Excursion to Tindari

14

He woke up at seven, after a night of dreamless sleep so leaden he had the impression, upon opening his eyes, that he was still in the same position as when he first lay down. It was certainly not the most glorious of mornings—scattered clouds giving the impression of sheep about to gather into flocks—but one could clearly see that it did not promise any major bouts of ill humor. He slipped on a pair of shabby old trousers, stepped down from the veranda, and, barefoot, went for a walk along the beach. The cool air cleansed his skin, lungs, and thoughts. Back inside, he shaved and went into the shower.

In the course of every investigation that came his way, there was always one day—actually, a specific moment on a certain day—when an inexplicable sense of physical well-being, a happy lightness in the interaction of his thoughts, a harmonious conjunction of his muscles, made him feel as if he could endlessly walk along a road, eyes closed, without once stumbling or running into anything or anyone. As happens, sometimes, in the land of dream. It didn’t last very long, but it was enough. By now he knew from experience that from this point on—it was like the buoy at the bend in the sea-lane, the sign of the approaching turn—every piece of the puzzle, the investigation, in other words, would fall into place, all by itself, without any effort. It was almost enough just to will it so. And this was what was going through his head in the shower, even though many things, indeed most everything, still remained obscure.

It was quarter past eight when he pulled the car up in front of the station, slowing down to park, then reconsidered and drove on to Via Cavour.The concierge gave him a dirty look and didn’t even say hello: she’d just finished washing the floor at the entrance, and now the inspector’s shoes were going to muck it all up again. Davide Griffo looked less pale. He’d recovered a little. He didn’t seem surprised to see Montalbano and immediately offered him a cup of coffee, which he’d just made.

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing,” said Griffo. “And I looked everywhere. There’s no passbook, and there’s nothing in writing that might explain Papa’s two million lire a month.”

“Mr. Griffo, I need you to help me remember something.”

“I’m at your disposal.”

“I believe you told me your father didn’t have any close relatives.”

“That’s right. He had a brother, whose name I forget, but he was killed in the American bombing raids in 1943.”

“Your mother, however, did have some close relations.”

“Exactly. A brother and a sister. The brother, Zio Mario, lives in Comiso and has a son who works in Sydney. We talked about him, remember? You asked me—”

“I remember.”The inspector cut him short.

“The sister, Zia Giuliana, used to live in Trapani, where she became a schoolteacher. She remained single, never wanted to get married. But neither Mama nor Zio Mario saw much of her, though she and Mama got a little closer in recent years, to the point that Mama and Papa went to visit her two days before she died. They stayed in Trapani for almost a week.”

“Any idea why your mother and her brother had fallen out with this Giuliana?”

“My grandfather and grandmother, when they died, left almost all of the little they had to Giuliana, practically disinheriting the other two.”

“Did your mother ever tell you why—”

“She hinted at it. Apparently my grandparents felt abandoned by Mama and Zio Mario. But my mother got married very young, you see, and my uncle had left home to go to work before he was even sixteen. Only Zia Giuliana stayed with her parents. As soon as my grandparents died—Grandma died first—Zia Giuliana sold what she owned here and moved to Trapani.”

“When did she die?”

“I can’t really say exactly. At least two years ago.”

“Do you know where she lived in Trapani?”

“No. I didn’t find anything relating to Zia Giuliana in this apartment. I do know, however, that she owned her place in Trapani. She’d bought it.”

“One last thing: your mother’s maiden name.”

“Di Stefano. Margherita Di Stefano.”

One good thing about Davide Griffo: he was generous with his answers and frugal with his questions.

Two million lire a month. More or less what a low-level clerk makes by the end of his career. But Alfonso Griffo had been retired for some time and was getting by on his pension—his combined with his wife’s. Or, more accurately, he’d been able to get by because for two years he’d been receiving a considerable supplement. Two million lire a month. From another perspective, a derisory sum. Like if this were a case of systematic blackmail, for example. And yet, no matter how attached he might be to money, Alfonso Griffo, lacking the courage or imagination, could never have resorted to blackmail. Assuming he had no scruples about it. Two million lire a month. For serving as a front man, as the inspector had first hypothesized? Usually, however, a front man gets a cut of the profits or is paid off all at once, certainly not by the month. Two million lire a month. In a sense, it was the modesty of the sum that made things more difficult. Still, the regularity of the deposits must indicate something. An idea began to form in the inspector’s mind. There was a coincidence that intrigued him.

