The Dance of the Seagull (7 page)

“Why not Montelusa?”

“It’s better if everyone thinks we haven’t found him yet. And it’s even better if they don’t know what hospital he’s in. Let’s go now, and give me your cell phone.”

The first call he made was to Mimì. He explained to him what had happened and told him to go back to Vigàta. The second call was to Fazio’s wife.

But before dialing the number, he turned towards Fazio.

“Want to talk to your wife?”

Fazio acted as if he hadn’t heard the question and merely kept staring into the space in front of him. So the inspector phoned Fazio’s wife and told her the whole story.

“How is he?” was the only thing she wanted know.

“He’s got a head injury, but it doesn’t look too serious to me. He’s lost his memory. I’ll call you back as soon as we get him to a hospital. But please don’t worry, it’s going to be all right.”

If only all women were like that!
he thought, turning the cell phone off. For the whole drive, Fazio didn’t open his mouth. He didn’t even look out the window. He only kept his eyes glued to the back of Gallo’s head, as the driver raced wildly through the barren landscape.

Some two hours later, they were back on the road to Montelusa. In the opinion of the doctor who examined him, Fazio was suffering from cranial trauma. The wound itself was minor. The memory loss could have been caused by two things: shock or something involving the brain. But the doctor couldn’t tell them much for another twenty-four hours. At any rate, it didn’t seem like anything life-threatening. Montalbano informed the wife, who said she would leave at once for Fiacca.

“Would you like me to send a car to take you there?”

“No, thank you, there’s no need.”

Now that everything had been resolved, fatigue started to come crashing down on him, bit by bit, so that by the time he got home to Marinella, he barely had time to open the front door and close it before he fell to his knees like a horse that can’t take another step.

There wasn’t a single muscle in his body that wasn’t slack.

He crawled on all fours to the bedroom, climbed onto the bed, still fully dressed, gripping the covers, and fell immediately into a deep, fathomless sleep.

He woke up the following morning around eight. He’d slept for twelve hours straight and felt completely rested, but was so hungry that he could have eaten the legs of a chair. How long had it been since he’d had a proper meal? He went to the refrigerator, opened it, and felt heartsick. Empty, as desolate as a desert. Not even an olive, a sardine, a piece of tumazzo. But how was it that Adelina hadn’t . . . But Adelina . . . Adel . . .

All at once he remembered.

And at the very same moment he remembered, he wished he had lost his memory like Fazio. They say the light of truth makes him upon whom it shines rejoice and keeps him warm. Whereas the light of the truth that shone on Montalbano—which in this case was the little light inside the refrigerator—made him freeze, turning him at once into a block of ice.

He’d completely forgotten about Livia, Jesus fucking Christ!

He called her name, not moving, since he was unable to take so much as a single step.

“Livia!”

The voice that came out of his mouth sounded rather like a cat mewling. No, Livia was nowhere around, there was no point in calling her name. With great effort he unfroze, went back into the bedroom, and looked around. No trace of Livia whatsoever, as though she’d never come down from Boccadasse. He went into the dining room.

On the table was a letter.

A last goodbye, no doubt. For good, this time, with no change of mind possible. How could he blame her? All the same, he didn’t have the courage to pick up the piece of paper just yet. Before reading it, he needed to pull himself together, to find the strength necessary to listen to what he deserved to hear. He took all his clothes off, threw them into the hamper, took a shower and shaved, made coffee, drank three cups, one after the other, got dressed, phoned the hospital, and managed to talk to Signora Fazio.

“Any news?”

“They have to operate on him, Inspector.”

“Why?”

“He has a blood clot on his brain.”

“Because of the wound?”

“The doctor says he must also have fallen and hit his head in the same place as the wound.”

“When is the operation?”

“I don’t know. Sometime this morning, in any case.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“Listen, Inspector, the chief physician here, who’s a wonderful person, told me he’s in no danger for his life, and it’s a relatively easy operation. But just in case, take down my cell phone number.”

“Thanks, I’ll take it down, but I’m coming anyway.”

He hung up, grabbed Livia’s letter, and went out on the veranda and sat down.

Dearest Salvo,

After waiting for you for three hours (we had agreed we were going to have dinner together, remember?) I got absolutely furious.

As I was about to ring you, I had an idea: to come to the police station in person and start slapping you in front of everyone. I wanted to make an ugly scene that your men would remember for a long time.

