IM4 The Voice of the Violin (2003)

by Andrea Camilleri

  The noble Luca Bonetri-Alderighi didn't answer, didn't even say 'Shoo' or 'Get out of here', but only continued staring at a computer screen. The inspector contemplated his superior's disturbing hairdo, which was very full with a great big tuft in the middle that curled back like certain turds deposited in the open country. An exact replica of the coif of that criminally insane psychiatrist who'd triggered all the butchery in Bosnia.

  'What was his name?'

  It was too late when he realized that, still dazed from sleep, he'd spoken aloud.

  'What was whose name?' asked the commissioner, finally looking up at him.

  'Never mind,' said Montalbano.

  The commissioner kept looking at him with an expression that combined contempt and commiseration, apparently discerning unmistakable signs of senile dementia in the inspector.

  I'm going to speak very frankly, Montalbano. I don't have a very high opinion of you.'

  'Nor I of you,' the inspector replied bluntly.

  'Good. At least things are clear between us. I called you here to tell you that I'm taking you off the Licalzi murder case. I've handed it over to Panzacchi, captain of the Flying Squad, to whom the investigation should have fallen by rights in the first place.'

  Ernesto Panzacchi was a loyal follower whom Bonetti-Alderighi had brought, with him to Montelusa.

  'May I ask you why, though I couldn't care less?'

  'You committed a foolish act that created a serious impediment for Dr Arqua.'

  'Did he write that in his report?'

  'No, he didn't write it in his report. He very generously didn't want to damage your career. But then he repented and told me the whole story.'

  'Ah, these repenters!' commented the inspector.

  'Do you have something against repenters?'

  'Let's drop it.'

  He left without even saying goodbye. I'm going to take disciplinary measures!' Bonetti-Alderighi shouted at his back.

  The forensics laboratory was located in the building's basement.

  Is Dr Arqua in?'

  'He's in his office.'

  Montalbano barged in without knocking.

  'Hello, Arqua. I'm on my way to the commissioner's, he wants to see me. Thought I'd drop in and see if you have any news for me.'

  Vanni Arqua was obviously embarrassed. But since Montalbano had led him to believe he hadn't yet seen the commissioner, he decided to answer as if he didn't know the inspector was no longer in charge of the investigation.

  'The murderer cleaned everything very carefully. We found a lot of fingerprints, but they clearly had nothing to do with the homicide.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because they were all yours, Inspector. You continue to be very, very careless.'

  'Oh, listen, Arqua. Did you know that it's a sin to rat on someone? Ask Dr Lattes. You'll have to repent all over again.'

  'Hey, Chief! Mr Cacano called another time again! Said as how he 'membered somethin s might be maybe impor'ant. I wrote 'is number down on dis here piece a paper.'

  Eyeing the little square of paper, Montalbano felt his body start to itch all over. Catarella had written the numbers down in such a way that a three might be a five or a nine, the two a four, the five a six, and so on.

  'Hey, Cat! What kind of number is this, anyway?'

  'That's the number, Chief. Cacano's number. What's written down.'

  Before reaching Gillo Jacono, he spoke to a bar, the Jacopetti family and one Dr Balzani.

  By the fourth attempt, he was very discouraged.

  'Hello? Whom I speaking with? This is Inspector Montalbano.'

  'Ah, Inspector, it's very good you called. I was on my way out.'

  'You were looking for me?'

  'A certain detail came back to me, I'm not sure if it'll be of any use to you. The man I saw getting out of the Twingo and walk towards the house with a woman had a suitcase in his hand.'

  'Are you sure about that?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'An overnight bag?'

  'No, Inspector, it was pretty big. But..'

  Yes?'

  'I had the impression the man was carrying it without effort, as if there wasn't much in it.'

  'Thank you, Mr Jacono. Please call me when you get

  back.'

  He looked up the Vassallos' number in the phone book and dialled it.

  "Inspector. I came to your office as we'd agreed, but you weren't there. I waited a while, and then I had to go.'

  'Please forgive me. Listen, Mr Vassallo, last Wednesday evening, when you were waiting for Mrs Licalzi to come to dinner, did anybody call you?'

  'Well, a friend of mine from Venice did, and so did our daughter, who lives in Catania -- I'm sure that's of no interest to you. But, in fact, what I wanted to tell you this afternoon was that Maurizio Di Blasi did call twice that evening. Just after nine o'clock, and again just after ten. He was looking for Michela.'

  The unpleasantness of his meeting with the commissioner needed to be blotted out with a solemn feast. The Trattoria San Calogero was dosed, but he remembered a friend telling him that right at the gates to Joppolo Giancaxio, a little town about twenty kilometres inland from Vigata, there was an osteria that was worth the trouble. He got in his car, and found the place immediately: it was called La Cacciatora. Naturally, they had no game. The owner-cashier-waiter, who had a big handlebar moustache and vaguely resembled the Gentleman King, Victor Emmanuel II, started things off by putting a hefty serving of delicious caponata in front of him. 'A joyous start is the best of guides,' wrote Boiardo, and Montalbano decided to let himself be guided. 'What will you have?'

