The Dance of the Seagull (13 page)

Fazio didn’t hesitate.

“No, Chief, that’s not it. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“Don’t force yourself, it’ll come back to you. Do you still remember my cell phone number?”

“Yes.”

“If it comes back to you, call me right away, no matter what time of day, even tonight. Now I want you to calmly tell me everything, from the moment they shot you to what happened later.”

Fazio told him.

Leaving his house well before the hour of his appointment with Manzella, and not yet having eaten when he’d received the phone call, he’d gone to a trattoria and taken his time. In fact he’d even indulged in a couple of games of
tressette
and
briscola
with some friends he’d run into at the restaurant. Then, after midnight, he went to the port and started walking back and forth along the central wharf in the area of the cold storage houses. It was the nightly period of great activity. The trawlers were putting in and unloading their hauls, then leaving, as the fish-laden refrigerator trucks also left. He walked until his legs hurt, but there was no sign of Manzella. Around three-thirty in the morning, when there was hardly anyone left in circulation, he decided to go back home. As he was walking past the slips, he heard a gunshot, and immediately the bullet whizzed past him a few inches away. He couldn’t go any farther, or he would have come even closer to the person who had fired at him. So he turned around and started running towards the warehouses, and he could hear the gunman chasing after him.

“Was there anyone around?”

“I think I saw a few people.”

“And nobody came to your aid?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Go on.”

His intention, Fazio resumed, was to get to the end of the wharf and take cover inside the pilots’ house. But he never made it there, because a second shot grazed him in the back of the neck, and he fell down, hitting his head against a rock. He woke up briefly inside one of the cold storage houses, but the refrigeration wasn’t functioning.

“Rizzica’s warehouse.”

“I don’t know him.”

“I do. Go on.”

Later, he’d woken up again, this time at the bottom of a boat, which was surely taking him from the central wharf to the western one.

“I still don’t understand why they put me in a boat.”

“I’ll tell you why. Because it would have been too dangerous to put you in the trunk of a car. Sometimes the Customs cop on duty has them open it.”

Later he’d realized he was inside a car. At another point they punched him awake and made him start walking. There were two of them.

They came to a drinking trough, and one of the two started beating him, wanting to know what Manzella had told him. But Fazio couldn’t even remember who this Manzella was. In fact, he didn’t even know who he, Fazio, was. In the end they brought him to a well with the intention of throwing him in. After the scuffle that left one guy in the well and the other running away from Fazio’s bullets, he’d heard the sound of a car starting up. And then he’d started walking, not knowing where to go, and ended up at a tunnel. He went inside, but soon afterwards he heard a car come in, which had to be the other guy following him. And he shot at it. Later he woke up in a hospital.

“Nobody followed you into the tunnel with a car.”

“I swear there was—”

“The car in the tunnel was one of our squad cars, with Gallo at the wheel and me beside him.”

“So I shot at you guys?”

“You certainly did. Luckily you weren’t feeling too good and you missed.”

“Matre santa!”
said Fazio. “I could have killed you!”

The door opened. It was the bulldog.

“Time’s up.”

“As soon as it comes back to you, call me with that address. Don’t forget.”

Inside the elevator, the inspector looked at his watch. Between one thing and another, it was almost six. There was a bar on the ground floor. He sat down at a table. Visiting hours now being over, there wasn’t anyone around.

“Can I get you something?” asked the barman. “We’re closing in half an hour,” he added.

Apparently the waiter had already left.

“Yes, a J&B, neat.”

Montalbano went over to the bar to get it, then drank it in small sips, to make the time pass. At the third sip, he felt a wave of melancholy wash over him.

If you don’t feel up to it, have someone ring Angela, invent some excuse, and go home
, said Montalbano Two.

Angela’s got nothing to do with it, nothing whatsoever
, said Montalbano One.

Come on! Angela is the primary cause of this melancholy, and you know it!
Montalbano Two retorted.

At six-twenty-nine he paid and went outside. He started pacing back and forth, smoking three cigarettes in a row. Then he headed slowly for the parking lot, now half empty, to the point that his car, which he’d parked behind all the others, was now sitting all by itself. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside, but when he got a little closer, he saw the gleam of Angela’s blond hair. She was in the passenger’s seat, leaning all the way forward so that no one could see her face.

“You can drop the formal address with me.”

“Then you do the same with me.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but it wouldn’t feel right to me.”

“Why not?”

“There’s too big a difference . . .”

“In age?”

“No! Of course not! I was going to say there was too big a difference . . . well, in status.”

“You mean social status?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think that matters?”

“Of course it matters!”

“Listen, Angela. Imagine for a moment that I’m a patient in your care and very sick. Would you use the familiar or formal address with me?”

“Bah . . . I dunno, maybe the familiar.”

“You see? Now imagine I’m on death’s doorstep.”

Angela laughed.

