Excursion to Tindari

8

He opened the fridge and let out a whinny of sheer delight. His housekeeper, Adelina, had made him two imperial mackerels in onion sauce, a dinner he would obviously spend the whole night wrestling with, but it was worth the trouble. To cover his rear, before starting to eat he made sure there was a packet of bicarbonate of soda in the kitchen, bless its little heart. Sitting on the veranda, he scrupulously scarfed down the whole dish. All that remained on his plate were the fishes’ skeletons and heads, picked so clean they could have been fossils.

Then, having cleared the table, he emptied out the garbage bag stuffed with the papers he’d taken from the Griffos’ home. Maybe a phrase, a line, a hint somewhere would reveal a reason, any reason, for the elderly couple’s disappearance. They’d saved everything—letters, greeting cards, photographs, telegrams, electrical and phone bills, income statements, invoices and receipts, advertising brochures, bus tickets, birth certificates, marriage certificates, retirement booklets, medical-service cards, expired cards. There was even a copy of the “certificate of living existence,” that nadir of bureaucratic imbecility. What might Gogol, with his dead souls, have concocted from such a document? Had a copy fallen into his hands, Franz Kafka would surely have come up with another of his anguishing short stories. And now that we had “self-certification,” how was one supposed to proceed? What was the “protocol,” to use a word dear to government offices? Did one simply write on a sheet of paper something like: “I, the undersigned, Salvo Montalbano, hereby declare myself to be in existence,” sign it, and turn it in to the appointed clerk?

At any rate, the papers telling the story of the Griffos’ living existence didn’t amount to much, barely a kilo of sheets and scraps. It took Montalbano till three in the morning to examine them all.

Nottata persa e figlia fimmina, as they say. He put the papers back in the bag and went to bed.

Contrary to his fears, the imperial mackerels placidly let themselves be digested without any flicks of the tail. Thus he was able to wake at seven, after four hours of restful, sufficient sleep. He stayed in the shower longer than usual, even if it meant wasting all the water he had left in the reserve tank. There he reviewed his entire dialogue, word by word, silence by silence, with Don Balduccio. He wanted to be sure he understood the two messages the old man had given him before taking any action. In the end he was convinced he’d interpreted them correctly.

“Inspector, I wanted to tell you Augello called half an hour ago,” said Fazio. “Says he’ll be in around ten.”

The sergeant braced himself—as was only natural, since it had happened many times before—for an angry outburst from Montalbano at the news that his second-in-command was once again taking things easy. But this time the inspector remained calm and even smiled.

“Yesterday evening, after you got back here, did the woman from Pavia call?”

“I’ll say she did! Three more times before giving up hope.”

As he was talking, Fazio was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the way somebody does when he is about to dash off but is held back by something. But Fazio was not about to dash off anywhere; he was being eaten alive by curiosity, but didn’t dare open his mouth to ask what Sinagra had said to his boss.

“Close the door.”

Fazio sprang, locked the door, came back and sat down on the edge of a chair. Upper body leaning forward and eyes aglitter, he looked like a famished dog waiting for its master to throw it a bone. He was therefore a little disappointed by Montalbano’s first question.

“Do you know a priest named Saverio Crucillà?”

“I’ve heard him mentioned, but I don’t know him personally. I know he’s not from around here. If I’m not mistaken, he’s from Montereale.”

“Try to find out everything you can about him. Where he lives, what his habits are, what his church hours are, who he associates with, what people say about him. Get the whole lowdown. And after you’ve done this—which I want you to do before the day is out—”

“—I come and report back to you.”

“Wrong. You don’t report anything to me. You start to follow him, discreetly.”

“Leave it to me, Chief. He won’t see me, even if he’s got eyes in the back of his head.”

“Wrong again.”

Fazio looked stunned.

“Chief, when you’re tailing someone, the rule is that the person isn’t supposed to know. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Things are different in this case. I want the priest to know you’re following him. In fact, I want you to make it clear to him that you’re one of my men. It’s very important, see, that he realizes you’re a cop.”

“I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“Nobody else, however, under any circumstances, must know that you’re following him.”

“Can I be honest with you, Chief? I haven’t understood a word you said.”

“No problem.You don’t have to understand. Just do as I say.”

Fazio looked offended.

“Inspector, when I do things without understanding them, they come out bad. So you’re going to have to deal with that.”

“Fazio, Father Crucillà is expecting to be followed.”

“But why, for the love of God?”

“Because he’s supposed to lead us somewhere. But he’s supposed to pretend he doesn’t know he’s doing it. It’s an act, get it?”

