The Dance of the Seagull

12

Mimì was lost in thought.

“What is it?”

“I just remembered a movie I saw many years ago. Some bandits shoot a guy in the foot to . . . No, Salvo, they didn’t do it to humiliate him. They wanted to have fun with him. The guy raised the injured foot while the others shot around his good foot, telling him to dance. And he jumped around . . . turning round in circles . . . hopping and jumping . . .”

He trailed off.

“Salvo, what’s wrong?” he said.

Montalbano had turned very pale. The seagull’s dance of death had suddenly come back to him.

“It’s nothing . . . Just a little dizziness.”

“Do you ever have your blood pressure taken?”

“We were talking about something else entirely, Mimì. Please continue.”

“Well, apparently with their game they got him to talk, maybe by telling him they would spare his life. And so he told them he’d mentioned a couple of things to Fazio, and they killed him.”

“And then they tried to liquidate Fazio.”

“So what do we do now?” Augello asked.

“Two urgent things. First, we have to get Fazio to a safe place. Somewhere nobody knows about.”

“Got any ideas?”

“There’s something I want you to do. Go immediately to the commissioner, right now, in fact, and tell him the whole story of Manzella, and tell him also that they’ve already tried to get at Fazio in Fiacca Hospital.”

“Shall I ask him for round-the-clock surveillance?”

“No. I want Fazio brought to one of our own infirmaries.”

“All right, but in the meantime?”

“I’m going to see him again today, and I’ll try to stay as long as possible. I’ve also talked to the two cops keeping guard just a few yards down from his room. I think we can rest easy tonight.”

“And what’s the second thing?”

“Do you remember Rizzica, the guy who came to tell us his suspicions about one of his fishing crews?”

“Of course I remember him.”

“Have him come in tomorrow, around noon. We’ve been wasting time. We should’ve listened to him sooner. Oh, and one more thing. You should probably inform Signora Ernestina.”

“Who’s she?”

“Manzella’s ex-wife.”

“Shit, what a pain. She’s gonna start crying, tearing her hair out, and I can’t stand—”

“Cool it, Mimì. They’d already filed for divorce, and she’s with a new man who wants to marry her. You couldn’t possibly give her better news. Also, bring her in to identify him.”

“But the guy’s totally unrecognizable!”

“Mimì, first of all, a woman who’s been married to a man for eighteen years will be able to identify him. Second, it’s rather in her interest to identify him, believe me.”

“All right, I’m off to the commissioner’s.”

The inspector ate lightly at Enzo’s. Skipping the pasta, he had only a few antipasti and three fried mullets. He got back to the office just after two o’clock.

“Listen, Cat, I’m going to Fiacca. I’m bringing my cell along, since I won’t be back this evening. You can give me a ring if you need me. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

As he was heading towards the parking lot, he ran into Gallo.

“I’m ready, Chief.”

“I’m going to Fiacca alone, thanks.”

“Why? Look, I’m not tired anymore! I had a good sleep last night.”

“You can drive me there tomorrow morning, all right?”

He wasted time parking the car the way he wanted in the hospital lot. He needed it to be almost hidden behind all the others, almost impossible to find. Taking his pistol out of the glove compartment, he put it in his pocket, then began the ten-minute walk to the hospital’s main entrance. When he got there, it was twenty past four. Angela was nowhere to be seen, which meant that he would have to find Fazio’s room on his own. This time, however, it was relatively easy, since the two police guards were still posted outside the sixth-floor elevator. He showed them his badge. Two other policemen stood outside the doors of the two Antimafia officials, but they weren’t the same as the previous day. He knocked lightly at the door of room 14, but nobody answered. He knocked again. Nothing. So he grabbed the doorknob and went in.

The room was empty, the bed remade. No trace of Fazio’s things anywhere. He went back out, closed the door, and approached the two policemen, badge in hand.

“I’m Inspector Montalbano. Do you know whether they’ve moved the patient from room fourteen somewhere else?”

“Yes, they have. About an hour ago. He was on a stretcher with his face all bandaged. There was a woman next to him, holding his hand.”

Montalbano felt a twinge in his heart. Want to bet Fazio had some sort of complication?

“Where’d they take him?”

“They didn’t tell us.”

All he could do was go and ask at the information desk. He took the elevator down to the ground floor.

“Listen, there was a friend of mine on the sixth floor who—” he started to say to the woman, who was a little older than him.

She cut him off.

“Are you Inspector Montalbano?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Bartolomeo is expecting you.”

“Is he serious?” Montalbano asked, starting to sweat.

“Who?”

“My friend.”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you know where they’ve taken him?”

“I repeat: I have no idea. Talk to the doctor.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Wait just a minute.”

She picked up the phone, muttered a few words, then hung up.

“Fourth floor, room two.”

Naturally, he took the wrong elevator, turned down the wrong corridor, went to the wrong room. Then, by some miracle, he knocked on the right door. Dr. Bartolomeo was about sixty, tall and elegant, with a cordial manner. Seeing the inspector come in, he stood up from behind his desk.

“How is Fazio?” Montalbano asked immediately.

