The Terra-Cotta Dog

20

"I know the temples are splendid. Since I've known you I've been forced to see them about fifty times. You can therefore stick them, column by column, you-know-where. I'm going off by myself and don't know when I'll be back."

Livia's note oozed with rage, and Montalbano took it in. But since a wolf-like hunger had seized hold of him on his way back from Serradifalco, he opened the fridge: nothing. He opened the oven: nothing. Livia, who didn't want the housekeeper about for the time of her stay in Vig, had taken her sadism to the point of cleaning everything utterly. Not the tiniest piece of bread was to be found. He got back in his car and drove to the Trattoria San Calogero, where they were already rolling down their shutters.

"We're always open for you, Inspector."

To quell his hunger and to spite Livia, he ate so much he nearly had to call the doctor.

...

"There's one statement here that's got me thinking," said Montalbano.

"You mean where she says she might do something crazy?"

They were sitting in the living room having coffee, the inspector, the headmaster, and Signora Angelina.

Montalbano was holding young Lisetta's letter, which he'd just finished re-reading aloud.

"No, signora, we know she eventually did that. Mr. Sorrentino told me so, and he would have no reason to lie to me. A few days before the landing, therefore, Lisetta got it in her head to flee Serradifalco and come here, to Vig, to see the one she loved."

"But how would she have done that?"

"She probably asked some military vehicle for a lift. In those days the German and Italian troops must have been constantly on the move. A pretty girl like her, she wouldn't have had to try very hard," interjected Headmaster Burgio, who'd decided to cooperate, having resigned himself to the fact that once in a while, his wife's fantasies might have some connection to reality.

"But what about the bombing? And the machine-gun fire? My God, what courage," said the signora.

"So, which statement do you mean?" the headmaster asked impatiently.

"The one where Lisetta writes that her lover has told her that, after all this time in Vig, they've now received the order to leave."

"I don't understand."

"You see, signora, that statement tells us he'd been in Vig for a long time, which implies that he was not from the town. Second, it also informs Lisetta that he was about to be compelled, forced, to leave town. Third, she says they, and therefore he's not the only one who has to leave Vig; it's a whole group of people. All this leads me to think he's a soldier. I could be wrong, but it seems like the most logical conclusion."

"Yes, logical," echoed the headmaster.

"Tell me, signora, when did Lisetta first tell you she was in love? Do you remember?"

"Yes, because in the last few days I've done nothing but try to recall every last detail of my meetings with Lisetta. It was definitely around May or June of 42. I refreshed my memory with an old diary I dug up."

"She turned the whole house upside down," grumbled her husband.

"We need to find out what troops were stationed here between early 42, or even earlier, and July of 43."

"You think that's easy, Inspector?" Burgio commented. "I, for example, can remember a whole slew of different troops. There were the antiaircraft batteries, the naval batteries, there was a train armed with cannon that remained hidden inside a tunnel, there were soldiers in barracks, soldiers in bunkers...Sailors, no; they would come and go. It'd be practically impossible to find out."

They became discouraged. Then the headmaster stood up.

"I'm going to phone Burruano. He stayed in Vig the whole time, before, during, and after the war. Whereas I was evacuated at a certain point."

His wife resumed speaking.

"It was probably an infatuation at that age it's hard to distinguish, you know, but it certainly was something serious, serious enough to make her run away from home, to make her go against her father, who was like her jailer, or so she used to tell me, at least."

A question came to Montalbanos lips. He didn't want to ask it, but the hunters instinct got the better of him.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but could you be more precise. I mean, could you tell me exactly what Lisetta meant by that word, jailer? Was it a Sicilian fathers jealousy of the female child? Was it obsessive?"

Signora Angelina looked at him a moment, then lowered her eyes.

"Well, as I said, Lisetta was much more mature than me; I was still a little girl. Since my father forbade me to go to the Moscato's house, we used to meet up at school or in church, where we would spend a few quiet hours together. And we would talk. Lately, I've been going over and over in my mind what she said or hinted at back then. I think there were a lot of things I didn't understand at the time . . ."

"Such as?"

"For example, up until a certain point, Lisetta referred to her father as my father; after that, however, she always called him that man. But this might not mean anything. Another time she said to me: One day that mans going to hurt me, he's going to hurt me very badly. And at the time I imagined a beating, a whipping. Now I'm starting to have a terrible feeling about the true meaning of that statement."

She stopped, took a sip of coffee, and continued.

"She was brave, very brave. In the shelter, when the bombs were falling and we were trembling and crying from fear, it was she who gave us courage and consoled us. But to do what she did, she needed twice that much courage, to defy her father and run out under a hail of bullets, to come all the way here and make love to someone who wasn't even her official lover. Back then we were different from todays seventeen-year-olds."

