IM10 August Heat (2008) (16 page)

“You’re damn right something happened to him. The poor guy woke up the next morning in his sleeper car and his stepson was gone!”

“In short, you don’t see Speciale as a murderer?”

“No way.”

“But, you know, in Greek tragedy—”

“We’re in Vigàta, Chief, not Greece.”

“Tell me the truth: Do you like the story or don’t you?”

“It seems okay for TV.”

12

It had been a long day, made longer by the August heat.The inspector felt a little tired. But he had no lack of appetite.

When he opened the oven, he was disappointed not to find anything. But when he opened the refrigerator, he saw a sort of salad of calamari, celery, and tomatoes that still needed to be dressed with olive oil and lemon. Adelina had wisely prepared him a dish to be eaten cold.

A mild, newborn breeze was circulating out on the veranda. It was too feeble to move the dense mass of heat that was still holding out as night fell, but it was better than nothing.

He took off his clothes, put on a bathing suit, ran down to the water, and dived in. He went for a long swim, taking broad, slow strokes. Returning to shore, he went into the house, set the little table on the veranda, and began to eat. When he had finished, he still felt hungry, so he prepared a plate of green olives, cured black
passuluna
olives, and caciocavallo cheese that called for—indeed demanded—good wine.

The light breeze on the veranda had matured from infancy to adolescence and was making itself felt.

He decided to seize a favorable moment when his thoughts weren’t logjammed from the heat, and tried to think rationally about the investigation he had on his hands. He cleared the little table of dishes, cutlery, and glasses, and replaced these with a few sheets of paper.

Since he didn’t like to take notes, he decided to write himself a letter, as he sometimes did.

 

 

He was taking off his bathing suit, getting ready to go to bed when, all of a sudden, he felt like talking to Livia. He dialed the number of her cell phone. It rang a long time, but nobody picked up.

How was that possible? Was Massimiliano’s boat so big that Livia couldn’t hear her cell phone ring? Or was she too engaged, too busy doing other things to answer the phone?

He was about to hang up in anger when he heard Livia’s voice.

“Hello? Who is it?”

What did she mean, “Who is it?” Couldn’t she read the caller’s number on the display or whatever the hell it was called?

“It’s Salvo.”

“Oh, it’s you.”

Not disappointed. Indifferent.

“What were you doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“Where?”

“On the deck. I fell asleep without realizing it. It’s all so peaceful, so beautiful . . .”

“Where are you?”

“We’re sailing towards Sardinia.”

“And where’s Massimiliano?”

“He was right beside me when I fell asleep. Now I think he’s—”

He cut off the call, pulling out the plug.

And what was that fucking asshole Massimiliano doing there? Singing her a lullaby?

He went to bed with his hair standing on end.

And it took the hand of God for him to fall asleep.

 

 

 

In vain he went for another swim after waking; in vain he got into the shower, which should have been cold but was actually hot because the water in the tanks on the roof was so torrid you could have boiled pasta in it; in vain he dressed as lightly as possible.

The moment he set foot outside the house, he had to admit to himself that it was no use. The heat was a fiery blaze.

He went back into the house, stuck a shirt, underpants, and pair of trousers as thin as onionskin in a shopping bag, and left.

He arrived at the station with his shirt drenched in sweat and his underpants all of a piece with the skin of his ass, so tightly were they sticking.

Cataralla tried to stand up and salute, but couldn’t manage, falling lifelessly back into his chair.

“Ah, Chief, Chief! I’m dying! ’Ss the devil, this heat!”

“Suck it up!”

He went and slipped into the bathroom. He took all his clothes off, washed himself, pulled out the shirt, underpants, and trousers, got dressed, returned to his office, and turned on the minifan.

“Catarella!”

“Comin’, Chief.”

He was closing the shutter when Catarella entered.

“Your ord . . .”

He trailed off, braced himself against the desk with his left hand, and brought his right hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. He looked like an illustration in a nineteenth-century acting manual for the expression “shock and dismay.”

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus . . .” he said in litany.

“Hey, Cat, you feel sick?”

“Jesus, Chief, whatta scare! The heat’s got into my head!”

“But what’s wrong?”

“Nuttin’, Chief, go ’head ’n’ talk, I feel fine. My ears are workin’ great, iss my eyes got me seein’ tings.”

And he didn’t move from his position: eyes shut tight, hand on his forehead.

“Listen, in the bathroom are some clothes I just changed out of—”

“Ya changed clothes?!” said Catarella.

He looked relieved, opened his eyes, lowered his hand from his forehead, and eyed Montalbano as if he’d never seen him before.

“So ya changed clothes!”

“Yeah, Cat, I changed clothes. What’s so weird about that?”

“Nuttin’ weird, Chief, it was juss a missunnerstannin! I seen ya come in dressed one ways ’n’ then I seen ya dressed anutter ways ’n’ so I tought I was loosinating cuzza the heat. ’Ssa good ’ting ya changed clothes!”

“Listen, go get those clothes and put them out in the courtyard to dry.”

“I’ll take care of it straightaways.”

On his way out, he was about to close the door but the inspector stopped him.

“Leave it open, so there’s a little draft.”

The outside line rang. It was Mimì Augello.

“How are you doing, Salvo? I tried you at home but there was no answer, and then I remembered that you don’t give a shit about August fifteenth, and so—”

“You were right, Mimì. How’s Beba? And the kid?”

“Look, Salvo, don’t even ask.You know what? The baby’s had a fever since the moment we got here! The upshot: We haven’t managed to have a single day of vacation. Only yesterday did the fever pass, finally. And tomorrow I’m supposed to be back on the job . . .”

“I understand, Mimì. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay another week if you want.”

“Really?”

“Really. Say hi to Beba for me and give your son a kiss.”

Five minutes later, the other telephone rang.

“Aaahhh, Chief! Iss the c’mishner says he emergently needs to—”

“Tell him I’m not in.”

“And where should I tell him you went to?”

“To the dentist’s.”

“You gotta toothache?”

“No, Cat, it’s the excuse I want you to give him.”

So the c’mishner was busting his balls even on August 15?

 

 

 

As he was signing some papers that Fazio explained had been piling up for a few months, he happened to look up. In the corridor he saw Catarella coming towards his office. But what was it that looked so strange about the way he was walking? The inspector knew the answer as soon as he asked the question.

Catarella, as he walked, was dancing. That was it. Dancing.

He was on tiptoe, arms stretched away from his body, hinting at a half pirouette every few steps. Had the heat indeed gone to his head? As he entered the office, the inspector noticed he was keeping his eyes closed.
O matre santa,
what had happened to him? Was he sleepwalking?

“Catarella!”

Catarella, who had come up to the desk, opened his eyes, stunned. He had a faraway look.

“Huh?” he said.

“What’s got into you?”

“Ah, Chief, Chief! There’s a girl here you gotta see with your eyes! She’s the spittin’ image of the poor girl that got killed! Mamma mia, she’s so beautyfull! I never seen anyting like ’er.”

It therefore was Beauty, with a capital B, that gave Catarella’s step a dancing lilt, his gaze a dreamy look.

“Send her in and inform Fazio.”

He saw her coming from the end of the corridor.

Catarella walked in front of her, literally bending forward, making a bizarre movement with his hand as if he were cleaning the ground in front of her where she was about to set foot. Or maybe he was unrolling an invisible carpet?

And as the girl approached and her features, eyes, and hair color became more and more distinct, the inspector slowly stood up, feeling himself happily drowning in a sort of blissful nothingness.