already past Bagnara. Continuing
on the A3, he was about twenty kilometers from Gioia Tauro when he
decided to take the final stretch nice and slow, looking for the
bypass to Lido di Palmi. There was a bypass for Palmi, but not for
Lido di Palmi. How could that be? He was sure he hadn’t missed it
and driven past it. He decided just to continue on to Gioia Tauro.
Leaving the autostrada, he headed towards town and stopped at the
first filling station he found.
“Listen, I need to go to Lido di Palmi. Should I
take the autostrada?”
“The autostrada doesn’t go there—or, rather, you
would have to follow a long and complicated route. You’re better
off taking the state road, which’ll take you down the shoreline.
It’s a lot nicer.”
The man explained how to get to the state
road.
“One more thing, I’m sorry. Could you tell me where
Via Gerace is?”
“You’ll pass it on the way to the state
road.”
Via Gerace 15 consisted of a little apartment that
must have originally been a rather large garage. It was the first
of four identical apartments situated one beside the other, each
with a little gate and a tiny yard. Beside the door was a garbage
bin. The four flats were situated behind a rather tall building of
some ten stories. No doubt they were used as crash pads or
pieds-à-terre for people passing through. The inspector got out of
the car, took from his pocket the keys he had taken from Fazio’s
desk, opened the little gate, closed it behind him, opened the
door, and closed this too. Macannuco had done a good job entering
the place without forcing the locks. The apartment was quite dark,
and Montalbano turned on the light.
There was a tiny entrance hall that hadn’t been
photographed ; it had barely enough room for a coatrack and a
small, low piece of furniture with one drawer and a small lamp on
top, which illuminated the space. The kitchen looked the same as in
the photograph, but now the cupboards were open, as was the
refrigerator; and bottles, boxes, and packages had been scattered
higgledy-piggledy across the table.
The search team had passed through the bedroom like
a tornado. Alfano’s trousers were balled up on the floor. In the
bathroom, they had dismantled the flushing system and exposed all
the pipes, breaking the wall. The trapdoor directly above the sink
was left open, and there was a folding stepladder beside the bidet.
Montalbano moved it under the trapdoor and climbed it. The storage
space was empty. Apparently the Forensics team had taken the
suitcase and shoebox away with them.
He climbed down, went back into the entrance hall,
and opened the drawer on the little stand. Stubs of electric and
gas bills. Sticking out from under the stand, whose legs were
barely an inch and a half tall, was the white corner of an
envelope. Montalbano bent down to pick it up. It was an unopened
bill from Enel, the electric company. He opened it. The payment
deadline on it was August 30. It hadn’t been paid. He put it back
under the stand and was about to turn out the light when he noticed
something.
He went up to the little stand again, ran a finger
over it, picked up the lamp, put it back down, opened the door,
went out, closed it behind him, and raised the lid on the garbage
bin. It was empty. There were only a few rust stains at the bottom.
He put it back in place, opened the little gate, was about to close
it again behind him, when a voice above him called out:
“Who are you, may I ask?”
It was a fiftyish woman who must have weighed a
good three hundred pounds, with the shortest legs Montalbano had
ever seen on a human being. A giant ball. She was looking out from
a balcony on the first floor of the tall building, directly above
the Alfanos’ apartment.
“Police. And who are you?”
“I’m the concierge.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
A half-open window on the second floor of her
building then opened all the way, and a girl who looked about
twenty came forward, resting her elbows on the railing, as if
settling in to listen to the proceedings.
“Look, signora, must we speak at this distance?”
the inspector asked.
“I got no problem with it.”
“Well, I do have a problem with it. Come down to
the porter’s desk at once. I’ll meet you there.”
He closed the little gate, got into his car,
circled round the building, stopped in front of the main entrance,
got out, climbed four steps, went inside, and found himself
face-toface with the concierge, who was getting out of the elevator
sideways, pulling in her tits and paunch as best she could. Once
out, the ball reinflated.
“Well?” she asked belligerently.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about the
Alfanos.”
“Them again? Haven’t we heard enough about them?
What’s your rank with the police?”
“I’m an inspector.”
“Ah, well, then, can’t you ask your colleague
Macannuco about it instead of hassling me again? Do I have to keep
repeating the same story to all the inspectors in the
kingdom?”
“I think you mean the republic, signora.”
Montalbano was starting to have fun.
“Never! I do not recognize this republic of shit! I
am a monarchist and I’ll die a monarchist!”
Montalbano smiled cheerfully, then assumed a
conspiratorial air, looked around carefully, bent down towards the
ball, and said in a low voice:
“I’m a monarchist, too, signora, but I can’t say so
openly, or else my career . . . You understand.”
“My name is Esterina Trippodo,” the ball said,
holding out a tiny, doll-like hand to him. “Please come with
me.”
They went down a flight of stairs and entered an
apartment almost identical to the Alfanos’. On the right-hand wall
in the entrance hall was a portrait of King Vittorio Emanuele III
under a little lamp, which was lit. Next to this, lit up in turn,
was a photo of his son, Umberto, who had been king for about a
month, though Montalbano’s memory was a bit hazy. On the left-hand
wall, on the other hand, was a photograph, unlit, of another
Vittorio Emanuele, Umberto’s son, the one known in the scandal
sheets for a stray shot he had once fired. The inspector looked at
the photo in admiration.