So I called a taxi and came to the station. I told Catarella I wanted to see you and he replied that you weren’t in your office. When I asked him if he knew what time you’d be back, he said he didn’t know. And he added that the only thing he knew was that you’d had to go to Montelusa.

Since I had no intention of abandoning my plan to slap you, I told him I would wait for you in your room. Which I did.

But a few minutes later Catarella appeared.

He closed the door behind him, started acting mysterious, and said he wanted to talk to me, even though he wasn’t convinced he was doing the right thing. And he told me that, in his opinion, something had happened to Fazio.

Something serious, because you had seemed very concerned.

That was when I understood in a flash that if you’d totally forgotten about your appointment with me, then the situation must be very dire.

I know how much you care about Fazio.

And so my anger simmered down immediately.

I went to have a bite to eat at Enzo’s and then got in another taxi and went back to Marinella. Around 6 pm, I phoned Catarella. He told me there was no news, and that you weren’t back yet.

And so I thought that if I stayed around I might just get in the way.

I reserved a seat on the ten o’clock flight for tomorrow morning. I sincerely hope everything turns out all right.

So, too bad for now. Maybe next time.

There’s only one thing I hold against you: not having found the time to call me and tell me what was happening.

Please keep me informed about Fazio.

A big hug,

Forever yours

Livia

It would have been a thousand times better if Livia had written a letter full of obscenities, insults, and abuse. This way, it only made him feel like the shit that he was. Or maybe Livia had written him so understanding a letter just to humiliate him all the more. Because, even admitting that his tremendous concern for Fazio had muddled his brain, there still was no excuse for not having even given Livia a ring. How on earth had Livia managed to slip his mind entirely?

It’s not just absurd
, said Montalbano Two.
The truth is that you erased Livia completely out of your consciousness. That was why you didn’t phone her. Because there was nobody left in your head to phone.

And what are you getting at with that observation?
Montalbano One asked polemically.

I’m not getting at anything. I’m simply saying that Livia is only intermittently present in your thoughts.

Okay, fine, but now that Livia is in fact extremely present in my thoughts for the moment, what, in your opinion, should I
do?

Call her at once.

Instead Montalbano decided not to call her.

By that hour she was already at the office, and the phone call would have necessarily been short and constrained. No, he would call her that evening, when he would have all the time he needed to sort things out. The best thing to do right now was to leave at once for Fiacca.

But before getting in his car, he rang Fazio’s wife.

“He’s in the operating room, Inspector. There’s no point in coming now. They won’t even let me see him.”

“Could you then call the station after the operation and let us know how it went? I would really appreciate it.”

7

The moment he saw the inspector, Catarella very nearly threw himself at his feet.

“Jeezis, Chief, I ain’t seen yiz f’such a long time! I rilly rilly missed yiz! An’ Gallo tol’ me ivryting! Ann’ ’iss mornin’ I call a haspitol an’ Fazio’s wife tol’ me ’at—”

“Everything’s fine, Cat. And thanks.”

“Fer what, Chief?”

“For talking to Livia.”

Catarella turned beet-red.

“Ah, y’gotta ’scuze me, Chief, f’takin’ a libbity, but the young lady, insomuch as she lookt rilly rilly upset, she—”

“You did exactly the right thing, Cat. Now send me Inspector Augello.”

“Any news of Fazio?” was Mimì’s first question.

“He’s under the knife.”

“Gallo told me he didn’t recognize either one of you.”

“He even shot at us! But he’s going to recover, you’ll see. What did Pasquano say about the second corpse?”

“He didn’t find any bullet or knife wounds. The guy was simply chucked into the well still alive. In my opinion, your hypothesis that it was Fazio that pushed him in self-defense is probably correct.”

“Has he been identified?”

“Not yet. He didn’t have any documents on him. Forensics took his fingerprints. But I don’t think they’ll find anything.”

“You think the guy’s clean?”

“No, but I saw his hands.”

“What do you mean?”

“As he was falling, he must have tried desperately to grab hold of something without success. He didn’t have any fingertips left, all the flesh was scraped off.”

“We’ll know more when Fazio can talk again. And what can you tell me about the other corpse?”

“The first one we found? I’m still waiting to hear from Forensics.”

“And have you spoken to Pasquano?”

“Nobody can talk to the guy! If I try to talk to him, it’ll probably turn into a shouting match.”

“I’ll call him myself, but not till later in the morning.”