“I’m beginning to understand. And who’s gonna be waiting for us in this place the priest is gonna take us to?”

“Japichinu Sinagra.”

“Holy shit!”

“Your polite euphemism leads me to think that you finally realize what an important matter this is,” said the inspector, talking the way they do in books. Fazio, meanwhile, had started eyeing him suspiciously.

“How did you ever discover that this Father Crucillà knows where Japichinu Sinagra is hiding? The whole world is looking for Japichinu: the Anti-Mafia Commission, the Flying Squad, the ROS, the Secret Service, and nobody’s been able to find him.”

“I didn’t discover anything. He told me. Actually, no, he didn’t tell me, he insinuated it.”

“Who, Father Crucillà?”

“No. Balduccio Sinagra.”

Something like a mild earthquake seemed to pass through the room. Fazio, his face fire-red, staggered, taking one step forward, two steps back.

“His grandfather?!” he asked, breathless.

“Calm down, you look like a character in the puppet theater. Yes indeed, his grandfather. Wants the kid to go to jail. Japichinu, however, is probably not entirely convinced. Messages between grandfather and grandson are conveyed by the priest, who Balduccio wanted to introduce me to at his house. If he had no interest in my meeting him, he would have sent him away before I arrived.”

“I just don’t get it, Chief. What’s he thinking? Japichinu’s gonna get life, not even God can save him from that!”

“Maybe God can‘t, but someone else might.”

“How?”

“By killing him, Fazio. In prison he’s got a good chance to save his skin. The punks in the new Mafia are really sticking it to all these guys, the Sinagras as well as the Cuffaros. So, maximum-security prison means security not just for people on the outside, but for those on the inside, too.”

Fazio thought it over a little, and finally seemed convinced.

“Do I have to sleep in Montereale, too?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think the priest goes out at night.”

“How’s Father Crucillà gonna let me know when he’s leading me to Japichinu’s hideout?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll find a way. But when he shows you the place, I’m warning you, don’t get any bright ideas, don’t make any move at all.You’re to contact me immediately.”

“Okay.”

Fazio stood up and headed slowly towards the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned around to look at Montalbano.

“What is it?”

“Chief, I’ve known you too long not to see that you’re not telling me the whole story.”

“For instance?”

“Don Balduccio must’ve told you something else.”

“You’re right.”

“Can I know what it is?”

“Certainly. He said it wasn’t them. And he assured me that it wasn’t the Cuffaros, either. So the culprits must be the new guys.”

“The culprits for what crime?”

“I don’t know. At the moment, I don’t know what the hell he was referring to. But I’m beginning to get an idea.”

“Can you tell me what that is?”

“It’s too early.”

Fazio barely had time to turn the key in the lock when he was pushed violently against the wall by the door, which Catarella had thrown open.

“You almost broke my nose!” said Fazio, holding his hand over his face.

“Chief, Chief!” gasped Catarella. “Sorry to bust in here like dis, but it’s hizzoner the commissioner in poisson!”

“Where is he?”

“Onna phone, Chief.”

“Put him through.”

Catarella dashed out like a hare, and Fazio waited for him to pass before going out himself.

Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi sounded like he was talking inside a freezer, so cold was his voice.

“Montalbano? A preliminary question, if you don’t mind. Do you drive a Fiat Tipo with license plate AG 334 JB?”

“Yes.”

Now Bonetti-Alderighi’s voice was coming directly from a polar ice floe. In the background one could hear bears howling (but do bears howl?).

“Come to my office immediately.”

“I’ll be there in about an hour, so I can—”

“Don’t you understand Italian? I said immediately.”

“Come in and leave the door open,” the commissioner ordered, as soon as he saw Montalbano in the doorway. It must have been a very serious matter, since a minute earlier, in the hallway, Lattes had pretended not to see him. As Montalbano approached the desk, Bonetti-Alderighi stood up and went to open the window.

I must have turned into a virus, thought Montalbano. The man’s afraid I’ll infect the air.

The commissioner sat back down without signaling to Montalbano to do the same. It was like when he was in high school, when the principal would call him into his office for a solemn tongue-lashing.

“Great,” said Bonetti-Alderighi, looking him up and down. “Just great. Fantastic.”

Montalbano didn’t breathe. Before deciding how to act, he needed to learn the reason behind his superior’s anger.

“This morning,” the commissioner continued, “I had barely set foot in this office when I discovered a bit of news I won’t hesitate to call unpleasant. Extremely unpleasant, in fact. It was a report that threw me into a rage. And this report was about you.”

