The Terra-Cotta Dog

6

As for the personally personal letter earlier announced by Catarella, he'd completely forgotten about it. It came back to him only when he stepped right on it upon entering his home: the postman had slipped it under the door. The address made it look like an anonymous letter: Montalbano Police Headquarters city. Then, on the upper left, the notice: personal. Which had then set Catarellas earthquake-damaged wits in motion.

Anonymous it was not, however. On the contrary. The signature that Montalbano immediately looked for at the end went off in his brain like a gunshot.Esteemed Inspector,It occurred to me that in all probability I won't be able to come see you tomorrow morning as planned. If the meeting of the Party leadership of Montelusa, which I shall attend upon completing this letter, were by chance as appears quite likely to spell failure for my positions, I believe it would be my duty to go to Palermo to try and awaken the souls and consciences of those comrades who make the decisions within the Party. I am even ready to fly to Rome to request an audience with the National Secretary. These intentions, if realized, would necessitate the postponement of our meeting, and thus I beg you please to excuse me for putting in writing what I ought properly to have told you in person.As you will surely recall, the day after the strange robbery/nonrobbery at the supermarket, I came of my own accord to police headquarters to report what I had happened to see that is, a group of men quietly at work, however odd the hour, with lights on and under the supervision of a uniformed man who looked to me like the night watchman. No passerby would have seen anything unusual in this scene; had I noticed anything out of the ordinary, I would have made sure to alert the police myself.The night following my testimony, I was too upset from the arguments I'd had with my Party colleagues to fall asleep, and thus I had occasion to review the scene of the robbery in my mind. Only then did I remember a detail that could prove to be very important. On my way back from Montelusa, agitated as I was, I took the wrong approach route for Vig, one that has been recently made very complicated by a series of incomprehensible one-way streets. Instead of taking the Via Granet, I turned onto the old Via Lincoln and found myself going against the flow of traffic. After realizing my mistake about fifty yards down the street, I decided to retrace my path in reverse, completing my maneuver at the corner of Vicolo Trup thinking I would back into this street, so that I could then point my car in the right direction. I was unable to do this, however, because the vicolo was entirely blocked by a large car, a model heavily advertised these days but available only in very limited quantities, the Ulysses, license plate Montelusa 328280. At this point I had no choice but to proceed in my directional violation. A few yards down the street, I came out into the Piazza Chiesa Vecchia, where the supermarket is.To spare you further investigation: that car, the only one of its kind in town, belongs to Mr. Carmelo Ingrassia. Now, since Ingrassia lives in Monte Ducale, what was his car doing a short distance away from the supermarket, also belonging to Mr. Ingrassia, at the very moment when it was being burgled? I leave the answer to you.Yours very sincerely,Cav. Gerlando Misuraca

You've fucked me royally this time, Cavaliere! was Montalbanos only comment as he glared at the letter he had set down on the dining table. And dining, of course, was now out of the question. He opened the refrigerator only to pay glum homage to the culinary mastery of his housekeeper, a deserved homage, for an enveloping fragrance of poached baby octopus immediately assailed his senses. But he closed the fridge. He wasn't up to it; his stomach was tight as a fist. He undressed and, fully naked, went for a walk along the beach; at that hour there was nobody around anyway. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. Around four oclock in the morning he dived into the icy water, swam a long time, then returned home. He noticed, laughing, that he had an erection. He started talking to it, trying to reason with it.

It's no use deluding yourself.

The erection told him a phone call to Livia might be just the thing. To Livia lying naked and warm with sleep in her bed.

Your'e just a dickhead telling me dickheaded things. Teenage jerk-off stuff.

Offended, the erection withdrew. Montalbano put on a pair of briefs, threw a dry towel over his shoulder, grabbed a chair and sat down on the veranda, which gave onto the beach.

He remained there watching the sea as it began to lighten slowly, then take on color, streaked with yellow sunbeams. It promised to be a beautiful day, and the inspector felt reassured and ready to act. He'd had a few ideas, after reading the Cavalieres letter; the swim had helped him to organize them.

"You can't show up at the press conference looking like that," pronounced Fazio, looking him over severely.

"What, are you taking lessons from the Anti-Mafia Commission now?" Montalbano opened the padded nylon bag he was holding. "In here I've got trousers, jacket, shirt, and tie. I'll change before I go to Montelusa. Actually, do me a favor. Take them out and put them on a chair; otherwise they'll get wrinkled."

"They're already wrinkled, Chief. But I wasn't talking about your clothes; I meant your face. Like it or not, you gotta go to the barber."

