The Terra-Cotta Dog

16

Montalbano was at the end of his rope. Bombarded with questions by the priest, he felt his thoughts growing confused and, what was worse, every time he was unable to answer, Alcide Maraventano made a kind of whining sound and in protest began sucking louder than usual. He was already working on his second baby bottle.

In what directions were the heads of the dead pointed?

Was the jug made of absolutely normal clay or some other material?

How many coins were there inside the bowl?

Exactly how far from the two bodies were the jug, bowl, and terra-cotta dog?

At last the third degree ended.

It makes no sense.

The interrogations conclusion confirmed precisely what the priest had immediately surmised at the start. The inspector, with a certain, not very well-concealed relief, thought he could now get up, take his leave, and go.

"Wait. What's the hurry?"

Montalbano sat back down, resigned.

"It's not a funerary rite, but maybe it's something else."

All at once, the inspector roused himself from his lethargy and regained full possession of his mental faculties. This Maraventano was a thinking mind.

"Tell me, I'd much appreciate your opinion."

"Have you read Umberto Eco?"

Montalbano began to sweat.

Jesus, now hes giving me a literature exam, he thought, but he managed to say: "I've read his first novel and the two small diaries, which seemed to me"

"Well, I haven't. I don't know the novels. I was referring to the Treatise of General Semiotics, a few of whose passages might be of use to us."

"I'm embarrassed to say, I haven't read it."

"And I suppose you haven't read Kristevas Semeiotik either?"

"No, and I have no desire to," said Montalbano, starting to feel angry. He was beginning to suspect that the old man was pulling his leg.

"All right, then," said Alcide Maraventano, sighing, "I'll give you a down-to-earth example."

"Something on my level," Montalbano muttered to himself.

"If you, then, are a police inspector, and you find a man who's been shot and killed, and in whose mouth the killers have placed a stone, what conclusion might you draw?"

"That's old stuff, you know," said Montalbano, "bent on regaining the upper hand. Nowadays they murder without giving any explanations."

"I see. So for you that stone in the mouth is a kind of explanation."

"Of course."

"And what does it mean?"

"It means the dead man talked too much, said things he wasn't supposed to say, or was an informer."

"Exactly. You, therefore, understood the explanation because you possessed the code of that language, which in this case was a metaphorical language. But if you'd been ignorant of the code, what would you have understood? Nothing. To you, that man would have been a murder victim in whose mouth the killers had in-ex-pli-ca-bly placed a stone."

"I'm beginning to understand."

"Now, to return to our discussion: somebody kills two young people for reasons we don't know. He could make the bodies disappear in many different ways, in the sea, underground, under the sand. But, no, he puts them in a cave instead. Not only, but he arranges a bowl, a jug, and a terra-cotta dog around them. What, therefore, has he done?"

"He's made a statement, sent a message," said Montalbano in a soft voice.

"That's right, a message, which you, however, can't read because you don't possess the code," concluded the priest.

"Let me think," said Montalbano. "But the message must have been directed at someone, just not at us, fifty years after the fact."

"And why not?"

Montalbano thought about this a moment, then stood up.

"I'm going to go, I don't want to take up any more of your time. What you've told me has been very valuable to me."

"I'd like to be even more useful to you."

"How so?"

"You just said that nowadays they kill without providing any explanations. There is always an explanation and it is always provided, otherwise you wouldn't be in the line of work youre in. It's just that the codes have multiplied and diversified."

"Thank you," said Montalbano.

...

For dinner they'd eaten fresh anchovies allagretto, which Signora Elisa, the commissioner's wife, had cooked with art and skill, the secret of success lying in correctly determining the infinitesimal length of time to keep the pan in the oven. Then, after the meal, the signora had retired to the living room to watch television, but not before having arranged, on the desk in her husbands study, a bottle of Chivas, another of bitters, and two glasses.

While they were eating, Montalbano had spoken enthusiastically of Alcide Maraventano and his peculiar way of life, his erudition, his intelligence. The commissioner, however, had shown only lukewarm curiosity, more out of politeness to his guest than out of real interest.

"Listen, Montalbano," he broke in as soon as they were alone, "I can easily understand the sense of urgency you might feel about the two murder victims you found in the cave. I daresay I've known you too long not to expect you to become fascinated by a case like this, because it defies explanation, but also, and I think this is the real reason, because even if you were to find the solution, it would prove utterly useless. Just the sort of uselessness that you would find amusing and excuse me for saying so almost congenial."

"Useless in what way?"

"Useless, useless, don't play innocent. To be generous since fifty or more years have since passed the murderer, or murderers, are either dead or, in the best of cases, little old men at least seventy years old. Right?"

