The Terra-Cotta Dog

7

In the alternately desperate, stammering, hesitant, bewildered, flabbergasted, lost but always wild-eyed man framed pitilessly in the foreground by the Free Channels videocamera, Montalbano scarcely recognized himself under the storm of questions from vile snake-in-the-grass journalists. And the part where hed explained how tabisca was made the part in which he came off best had been cut out. Maybe it wasn't strictly in keeping with the principal subject, the capture of Tano the Greek.

The eggplant Parmesan his housekeeper had left for him in the oven suddenly tasted flavorless. But that was impossible, it couldn't be right. It must have been some sort of psychological effect from seeing himself look like such a stupid shit on television.

All at once he felt like crying, like throwing himself down on his bed and wrapping himself up in the sheet like a mummy.

...

"Inspector Montalbano? This is Luciano Acquasanta from the newspaper Il Mezzogiorno. Would you be so kind as to grant me an interview?"

"No."

"I won't waste your time, I promise."

"No."

...

"Is this Inspector Montalbano? Spingardi here, Attilio Spingardi, from the RAI office in Palermo. We're putting together a roundtable to discuss"

"No."

"At least let me finish!"

"No."

...

"Darling? It's Livia. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Why?"

"I just saw you on TV."

"Oh, Christ! You mean they showed that all over Italy?"

"I think so. But it was very brief, you know."

"Could you hear what I was saying?"

"No, one could only hear the commentator speaking. But I could clearly see your face, and that's what got me worried. You were yellow as a lemon."

"It was even in color?"

"Of course it was in color. You kept putting your hand over your eyes and rubbing your forehead."

"I had a headache and the lights were bothering me."

"Are you better now?"

"Yes."

...

"Inspector Montalbano? My name is Stefania Quattrini, from the magazine Essere Donna. We'd like to do a telephone interview with you. Could you remain on the line?"

"No."

"It'll only take a few seconds."

"No."

"Do I have the honor of actually speaking with the famous Inspector Montalbano who holds press conferences?"

"Don't break my balls."

"No, don't worry about your balls, we won't break them. It's your ass we're after."

"Who is this?"

"It's your death, that's who. You're not gonna wiggle out of this one so easy, you lousy fucking actor. Who'd you think you were fooling with that little song and dance you put on with your pal Tano? You're gonna pay for trying to fuck with us."

"Hello? Hello?"

The line had gone dead. But Montalbano didnt have a chance to take in those threatening words and mull them over, because he realized that the insistent noise he'd been hearing for some time amid the flurry of phone calls was the doorbell ringing. For some reason he was convinced it must be a journalist more clever than the rest who'd decided to show up at his house. Exasperated, he ran to the entrance and without opening, yelled:

"Who the hell is it?"

"It's the commissioner."

What could he want from him, at home, at that hour, without even having called to alert him? He released the bolt with a swat of the hand and yanked the door wide open.

"Hello, come on in, make yourself comfortable," he said, standing aside to let him in.

"We haven't got any time. Get yourself in order, I'll wait for you in the car."

He turned around and walked away. Passing in front of the large mirror on the armoire, Montalbano realized what the commissioner had meant by Get yourself in order. He was completely naked.

The car had none of the usual police markings; it looked, rather, like a rental car. At the wheel, in civilian clothing, was an officer from the Montelusa station whom he knew. As soon as he sat down, the commissioner began to speak.

"I apologize for not calling beforehand, but your phone was always busy."

"I know."

The commissioner could have cut into the line, of course, but that wasn't in keeping with his polite, gentlemanly way of doing things. Montalbano didn't explain why the telephone had given him no peace. It didn't matter. His boss was gloomier than hed ever seen him before, face drawn, mouth half-twisted in a kind of grimace.

After they'd been driving on the highway to Palermo for some forty-five minutes with the driver going full tilt, Montalbano started looking out on that part of his islands landscape which charmed him most.

"You like it? Really?" an astonished Livia had asked him once, a few years earlier, when he brought her to this area.

Arid hills like giant tumuli, covered only by a yellow stubble of dry grass and abandoned by the hand of man after sudden failures owing to drought, extreme heat, or more simply to the weariness of a battle lost from the outset, were interrupted here and there by a gray of rocky peaks rising absurdly out of nothing or perhaps fallen from above, stalactites or stalagmites of the deep, open-air cave that is Sicily. The few houses one saw, all single-story, domed structures, cubes of dry stone, stood askew, as if by chance alone they'd survived the violent bucking of an earth that didn't want them on its back. Still there was the rare spot of green, not of trees or cultivation, but of agaves, sword grass, buckthorn, and sorghum, beleaguered and dusty, they too on the verge of surrender.

