Treasure Hunt (3 page)

“Galluzzo finally found the pistol,” said Fazio, coming in.

“Where was it?”

“In Caterina’s room. Hidden inside a hollow statue of the Madonna.”

“Any new developments?”

“Dead calm. Did you know that Catarella has a theory about it?”

“About what?”

“About the fact that there are less robberies.”

“And how does he explain it?”

“He says that the robbers, the local ones, who rob the homes of working poor or snatch women’s purses, are ashamed.”

“Of what?”

“Of their big-time colleagues. The CEOs who drive their companies to bankruptcy after making off with people’s savings, the banks who are always finding a way to screw their customers, the big companies that steal public funds. Whereas they, the petty thieves who have to make do with ten euros or a broken TV or a computer that doesn’t work . . . they feel ashamed, and don’t feel like stealing anymore.”

As could have been expected, at midnight, TeleVigàta broadcast a special report covering the entire Palmisano incident.

Naturally they showed footage of Montalbano climbing the ladder while Gregorio was shooting at him from the terrace, and the whole thing, seen from the outside, confirmed Catarella’s interpretation. That is, it really did look as though nothing could stop the inspector. You needed only to see the determination with which he climbed over the balustrade with a gun in one hand and hear the authority with which he ordered the people on the ground to turn off the searchlight.

In short, a moment worthy of the TV series
Captains Courageous
.

None of the fear, trembling, or vertigo he had felt halfway up showed in the video. Luckily there was no device in the world, not even an X-ray machine, not even a CAT scanner, that could show inner distress and well-concealed fear. But when the footage of the inflatable doll began, Montalbano turned off the TV.

He just couldn’t stand it. It made him feel weirder than if it was actually a real, live girl in flesh and blood.

Before going to bed, he phoned Livia.

“I saw you, you know,” she said right off the bat.

“Where?”

“On TV, on the national news.”

Fucking bastards. The TeleVigàta crew had sold their story!

“I was really scared for you,” Livia continued.

“When?”

“When you had that moment of vertigo on the ladder.”

“You’re right. But nobody seemed to notice.”

“I did. But couldn’t you have sent Augello up there instead? He’s so much younger than you. You really can’t be doing these kinds of things anymore at your age!”

Montalbano started to worry. So now Livia, too, was starting in with this crap about his age?

“You talk as if I was fucking Methuselah, for Chrissakes!”

“Don’t use obscenities, I won’t stand for it! Who ever mentioned Methuselah? You’re becoming so neurotic!”

With a start like that, the whole thing could only end on a sour note.

“Ahh Chief, Chief! Ahh Chief! Hizzoner the C’mishner’s been callin’ f’yiz since eight aclack! Jeezis, was he mad! ’E sez ’e wants yiz a call ’im emergently straightaways!”

“All right, give him a ring and pass the call to me,” said Montalbano, heading for his office.

His conscience was clean. Since nothing had happened of late, he hadn’t had the opportunity to do anything that might appear a sin of commission or omission in the eyes of the commissioner.

“Montalbano?”

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“Would you please explain to me why you allowed several television cameramen to do whatever the hell they pleased in the home of those two crazy old people?”

“But I never—”

“Just know that I’ve been bombarded with telephone calls of protest—from the bishop’s office to the Union of Catholic Fathers, to the FaFa Club to the—”

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t quite get the name of that club.”

“FaFa. Would you prefer FF? The full name is the Faith and Family Club.”

“But what are they protesting?”

“They’re offended by the images of that obscene inflatable doll.”

“Ah, I see. At any rate, I didn’t allow anyone to go in there.”

“Oh, no? Then how did they get in?”

“Through the door, I would imagine.”

“Breaking the seals?”

The place had never been sealed off. Should he have ordered it sealed? At any rate, seals or no seals, he should at least have closed the door.

His only hope was to start talking legalese-bureaucratese, the kind where after a couple of sentences nobody understands a fucking thing anymore.

“Mr. Commissioner, if I may. In the case in point, we hadn’t ascertained any conditions whereby we should have recourse to the application of said seals, given that while the apartment in question had been the scene of behavior qualifiable, at the very least, as violent, we were not cognizant of any harm having come to anyone’s person as a result of said behavior, and therefore—”

“Fine, fine, but in entering without authorization, they committed a serious infraction.”

“A very serious infraction. And there may be more,” said the inspector, trying to up the ante.

“What do you mean?”

Pile on the legalese-bureaucratese.

“Who’s to say the cameraman and journalist didn’t take some of the objects found on the premises? With its voluminous spatial capacity, that apartment could be termed more than a civilian residence. It may well be classifiable as an antiques warehouse, in view of the fact that it contains, however uninventoried, a wealth of artistically sculpted gold crosses, illustrated Bibles of untold value, rosaries of mother-of-pearl, silver, and gold, as well as—”

“Fine, fine, I’m going to take the necessary measures,” the commissioner interrupted him, put off by Montalbano’s tone of voice.

And thus the folks at TeleVigàta,
having a few cats to comb, would learn their lesson.

On the midday news broadcast, TeleVigàta’s purse-lipped prince of opinion, Pippo Ragonese, the one with a face like a chicken’s ass, said angrily that the broadcasting station, “known for its absolute independence of judgment,” had been subjected to “strong pressure from a variety of sources” in an attempt to halt any further broadcasting of the news feature on the Palmisano home, particularly the footage involving the doll. He let it be known that the journalist and cameraman who had entered the apartment were in danger of being indicted for “breaking and entering and theft of art objects.”

In the face of such intimidation, Ragonese solemnly proclaimed that as of that moment, and for the entire afternoon and evening until the eight
P.M
. news edition, TeleVigàta would broadcast nothing but the images of the inflatable doll.

And so they did.

But only until six
P.M
., because at that time two carabinieri showed up and confiscated the videotape by order of the prefect.

By the following morning, needless to say, all the national papers and television news programs were talking about the affair. A few were against the confiscation; one of the most important national dailies, the one printed in Rome, published the headline:

Is There No Limit to the Ridiculousness?

Others instead were in favor. In fact, the other major newspaper, the one printed in Milan, ran the headline:

The Death of Good Taste

And there wasn’t a single stand-up comic on television that evening who didn’t appear onstage with an inflatable doll.

That night, Montalbano had a dream which, if it wasn’t about an actual inflatable doll, as would have been logical and predictable, was about something that came very close.

He was making love to a beautiful young blonde who worked as a salesgirl in a mannequin factory that was deserted, as it was past closing time. They were lying on a sofa in the sales office, surrounded by at least ten mannequins, male and female, who stared fixedly at them, polite little smiles on their lips.

“C’mon, c’mon,” the girl kept saying to him, her eyes on a large clock on the wall, because they both knew what the problem was. She had obtained permission to become human, but if they didn’t manage to bring their business to a happy conclusion, she would turn back into a mannequin forever.

“C’mon, c’mon . . .”

They finally succeeded, with only three seconds left on the clock. The mannequins in the room applauded.

He woke up and ran into the bathroom to take a shower. But how could it be that at fifty-seven he was still having the dreams of a twenty-year-old? Maybe old age wasn’t quite so near at hand as it seemed? The dream reassured him.