"Right," Montalbano reluctantly agreed.

"Therefore forgive me, because what I'm about to say is not normally part of my vocabulary but what you're engaged in is not an investigation, but an act of mental masturbation."

Montalbano, lacking the strength or arguments to rebut him, took it all in.

"Now, I could allow you this little exercise," the commissioner continued, "if I wasn't afraid you'd end up devoting the best of your brainpower to it, and neglecting other investigations of greater significance and reach."

"No! That's not true!" the inspector bridled.

"But it is. Look, none of this is intended, in any way, as a reproach. We're here talking, at my home, between friends. Why, for example, did you assign the weapons-trafficking case, an extremely delicate case, to your deputy, who is a very capable officer but certainly not on your level?"

"But I haven't assigned him anything! It's he who"

"Don't be childish, Montalbano. You've been throwing the better part of the investigation on his shoulders. Because you're well aware that you can't devote all your energies to it, since three-fourths of your brain is tied up with the other case. Tell me, quite honestly, if you think I'm wrong."

"You're right," Montalbano honestly admitted, after a pause.

"So let's leave it at that, and move on to other matters. Why the hell don't you want me to recommend you for a promotion?"

"You really want to keep crucifying me."

He left the commissioners house pleased with the anchovies allagretto, but also because he'd managed to obtain a postponement of the recommendation of promotion. There was no rhyme or reason to the arguments he'd cited, but his superior politely pretended to accept them. Could Montalbano very well have told him that the mere idea of a transfer, of a change of habits, gave him a fever?

...

It was still early. His appointment with Gege wasn't for another two hours. He dropped by the Free Channel studios, wanting to learn more about Alcide Maraventano.

"Extraordinary, isn't he?" said Nicolto. "Did he suck milk from a baby bottle in front of you? And how. It's all a put-on, you know. He's just playacting."

"What do you mean? He has no teeth."

"You have heard of an invention called dentures, I presume? He owns a set, and they work perfectly well. I'm told he sometimes wolfs down a quarter of veal or a roast suckling goat when nobodys looking."

"So why does he do it?"

"Because he's a born tragedian. Or comedian, if you prefer."

"Is he really a priest?"

"He quit the priesthood."

"And the things he says, are they true or made up?"

"You don't have to worry about that. His knowledge is limitless, and when he says something, it's better than gospel."

"Did you know he shot somebody about ten years ago?"

"Come on."

"Really. Some thief broke into his house, on the ground floor. He bumped into a pile of books and they came crashing down, making an infernal racket. Maraventano, who'd been asleep upstairs, woke up, came down, and shot him with a muzzle-loading rifle, a kind of household cannon. The blast made half the village jump out of bed. When the smoke cleared, the robber was wounded in the leg, a dozen or so books were ruined, and the old man had a fractured shoulder from the guns tremendous kick. The robber, however, maintained he'd entered the house not with any criminal intent, but because he'd been invited there by the priest, who at a certain point, for no apparent reason, picked up a rifle and shot him. And I believe him."

"Whom?"

"The supposed thief."

"But why would he shoot him?"

"I suppose you know what goes on inside the head of Alcide Maraventano? Maybe it was to see if the rifle still worked. Or just to make a scene, which is more likely."

"Listen, before I forget, do you have Umberto Eco's Treatise of General Semiotics?"

"Me? Are you crazy?"

...

On his way to the car, which he'd left in the Free Channels parking lot, Montalbano got soaked. It had started raining without warning,very fine drops but very dense. He got home with time to spare before the appointment. He changed clothes and sat down in the armchair in front of the TV, but then immediately got up again and went to his desk to fetch a postcard that had arrived that morning.

It was from Livia. As she'd informed him by telephone, she had gone to visit a cousin in Milan for ten days or so. On the glossy side, which showed the inevitable view of the cathedral, there was a luminescent trail of slime cutting the image in half. Montalbano touched it with the tip of his index finger: it was very fresh, and slightly sticky. He examined the desk more closely. A scataddrizzo, a large, dark-brown snail, was slithering across the cover of the Consolo book. Montalbano did not hesitate. The horror he'd felt after the dream, which he was still carrying around with him, was too strong. Grabbing the Vasquez Montalb novel, which he'd already read, he slammed it violently down on the one by Consolo. Caught in between, the scataddrizzo made such a noise as it was being crushed that Montalbano felt nauseated. He then tossed the two novels into the garbage can. He would buy new copies tomorrow.

...