“Listen, don’t get pissed off, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Don’t you think it’s time to inform Bonetti-Alderighi about what happened to Fazio?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I wouldn’t want him to find out from somebody else.”

“From whom?”

“I dunno, maybe some journalist.”

“Zito doesn’t talk.”

“Zito’s not in question. But just think about it, Salvo. Fazio’s at Fiacca Hospital, under his own first and last name, for a head wound caused by a firearm. Now, imagine some journalist from Fiacca—”

“You’re right.”

“And bear in mind that you’ll have to grant Fazio convalescent leave. What are you going to tell the commissioner, that he had typhoid fever?”

“You’re right.”

“I wouldn’t waste any more time, if I were you.”

“I’ll do it right now.”

He dialed the direct number to the commissioner’s office and turned on the speakerphone as soon as he heard someone pick up.

“Hello, Montalbano here. I’d like to—”

“Dear Montalbano, how are you? And the family?”

It was that colossal pain-in-the-ass Dr. Lattes, chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, who held the unshakable belief that the inspector was married and had a large family.

“Everybody’s fine, with thanks to the Blessed Virgin.”

“We must always give thanks. Did you wish to speak with the commissioner?”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately he had to go to Palermo and won’t be back until late afternoon tomorrow. If you’d like to tell me—”

“I wanted to inform the commissioner that one of my men was wounded in a gun battle, and that therefore—”

“Is it serious?”

“No.”

“Thank God!”

“We must always give thanks! Will you let him know?”

“Of course! And please give my very best wishes to the family.”

“I certainly will.”

Mimì, who’d listened to the exchange, stared at the inspector, wonderstruck.

“What’s with you?” asked Montalbano.

“But . . . are you married with children?”

“Cut the shit, Mimì.”

“So then why, with Lattes . . .”

“I’ll explain later, all right? Actually, no, you know what I say? I say that since we’ve got nothing to go on yet, you’re going to go back to your office now, and I’m going to sign a few stacks of papers.”

Two hours later, with his right arm stiff from too many signatures, he decided it was time to call Dr. Pasquano. But as he grabbed the receiver, he realized that if the doctor’s cojones were in a spin, as they often were, then he was liable to tell the inspector to get stuffed and say nothing about the corpses. The best thing, therefore, was to go and talk to him in person. Before leaving the office, however, he rang Adelina and told her that Livia had left, and that the coast was therefore clear.

“I c’n imagine a candition the good woman a lefta house in,” said Adelina, who never gave Livia a break.

“What condition do you think, Adelì? It’s clean!”

“ ’Assa whatta you say, cuzza you’s a man anna you don’a notice a nuttin’! She always a leave it uppa side down! You know where I fine a pair odda younga lady’s a sòccassa one a time? Jess guess!”

“C’mon, Adelì, this isn’t a quiz show.”

“I tink I canna mebbe come a dis aftanoon. You wann’ I make a somethin’ a eat a fer tonite?”

“That would be wonderful.”

The moment he hung up, the phone rang again. It was Fazio’s wife.

“Everything’s fine, Inspector. The operation is over, and it went very well. They told me I can see him around five o’clock. But the doctors don’t want any other visitors. So for you it’d be better if you came tomorrow morning.”

“All right. But if you’d like to go home and rest for a little while, I could send one of my—”

“Thank you, Inspector, but don’t worry, my sister’s here with me.”

As he passed Catarella’s post on his way out of the office, he informed him.

“Signora Fazio just called. The operation was a complete success. Tell everyone.”

As he was parking in the lot in front of the Institute, he saw Dr. Pasquano standing outside the main entrance, smoking a cigarette.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

“If you say so.”

Always so cordial, the good doctor. But he seemed only half angry, since he didn’t start insulting the inspector.

“I didn’t know you had the vice,” Montalbano said, just to make conversation.

“What vice are you referring to?”

“Smoking.”

“Never had that one.”

“But you’re smoking!”

“Montalbano, you think just like a cop, which is no surprise.”

“And how do I think?”

“You link a man with a single act, whereas that man is not always engaged in that act . . .”

“What are you doing, Doctor? Misquoting Pirandello? You know what I say to you?”

“Do tell.”

“That I don’t give a flying fuck whether you have the vice or not.”

“That’s a little better, though you’ve still come to bust my balls and ruin the only cigarette I’ll smoke all day.”

“Even one cigarette a day is a vice, according to the Americans.”