“Quite well.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“Please sit down, Inspector. I’ll explain everything. A little over an hour ago, I got a phone call from Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi, who’s a friend of mine. He told me the patient was in grave danger and asked me to put him in a safe place until he could be moved to a police infirmary. And to keep the transfer as secret as possible. So I went and moved him myself. I wrapped his face so that he couldn’t be recognized, and then, with the help of his wife and the nurse watching over him—”

“The surly one?”

“Yes. They should all be like her! As I was saying, with the help of his wife and the nurse, I took him to one of the three rooms in the attic that’ll serve as guest rooms when they’re finished. The door to the attic is locked, and the nurse has the key. Can’t get any safer than that! Naturally the commissioner told me to let you know as soon as you got here.”

“Thank you, Doctor, you’re very kind. If you would explain to me how to get to the attic . . .”

“I’ll alert the nurse that you’re on your way, so she can open the door when you ring. Now let me explain how you get there. It’s very easy.”

He explained, and Montalbano didn’t understand a goddamn thing. But he felt too embarrassed to ask for further explanations, so he just thanked the doctor, said goodbye, and left.

All right, let’s think about this calmly and coolly, he said to himself. Logically speaking, “attic” means the area above the top floor. Therefore, to get to the attic, one must first reach the sixth floor in this case. That is, go where I was before.

He got there without any problem. To the sixth floor, that is. The two policemen recognized him and let him pass. But then the trouble began. After spending about half an hour exploring every corridor and opening and closing every door on the sixth floor under the increasingly suspicious gaze of the two policemen, who must have been asking themselves if this inspector was really an inspector, he had to surrender to the bitter reality: there was no staircase or elevator leading from there to the attic. He went back down to the ground floor and immediately saw Angela talking to a man. She spotted him, too, and gestured to him to wait. Then, taking leave of the man, she came towards the inspector, smiling.

“Same old story?”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t find the sixth floor?”

“Well, the fact is that . . .”

He broke off. Apparently Angela didn’t know that Fazio had been moved. And he couldn’t tell her. The fewer people knew about it, the safer Fazio would be. So how was he going to wriggle out of this? Angela herself came to his aid.

“Wait, I think I heard that Dr. Bartolomeo had him moved.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know where they moved him to?”

“I can find out. Wait just a second.”

Angela went over to the information desk, spoke with the elderly woman, then came back towards him, still smiling.

“Follow me. So, how shall we arrange things for later?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t want to be seen leaving the hospital with you.”

“What time did you say you get off work?”

“At six-thirty. I’ll be ready by six-forty-five at the latest.”

“Listen, I have an idea. I’ll give you my car keys. The license plate number is BC 342 ZX. You can leave the building on your own and get in my car. I’ll join you a few minutes later. All right?”

“All right. Here we are,” she said, stopping in front of an elevator at the end of an endless corridor. Over the door was a sign that said: OUT OF ORDER! DANGER!

“But it’s broken!” said Montalbano.

“Don’t worry, it’s not.”

She pushed a button and the door opened.

“This,” said Angela, “is the elevator that goes directly to the attic. There’s only one door on the landing. Just ring the bell. See you later.”

He rang the bell and immediately heard the voice of the Alcatraz prison guard.

“Who is it?”

“Montalbano.”

The inspector could feel himself being watched through a spy-hole. The door then opened onto a corridor.

“First door on the right,” said the prison guard. “Ten minutes.”

Fazio was no longer in bed. Dressed in some sort of pajamas and slippers, he was on a balcony with a view of the sea. His bandages had been reduced by half.

“Where’s your wife?” Montalbano asked him.

“She left just a minute ago. Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

“We had to put you in a safe place.”

“Why?”

“Did you know we found two bodies in the wells?”

“Two? The only one I knew about was the guy I threw down there myself.”

“I figured it was you who did that.”

“Yeah. Two of ’em grabbed me to throw me in, but then the guy with the gun put it down on the edge. I don’t know how I did it, but all a sudden I shoved him with all my might, and he was teetering with his body half in and half out, when he lost his balance and fell in. So I grabbed the gun. The other guy, the one with the scar, started running away. I fired at him but missed. It was terrifying, I tell you. I couldn’t remember who I was, what I was doing in that place . . .”

“We’ll talk about all that another time. So, as I was saying, when we were looking for you, we found the first body. This morning I realized it was your friend Manzella. His body had been there for at least five days.”

Fazio turned pale.

“So you think they’re going to keep trying to kill me too?”

“How can you have any doubt about it? Didn’t the guy with the scar come looking for you here at the hospital? Did you think he came just to find out how you were doing? Tomorrow or the day after, the commissioner’s going to have you moved to one of our infirmaries. That way we can all relax a little. Meanwhile, here’s this.”

He handed him a pistol. Fazio put it under the pillow.

“Careful not to let the nurse see it, or she’ll take it away from you.”

“I’ll hide it better later.”

“I have to ask you something important. So think it over before answering.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did Manzella by any chance tell you where he was living in Vigàta?”