Gege wasn't there, but the inspector knew he wouldn't be long. His friend was never late by much. The rain had stopped, but there must have been quite a storm at sea: large puddles had formed along the beach, and the sand gave off a strong smell of wet wood. He lit a cigarette. All at once, by the faint light of the moon that had suddenly appeared, he saw the dark shape of a car approaching very slowly, lights extinguished, from the opposite direction to where he'd come in, which was the same direction Gege should have come from. Alarmed, he opened the glove compartment, took out his pistol, cocked it, and disengaged the car door, ready to jump out. When the other car came within range, he turned on his high beam all at once. The car was Gege, no doubt about that, but it might easily be somebody else at the wheel.

"Turn off your lights!" he heard someone shout from the car.

It was definitely Gege's voice, and the inspector obeyed. They spoke one to the other, each in his own car, through their lowered windows.

"What the fuck are you doing? I nearly fired at you," Montalbano said angrily.

"I wanted to see if they'd followed you."

"If who'd followed me?"

"I'll tell you in a second. I got here half an hour ago and was hiding behind the jetty at Punta Rossa."

"Come over here," said the inspector.

Gege got out of his car and into Montalbano's, almost huddling against him.

"What's wrong, you cold?"

"No, but I'm shivering anyway."

He stank of fear. As Montalbano knew from experience, fear had a smell all its own, sour, yellow-green in color.

"Do you know who that was who got killed?"

"Gege, a lot of people get killed. Who are you talking about?"

"Pietro Gullo, that's who, the one they drove to the Pasture after they killed him."

"Was he a client of yours?"

"A client? If anything, I was his client. He was Tano the Greek's man, his collector. The same guy who told me Tano wanted to meet you."

"Why so surprised, Gege. It's the usual story: Winner take all. They use the same system in politics. Tano's businesses are changing hands, so they're liquidating everybody who worked with him. You were neither an associate nor a dependent of Tano's. So what are you worried about?"

"No," Gege said firmly," that's not how it is. That's not what they told me in Trapani."

"So how is it, then?"

"They said there was an agreement."

"An agreement?"

"Oh, yes. An agreement between you and Tano. They said the shoot-out was bogus, a sham, a masquerade. And they're convinced that the people who staged this masquerade were me, Pietro Gullo, and somebody else they're sure to kill one of these days."

Montalbano remembered the telephone call he'd received after the press conference, when an anonymous voice had called him a lousy fucking actor.

"They feel offended," Gege continued. "They can't bear the thought that you and Tano spit in their faces, made them look like chumps. It means more to them than the weapons. Now you tell me:What am I supposed to do?"

"Are you sure they have it in for you too?"

"I swear to God. Why else did they bring Gullo all the way to the Pasture, which is my turf ? You can't get any clearer than that!"

The inspector thought of Alcide Maraventano and what he'd said about codes.

...

It must have been a change in the density of the darkness, or a split-second glimmer seen out of the corner of one eye, but the fact is that an instant before the explosion of gunfire, Montalbano's body obeyed a series of impulses frantically transmitted by his brain: he bent over, opening the car door with his left hand, and hurled himself out while all around him was a thunder of gunshots, shattering glass, plates of metal flying apart, quick red flashes brightening the dark. Montalbano remained motionless, wedged between Gege's car and his own, and only then did he realize he had his pistol in hand. When Gege had come inside his car, he'd set it on the dashboard. He must have grabbed it by instinct. After the pandemonium, a leaden silence reigned. Nothing moved. There was only the sound of the agitated sea. Then, about twenty yards away, to the side where the beach ended and the hill of marl began, there was a voice:

"Everything okay?"

"Everything okay," said another voice, this one very close.

"Make sure they're both finished, then we can go."

Montalbano tried to picture the movements the man would have to make to verify that they were dead: chuff, chuff went his footsteps in the sodden sand. Now the man must be right beside the car; in a moment he would bend down to look inside.

Montalbano leapt to his feet and fired. A single shot. He clearly heard the thud of a body collapsing on the sand, then a gasping, a kind of gurgling, then nothing.

"Juj, erything all right?" asked the distant voice.

Without getting back in his car, Montalbano, through the open door, put his hand on the high-beam switch and waited. He could hear nothing. He decided to try his luck and started counting in his head. When he got to fifty, he turned on the brights and stood straight up. Swathed in light, about ten yards away, appeared a man with a submachine gun in hand, frozen in surprise. Montalbano fired, the man immediately reacted, firing blindly into the dark. Feeling something like a tremendous punch in his left side, the inspector staggered, leaned his left hand against the car, then fired again, three shots in a row. The man in the lights sort of jumped in the air, turned around, and started running, as Montalbano saw the white beam of the headlights begin to turn yellow, his eyes clouding over, head spinning. He sat down on the sand, realizing that his legs could no longer support him, and leaned back against the side of the car.

He waited for the pain, and when it came it was so intense he started howling and crying like a child.