“You can all go fuck yourselves, you and the Americans.”

“Keep your voice down, or President Bush will have you bombed at once. Anything new to tell me?”

“Who, me?! How could I have anything new to tell you? By now I’ve seen every manner of violent death imaginable. All I’m missing, to round out my collection, is a specimen of death by napalm.”

“I meant anything new about the two bodies found in the wells.”

“I figured that out perfectly well all by myself. I was hardly under the delusion that you’d come to ask after my health.”

“Let me remedy that at once: how are you?”

“At the moment I can’t complain. And thank you for your courteous, ready interest. Where shall we start?”

“With the second one, the younger corpse.”

“You mean the fresher one? The guy died when somebody threw him into the well. He was fine before that.”

“Did he bear any marks of a struggle?”

“Can’t you see you’re getting soft in the head with age? A guy falls a hundred feet into a well, bouncing between the walls all the way down, and you’re asking me if . . . Come on! You want some advice?”

“If you must.”

“Given your age, why don’t you just pack up and resign? Can’t you see for yourself that you’re not right in the head anymore? Both heads, actually, above and below.”

“Doctor, I think you’re laying it on a little thick.”

“I’m a physician. We’re always supposed to tell the truth.”

“And do you? Even when you’re bluffing at poker?”

“When I’m playing poker, I’m not a doctor, but a poker player. But, as for you, didn’t you see the corpse?”

“No, Doctor, I had to leave shortly before they pulled it out of the well.”

It was half lie, half truth. Apparently Augello hadn’t told him that Montalbano had passed out. Otherwise one could only imagine what Pasquano would have said.

“About thirty years old, in good health, good shape, a perfect recruit for the lists of hell. He would have lived to be a hundred, if not for shootouts and a variety of potential accidents.”

“What about the other one?”

“The other one . . . Shall we go into my office?”

They went inside, entered Pasquano’s study, and the doctor told him to sit down.

“How long had he been in the well?” the inspector began.

“For at least a week. Which accelerated the decomposition process. They must have thrown him in shortly after killing him. But I also have to tell you—and this is only an opinion, mind you—that they took a little while to finish him off. Let’s say a good half day.”

“You mean they tortured him?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know . . . but . . .”

“Doctor, you were much more decisive in your younger days. Now you’ve even got a tremor in your voice. You want some advice? Why don’t you retire to the private life so you can play poker all day from morning till night? I’m only trying to help, since it pains me a little to see you this way. I promise you that whatever you tell me, even if it’s totally fucking stupid, won’t leave this room.”

Pasquano started laughing.

“Boy, you really can’t take it, can you? Well, all right. Bear in mind that what I’m about to tell you won’t be written in my report. In my opinion, the first thing they did to him was shoot him in the foot.”

“Which one?”

“What difference does it make? The left.”

“Apparently they wanted to make him talk.”

“Maybe. They left him that way for a few hours, then worked him over with a knife—he had cuts all over his body—and then they stabbed him five times to kill him. Three times in the thorax and twice right in the face.”

“So he’s unrecognizable.”

“These dickheaded comments of yours drive me crazy! Didn’t you see for yourself the state he’d been reduced to?!”

“Were you able to tell whether he was dressed when—”

“He was already naked; he wasn’t stripped afterwards.”

“And when they shot him in the foot, was it already naked too?”

“A strangely intelligent question, coming from you. Yes, it was already naked. They surprised him in his sleep, naked. And after killing him, they wrapped him in a blanket that was right there at hand.”

Montalbano remained silent.

“Mind telling me what thought is taxing your poor brain?” Pasquano asked.

“I’m thinking that to make someone talk, normally you don’t shoot him in the foot. You burn his hand, you gouge out an eye . . . All the little knife cuts may make sense, but shooting his foot . . .”

“They were very well taken care of.”

“Who were?”

“The guy’s feet.”

“Spent a lot of time at the pedicurist’s?”

“I’d say so.”

“Notice anything else?”

“He’d been operated on, a long time ago, on his right leg. An excellent job, I must say.”

“What for?”

“A torn ligament.”

“So he limped?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Got anything else to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

While driving back down to Vigàta, he noticed he was going 100 kilometers an hour, something he never did. He slowed down, realizing that what was pressing his foot onto the accelerator was the violent hunger that had come over him while leaving the Institute. He entered the trattoria in such a rush that Enzo, seeing him race in, asked: