The Terra-Cotta Dog

24

The Crasticeddru flats, which stretched out behind the rocky spur, weren't close to being flat, not even in dreams. But the vales, jags, and marshes made it an ideal place for a cross-country motorcycle race. The weather that day was a definite foretaste of summer, and people didn't wait for three oclock to go out to the flats. Actually, they began to gather in the morning, grandmothers, grandfathers, tots, and teens and everyone else determined not so much to watch a race, as to enjoy a day in the country.

That morning, Montalbano phoned Nicolto.

"Are you coming to the cross-country motorbike race this afternoon?"

"Me? Why should I? We've sent one of our sports reporters and a cameraman over there."

"Actually, I was suggesting that we go together, the two of us, just for fun."

They got to the flats around 3:30, but there was no sign the race would be starting any time soon. There already was, however, a deafening racket, produced mostly by fifty or so motorcycles being tested and revved up, and by loudspeakers blasting raucous music.

"Since when are you interested in sports?" Zito asked in amazement.

"Now and then I get the urge."

Although they were outside, they had to shout to converse. As a result, when a little touring airplane trailing its publicity banner appeared high in the sky over the ridge of the Crasticeddru, few in the crowd noticed, since the noise of the plane, which is what usually makes people look up, couldn't reach their ears. The pilot must have noticed he would never get their attention in this fashion since, after flying three tight circles round the crest of the Crasticeddru, he headed straight for the flats and the crowd, going into an elegant dive and flying extremely low over everyone's head. He practically forced people to read his banner and then to follow it with their eyes as he pulled up slightly, flew over the ridge three more times, descended to the point of almost touching the ground in front of the caves gaping entrance, and then dropped a shower of rose petals from the aircraft. The crowd fell silent. They were all thinking of the two young lovers found dead in the Crasticeddru as the small plane turned round and came back, skimming the ground, this time dropping countless little strips of paper. It then headed westward toward the horizon and disappeared. And while the banner had aroused a lot of curiosity, since it wasn't advertising a soft drink or a furniture factory, but displayed only the two names Lisetta and Mario and the rain of rose-petals had given the crowd a kind of thrill, the words on the strips of paper, all identical, set them all guessing, sending them on a lively merry-go-round of speculation and conjecture. What indeed was the meaning of: Lisetta and Mario announce their reawakening? It couldn't be a wedding or christening announcement. So what was it? Amid the swirl of questions, only one thing seemed certain: that the plane, the petals, the pieces of paper, and the banner had something to do with the dead lovers found in the Crasticeddru.

Then the races began, and the people watched and amused themselves. Nicolto, upon seeing the rose petals fall from the plane, had told Montalbano not to move from where he stood and then had disappeared into the crowd.

He returned fifteen minutes later, followed by a Free Channel cameraman.

"Will you grant me an interview?"

"Of course."

This unexpected compliance on Montalbano's part convinced the newsman in his suspicion, which was that the inspector was involved up to his neck in this business with the airplane.

"Just a few minutes ago, during the preliminaries for the cross-country motorcycle race currently taking place here in Vig, we were all witness to an extraordinary event. A small advertising airplane . . . And here he followed with a description of what had just occurred. Since, by a fortunate coincidence, we have Inspector Salvo Montalbano here with us among the crowd, we would like to ask him a few questions. In your opinion, Inspector, who are Lisetta and Mario?"

"I could dodge the question," the inspector said bluntly, "and say I don't know anything about this and that it might be the work of some newly-weds who wished to celebrate their marriage in an original way. But I would be contradicted by what is written on that piece of paper, which speaks not of marriage but of reawakening. I shall therefore answer honestly and say that Lisetta and Mario were the names of the two young people found murdered inside the cave of the Crasticeddru, that spur of rock right here in front of us."

"But what does all this mean?"

"I can't really say. You'd have to ask whoever it was that organized the airplane stunt."

"How were you able to identify the two?"

"By chance."

"Could you tell us their last names?"

"No. I could, but I won't. I can disclose that she was a young woman from these parts, and he was a sailor from the North. I should add that the person who wanted, in such manifest fashion, to remind us of their rediscovery, which this person calls reawakening, forgot about the dog, which, poor thing, also had a name: he was called Kytmyr, and was an Arab dog."

"But why would the murderer have wanted to stage such a scene?"