As if he had been waiting for the appropriate scenery, the commissioner finally began to speak, though Montalbano realized the words were addressed not to him but to the commissioner himself, in a kind of painful, furious monologue.

"Why did they do it? Who decided to decide? If an investigation were held an impossibile conjecture it would turn out that either nobody took the first step, or they were acting on orders from above. So let's see who these superiors who gave the orders are. The head of the Anti-Mafia Commission would deny all knowledge, as would the minister of the interior and the prime minister, the head of state. Which leaves the pope, Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, and God the Father, in that order. All would cry in outrage: How could anyone think it was they who gave the order? That leaves only the Devil, notorious for being the cause of all evil. He's the guilty one! Satan!...Anyway, to make a long story short, they decided to transfer him to another prison."

"Tano?" Montalbano ventured to ask. The commissioner didn't even answer.

"Why?"

"We'll never know, that much is certain. And while we were holding our press conference, they were putting him in an ordinary car with two plainclothesmen as escort, ah! how clever! so as not to attract attention, of course! And so, when the requisite high-powered motorcycle appeared from an alley with two men aboard, rendered utterly unrecognizable by their helmets ...Final tally: two policemen dead, Tano in the hospital, on deaths doorstep. And there you have it."

Montalbano absorbed it all, thinking cynically that if only they'd killed Tano a few hours earlier, he would have been spared the torture of the press conference. He started asking questions only because he sensed that the commissioner had calmed down a little after his outburst.

"But how did they know.."

The commissioner slammed the seat in front of him, making the driver start and the car veer slightly.

"What do you think, Montalbano? A mole, no? That's what's driving me so crazy!"

The inspector let a minute or two pass before asking another question.

"Where do we come in?"

"He wants to talk to you. He knows he's dying, and wants to tell you something."

"I see. So why did you go to all this trouble? I could have gone by myself."

"I came along to prevent any snags or delays. In their sublime intelligence, these guys are capable of denying you access to him."

In front of the hospital gate there was an armored car, as well as some ten guards scattered about the yard, submachine guns in hand.

"Idiots," said the commissioner.

They passed through at least five checkpoints, growing more irritated each time, then finally reached the ward where Tanos room was. All other patients had been cleared out, transferred elsewhere amid curses and obscenities. At each end of the corridor were four armed policemen, plus two outside the door of the room Tano was obviously in. The commissioner showed them his pass.

"Congratulations," he said to the corporal.

"For what, Mr. Commissioner?"

"For maintaining order."

"Thank you," said the corporal, brightening, the commissioners irony sailing far over his head.

"You go in alone," the commissioner said to Montalbano, "I'll wait outside."

Only then did he notice how ashen the inspector was, his forehead bathed in sweat.

"My God, Montalbano, what's wrong? Do you feel ill?"

"I'm perfectly fine," the inspector replied through clenched teeth.

He was lying. In fact, he felt terrible.The dead left him utterly indifferent. He could sleep with them, pretend to break bread with them, play hearts or spades with them. They didn't bother him in the least. The dying, on the other hand, made him break into a sweat: his hands would start to tremble, he would go cold all over, a hole would open up in his stomach.

Under the sheet that covered him, Tanos body looked shrunken, smaller than the inspector remembered it. His arms lay stretched along his sides, the right arm wrapped in thick bandages. Oxygen tubes sprouted from his nose, which had turned almost transparent, and his face looked unreal, as if it belonged to a wax doll. Overcoming the desire to run away, Montalbano pulled up a metal chair and sat down beside the dying man, who kept his eyes shut, as if asleep.

"Tano? Tano? It's Inspector Montalbano."

The other reacted immediately, opening his eyes and making as if to sit up in bed, a violent start surely triggered by the animal instinct of one who has long been hunted. Then his eyes brought the inspector into focus, and the tension in his body visibly relaxed.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

Tano nodded yes, and gave a hint of a smile. He spoke very slowly, with great effort.

"They ran me off the road anyway."

He was referring to the discussion they'd had in the cottage. Montalbano didn't know what to say.

"Come closer," the old man said.

Montalbano rose from his chair and leaned over.

"Closer."