  'Bring me whatever you like.'

  The Gentleman King smiled, appreciating the vote of confidence.

  As a first course, he served him a large dish of macaroni in a light sauce dubbed Foco vivo or 'live fire' (olive oil, garlic, lots of hot red pepper, salt), which the inspector was forced to wash down with half a bottle of wine. For the second course, he ate a substantial portion of lamb alia cacciatora that had a pleasant fragrance of onion and oregano. He closed with a ricotta cheesecake and small glass of anisette as a viaticum and boost for his digestive system. He paid the bill, a pittance, and exchanged a handshake and smile with the Gentleman King.

  'Excuse me, who's the cook?'

  'My wife.'

  'Please give her my compliments.' 'I will'

  On the drive back, instead of heading towards Montelusa, he turned onto the road for Fiacca, which brought him home to Marinella from the direction opposite the one he usually took when coming from Vigata. It took him half an hour longer, but in compensation he avoided passing in front of Anna Tropeano's house. He was certain he would have stopped, there was no getting around it, and he would have cut a ridiculous figure in the young woman's eyes. He phoned Mimi Augello.

  'How are you feeling?'

  'Terrible.'

  'Listen' forget what I said to you. You can stay at home tomorrow morning. Since the matter's no longer in our hands. I'll send Fazio to accompany Dr Licalzi.'

  'What do you mean, it's no longer in our hands?'

  'The commissioner took the case away from me. Passed it on to the captain of the Flying Squad.'

  'Why did he do that?'

  'Because two does not equal three. Want me to tell your sister anything?'

  'Don't tell her they broke my head open, for Christ's sake,'or she'll think I'm on my deathbed.'

  'Take care, Mimi.'

  'Hello, Fazio? Montalbano here.' 'What's wrong, Chief?'

  He told him to pass all phone calls relating to the case on to the Montelusa Flying Squad, and he explained what he was supposed to do with Licalzi.

  'Hello, Livia? Salvo here. How are you doing?' 'All right, I guess.'

  'What's with this tone? The other night you hung up on me before I had a chance to say anything.' 'You phoned me in the middle of the night' 'But it was the first free moment I had!' 'Poor thing! Allow me to point out that you, between thunderstorms,
shoot-outs and ambushes, have very cleverly managed to avoid answering the very specific question I asked you last Wednesday evening.'

  'I wanted to tell you I'm going to see Francois tomorrow.'

  'With Mimi?'

  'No, Mimi was hit--'

  'Oh my God.' Is it serious?'

  She and Mimi had a soft spot for each other.

  'Let me finish! He was hit on the head with a stone. Chickenshit, three stitches. So I'm going to go alone. Mimi's sister wants to talk to me.'

  'About Francois?'

  'Who else?'

  'Oh my God. He must be sick. I'm going to phone her right away!'

  'Come on, those people go to bed at sunset! I'll phone you tomorrow evening, as soon as I get home.'

  'Let me know. I mean it. I'm not going to sleep a wink tonight.'

  NINE

  To go from Vigata to Calapiano, anyone with any sense, and with an even superficial knowledge of Sicilian roads, would first have taken the superhighway to Catania, exited onto the road that turns back inland towards Troina at 1,120 metres' elevation, descended to Gagliano at 751 metres by way of a sort of mule track that received its first and last layer of tarmac fifty years ago in the early days of regional autonomy, and finally reached Calapiano via a provincial road that clearly refused to be known as such, its true aspiration being to resume the outward appearance of the earthquake-ravaged country trail it had once been. But that wasn't the end of it. The farm belonging to Mimi's sister and her husband was four kilometres outside town, and one reached it by following a winding strip of gravel on which even goats had doubts about setting a single one of their four available hooves. This was what one might call, for lack of a better term, the best route, the one Mimi Augello always took, its difficulties and discomforts not coming entirely to the fore until the final stretch.

  Naturally, Montalbano did not take it. He chose instead to cut across the island, and thus found himself, from the start, travelling roads along which the few surviving peasants interrupted their labours to gaze in amazement at the car passing recklessly by. They would talk about it at home in the evening with their children, 'Know what? This mornin' a car drove by!'

  This, however, was the Sicily the inspector liked best: harsh, spare in vegetation, on whose soil it seemed (and was) impossible to live, and where he could still run across, though more and more rarely, a man in gaiters and cap, rifle on shoulder, who would raise two fingers to his visor and salute him from the back of a mule.

  The sky was clear and bright and openly declared its determination to remain so until evening. It was almost hot. But the open windows did not prevent the interior of the car from becoming permeated with the delightful aromas filtering out of the packages large and small literally stuffed into the backseat. Before leaving, Montalbano had stopped at the Cafre Albanese, which made the best pastries in all of Vigata, and bought twenty cannoli, fresh out of the oven, ten kilos' worth of tetu, taralli, viscotti regina and Palermitan mostaccioli -- all long-lasting cookies -- as well as some marzipan fruits, and, to crown it all, a colourful cassata that weighed five kilos all by itself.