"Wait a second. Who ever said that the murderer and the person behind this spectacle are one and the same? I, for one, don't believe they are."

"I've got to run and edit the report," said Nicolto, giving Montalbano a strange look.

Soon the crews from TeleVig, the RAI regional news, and the other private stations arrived. Montalbano answered all their questions politely and with, for him, unnatural ease.

...

Prey to violent hunger pangs, he stuffed himself with seafood appetizers at the Trattoria San Calogero and then raced home, turned on the television, and tuned into the Free Channel. In his report on the mysterious airplane, Nicolto piled it on thick, pumping up the story in every way possible. What crowned it all, however, was not his own interview, which was aired in its entirety, but another interview which Montalbano hadn't expected with the manager of the Publi-2000 agency of Palermo, which Zito had tracked down easily, since it was the only advertising agency in western Sicily that had an airplane available for publicity.

The manager, still visibly excited, recounted that a beautiful young woman Jesus, what a woman! She looked unreal, she really did, like a model in a magazine. Jesus, was she beautiful! an obvious foreigner because she spoke bad Italian. Did I say bad? I'm wrong, actually, on her lips our words were like honey, no, he couldn't be sure as to her nationality, maybe German or English, had come to the agency four days earlier. God! An apparition! and had asked about the plane. She'd explained in great detail what she wanted written on the banner and the strips of paper. Yes, the rose petals were also her doing. And, oh yes, as for the place, was she ever particular! Very precise. Then the pilot, on his own, the manager explained, had a brilliant idea: instead of releasing the pieces of paper at random along the coastal road, he thought it would be better to drop them on a large crowd that had gathered to watch a race. The lady, For the love of God, let's stop talking about her or my wife will kill me! paid in advance, cash, and had the invoice made out to a certain Rosemarie Antwerpen at a Brussel's address. He had asked nothing more of the lovely stranger. God! but then, why should he have? She certainly wasn't asking them to drop a bomb! And she was so beautiful! And refined! And polite! And what a smile! A dream.

Montalbano relished it all. He had advised Ingrid: You must make yourself even more beautiful than usual. That way, when they see you, they won't know what's what anymore.

TeleVig went wild with the story of the mysterious beauty, calling her Nefertiti resurrected and cooking up a fanciful story intertwining the pyramids with the Crasticeddru; but it was clear they were following the lead set by Nicolto's story on their competitors news program. Even the regional RAI news gave the matter extensive coverage.

Montalbano was getting the uproar, the commotion, the resonance he had sought. His idea had turned out to be right.

...

"Montalbano? It's the commissioner. I just heard about the airplane. Congratulations. A stroke of genius."

"The credit goes to you. It was you who told me to carry on, remember? I'm trying to flush our man out. If he doesn't turn up reasonably soon, it means hes no longer among us."

"Good luck. Keep me posted. Oh, it was you, of course, who paid for the plane?"

"Of course. I'm counting on my promised bonus."

...

"Inspector? This is Headmaster Burgio. My wife and I are speechless with admiration. What an idea."

"Let's hope for the best."

"Don't forget, Inspector: if Lillo should turn up, please let us know."

...

On the midnight edition of the news, Nicolto devoted more time to the story and showed photos of the two corpses in the Crasticeddru, zooming in on the images in detail.

Provided courtesy of the ever-eager Jacomuzzi, thought Montalbano.

Zito isolated the body of the young man, whom he called Mario, then that of the young woman, whom he called Lisetta. Then he showed the airplane dropping rose petals and gave a close-up of the words on the strips of paper. From here he went on to weave a tale that was part mystery, part tearjerker, and decidedly not in the Free Channel style, but rather more like TeleVig fare. Why were the two young lovers killed? What sad fate led them to that end? Who was it that took pity on them and set them up in the cave? Had the beautiful woman who showed up at the advertising agency perhaps returned from the past to demand revenge on the victims behalf ? And what connection was there between this beauty and the two kids from fifty years ago? How were we to understand the word reawakened? And how did Inspector Montalbano happen to know even the name of the terra- cotta dog? How much did he know about this mystery?

"Salvo? Hi, it's Ingrid. I hope you didn't think I ran off with your money."

"Come on! Why, was there some left?"

"Yes. The whole thing cost less than half the amount you gave me. I've got the rest with me. I'll give it back to you as soon as I return to Montelusa."