Mouth shut! the inspector commanded himself severely.

“This report says that a Fiat Tipo, license number ...” He paused, leaning forward to read the sheet of paper on his desk.

“ ... AG 334 JB?” Montalbano timidly suggested.

“Be quiet. I’ll do the talking. A Fiat Tipo, license number AG 334 JB, drove past our checkpoint yesterday evening, on its way to the home of notorious Mafia boss Balduccio Sinagra. After the required search was done, they ascertained that the car belongs to you, and felt duty-bound to inform me. Now, tell me: are you stupid enough to imagine that that villa would not be under constant surveillance?”

“No! Of course not! How can you say that?” said Montalbano, playacting at great astonishment. And over his head, no doubt, appeared one of those bright rings that saints customarily wear. He let his face assume a worried expression and muttered through clenched teeth: “Damn! Bad move!”

“You have every reason to be worried, Montalbano! I demand an explanation. And a satisfactory one. Otherwise your controversial career ends right here.Your methods border on illegality all too often, and I’ve been tolerating them far too long!”

The inspector hung his head, letting it fall into a pose of contrition. Seeing him this way, the commissioner grew bolder and let fly.

“You see, Montalbano, with someone like you, it’s not that far-fetched to imagine some kind of collusion! Unfortunately there are plenty of notorious precedents which I won’t cite for you, since you’re already well aware of them! And anyway, I’m sick and tired of you and the whole Vigàta police force! It’s not clear whether you’re policemen or mafiosi!”

Apparently he liked the line of argument he’d used with Mimi Augello.

“I’m going to clean the place out!”

As if following a script, Montalbano first wrung his hands, then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. He spoke haltingly.

“I’ve got a heart like a lion and another like a donkey, Mr. Commissioner.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m in an awkward position. Because, the fact is that, after talking to me, Balduccio Sinagra had me give my word that . . .”

“That?”

“That I wouldn’t mention a word of our meeting to anyone.”

The commissioner slammed his hand down on the desk with such force that he surely must have broken some bones.

“But do you realize what you’re saying to me? Nobody was supposed to know! And in your opinion, am I, the commissioner, nobody? It is your duty, I repeat, your duty—”

Montalbano raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Then he ran his handkerchief rapidly over his eyes.

“I know, I know, Mr. Commissioner,” he said, “but if you only knew how torn I feel between my duty on the one hand and my word of honor on the other ...”

He secretly congratulated himself. What a fine language Italian was! “Torn” was exactly the word required in this case.

“You’re raving, Montalbano! You don’t realize what you’re saying! You’re putting your duty on the same level as a promise made to a criminal!”

The inspector repeatedly nodded his head.

“You’re right! You’re right! Your words are the gospel truth!”

“So now, without beating around the bush, tell me why you met with Sinagra! I demand a full explanation!”

Now came the climax of the whole performance he’d been improvising. If the commissioner swallowed the bait, the whole business would end right then and there.

“I think he might want to turn himself in,” he murmured, in a low voice.

“What’s that?” said the commissioner, who’d understood not a word.

“I think Balduccio Sinagra has half a mind to turn himself in.”

As if propelled in the air by an explosion in the very spot in which he was seated, Bonetti-Alderighi shot out of his chair, ran anxiously over to the window and door, and shut them both, giving the latter a turn of the key for good measure.

“Let’s sit over here,” he said, pushing the inspector towards a small sofa. “So we won’t have to raise our voices.”

Montalbano sat down and fired up a cigarette, knowing full well that the commissioner went ape-shit, had out-and-out attacks of hysteria, whenever he saw the slightest shred of tobacco. But this time Bonetti-Alderighi didn’t even notice. With a faraway smile and dreamy eyes, he was imagining himself surrounded by squabbling, impatient journalists, in the glare of the floodlights, a cluster of microphones extended towards his mouth, while he explained in brilliant turns of phrase how he’d managed to persuade one of the most blood-thirsty bosses in the Mafia to cooperate with justice.

“Tell me everything, Montalbano,” he entreated him, his tone conspiratorial.

“What can I say, Mr. Commissioner? Yesterday Sinagra called me up personally to tell me he wanted to see me at once.”

“You could at least have let me know!” the commissioner reproached him, wagging his index finger in the air as if to say, “Naughty, naughty.”

“I didn’t have the time, believe me. Actually, no, wait . . .”

“Yes?”

“Now I remember: I did call you, but was told you were busy, I don’t know, in a meeting or something . . .”

