The Dance of the Seagull (18 page)

His right arm moved as if by itself, independent of his will. The hand took the picture off the wall and turned the frame around. There was nothing on the back, just the brown paper covering the reverse of the canvas. His hand spread its fingers, the painting fell to the floor, the glass shattered, the bottom part of the frame came off, and a white envelope popped out halfway. The inspector was not surprised. It seemed perfectly natural, like something he’d known all along. He bent down, picked it up, and put it in his pocket.

Now there was only one thing left for him to do: get the hell out of that house as fast as possible. He headed for the door and then stopped dead in his tracks.

Fingerprints!

He must have left hundreds in every room he entered!

Then immediately he almost started laughing. He didn’t give a flying fuck whether the fingerprints were found. They weren’t registered anywhere, whereas those of Carmona and Sorrentino were.

Before leaving the room, he couldn’t resist and went back and looked at the two used condoms on the floor near the table.

As soon as he got into the car, he happened to glance at his watch. And for a second, he thought it had broken.

Could it possibly be four o’clock? Was it possible he’d spent nearly three hours in that house without having the slightest sense of it?

The position of the sun, which was ducking in and out of the clouds, confirmed that the watch was running fine. What was the explanation?

What is this? What the hell is he thinking? So now he’s trying to convince himself that another weird thing happened inside Manzella’s house?
Montalbano Two suddenly and rather angrily asked.

What other thing?
Montalbano One immediately reacted, as if stung by a wasp.

This business about time. Absolutely nothing paranormal happened, nothing magical, nothing mysterious, no presences, time did not stop or stand still or similar bullshit. He simply stayed in there for three hours without noticing the time passing. So let’s drop this stuff about weird and uncanny events, because nothing unusual whatsoever happened inside that house.

Oh, no? Then how do you explain—

You want an explanation? Plain and brutal? He was already upset when he entered the house, his heart was pounding because he can’t tolerate violence anymore, or at least the image of violence he has in his own mind. Men become rather more sensitive to certain things when going through andropause.

You could have spared us the mention of andropause
.

No, I can’t not talk about it, because it’s the reason for everything! Look, he practically saw what happened in there. Simple as that. It’s not the first time that’s happened to him. And he grafted the death of the seagull onto what he saw. Which spooked him just as much. That’s all. The only thing different is the way he reacted. Like an old man, with his emotions on his sleeve and tears always ready to spill. Which is not a good sign
.

Everything you say is so damned trite! And how do you explain the fact that he found the envelope immediately?

Why, I suppose you think the seagull’s beak pointed to where the envelope was hidden? Come on! Give me a break! It was his policing instincts that led him there! If Catarella had searched the room, he might have taken a little longer, but he would have found it in the end,
too!

Would you guys please quit bugging me?
the inspector cut in.
I have to drive, for Chrissakes! You practically made me run over that little kid there!

But he felt that, in the end, the discussion had done him good, put things into perspective. Since he didn’t feel the least bit hungry, he stopped at the first bar he came upon and downed a double espresso.

“Have Augello and the others left?”

“Yessir, Chief. Already a ’alf ’our ago already. An’ Signura Fazio brought the gun.”

“Go and put it in my car.”

He went into his office, took the envelope out of his pocket, and without even looking at it, slipped it into a drawer, which he then locked.

He didn’t want to be distracted by any new information. The most important thing for now was for Fazio to get to Palermo safe and sound.

The first call came in around five-thirty, from Mimì.

“Totò Monzillo sends greetings,” said Augello.

Monzillo was a colleague from Montelusa Central, a good cop.

“What does that mean?”

“What’s it supposed to mean, Salvo? It means Monzillo’s here with me in Fiacca. We ran into each other in the parking lot. He’s got four men with him.”

“And what’s he doing there?”

“He’s waiting for the ambulance with Fazio, so he can escort them to Palermo. Direct orders from Bonetti-Alderighi. So I think that means we can—”

“Return to Vigàta? Forget about it!”

“But what’s the use of us going along with them? To form a procession?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little ridiculous?”

“Not in the least. You know about the metallic blue car, you know about Carmona, and you know why they want to kill Fazio, whereas Monzillo doesn’t know a goddamn thing.”

“You’re right,” said Augello.