He stopped in front of City Hall and went upstairs to the Records Office. He knew the clerk there, a certain Crisafulli.

“I need some information.”

“At your service, Inspector.”

“If someone who was born in Vigàta dies in another town, is the death reported here too?”

“There’s a provision for such cases,” Mr. Crisafulli replied evasively.

“Is it ever respected?”

“Generally, yes. But it takes time, you see.You know how these things go. And I should add that if the death occurs in a foreign country, forget about it. Unless a family member takes the trouble himself to—”

“No, the person I’m interested in died in Trapani.”

“When?”

“A little over two years ago.”

“What was his name?”

“Her name was Giuliana Di Stefano.”

“We can look that up right away.”

Mr. Crisafulli touched a few keys on the computer towering in one corner of the room, then looked up at Montalbano.

“She died in Trapani on the sixth of May, 1997.”

“Does it say where she resided?”

“No. But if you wish, I could tell you in about five minutes.”

Here Mr. Crisafulli did something strange. He went to his desk, opened a drawer, took out a small metal flask, unscrewed the cap, took a sip, then rescrewed the cap, leaving the flask out. Then he went back and fiddled with the computer. Seeing that the ashtray on the table was full of cigar butts whose odor had permeated the room, the inspector fired up a cigarette himself. He had just put it out when the clerk announced, in a faint voice:

“Found it. She lived in Via Libertà 12.”

Was the man not feeling well? Montalbano wanted to ask him, but didn’t do so in time. Mr. Crisafulli raced back to his desk, grabbed the flask, and took another gulp.

“Cognac,” he explained. “I’m retiring in two months.”

The inspector gave him a questioning look. He didn’t get the connection.

“I’m a clerk of the old school,” the man said. “It used to take me months to find a record like that. Now, whenever I do it this fast, my head starts to spin.”

To get to Trapani, Via Libertà, it took him two and a half hours. Number 12 was a small three-story building surrounded by a well-tended garden. Davide Griffo had told him that Zia Giuliana used to own the apartment she lived in. After her death, it may have been resold to people she didn’t even know, in which case the proceeds would almost certainly have gone to some charitable institution. Next to the closed entrance gate was an intercom with only three names. The apartments must be pretty big. He pushed the button on top, next to the name “Cavallaro.” A woman’s voice answered.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, ma‘am. I need some information concerning the late Miss Giuliana Di Stefano.”

“Ring apartment two, the middle one.”

The name tag next to the middle button read: “Baeri.”

“Geez, what’s the hurry! Who is it?” asked the voice of another woman, this one elderly, after the inspector had rung three times without answer and given up hope.

“Montalbano’s the name.”

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Miss Giuliana Di Stefano.”

“Go ahead.”

“Right here, over the intercom?”

“Why, will it take long?”

“Well, it’d be better if—”

“Okay, I’ll buzz you in,” said the elderly voice. “Now, do as I say. As soon as the gate opens, come in and stop in the middle of the path. If you don‘t, I won’t open the front door.”

“All right,” said the inspector, resigned.

Standing in the middle of the path, he didn’t know what to do. Then he saw some shutters open on a balcony, and out came an old lady in a wig, dressed all in black, a pair of binoculars in hand. She raised these to her eyes and looked carefully, as Montalbano began inexplicably to blush, feeling naked. The lady went back inside, reclosed the shades, and a short while later the inspector heard the metal click of the front door being opened. Naturally, there was no elevator. On the second floor, the door with the name “Baeri” on it was closed. What further test awaited him?

“What did you say your name was?” asked the voice on the other side of the door.

“Montalbano.”

“And what is your profession?”

If he said he was a police inspector, the lady might have a stroke.

“I work at the Ministry.”

“Have you got an ID?”

“Yes.”

“Slide it under the door.”

With the patience of a saint, the inspector obeyed.

Five minutes of absolute silence passed.

“I’m going to open now,” said the old lady.

Only then, to his horror, did the inspector notice that the door had four locks. And certainly inside there must be a padlock and chain. After some ten minutes of various noises, the door opened and Montalbano was able to make his entrance into the Baeri household. He was led into a large sitting room with dark, heavy furniture.

“My name is Assunta Baeri,” the old lady began, “and your ID says that you’re with the police.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” Mrs. (Miss?) Baeri said sarcastically.

Montalbano didn’t breathe.