“Yes. There was one time he wanted me to come to his place, and he gave me the address. Then he changed his mind. But at the moment I can’t remember the address.”

“Maybe Via della Forcella?”

Fazio didn’t hesitate.

“No, Chief, that’s not it. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“Don’t force yourself, it’ll come back to you. Do you still remember my cell phone number?”

“Yes.”

“If it comes back to you, call me right away, no matter what time of day, even tonight. Now I want you to calmly tell me everything, from the moment they shot you to what happened later.”

Fazio told him.

Leaving his house well before the hour of his appointment with Manzella, and not yet having eaten when he’d received the phone call, he’d gone to a trattoria and taken his time. In fact he’d even indulged in a couple of games of tressette and briscola with some friends he’d run into at the restaurant. Then, after midnight, he went to the port and started walking back and forth along the central wharf in the area of the cold storage houses. It was the nightly period of great activity. The trawlers were putting in and unloading their hauls, then leaving, as the fish-laden refrigerator trucks also left. He walked until his legs hurt, but there was no sign of Manzella. Around three-thirty in the morning, when there was hardly anyone left in circulation, he decided to go back home. As he was walking past the slips, he heard a gunshot, and immediately the bullet whizzed past him a few inches away. He couldn’t go any farther, or he would have come even closer to the person who had fired at him. So he turned around and started running towards the warehouses, and he could hear the gunman chasing after him.

“Was there anyone around?”

“I think I saw a few people.”

“And nobody came to your aid?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Go on.”

His intention, Fazio resumed, was to get to the end of the wharf and take cover inside the pilots’ house. But he never made it there, because a second shot grazed him in the back of the neck, and he fell down, hitting his head against a rock. He woke up briefly inside one of the cold storage houses, but the refrigeration wasn’t functioning.

“Rizzica’s warehouse.”

“I don’t know him.”

“I do. Go on.”

Later, he’d woken up again, this time at the bottom of a boat, which was surely taking him from the central wharf to the western one.

“I still don’t understand why they put me in a boat.”

“I’ll tell you why. Because it would have been too dangerous to put you in the trunk of a car. Sometimes the Customs cop on duty has them open it.”

Later he’d realized he was inside a car. At another point they punched him awake and made him start walking. There were two of them.

They came to a drinking trough, and one of the two started beating him, wanting to know what Manzella had told him. But Fazio couldn’t even remember who this Manzella was. In fact, he didn’t even know who he, Fazio, was. In the end they brought him to a well with the intention of throwing him in. After the scuffle that left one guy in the well and the other running away from Fazio’s bullets, he’d heard the sound of a car starting up. And then he’d started walking, not knowing where to go, and ended up at a tunnel. He went inside, but soon afterwards he heard a car come in, which had to be the other guy following him. And he shot at it. Later he woke up in a hospital.

“Nobody followed you into the tunnel with a car.”

“I swear there was—”

“The car in the tunnel was one of our squad cars, with Gallo at the wheel and me beside him.”

“So I shot at you guys?”

“You certainly did. Luckily you weren’t feeling too good and you missed.”

“Matre santa!” said Fazio. “I could have killed you!”

The door opened. It was the bulldog.

“Time’s up.”

“As soon as it comes back to you, call me with that address. Don’t forget.”

Inside the elevator, the inspector looked at his watch. Between one thing and another, it was almost six. There was a bar on the ground floor. He sat down at a table. Visiting hours now being over, there wasn’t anyone around.

“Can I get you something?” asked the barman. “We’re closing in half an hour,” he added.

Apparently the waiter had already left.

“Yes, a J&B, neat.”

Montalbano went over to the bar to get it, then drank it in small sips, to make the time pass. At the third sip, he felt a wave of melancholy wash over him.

If you don’t feel up to it, have someone ring Angela, invent some excuse, and go home, said Montalbano Two.

Angela’s got nothing to do with it, nothing whatsoever, said Montalbano One.

Come on! Angela is the primary cause of this melancholy, and you know it! Montalbano Two retorted.

At six-twenty-nine he paid and went outside. He started pacing back and forth, smoking three cigarettes in a row. Then he headed slowly for the parking lot, now half empty, to the point that his car, which he’d parked behind all the others, was now sitting all by itself. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside, but when he got a little closer, he saw the gleam of Angela’s blond hair. She was in the passenger’s seat, leaning all the way forward so that no one could see her face.

“You can drop the formal address with me.”

“Then you do the same with me.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but it wouldn’t feel right to me.”

“Why not?”

“There’s too big a difference . . .”

“In age?”

“No! Of course not! I was going to say there was too big a difference . . . well, in status.”

“You mean social status?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think that matters?”

“Of course it matters!”

“Listen, Angela. Imagine for a moment that I’m a patient in your care and very sick. Would you use the familiar or formal address with me?”

“Bah . . . I dunno, maybe the familiar.”

“You see? Now imagine I’m on death’s doorstep.”

Angela laughed.

“All right, I give up. But don’t think I’m going to want to play doctor with you.”

She said it half seriously, half in jest. And this time it was Montalbano who laughed.