The inspector had been counting on that very thing: that the commissioner, as was logical, would send an escort. That way, Carmona and his pal would realize almost at once that there were two police cars accompanying the ambulance and would almost certainly drop their plans. They were killers, not kamikazes, and were fond of their stinking lives. Montalbano felt a little less worried. And so he started signing papers.

“We’re heading off now. It’s exactly six o’clock,” said Mimì.

“Thanks. Have a good trip.”

“We’re halfway there, and everything’s going smoothly. Except that it’s raining a little.”

The fifth call, however, was late in coming. After twenty-five minutes of waiting, Montalbano started squirming nervously in his chair, and at one point his signature came out as an impenetrable scrawl. He got up, went over to the window, fired up a cigarette, and at that moment Mimì called.

“What’s the holdup?”

“Listen, something crazy happened, a false alarm.”

“Are you sure it was false?”

“Absolutely. A car with two men inside passed the ambulance and then swerved and blocked the lane. It was the wet road surface. But we immediately thought it was an ambush and surrounded the vehicle. Can you imagine? The poor bastards saw eight guns pointed at them, some of them machine guns. They were forced out of the car with their hands up and searched, and then the older of the two, who’s got heart trouble, had a mild attack.”

“Who were they?”

“The bishop of Patti and his secretary.”

“Holy shit!”

“I don’t think that’s the last we’re gonna hear of this.”

17

Augello’s eighth and last call came in just before eight o’clock.

“The ambulance has just entered the infirmary. Nothing else happened. Smooth ride, except for the snafu with the bishop. I don’t think we were even followed. Listen, since we won’t be back in Vigàta till about ten, I’m just going to go home, and we can talk tomorrow.”

“All right.”

Now he could at last look at what Manzella had written.

He opened the drawer and took out the envelope, which wasn’t sealed. Inside were two sheets of paper covered with dense handwriting on both sides. He started reading.

Inspector Montalbano
 . . .

He gave a start in his chair, as if someone had unexpectedly called his name.

Why had Manzella addressed the letter directly to him? He continued reading.

When he had finished, he got up and started pacing slowly around the desk. After about ten laps, he took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He was all sweaty. What he had just read was not a letter, but a soap-covered rope to hang oneself, a loaded and cocked pistol, a lighted fuse.

“Hello, Mimì? Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you, but when you get to Vigàta, I want you to come straight to the office. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“But I’ve already told Beba to make—”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Thanks for being so understanding.”

“Hello, Angela? Montalbano here. Listen, I’m very sorry, but I won’t be able to see you tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Something’s come up. I have to stay here at the office all night. There’s a huge operation involving the whole province.”

“So when can we see each other?”

“I’ll ring you around four in the afternoon tomorrow and we can decide then. Ciao.”

Going to eat was out of the question. This whole damned story was looking as if it would end up the way it had started, that is, by taking away his appetite both morning and night.

He headed for the port. There wasn’t a soul on the eastern wharf, whereas in the distance, on the western jetty, where the trawlers docked and the big cold storage houses were, the powerful floodlights were already on, lighting up the whole area of unloading and reloading the evening’s haul.

It was by the light of those floods that Manzella had been able to see through his telescope—the porter’s wife had been able to see through that same telescope—and it had cost both of them their lives.

The glow of the floodlights whitened the western sky. It looked as if they were shooting a film.

If only it were a film!
the inspector thought.

But it was a true story. The intermittent beam of the lighthouse at the end of the jetty allowed him to reach the flat rock without breaking his neck or falling into the sea. He sat down, cigarette already lit.

He had to make a decision, any decision whatsoever, before Mimì arrived. Because when he talked to him, he would need strong arguments to pull him over to his side. But there were only two possible decisions to make: either jump neck-deep into this affair and risk coming away defeated and subject to disciplinary action, controversy, and rebukes, or extract themselves and sit back and watch how the others wriggled out of it.
Tertium non datur
.

For example, he could say to himself:

“You’re fifty-seven years old, in the twilight of your career: why would you want to get entangled in an affair that could bring you to a bad end?”

Or he could say:

“You’re fifty-seven years old, in the twilight of your career, and therefore have nothing to lose. Give it all you’ve got.”

No, no, no,
said Montalbano Two.
He was right the first time. He’s no longer the right age to play the hero and start tilting at windmills.