“The thieves and killers do whatever they please, and the police go off to soccer games with the excuse that they need to maintain order! Or they serve as escorts to Senator Ar dolì, who doesn’t need any escort, ‘cause all he’s gotta do is look at somebody and they die of fright.”

“Mrs. Baeri, I—”

“Miss Baeri.”

“Miss Baeri, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I came to talk to you about Giuliana Di Stefano. This used to be her apartment, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you buy it from the deceased?” What a question! “... Before she died, of course.”

“I didn’t buy anything! The ‘deceased,’ as you call her, left it to me, loud and clear, in her will! Thirty-two years, I lived with her. I even paid rent. Not much, but I paid it.”

“Did she leave you anything else?”

“Ah, so you’re not with the police after all, but with the tax bureau! Yes, sir, she left me another apartment, too, but a teeny-weeny one. I rent it out.”

“Anyone else? Did she leave anything to anybody else?”

“Who else?”

“I don’t know, some relative ...”

“There was her sister, who she made up with after they hadn’t spoken for years; she left her some little thing.”

“Do you know what this little thing might be?”

“Of course I know! She drew up her will right in front of me, and I’ve even got a copy of it. To her sister she left her stable and hide. Not much, just something to remember her by.”

Montalbano was flummoxed. Could one bequeath one’s hide to somebody? Miss Baeri’s next words cleared up the misunderstanding.

“No, not much at all. Do you know how much land is in a hide?”

“I couldn’t honestly say,” the inspector replied, recovering himself.

“Giuliana, when she left Vigàta to come live here, wasn’t able to sell the stable and the land around it, which apparently was out in the middle of nowhere. So, when she made her will, she decided to leave them to her sister. They’re not worth much.”

“Do you know exactly where this stable is?”

“No.”

“But it must be specified in the will. You said you have a copy of it.”

“Oh, Madunnuzza santa! What, you want me to start looking for it?”

“If you’d be so kind ...”

The old lady stood up, mumbling to herself, went out of the room, and returned less than a minute later. She knew perfectly well where the copy of the will was. She handed it rudely to Montalbano, who skimmed through it and finally found what he was looking for.

The stable was termed a “one-room rural construction”; as for the measurements, a four-by-four-meter box. Around it was a thousand square meters of land. Not much, as Miss Baeri had said. The building was in a district called “The Moor.”

“Thank you very much, and please excuse the disturbance,” the inspector said politely, getting up.

“Why are you interested in that stable?” asked the woman, also standing up.

Montalbano hesitated. He had to think up a good excuse. But Miss Baeri continued:

“I ask you because you’re the second person who’s inquired about it.”

The inspector sat back down, and Miss Baeri did likewise.

“When was that?”

“The day after poor Giuliana’s funeral, when her sister and her husband were still here. They were sleeping in the room in back.”

“Explain to me what happened.”

“I’d completely forgotten about it; I only remembered it now because we were talking about it. Anyway, the day after the funeral, it was almost time to eat. The phone rang and I went and answered it. It was a man who said he was interested in the stable and the land. I asked him if he knew that Giuliana had died and he said no. He asked me who he could talk to about it. So I put Margherita’s husband on, since it was his wife who’d inherited it.”

“Did you hear what was said?”

“No, I left the room.”

“Did the man who called say what his name was?”

“He might have, but I can’t remember anymore.”

“Afterward, did Mr. Griffo talk about the phone call in your presence?”

“When he went into the kitchen, Margherita asked him who was on the phone, and he said it was somebody from Vigàta who lived in the same building as them. But that was all he said.”

Bull‘s-eye! Montalbano leapt up.

“I have to go now, thank you very much, please excuse me,” he said, making for the door.

“Just tell me one thing, I’m curious,” said Miss Baeri, following hard on his heels. “Why don’t you simply ask Alfonso these things?”

“Alfonso who?” asked Montalbano, having already opened the door.

“What do you mean, Alfonso who? Margherita’s husband.”

Jesus! The lady knew nothing about the murders! She obviously had no television and didn’t read the newspapers.

“I’ll ask him,” the inspector assured her, already on his way down the stairs.

At the first phone booth he saw, he stopped, got out of the car, went in, and immediately noticed a small red light flashing. The telephone was out of order. He spotted another. Also broken.

He cursed the saints, realizing that the smooth run he’d been on until that moment was beginning to be broken up by small obstacles, harbingers of bigger ones ahead. At the third booth, he was finally able to call headquarters.