Fazio had said like it or not because he knew him well and realized how much effort it cost the inspector to go to the barber. Running a hand behind his head, Montalbano agreed that his hair could use a little trim, too. His face darkened.

"Not one fucking things going to go right today!" he predicted.

Before exiting, he left orders that, while he was out beautifying himself, someone should go pick up Carmelo Ingrassia and bring him to headquarters.

"If he asks why, what should I tell him?" asked Fazio.

"Don't tell him anything."

"What if he insists?"

"If he insists, tell him I want to know how long its been since he last had an enema. Good enough?"

"There's no need to get upset."

...

The barber, his young helper, and a client who was sitting in one of the two rotating chairs that barely fit into the shop, which was actually only a recess under a staircase, were in the midst of an animated discussion, but fell silent as soon as the inspector appeared. Montalbano had entered with what he himself called his barber-shop face, that is, mouth shrunken to a slit, eyes half-closed in suspicion, eyebrows furrowed, expression at once scornful and severe.

"Good morning. Is there a wait?"

Even his voice came out deep and gravelly.

"No sir. Have a seat, Inspector."

As Montalbano took his place in the vacant chair, the barber, in accelerated, Chaplinesque movements, held a mirror behind the clients head to let him admire the finished product, freed him of the towel round his neck, tossed this into a bin, took out a clean one and put it over the inspectors shoulders. The client, denied even the customary brush-down by the assistant, literally fled from the shop after muttering Good day.

The ritual of the haircut and shave, performed in absolute silence, was swift and funereal. A new client appeared, parting the beaded curtain, but he quickly sniffed the atmosphere and, recognizing the inspector, said:

"I'll pass by later." Then he disappeared.

On the street, as he headed back to his office, Montalbano noticed an indefinable yet disgusting odor wafting around him, something between turpentine and a certain kind of face powder prostitutes used to wear some thirty years back. The stink was coming from his own hair.

"Ingrassias in your office," Tortorella said in a low voice, sounding conspiratorial.

"Where'd Fazio go?"

"Home to change. The commissioners office called. They said Fazio, Gallo, Galluzzo, and German should also take part in the press conference."

I guess my phone call to that asshole Sciacchitano had an effect, thought Montalbano.

Ingrassia, who this time was dressed entirely in pastel green, started to rise.

"Don't get up," said the inspector, sitting down behind his desk. He distractedly ran a hand through his hair, and immediately the smell of turpentine and face powder grew stronger. Alarmed, he brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed them, confirming his suspicion. But there was nothing to be done; there was no shampoo in the office bathroom. Without warning, he resumed his barber-shop face. Seeing him suddenly transformed, Ingrassia became worried and started squirming in his chair.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"In what sense do you mean?"

"Well...in every sense, I suppose," said Ingrassia, flustered.

Montalbano shrugged evasively and went back to sniffing his fingers. The conversation stalled.

"Have you heard about poor Cavaliere Misuraca?" the inspector asked, as if chatting among friends in his living room.

"Ah! Such is life!" The other sighed sorrowfully.

"Imagine that, Mr. Ingrassia. I'd asked him if he could give me some more details about what he'd seen the night of the robbery, we'd agreed to meet again, and now this..."

Ingrassia threw his hands up in the air, inviting Montalbano, with this gesture, to resign himself to fate. He allowed a respectful pause to elapse, then:

"I'm sorry," he said, "but what other details could the poor Cavaliere have given you? He'd already told you everything he saw."

Montalbano wagged his forefinger, signaling no.

"You don't think he told you everything he saw?" asked Ingrassia, intrigued. Montalbano wagged his finger again. Stew in your own juices, scumbag, he was thinking. The green Ingrassia started to tremble like a leafy branch in the breeze.

"Well, then, what did you want him to tell you? What he thought he didn't see."

The breeze turned into a gale, the branch began to lurch. "I don't understand. Let me explain."

"You're familiar, are you not, with a painting by Pieter Brueghel called Childrens Games?"

"Who? Me? No," said Ingrassia, worried.

"Doesn't matter. But you must be familiar with the works of Hieronymus Bosch?"

"No sir," said Ingrassia, starting to sweat. Now he was really getting scared, his face starting to match the color of his outfit, green.

"Never mind, then, don't worry about it," Montalbano said magnanimously. "What I meant was that when someone sees a scene, he usually remembers the first general impression he has of it. Right?"

"Right," said Ingrassia, prepared for the worst.

"Then, little by little, a few other details may start coming back to him, things that registered in his memory but were discarded as unimportant. An open or closed window, for example, or a noise, a whistle, a song..what else? a chair out of place, a car where it's not supposed to be, a light ...That sort of thing. You know, little details that can later turn out to be extremely important."

Ingrassia took a white handkerchief with a green border out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

"You had me brought here just to tell me that?"

"No. That would be inconveniencing you for no reason. I would never do a thing like that. I was wondering if you'd heard from the people who, in your opinion, played that joke on you, you know, the phony robbery."

"Not a word from anyone."

"That's odd."

"Why?"

"Because the best part of any practical joke is enjoying it afterward with the person it was played on. Well, if you do hear from anybody, please let me know. Good day."

"Good day," muttered Ingrassia, standing up. He was dripping wet, his trousers sticking to his bottom.

Fazio showed up all decked out in a shiny new uniform. "I'm here," he said. "And the pope is in Rome. I know, Inspector, I know: today is not your day." He started to leave but stopped in the doorway. "Inspector Augello called, said he had a terrible tooth ache. He says he's not coming unless he has to. Listen, do you have any idea where the wreck of Cavaliere Misuracas Fiat ended up?"

"It's still here, in our garage. If you ask me, it's just envy."

"What are you talking about?"

"Inspector Augello's toothache."

"It's just about of envy. Who's he envious of ?"

"You. Because it's your press conference and not his."

"And he's probably also pissed off because you wouldn't tell him who you'd arrested."

"Would you do me a favor?"

"All right, all right, I'm going."

When Fazio had closed the door well, Montalbano dialed a number. The voice of the woman who answered sounded like a parody of an African in a dubbed film.

"Hallo?"

"Who dare?"

"Who you callin dare?"

"Where did the Cardamones find these housekeepers? Is Signora Ingrid there?"

"Ya, but who callin?"

"This is Salvo Montalbano."

"You wait dare."

Ingrids voice, on the other hand, was the very same as the voice the Italian dubber had given to Greta Garbo, who was herself Swedish.

"Ciao, Salvo. How are you? Long time no see."

"I need your help, Ingrid. Are you free tonight?"

"Actually, no. But if it's really important I can drop everything."

"It's important."

"Tell me where and when."

"Nine oclock tonight, at the Marinella Bar."

...

For Montalbano, the press conference proved, as of course he knew it would, to be a long, painful embarrassment. Anti-Mafia Vice-Commissioner De Dominicis came from Palermo and sat on the Montelusa police commissioners right. Imperious gestures and angry glances prevailed upon Montalbano, who had wanted to remain in the audience, to sit on his superiors left. Behind him, standing, were Fazio, German, Gallo, and Galluzzo. The commissioner spoke first and began by naming the man they had arrested, the number one of the number twos: Gaetano Bennici, known as Tano the Greek, wanted for multiple murders and long a fugitive from justice. It was a literal bombshell. The journalists, who were there in great numbers there were even four TV cameras jumped out of their chairs and started talking to one another, making such a racket that the commissioner had difficulty reestablishing silence. He stated that credit for the arrest went to Inspector Montalbano who, with the assistance of his men, and here, he named and introduced them one by one, had been able to exploit a golden opportunity with skill and courage. Then De Dominicis spoke, explaining Tano the Greeks role within his criminal organization, certainly a prominent one, though not of the utmost prominence. As the Anti-Mafia Vice-Commissioner sat back down, Montalbano realized he was being thrown to the dogs.

The questions came in rapid-fire bursts, worse than a Kalishnikov. Had there been a gunfight? Was Tano alone? Were any law enforcement personnel injured? What did Tano say when they handcuffed him? Had he been sleeping or awake? Was there a woman with him? A dog? Was it true he took drugs? How many murders had he committed? How was he dressed? Was he naked? Was it true he rooted for the Milan soccer team? Did he have a photo of Ornella Muti on his person? Could the inspector explain a little better the golden opportunity the commissioner had alluded to?

Montalbano struggled to answer the questions as best he could, seeming to understand less and less what he was saying.

It's a good thing the TVs here, he thought. That way, at least, I can watch and make some sense of the bullshit I've been telling them.

And just to make things even harder, there were the adoring eyes of Corporal Anna Ferrara, staring at him from the crowd.

Nicolto, newsman from the Free Channel and a true friend, tried to rescue him from the quicksand in which he was drowning.

"Inspector, with your permission," said Zito. "You said you met Tano on your way back from Fiacca, where you'd been invited to eat a tabisca with friends. Is that correct?"

"Yes. What is a tabisca?"

"They'd eaten tabisca many times together."

Zito was simply tossing him a life preserver. Montalbano seized it. Suddenly confident and precise, the inspector went into a detailed description of that extraordinary, multiflavored pizza.