What windmills? These are real monsters!
Montalbano One rebelled.

Of course they’re real monsters, and fierce, too. And that’s exactly why he should step aside. He’s no longer strong enough to fight them. It’s not cowardice or anything like that. He must simply realize that he’s no longer able to pull it
off.

But the letter was addressed to him! Manzella was asking him personally to intervene! He can’t back
out!

Can we think rationally about this? Manzella didn’t even know Montalbano. He wrote to him because he thought he would be the person assigned the investigation. It’s not a personal request, can’t you get that through your head?

Then what, in your opinion, should he
do?

He should go to the commissioner, tell him the whole story, and give him the letter.

And what, again in your opinion, will the commissioner
do?

Almost certainly pass it on to the Secret Service.

Which would be the same as tossing it into the wastepaper basket. And flushing three dead bodies and an attempted murder down the drain.

In short, a fox in the henhouse and a wolf outside. And speaking of animals, what was that story about sheep he’d read in
Don Quixote
?

Ah, yes. Sancho starts telling Don Quixote the story of a shepherd who has to get his three hundred sheep across a river. He ferries them over one at a time in a little boat, begging Sancho to keep track of the crossings and warning him that if he makes a mistake, the story will end. And indeed Sancho slips up and is no longer able to keep telling Don Quixote the story to the end. Little surprise that Montalbano couldn’t tell Camilleri how the story would end!

However, after another fifteen minutes of thinking and rethinking, mulling and remulling, he reached a decision. By his calculations, Augello wouldn’t be back for another forty minutes or so. So he had a little time. It took him ten minutes to get to the western wharf. The activity hadn’t yet reached its peak, and there were only four trawlers unloading their hauls. The bulk of the night’s catch would be arriving much later. Rizzica was standing in front of storehouse number three, talking with somebody. But as soon as he recognized the inspector, he came towards him.

“You lookin’ for me?”

“No. And we’ll be seeing each other tomorrow, if I’m not mistaken. I believe Inspector Augello asked you to come in.”

“Yessir, but since you’re here, I’d like to talk.”

“So let’s talk.”

Rizzica headed for that place of piss and turds whose stench had already once made Montalbano nearly faint.

“No, not there,” said the inspector. “Let’s go out to the end of the wharf.”

“All right,” the other consented.

“What do you have to tell me?”

“Inspector, I want to tell you straightaway just to get it off my chest. I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“When I came to you an’ reported my suspicions. I was wrong.”

“So it wasn’t true the captain and crew of that fishing boat were involved in drug trafficking?”

“No sir.”

“Then why are they sometimes late coming back to port?”

“Inspector, that boat is jinxed. There’s a lot o’ boats, not just trawlers, even ships, that are born under a bad star. An’ they carry the hex with ’em wherever they go. I had the engine changed, an’ now iss never late anymore. So . . .”

“You’ll have to come into the station anyway, I’m sorry. We’ll set down in writing what you have to say, file a report, and then you can leave.”

They’d reached the last storehouse, almost at the end of the wharf. There the floodlights weren’t on, and there wasn’t anyone about.

“Who does this warehouse belong to?”

“Me.”

“Why’s it closed?”

“Inspector, I only use this warehouse when there’s really big hauls an’ the other warehouses aren’t enough. Tonight I’s already told that the haul isn’t so big.”

Therefore that was the warehouse they took Fazio to, right after shooting him.