“Oh Chief! Chief! Where you been hidin’ out? All mornin’ I been—”

“Tell me about it another time, Cat. Can you tell me where ‘The Moor’ is?”

First there was silence, then a little giggle of what was supposed to be derision.

“How’m I sposta know, Chief? You know what it’s like in Vigàta these days. There’s Smallies everywhere.”

“Put Fazio on at once.”

Smallies? Were there so many Pygmies among the immigrant population?

“What can I do for you, Chief?”

“Fazio, can you tell me where the district called ‘The Moor’ is located?”

“Just a sec, Chief.”

Fazio had activated his computer brain. Inside his head he had, among other things, a detailed map of the municipal area of Vigàta.

“It’s over by Monteserrato, Chief.”

“Explain to me how you get there.”

Fazio explained. Then he said:

“Sorry, but Catarella insists on talking to you. Where are you calling from?”

“From Trapani.”

“What are you doing in Trapani?”

“I’ll tell you later. Pass me Catarella.”

“Hallo, Chief? I just wanted to say that this morning—”

“Cat, what is a Smallie?”

“Somebody from Smallia, Chief, in Africa. Inn’t that what they’re called? Or is it Smallians?”

He hung up, sped off in his car, then stopped in front of a large hardware store. Self-service. He bought himself a crowbar, a big pair of pliers, a hammer, and a small hacksaw. When he went to pay, the cashier, a dark, pretty girl, smiled at him.

“Have a good robbery,” she said.

He didn’t feel like answering. He went out and got back in his car. Shortly afterward, he happened to look at his watch. It was almost two, and a wolflike hunger came over him. He saw a trattoria called, according to its sign, DAL BOR-BONE, with two tractor-trailers parked in front. Therefore the food must be good. A brief but ferocious battle ensued between the angel and the devil inside him. The angel won, and he continued on to Vigàta.

“Not even a sandwich?” the devil whined.

“No.”

Monteserrato was the name of a line of hills, of considerable height, separating Montelusa from Vigàta. They practically began at the sea and continued on for five or six kilometers inland. Atop the last ridge stood a large, old farming estate. It was an isolated spot. And so it had remained, despite the fact that at the time of the public-works construction craze, in their desperate search for a place that might justify the building of a highway, bridge, overpass, or tunnel, the authorities had linked it to the Vigàta-Montelusa provincial road with a ribbon of asphalt. Old Headmaster Burgio had once spoken to him of Monteserrato a few years back. He told him of how, in 1944, he’d made an excursion to Monteserrato with an American friend, a journalist to whom he’d taken an immediate liking. They walked for hours across the countryside, then began climbing, stopping occasionally to rest. When they came within view of the estate, and its high enclosure of walls, they were stopped by two dogs of a sort that neither the headmaster nor the American had ever seen before. With a greyhound’s body but a very short, curled, piglike tail, long ears as on a hunting dog, and a ferocious look in the eye. The dogs literally immobilized them, snarling whenever they made the slightest move. Finally somebody from the estate came by on horseback and accompanied them. The head of the family took them to see the remains of an ancient monastery, where Burgis and the American saw an extraordinary fresco, a Nativity, on a damp, deteriorating wall. One could still read the date: 1410. Also portrayed in the painting were three dogs, in every way identical to the ones that had cornered them on their arrival. Many years later, after the asphalt road was built, Burgio had decided to go back there. The vestiges of the monastery no longer existed; in their place now stood a vast garage. Even the wall with the fresco had been knocked down. Around the garage one could still find little pieces of colored plaster on the ground.

The inspector found the little chapel that Fazio had told him to look for; ten yards beyond began a dirt road that descended down the hillside.

“Be careful, it’s very steep,” Fazio had said.

Talk about steep! It was practically vertical. When he was halfway down, he stopped, got out, and looked out from the edge of the road. The panorama that unfolded before him could be seen as either hideous or beautiful, depending on the observer’s tastes. There were no trees, no other houses than the one whose roof was visible about a hundred yards down. The land was not cultivated. Left to itself, it had produced an extraordinary variety of wild plants. Indeed, the tiny house was utterly buried under the tall grass, except, of course, for the roof, which clearly had been redone a short while before, its tiles intact. With a sense of dismay, Montalbano saw electrical and telephone wires, originating at some distant, invisible point, leading into the former stable. They were incongruous in that landscape, which appeared to have looked this way since the beginning of time.