"Where are you calling from?"

"Taormina. I met someone. I'll be back in four or five days. Did I do a good job? Did it go they way you wanted?"

"You did a fantastic job. Have fun."

"Montalbano? It's Nicolto, did you like the reports? I think I deserve some thanks, no?"

"For what?"

"For doing exactly what you wanted."

"But I didn't ask you to do anything."

"That's true, not directly, at least. Except that I'm not stupid, and so I gathered that you wanted the story to get as much publicity as possible and to be presented in a way that would touch peoples hearts. I said things I will never live down for the rest of my life."

"Well, thanks, even though, I repeat, I still don't know why you want me to thank you."

"You know, our switchboard has been overwhelmed with phone calls. The RAI, Fininvest, Ansa, and all the national newspapers have asked for a videotape of the report. You've made quite a splash. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"How much did the airplane cost you?"

...

He slept splendidly, as gods pleased with their handiwork are said to sleep. He'd done everything possible, and even something impossible. Now there was nothing to do but wait for an answer. The message had been sent out, in such a way as to allow somebody to decipher the code, as Alcide Maraventano would say. The first phone call came in at seven in the morning. It was Luciano Acquasanta of Il Mezzogiorno, who wanted to corroborate one of his opinions.

"Was it not possible the two young people were sacrificed in the course of some Satanic rite?"

"Why not?" said Montalbano, polite and open to anything.

The second call came fifteen minutes later. It was Stefania Quattrini, from the magazine Essere Donna. Her theory was that Mario was caught making love to Lisetta by another, jealous woman, we know what sailors are like, who did away with both of them. She probably then skipped the country, but on her deathbed confided in her daughter, who in turn told her own daughter of the grandmother's crime. This girl, to make good in some way, had gone to Palermo, she spoke with a foreign accent, didn't she? and arranged the whole business with the airplane.

"Why not?" said Montalbano, polite and open to anything.

Cosimo Zappal of the weekly magazine Vivere! communicated his hypothesis to Montalbano at 7:25. Lisetta and Mario, drunk on love and youth, were in the habit of strolling through the countryside hand in hand, naked as Adam and Eve. Surprised one unlucky day by a contingent of retreating German soldiers, also drunk, but on fear and ferocity, they were raped and murdered. On his deathbed, one of the Germans...And here this version linked up curiously with Stefania Quattrinis.

"Why not?" said Montalbano, polite and open to anything.

At eight, Fazio knocked on the door and brought him all the dailies available in Vig, as he'd been ordered to do the night before. The inspector leafed through them while repeatedly answering the phone. All of them, with greater or lesser degrees of emphasis, reported the story. The headline that most amused him was the one in the Corriere, which read: Police Inspector identifies terra-cotta dog dead for fifty years. All of it, even the irony, was grist for his mill.

Adelina was amazed to find him at home and not out, as was usually the case.

"Adelina, I'm going to be staying home for a few days. I'm waiting for an important phone call, so I want you to make my siege comfortable."

"I didn't unnastand a word you said."

Montalbano then explained that her task was to alleviate his voluntary seclusion by putting a little extra imagination in her lunch and dinner dishes.

Around ten, Livia called.

"What's going on? Your phone is always busy!"

"I'm sorry. It's just that I've been getting all these calls in reference to"

"I know what they're in reference to. I saw you on TV. You were so unselfconscious and glib, you didn't seem yourself. It's obvious you're better off when I'm not around."

He rang Fazio at headquarters and asked him to bring all mail home to him and to buy an extension cord for the phone. The mail, he added, should be brought to him at home each day, as soon as it arrived. And Fazio should pass the word on: anyone who asked for him at the office must be given his private number by the switchboard operator, with no questions asked.

Less than an hour passed before Fazio arrived with two unimportant postcards and the extension cord.

"What's new at the office?"

"What's new? Nothing. You're the one who attracts the big stuff. Inspector Augello only gets the little shit: purse snatchings, petty theft, a mugging here and there."

"I attract the big stuff ? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means what I said. My wife, for instance, is scared of rats. Well, I swear, she draws them to her like a magnet. Wherever she goes, the rats soon arrive."