“All right, I give up. But don’t think I’m going to want to play doctor with you.”

She said it half seriously, half in jest. And this time it was Montalbano who laughed.

13

“Do you have any problems about dinner?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you eat everything, or are you on a diet?”

“I eat everything and always have a good appetite.”

“Do you like fish?”

“I love fish.”

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No. In fact, I’d like one myself.”

“What time are you going to work tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I’m on the afternoon-evening shift.”

“So you can stay out late tonight.”

“Absolutely.”

She gave a hint of a smile.

“I seem to have the impression you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I did until a few days ago.”

She said it in a tone of voice that made Montalbano prick his ears up.

“Who broke it off?”

“He did.”

“How did he have the courage?”

“I don’t understand.”

“It would take a lot of courage to leave a girl like you. Were you in love with him?”

“Yes.”

“But he wasn’t in love with you.”

“But he was!”

“So why did you break up?”

She clearly wasn’t too keen on discussing the subject. Montalbano realized he’d touched a sore spot.

“Things don’t . . .” she began.

“Go on.”

“Things don’t always depend on what we want.”

He had to press on.

“You mean he was forced in some way to leave you?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you do anything to change his mind?”

“He can’t change his mind.”

“You must insist!”

“But you don’t understand . . .”

She said it with a note of desperation in her voice. He’d been right on target. But he tried to make it look like he’d missed the mark.

“Did he marry another girl?”

“I wish! Please, let’s talk about something else.”

“You’re crying! I’m so sorry, please forgive me. I had no idea . . .”

He was an utter swine. He’d forced her to tears and was now pretending not to have realized the sort of result his questions would have.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To a seaside restaurant where they give you so much seafood appetizer that I advise you to skip the first course.”

“Sounds fantastic! How far away is it?”

“Another half hour and we’ll be there.”

“Is it near your house?”

“About a ten-minute drive.”

“Do you have a beautiful house?”

“It’s the location that’s beautiful. There’s a veranda that gives on to the beach, and I like to spend hours on end just sitting there.”

“Will you take me to see it, afterwards?”

“If you like.”

“We can have a whisky on the veranda.”

“I’m sorry about your friend, Officer Fazio, but I’m glad it gave us the opportunity to meet each other. How’s he doing?”

“He’s getting better by the minute.”

Your move, Angela.

“They said he lost his memory. Is that true?”

Not bad for an opening gambit.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Back to you, Angela
.

“Is he getting it back?”

Sharp move
.

“Well, that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s starting to remember things, but in a confused manner, and very slowly. For example, he still can’t figure out why he was at the port when he was shot.”

“Poor man! So what do you talk about with him when you go to see him?”

“We talk about the little he can remember. His memory is functioning strangely. He can recall certain acts and situations, but has forgotten people’s names and what they looked like.”

“What does Dr. Bartolomeo say?”

“That it’s going to take a long time.”

“Why did you have him moved to the attic?”

Bad move. A question you should never have asked, Angela
.

“The commissioner asked for maximum protection for my friend. He’s afraid someone may be trying to kill him.”

“But he can’t remember anything!”

Excellent imitation of surprise.

“Yeah, but the problem is that the people who want to kill him don’t know that.”

“What a beautiful place! Let’s sit as close to the sea as possible.”

“I hope I’m not making too bad an impression on you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m eating like a . . . But I just can’t resist these antipasti.”

“I like women who like to eat. Shall I order another bottle?”

“Yes.”

“. . . to say nothing of what happens at the hospital! There used to be a doctor in the emergency room—fortunately he’s gone now—who never gave me a moment’s rest! Once he actually grabbed me without warning and wanted to make love in front of a dying patient . . . he said the situation excited him . . . Another time it was a recovering patient, a senior judge, came up behind me as I was bending over and . . .”

“No, I didn’t want to become a nurse, I wanted to get a medical degree, but then my father died, and his pension was barely enough for my mother and me, and so . . . I already said it, didn’t I? That sometimes we’re forced to do things we don’t want to do . . .”

“And have you had to do so often?”

Here’s where we play rough, Angela.

“Had to do what?”

You know exactly what I mean. You’re just stalling.

“Do things you didn’t want to do.”

“Well, a few times, I guess.”

“And have you ever had to do something against your will that in the end turned out to be pleasant?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She realized that her answer would be important.

“Two or three times.”

On to the frontal attack.

“What about tonight?”

“I don’t understand.”

Still stalling, Angela?

“Do you think it will turn out to have been pleasant?”

“Ask me again when it’s over.”

She’d stopped laughing a while back. She continued:

“For now, though, everything’s very pleasant indeed.”

Montalbano didn’t say a word. She resumed.

“At any rate, nobody forced me to come out with you.”

That detail came slightly after the clock had run out.

“Shall we go?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I drive you back to Fiacca?”

“No.”

“Want to come to my place?”

“Yes.”