“That’s possible, very possible,” the other admitted. “But let’s come to the point: what did Sinagra tell you?”

“Surely, Mr. Commissioner, you must know from the report that it was a very brief conversation.”

Bonetti-Alderighi got up, glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk, then came and sat back down.

“Forty-five minutes is not brief.”

“Granted, but in those forty-five minutes you’ve got to include the drive up there and back.”

“You’re right.”

“Anyway, Sinagra didn’t really tell me anything outright. Rather, he gave me to understand his intentions. Better yet, he left it all up to my intuition.”

“Sicilian-style, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you try to be a little more specific?”

“He said he was beginning to feel tired.”

“I can imagine. He’s ninety years old!”

“Exactly. He said his son’s arrest and his grandson’s life on the run were hard blows to take.”

It sounded like a line from a B movie, and it had come out well. The commissioner, however, looked a tad disappointed.

“Is that all?”

“It’s already a lot, Mr. Commissioner! Think about it. Why did he want to tell me about his situation? You know these guys: they usually take things really slow. We need to remain calm, patient, and tenacious.”

“Of course, of course.”

“He said he’d call me back soon.”

Bonetti-Alderighi’s momentary discouragement turned into enthusiasm again.

“He said that?”

“Yes he did, sir. But we need to be very cautious; one false step could send it all up in smoke. The stakes are extremely high.”

He felt disgusted by the words coming out of his mouth. A grab bag of clichés. But that was just the sort of language that worked at that moment. He wondered how much longer he could keep up the charade.

“Yes, of course, I understand.”

“Just think, Mr. Commissioner, I didn’t tell any of my men about this.You never know where there might be a mole.”

“I promise to do the same!” the commissioner vowed, holding up his hand.

It was as if they were at Pontida.The inspector stood up.

“If you have no further orders . . .”

“Fine, fine, Montalbano, you can go. And thanks.”

They shook hands energetically, looking one another in the eye.

“However . . . ,” said the commissioner, drooping.

“What is it?”

“There’s still that damned report. I can’t ignore it, you realize. I have to respond in one way or another.”

“Mr. Commissioner, if somebody begins to suspect that there’s any contact, however minimal, between us and Sinagra, the rumor will spread and the whole deal will fall through. I’m sure of it.”

“Right, right.”

“And that’s why, a few minutes ago, when you told me my car had been spotted, I felt a twinge of disappointment.”

How good he was at talking this way! Had he perhaps found his true mode of expression?

“Did they photograph the car?” he asked after an appropriately long pause.

“No. They just took down the license-plate number.”

“Then there might be a solution. But I don’t dare tell you what it is, since it would offend your unshakable honesty as a man and civil servant.”

Bonetti-Alderighi heaved a long sigh, as if on death’s doorstep.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Just tell them they copied the number wrong.”

“But how would I know they got it wrong?”

“Because during that very same half-hour they claim I was at Sinagra’s place, you were having a long conversation with me on the phone. No one would dare contradict you. What do you say?”

“Bah!” said the commissioner, not very convinced. “We’ll see.”

Montalbano left, feeling certain that Bonetti-Alderighi, though troubled by scruples, would do as he had suggested.

Before setting out from Montelusa, he called headquarters.

“Hallo? Hallo? Whozzat onna line?”

“Montalbano here, Cat. Pass me Inspector Augello.”

“I can’t pass ‘im t’ya ‘cause ’e ain’t here. But he was here before. He waited for you and seeing as how you din’t show up, he left.”

“Do you know the reason he left?”

“Yessir, because of the reason that there was a fire.”

“A fire?”

“Yessir. And an arsenal fire, too, like the firemen said. And ‘Spector Augello went there wit’ officers Gallo and Galluzzo, seeing as how Fazio wasn’t around.”

“What did the firemen want from us?”

“They said they was puttin’ out this arsenal fire. Then ‘Spector Augello grabbed the phone and talked to ’em hisself.”

“Do you know where this fire broke out?”

“It broke out inna Pisello districk.”

Montalbano had never heard of such a district. Since the fire station was nearby, he raced down there and introduced himself. They told him the fire, a definite case of arson, had broken out in the Fava district.

“Why did you call us?”

“Because they discovered two corpses in a crumbling old farmhouse. Old folks, apparently, a man and a woman.”

“Did they die in the fire?”

“No, Inspector. The flames had already surrounded the ruined house, but our men got there in time.”

“So how did they die?”

“It looks like they were murdered, Inspector.”