Signora Angelinas monologue was interrupted by the return of her husband, who seemed restless.

"I couldn't find Burruano, he wasn't home. Come, Inspector, let's go."

"To look for Burruano?"

"No, no, I've just had an idea. If we're lucky, and I've guessed right, I'll donate forty thousand lire to San Calogero on his next feast day."

San Calogero was a black saint revered by the towns folk.

"If you've guessed right, I'll throw in another fifty myself," said Montalbano, caught up in the old mans enthusiasm.

"Think you could tell me where youre going?"

"I'll tell you later," the headmaster said to his wife.

"And leave me here in the lurch?" the woman insisted.

Burgio, frantic, was already out the door. Montalbano bowed down to her.

"I'll keep you informed of everything."

"How the hell did I forget La Pacinotti?" the headmaster muttered to himself as soon as they were in the street.

"Who's she?" Montalbano asked. He imagined her fifty-ish and stubby. Burgio didn't answer. Montalbano asked another question.

"Should we take the car? Are we going far?"

"Far? It's right around the corner."

"Would you explain to me who this Pacinotti woman is?"

"Woman? She was a ship, a mother ship that would repair any damage the warships sustained. She anchored in the port towards the end of 1940 and never moved. Her crew was made up of sailors who were also mechanics, carpenters, electricians, plumbers...They were all kids. And because the ship was there for so long, many of them became like family and ended up seeming like townfolk. They made friends, and they also took girlfriends. Two of them married local girls. One of them has since died, name was Tripcovich; the others name is Marin and he owns the repair garage in Piazza Garibaldi.You know him?"

"He's my mechanic," the inspector said, bitterly thinking he was about to resume his journey through the old folks memories.

...

A fiftyish man in filthy overalls, fat and surly, said nothing to the inspector and attacked Headmaster Burgio.

"Why are you wasting your time coming here? It's not ready yet. I told you the work would take a long time."

"I didn't come for the car. Is your father here?"

"Of course he's here. Where else would he be? He's here busting my balls, telling me I don't know how to work, that the mechanical geniuses in his family are him and his grandson."

A twentyish lad, also in overalls, who'd been looking under a car hood, stood up and greeted the two men with a smile. Montalbano and Burgio walked across the garage, which must have originally been a warehouse, and came to a kind of partition made of wooden boards.

Inside, behind a desk, was Antonio Marin.

"I overheard everything," he said." And if arthritis hadn't messed me up, I could teach that one a thing or two."

"We need some information."

"What do you need to know, Inspector?"

"It's better if I let Headmaster Burgio tell you."

"Do you remember how many crew members of the Pacinotti were killed or wounded or declared missing in combat?"

"We were lucky," the old man said, growing animated. Apparently he liked talking about that heroic time; at home they probably told him to shut up whenever he started in on the subject. "We had one dead from bomb shrapnel, name was Arturo Rebellato; and one wounded, also from shrapnel, and his name was Silvio Destefano; and one missing, Mario Cunich. We were all very close, you know; most of us hailed from up north,Venice,Trieste..."

"Missing at sea?" asked the inspector.

"What sea? We were moored in the harbor the whole time. We practically became an extension of the wharf."

"Then why was he declared missing?"

"Because the evening of July the seventh, 1943, he never returned to ship. The bombing had been heavy that afternoon, and he was out on a pass. Cunich was from Monfalcone, and he had a friend from the same town who was also my friend, Stefano Premuda. Well, the next morning Premuda forced the whole crew to go looking for Cunich. We spent the entire day going from house to house asking after him, to no avail. We went to the military hospital, the civilian hospital, we went to the place where they collected all the dead bodies found under the rubble . . . Nothing. Even the officers joined in the search, since some time before that they'd been given advance notice, a kind of warning, that in the coming days we were going to have to weigh anchor... We never did, though; the Americans arrived first."

"Couldn't he have simply deserted?"

"Cunich? Never! He believed in the war. He was a Fascist. A good kid, but a Fascist. And he was smitten."

"What do you mean?"

"Smitten, in love. With a girl from here. Like me, actually. He said that as soon as the war was over, he was going to get married."

"And you never had any news of him again?"

"Well, when the Americans landed, they decided that a repair ship like ours, which was a jewel, suited them just fine. So they kept us in service, in Italian uniform, but they gave us an armband to wear on our sleeves to avoid any misunderstandings. So Cunich had all the time in the world to return to ship, but he never did. He just disappeared. I stayed in touch with Premuda afterward, and now and then I'd ask him if he'd heard from Cunich or had any news of him... Nothing, not a word."

"You said you knew Cunich had a girlfriend here. Did you ever meet her?"

"Never."

One more thing needed to be asked, but Montalbano stopped, and with a glance he let Burgio have the honor.

"Did he at least tell you her name?" the headmaster asked, accepting Montalbanos generous offer.

"Well, Cunich was very reserved. But he did tell me once that her name was Lisetta."

What happened? Did an angel pass, did time stop? Montalbano and Burgio froze, and the inspector grabbed his side. He felt a violent pain, while the headmaster brought his hand to his heart and leaned against a car to keep from falling. Marin became terrified.

"What did I say? My God, what did I say?"

Immediately outside the garage, the headmaster started shouting cheerfully:

"We guessed right!"

And he traced a few dance steps. Two passersby, who knew him as a pensive, somber man, stopped in shock. Having got it out of his system, Burgio turned serious again.

"Don't forget we promised San Calogero fifty thousand lire a head."

"I won't forget."

"Do you know San Calogero?"

"I haven't missed the annual celebration since I moved to Vig."

"That doesn't mean you know him. San Calogero is someone, who, how shall I say?, who doesn't let things slide. I'm telling you this for your own good."

"Are you joking?"

"Absolutely not. He's a vengeful saint, and it doesn't take much to get his dander up. If you make him a promise, you have to keep it. If you, for example, get in a car crash and narrowly escape with your life, and you make a promise to the saint which you don't keep, you can bet your last lira you're going to get in another accident and lose your legs at the very least. Get the idea?"

"Perfectly."

"Let's go home now, so you can tell my wife the whole story."

"So I can tell her?"

"Yes, because I don't want to give her the satisfaction of hearing me say she was right."

...

"To summarize," said Montalbano, "things may have gone as follows."

He was enjoying this investigation in slippers, in a home from another age, over a cup of coffee.

"The sailor Mario Cunich, who became a kind of local boy around Vig, fell in love with Lisetta Moscato, who loved him too. How they managed to meet and talk to each other, God only knows."

"I've given it a lot of thought," said Signora Angelina. "There was a period I think it was from 42 until March or April of 43 when her father had to go far away from Vig on business. They could have fallen in love then, and they would certainly have had plenty of opportunities to spend time together in secret."

"They did fall in love, that much we know," resumed Montalbano. "Then her fathers return again prevented them from seeing each other. Soon the evacuation also came between them. So when news came of his imminent departure...Lisetta escaped, she came here, she met Cunich, but we don't know where. The sailor, so he could have as much time as possible with Lisetta, didn't return to ship. And at some point, they were murdered in their sleep. So far, everything clicks."

"Clicks?" asked Angelina, taken aback.

"I'm sorry, I merely meant that thus far, our reconstruction makes sense. The person who killed them may have been a jilted lover, or even Lisetta's father, who may have caught them together and felt dishonored. We may never know."

"What do you mean, we may never know?" said Angelina. "Aren't you interested in finding out who murdered those two poor kids?"

He didn't have the heart to tell her that he didn't care that much about the killer himself. What really intrigued him was why someone, perhaps even the killer, had taken it upon himself to move the bodies into the cave and set up that scene with the bowl, the jug, and the terra-cotta dog.

Before going back home he stopped at a grocery store and bought two hundred grams of peppered cheese and a loaf of durum wheat bread. He got these provisions because he was sure he wouldn't find Livia at the house. And indeed she wasn't there; everything was the same as when he'd left to see the Burgios.

He didn't have time to set the bag of groceries on the table when the phone rang. It was the commissioner.

"Montalbano, I thought I should tell you that Undersecretary Licalzi called me today, wanting to know why I hadn't yet put in a request for your promotion."

"But what the hell does that man want from me, anyway?"

"I took the liberty of inventing a story of love, something mysterious, I said, left unstated, between the lines... He took the bait; apparently he's a passionate reader of pulp romances. But he did settle the matter. He told me to write to him and ask that you be given a substantial bonus. So I wrote the request and sent it. You want to hear it?"

"Spare me."

"Too bad. I thought I'd written a little masterpiece."

Montalbano set the table and cut a thick slice of bread before the telephone rang again. It wasn't Livia, as he had hoped, but Fazio.

"Chief, I've been working all bleeding day for you. This Stefano Moscato wasn't the kind of guy you'd want to sit down to dinner with."

"A mafioso?"

"Really and truly mafioso, I don't think so. But he was certainly violent. Various convictions for brawling, violence, and assault. They don't seem like Mafia offenses to me; a mafioso doesn't get himself convicted for stupid shit."

"What's the date of the last conviction?"

"Nineteen eighty-one, if I'm not mistaken. With one foot in the grave he still busted some guys head with a chair."

"Do you know if he did any time in jail in 42 and 43?"

"Sure did. Assault and battery. From March 42 to April 43 he was in Palermo, at Ucciardone prison."

The news from Fazio greatly enhanced the flavor of the peppered cheese, which was already no joking matter all by itself.