Inspector Montalbano, since you’ll probably be assigned the investigation if they kill me, and they probably will, I hope that, if you are as good as people say, you’ll be able to find this letter easily. This all started when, at an unusual sort of gathering in Montelusa, I met Giovanna Lonero, a thirty-year-old transsexual. Since I felt immediately attracted to her, she confided to me that she lived in almost total isolation in an apartment in Vigàta, at the disposal of her lover, whose name she refused to tell me. She only went out at night, and when her lover was away on business. I was able to get her cell phone number, but she didn’t want mine because if her man ever found it, she could get in a lot of trouble. After that night, I called her almost every day, but her cell phone was either always turned off or she just wouldn’t answer. Finally she answered once and said she really wanted to see me, she had been thinking about me a lot, but didn’t dare let herself be seen out and about with me or any other man at all. She agreed to come to my place the next day around midnight. And so we discovered we lived very close to each other (at the time I lived in Via della Forcella, and she in Via delle Magnolie), and therefore she wouldn’t need to take her car, which might have attracted attention. She arrived on time and stayed with me until five o’clock in the morning. This first encounter was followed by many more. At this point I must confess that I own a large telescope that I use to spy on people in the intimacy of their homes. One night, totally by chance, I pointed it towards the outer part of the western wharf at the port, during the busy period when they unload the fishing trawlers and load the catch onto refrigerator trucks and into the cold storage houses. After that time, every so often I would look away from the lit-up windows of the nearby apartment houses and watch the traffic on the wharf. And that was how I happened to witness a scene that looked very strange to me. There was a refrigerator truck stationed in a much less busy spot, in front of the last storehouse at the end of the wharf, and I saw four large crates being unloaded very hurriedly from this truck and then reloaded onto a trawler that immediately went off to dock inside the harbor. Meanwhile the refrigerator truck had been loaded with crates of fish and then left. Three nights later, as I was watching the same scene unfold, Giovanna arrived. She also wanted to have a look, but then immediately stepped back in horror and said: “Oh my God, that’s Franco!” The tall, slender man of about forty was her lover, Franco Sinagra. She was upset, as if the man could see her in turn in my room. She didn’t want to stay, and left not long after. Several times when we got together after that, I tried very hard to find out a little more from her. Meanwhile I got down to work on my own, and someone from my social circle (it’s a very gossipy circle) told me that Franco Sinagra was the surviving representative of the Mafia family of the same name and was forced to keep his relationship with Giovanna extremely secret because strict conformity with so-called normal behavior was still the rule among mafiosi. On top of this he was married to the daughter of a boss from Rivera, and his father-in-law would have never forgiven him. In short, if the whole affair ever became known, he risked losing everything, all his power and wealth. Giovanna also told me he was a stingy man who had a sort of tic; that is, he needed to appropriate everything that came within his reach, to own it himself. He had even taken away two little pieces of cheap jewelry of Giovanna’s, after which she nicknamed him “the Thieving Magpie.” Anyway, little by little, I came on my own to the logical conclusion that whatever the sort of traffic he was involved in, it had to be something extremely important, if a Mafia chief was directing operations instead of some lackey. Inspector, at this point I have no qualms about admitting to you that Giovanna and I realized we were in love. If the word “love” bothers you in this context, then replace it with the word “passion.” And that was how I hatched a plan, without ever telling her, to eliminate Franco Sinagra so I could have Giovanna all to myself. I also managed, from hints and suggestions from her, to figure out what the mysterious traffic involved: they were ferrying chemical weapons provided by the Russian Mafia to an Arab country. Involved in the traffic were two trawlers owned by a certain Rizzica, who knows everything. But there’s more: Giovanna let slip that the person pulling the strings in the whole affair was the Honorable Alvaro Di Santo, currently Undersecretary of Foreign Commerce. One night she told me that Franco was supposed to be flying to Rome the following day. She was pleased with the prospect of being completely free to spend a few nights with me. I immediately disappointed her. I told her that the following day I also had to go away, to Palermo to see my mother, who was unwell. Without arousing her suspicion, I got her to tell me at what time Franco’s flight was supposed to be leaving Palermo. I was so taken up by my plan, Inspector, that I didn’t realize the possible consequences of my actions. To make a long story short, I took the same flight and, in Rome, didn’t once let him out of my sight. And I had a stroke of luck: I managed to take a picture of him with my cell phone, in a restaurant on the outskirts of town, together with Honorable Di Santo, whom I was able to identify from a photo in a copy of the parliamentary directory I had gotten my hands on. Then, using a camera with a telephoto lens that I’d borrowed, I photographed Franco in action with his crates. But one unlucky day a friend of mine revealed to me that while we were away (while Franco and I were away, that is), Giovanna had gone out to enjoy herself in Fiacca. In a fit of jealous rage, I decided to call Fazio and informed on everybody, including Giovanna, and broke off all relations with her. I even changed my address. But with Fazio I sort of had to beat around the bush, because Giovanna then suddenly reappeared in my life. But I found her somehow different from before. I thought: Is she sincere or is she hiding something from me? Maybe she will have to answer this question herself, Inspector, when I can no longer hear her.