  He arrived in the early afternoon and worked out that the journey had taken him more than four hours. The big farmhouse looked empty to him; only the smoking chimney said there was someone at home. He tooted his horn, and a moment later Franca, Mimi's sister, appeared in the doorway. She was a blonde Sicilian over forty, a strong, tall woman. She eyed the car, which she didn't recognize, as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  It's Montalbano,' said the inspector, opening the car

  door and getting out. ,

  Franca ran up to him with a big smile on her face and embraced him.

  'Where's Mimi?'

  'At the last minute he couldn't come. He felt really bad about it.'

  Franca looked at him. Montalbano was unable to tell a lie to people he respected; he would stammer, blush and look away.

  Tm going to phone Mimi,' Franca said decisively, walking back into the house. By some miracle Montalbano managed to load himself up with all the packages, big and small, and followed her inside a few minutes later.

  Franca was just hanging up.

  'He's still got a headache.'

  'Reassured now? Believe me, it was nothing,' said the inspector, unloading the parcels onto the table.

  'And what's this?' said Franca. fAre you trying to turn this place into a pastry shop?'

  She put the sweets in the fridge.

  'How are you, Salvo?' 'Fine. And how's everybody here?' 'We're all fine, thank Goch And you won't believe Francois. He's shot right up, getting taller by the day.' 'Where are they?'

  'Out and about. But when I ring the bell for lunch, they'll all come running. Are you staying the night with us? I prepared a room for you.'

  'Thanks, Franca, but you know I can't. I have to leave by five at the latest. I can't be like your brother and race along these roads like a madman.'

  'Go and wash, then.'

  He returned fifteen minutes later, refreshed. Franca was setting the table for nine people. The inspector decided this was perhaps the right moment.

  'Mimi said you wanted to talk to me'

  'Later, later' Franca said brusquely. 'Hungry?'

  'Well, yes'

  'Want a little wheat bread? I took it out of the oven less than an hour ago. Shall I prepare you some?'

  Without waiting for an answer, she cut two slices from a loaf, dressed them in olive oil, salt and black pepper, adding a slice of pecorino cheese, put this all together to form a sandwich, and handed it to him,

  Montalbano went outside, sat down on a bench next to the door, and, at the first bite, felt forty years younger. He was a little kid again. This was bread the way his grandmother used to make it for him.

  It was meant to be eaten in the sun, while thinking of nothing, only relishing being in harmony with one's body, the earth, and the smell of the grass. A moment later he heard shouting and saw three children chasing after each other, pushing and trying to trip one another. They were Giuseppe, nine years old, his brother, Domenico, namesake of his uncle Mimi and the same age as Francois, and Francois himself.

  The inspector gazed at him, wonders truck. He'd become the tallest of the lot, the most energetic and pugnacious. How the devil had he managed to undergo such a metamorphosis in the two short months since the inspector had last seen him?

  Montalbano ran over to him, arms open wide. Francois, recognizing him, stopped at once as his companions turned and headed towards the house. Montalbano squatted down, arms still open.

  'Hi, Francois.'

  The child broke into a sprint, swerving around him. 'Hi,' he said.

  The inspector watched him disappear into the house. What was going on? Why had he read no joy in the little boy's eyes? Montalbano tried to console himself; maybe it was some kind of childish resentment; Francois probably felt neglected by him.

  At the two ends of the table sat the inspector and Aldo Gagliardo, Franca's husband, a man of few words who was as hale and hearty as his name. To Montalbano's right sat Franca, followed by the three children. Francois was the farthest away, sitting next to Aldo. To his left were three youths around twenty years of age, Mario, Giacomo and Ernst. The first two were university students who earned their daily bread working in the fields; the third was a German passing through who told Montalbano he hoped to stay another three months. The lunch, consisting of pasta with sausage sauce and a second course of grilled sausage, went rather quickly. Aldo and his three helpers were in a hurry to get back to work. They all pounced on the sweets the inspector had brought. Then, at a nod of the head from Aldo, they got up and went out.

  'Let me make you another coffee' said Franca. Montalbano felt uneasy. He'd seen Aldo exchange a fleeting glance of understanding with his wife before leaving. Franca served the coffee and sat down in front of the inspector.

  It's a serious matter' she began.

  At that exact moment Francois came back in with a resolute
expression on his face, hands clenched in fists at his sides. He stopped in front of Montalbano, looked him long and hard in the eye, and said in a quavering voice, 'You're not going to take me away from my brothers'

  Then he turned and ran out. It was a heavy blow. Montalbano felt his mouth go dry. He said the first thing that came into his head, and unfortunately it was something stupid.

  'His Italian's become so good!'