The inspector bent down so far forward, his ear actually touched Tano's lip. The man's burning breath made him feel disgusted. Tano then told him what he had to tell, lucidly and precisely. But the talking had worn him out, and he closed his eyes again. Montalbano didn't know what to do, whether to leave or stay a little while longer. He decided to sit down, and Tano said something again, in a gurgly voice. The inspector stood back up and leaned over the dying man.

"What did you say?"

"I'm spooked."

Tano was afraid, and in his present state he didn't hesitate to admit it. Was it pity, this sudden wave of heat, this flutter of the heart, this agonizing surge of emotion? He put a hand on Tanos forehead, and the intimate words came out spontaneously.

"You needn't be ashamed to say so. I'ts one more thing that makes you a man. We'll all be scared when our time comes. Good-bye,Tano."

He walked out quickly, closing the door behind him. In the hallway, together with the commissioner and policemen, were De Dominicis and Sciacchitano. He ran up to them.

"What did he say?" De Dominicis asked anxiously.

"Nothing. He didn't manage to say anything. He wanted to, but couldn't. Hes dying."

"Hah!" said Sciacchitano, doubtful.

Very calmly, Montalbano placed his open hand on Sciacchitanos chest and gave him a violent push. The man reeled three steps backward, stunned.

"Stay right where you are and don't come any closer," the inspector said through clenched teeth.

"That's enough, Montalbano," the commissioner intervened.

De Dominicis seemed to pay no mind to the two mens differences.

"Who knows what he wanted to tell you," he persisted, eyeing Montalbano inquisitively, as if to say: Youre not talking straight.

"If you'd like, I can try and guess," Montalbano retorted insolently.

Before leaving the hospital, Montalbano knocked back a double J&B, neat, at the bar. Then they headed back to Montelusa. He figured he'd be back in Vig by 7:30, and therefore could keep his appointment with Ingrid.

"He talked, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Anything important?"

"Yes, in my opinion."

"Why did he choose you?"

"He said he wanted to give me a present, for playing fair with him throughout this whole business."

"I'm listening."

Montalbano told him everything, and when he had finished, the commissioner looked pensive. Then he sighed.

"You work it all out yourself, with your men. It's better if this remains a secret. Nobody else should know about it, not even in my office. As you've just seen, there are moles everywhere."

He visibly sank back into the bad mood he'd been in during the drive to the hospital. "So it's come to this!" he said angrily.

Halfway home, the cell phone rang. "Yes?" answered the commissioner.

Somebody spoke briefly at the other end.

"Thank you," said the commissioner. He turned to Montalbano. "That was De Dominicis. He kindly informed me that Tano died virtually as we were leaving the hospital."

"They'd better be careful," said Montalbano.

"Careful?"

"Not to let anyone steal the body," the inspector said with bitter irony.

They rode another while in silence.

"Why did De Dominicis bother to inform you that Tano was dead?"

"That call, for all practical purposes, was meant for you, my friend. Obviously De Dominicis, who's no fool, correctly believes that Tano managed to tell you something. And he would like a share of the pie, if not the whole thing."

Back at headquarters, he found only Catarella and Fazio. It was better this way; he preferred talking to Fazio with nobody around. Out of a sense of duty more than curiosity, he asked:

"Where are the others?"

"They went chasing after four kids who were racing each other on two motorbikes."

"Jesus! The whole squad is gone chasing after a pair of racing motorbikes?"

"It's a special kind of race," Fazio explained. "One motorbike is green, the other yellow. The yellow one starts out first and races the whole length of a street, snatching whatevers there to be snatched. An hour or two later, after the people have calmed down, the green one takes off and swipes whatevers still there to be swiped. Then they change street and neighborhood, but this time the green one goes first. It's a race to see who can steal the most."

"I see. Listen, Fazio, this evening I want you to drop by the Vinti warehouse and ask the manager, in my name, to lend us some shovels, pickaxes, mattocks, and spades, ten or so. We'll all meet here tomorrow morning at six. Inspector Augello and Catarella will stay behind at headquarters. I want two cars, no, make that one car, cause you're going to ask Vintis to give you a Jeep, too. By the way, who has the key to our garage?"

"Whoevers on duty always has it. At the moment, that would be Catarella."

"Get it from him and give it to me."

"Right away. But if you don't mind my asking, what do we need shovels and pickaxes for?"

"We're changing profession. As of tomorrow, we're going into farming, the healthy life, working in the fields. What do you say?"

"You know, Inspector, for the last few days there's just no reasoning with you. Maybe you could tell us what's got into you? You're always obnoxious and rude."