For forty-eight hours he'd been like a dog on a chain. His field of action was only as large as the extension cord would allow, and therefore he could neither walk on the beach nor go out for a run. He carried the phone with him everywhere, even when he went to the bathroom, and every now and then the mania took hold of him, after twenty-four hours he would pick up the receiver and bring it to his ear to see if it was working. On the morning of the third day a thought came into his mind:

Why bother to wash if you can't go outside?

This was followed by another, closely related thought:

So what need is there to shave?

On the morning of the fourth day, filthy and bristly, wearing slippers and the same shirt since the first day, he gave Adelina a fright.

"Maria santissima, signuri! Whata happen to you? Are you sick?"

"Yes."

"Why don you call a doctor?"

"It's not the sort of thing for a doctor."

...

He was a very great tenor, acclaimed in all the world. That evening he was to sing at the Cairo Opera, at the old theater, which hadn't yet burned down, though he knew well that it would soon be devoured by flames. He'd asked an attendant to inform him the moment Signor Gege sat down in his box, the fifth from the right on the second level. He was in costume, the last touches having been applied to his makeup. He heard the call: Who's on next? He didn't move. The attendant arrived, out of breath, and told him that Signor Gege who hadn't died, this was well known, he'd escaped to Egypt, hadn't shown up yet. He dashed onto the stage, looking out into the theater through a small opening in the curtain: it was mobbed. The only empty box was the fifth from the right, second level. He made a split-second decision: he returned to his dressing room, took off his costume and put his regular clothes back on, leaving the makeup, including the long, gray beard and thick, white eyebrows, untouched. Nobody would ever recognize him again, and therefore he would never sing again. He well understood that his career was over and he would have to scramble to survive, but he didn't know what to do about it. Without Gege couldn't sing.

He woke up bathed in sweat. In his own fashion, he had produced a classic Freudian dream, that of the empty theater box. What did it mean? That the pointless wait for Lillo Rizzitano would ruin his life?

"Inspector? It's Headmaster Burgio. It's been a while since we last spoke. Have you any news of our mutual friend?"

"No."

Monosyllabic, hasty, at the risk of seeming impolite, he had to discourage long or pointless phone conversations. If Rizzitano were to make up his mind, he might think twice if he found the line busy.

"I'm afraid the only way we'll ever get to talk to Lillo, if you'll forgive my saying so, is to hire a medium."

...

He had a big squabble with Adelina. The housekeeper had just gone into the kitchen when he heard her start yelling. Then she appeared in the bedroom.

"Signuri, you dint eat nothin yesterday for lunch or dinner!"

"I wasn't hungry,Adel"

"I work mself to death cookin dlicious things and you jes turn up ya nose at em."

"I don't turn up my nose at them, I'm just not hungry, as I said."

"An this houses become a pigsty! You don want me to wash the floor, you don want me to wash ya clothes! For five days you been wearin the same shirt ann a same shorts! You stink, signuri!"

"I'm sorry, Adelina. I'll snap out of it, you'll see."

"Well, lemme know when you snap out of it, and I'll come back. Cause I ain't settin foot back in ere. Call me when ya feelin better."

...

He went out onto the veranda, sat down on the bench, put the telephone beside him, and stared at the sea. He couldn't do anything else, read, think, write, nothing. Only stare at the sea. He was losing himself in the bottomless well of an obsession, and he knew it. He remembered a film he'd seen, perhaps based on a novel by Datt, in which a police inspector stubbornly kept waiting for a killer who was supposed to pass through a certain place in the mountains, when in fact the guy would never come through there again. But the inspector didn't know this, and so he waited and waited, and meanwhile days, months, years went by . . .

Around eleven oclock that same morning, the telephone rang. Nobody had called since Headmaster Burgio, several hours before. Montalbano didn't pick up the receiver; he froze as though paralyzed. He knew, with utter certainty though he couldn't have explained why who would be there at the other end.

He made an effort, and picked up.

"Hello? Inspector Montalbano?"

A fine, deep voice, even though it belonged to an old man.

"Yes, this is he," said Montalbano. And he couldn't refrain from adding:" Finally!"

"Finally," the other repeated.

They both remained silent a moment, listening to their breathing.

"I've just landed at Palermo. I could be at your place in Vig by one-thirty this afternoon at the latest. If that's all right with you, perhaps you could tell me exactly how to find you. I've been away a long time. Fifty-one years."