“He certainly is a handsome man,” said Montalbano,
bullshitter extraordinaire, without shame.
Esterina Trippodo brought her index finger to her
lips, then applied her kiss to the photograph.
“Come in, come in, please make yourself at
home.”
The kitchen–living room was ever so slightly bigger
than the Alfanos’.
“Can I make you some coffee?” asked Esterina.
“Yes, thank you.”
As the lady was fumbling with the
napoletana, Montalbano asked:
“Do you know the Alfanos?”
“Of course.”
“Did you see them the last time they were here, on
the third and the fourth of September?”
Esterina launched into a monologue.
“No. But they were here, in fact. He’s a gentleman.
He called me to ask me to buy a bouquet of roses and to have them
left in front of the door to their apartment, and said they would
be arriving in the early afternoon. He’d asked me to do this
before. But that evening, the roses were still in front of the
door. The next day I dropped by a little before noon to pick up the
money for the roses. The flowers were gone, but nobody answered the
door. They’d already left. So I opened their gate—I’m the only
one’s got a key—to empty the garbage—it’s my job—but all I found
inside the bin was a syringe full of blood. They didn’t even put it
in a bag or a piece of paper! Nothing! Just thrown there!
Disgusting! Good thing I had gloves on! Who knows what the hell the
goddamn slut was up to!”
“Did you mention these things to Inspector
Macannuco?”
“No, why? He’s not one of us!”
“What about the roses, were you paid for
them?”
“Good things come to those who wait!”
“If I may presume . . . ,” said Montalbano,
reaching into his wallet.
Signora Trippodo magnanimously allowed him to
presume.
“I noticed an electric bill under the little table
in the entrance,” said the inspector.
“When the bills come, I slip them under the door.
Apparently she didn’t take that one away with her and pay
it.”
And in the name of their common faith in the
monarchy, she answered all his other questions in generous
detail.
About half an hour later, Montalbano got back in
his car, and after barely five minutes on the road, he saw the sign
indicating the way to Palmi. It was logical, therefore, that
Dolores had taken this road instead of the autostrada. At once the
sign for the bypass to Lido di Palmi appeared before him.
Jesus! It was barely two and a half miles from the
apartment on Via Gerace! You could even walk there! Taking the
bypass, he spotted a motel barely a hundred yards farther on. If
Dolores had her accident right at the bypass, there was a very good
chance this was the motel she went to.
He parked the car, got out, and went into the bar,
which was also the motel’s front desk. It was empty. The coffee
machine was even turned off.
“Anybody here?”
Behind a bead curtain that concealed a door on the
left, a voice called out.
“I’ll be right there!”
A man without a hint of hair on his head appeared:
short, fat, ruddy, and likeable.
“Can I help you?”
“Hello, the name’s Lojacano, I’m with the insurance
company, and I need a little information from you, if you’d be so
kind. And who are you, if I may ask?”
“I’m Rocco Sudano, I own this place. But at the
moment, since it’s the low season, I take care of almost everything
myself.”
“Listen, was your motel open on this past September
the fourth?”
“Of course. That’s still high season.”
“Were you here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember whether that morning, a dark, very
attractive women came in after having a minor accident at the
bypass?”
Rocco Sudano’s eyes started glistening, and his
billiardball head even started glowing as if there were a lamp
inside it. His mouth broadened into a smile of contentment.
“I certainly do remember! How could I forget?
Signora Dolores!” Then, suddenly worried: “Has something happened
to her?”
“No, nothing. As I said, I’m with the insurance
company. It’s about the car accident she had, remember?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you remember by any chance what the lady did
for the rest of that day?”
“Well, yes. You don’t see a whole lot of women like
that, not even in high season! First she went to her room and
rested for a couple of hours. She wasn’t hurt or anything, just
very scared. I even brought her some chamomile tea, and she was
lying down...”
He lost himself in the memory, a dreamy look in his
eyes, and, without realizing, started licking his lips. Montalbano
snapped him out of it.
“Do you remember what time of day she
arrived?”
“Uh, it must’ve been ten, ten-thirty.”
“And what did she do next?”
“She ate in our restaurant, which was still open
then, being high season. Then she came down and said she was going
to the beach. I saw her again in the evening, but she didn’t have
dinner here. She went to her room. At seven o’clock the next
morning Silvestro, the mechanic, brought her car back. And then she
paid and left.”
“One last question. Are there any buses or private
coaches linking Lido di Palmi and Gioia Tauro?”
“Yes, during the high season. There’s a number of
transportation services, which also go farther than just Gioia
Tauro and Palmi, naturally.”
“So they were probably still running on September
the fourth, right?”
“Around here, the high season lasts until the end
of September.”
Montalbano looked at his watch. It was past
five.
“Listen, Signor Sudano, I need to rest for a couple
of hours. Have you got any rooms available?”
“Any one you want. It’s low season.”