“Hi, Mery. It’s Salvo.”
“Hi. You know what?”
“What?”
“I was just about to call you.”
Montalbano changed color. What if Mery had called to tell him she was busy that night and couldn’t see him?
“Why?”
“I wanted to ask you if you could swing by a little earlier than usual so we can have dinner together. Last night a colleague took me to a restaurant that …”
“I’ll be at your place at seven thirty. Does that work?” Montalbano cut to the chase, almost singing with joy.
The restaurant, Il Delfino, didn’t have the most original of names. But the imagination that was lacking on its sign abounded inside the kitchen: they brought out at least ten different appetizers consisting entirely of seafood, each one more heavenly than the next. The baby octopus a strascinasale melted before even touching his palate. And how about the stone bass cooked in an angelic sauce whose ingredients Montalbano couldn’t quite identify? Plus, he was with Mery, and when it came to eating, she was almost as gallant as he was. When you’re eating and enjoying yourself, if you don’t have someone next to you who’s having as much fun as you are, your own pleasure is diminished, dulled.
They didn’t speak. Every so often they would look each other in the eyes and smile. At the end of the meal, after the fruit course, the lights in the room were dimmed and then turned off. Some of the patrons protested. Out of the kitchen door came a waiter pushing a cart on which was a cake with a lit candle and a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne. Surprised, Montalbano watched as the waiter pulled up to their table. The lights came back on and all the patrons started clapping as someone shouted:
“Happy birthday! Happy birthday!”
It must have been Mery’s birthday and he had completely forgotten. What a jerk he was! What a dumbass! But he couldn’t help it: He was horrible with dates.
“Ple-ple-ple … please forgive me, I forgot that today was … was your …” he stuttered, feeling ashamed and taking her hand.
“My what?” asked Mery, clearly amused, looking at him with sparkling eyes.
“Isn’t it your birthday?”
“Mine? It’s your birthday!” said Mery, bursting into laughter.
Montalbano looked at her completely dumbstruck. She was right!
As soon as they got home, Mery opened her closet and took out a box adorned in the style that shopkeepers call “gift wrapping” that’s basically a triumph of tacky ribbons, tape, and bad taste.
“With my best wishes.”
Montalbano opened it. It was a heavy sweater, very elegant; the type people wear in the mountains.
“You’ll need it for those Mascalippa winters.”
As soon as she finished her sentence, she noticed Salvo had made a strange face.
“What’s going on?”
And Montalbano told her about his promotion and his talk with the chief inspector.
“… And so I have no idea where they’re sending me,” he concluded.
Mery remained silent. She looked at her watch and saw that it was ten thirty. Then she quickly got up from her chair.
“Sorry, I have to make a phone call.”
She went to her bedroom and closed the door so he couldn’t hear her. Montalbano suffered a slight bout of jealousy. But after all, he couldn’t expect Mery not to have other men in her life. After a little while he heard her calling him. When he got into the bedroom Mery was already under the sheets waiting for him.
Later, as they were lying in bed, Mery whispered in his ear, “I called Uncle Giovanni.”
Montalbano blanked.
“Who’s that?”
“My mother’s younger brother. I’m his favorite niece. He’s a big shot in the ministry. I asked him to find out where they’re sending you. I hope you don’t mind …”
“Not at all,” Montalbano said, kissing her.
Mery called him at the office at six the following evening.
She only said one word.
“Vigata.”
Then she hung up.
2
The one who had pronounced those three syllables, Vi-ga-ta, from the highest peak of the Roman Olympus, in the Empyrean of the Palaces of Powers, wasn’t just another soothsayer, but a Supreme Being, a God of that religion called Bureaucracy, one of those whose words marked an escapable destiny. Someone who, after being duly implored, had provided a clear and precise answer, much better than those of the Cumaen Sibyl or of Pythia or of Apollo in Delphi. For the answers of Sibyl, Pythia, or Apollo always had to be interpreted by the priests, and the different interpretations almost never matched. “Ibis rebidis non morieris in bello,” Sibyl would tell the soldier who was about to leave for war. Thank you and come again. But a comma needed to be added either before or after that non for the soldier to know whether he was going to end up six feet under or whether he was going to walk away. And inserting the comma was the priests’ job, and they would provide their interpretation depending on the donation. Here there was nothing to interpret. The Supreme Being had said Vigata, and Vigata it was going to be.
After receiving Mery’s phone call there was no way Montalbano could remain seated behind his desk. He murmured something unintelligible to the guard, went out, and started to walk around town. As he was walking he could barely keep from dancing the boogie-woogie, which, at the time, was precisely the rhythm he felt running through his veins. Mother Mary, how wonderful! Vigata! He tried to conjure up his memories of the place, and the first image that came to mind was a sort of postcard showing the port with its three piers and, on the left, the massive shape of a huge tower. Then he remembered the main drag and the café in the middle of it, with its billiard room. He used to go there every now and then, when his father felt like a game of pool. And while his father was playing, he’d eat a huge wedge of ice cream, usually a pezzo duro—that’s what they called it—the cream and chocolate one. Or he’d get the cassata, a kind of ice cream they made there that you couldn’t find anywhere else. He could still taste it between his tongue and his palate. And with that taste came the name of the café: Castiglione. Who knew if it was still there and if they still made that unforgettable ice cream? Then two colors flashed before his eyes, as bright as the sun: yellow and blue. The yellow of the fine sand and the blue of the seawater. Without realizing it, he had come to a sort of belvedere from which he could see the whole valley and the mountain peaks. Naturally, they were not the Dolomites, but they were still mountains. They were more than enough to plunge him into the darkest of melancholies, an unbearable sensation of exile. This time he managed to look at the landscape and he even enjoyed it a little, comforted by the certainty that he wouldn’t have to see it again any time soon.
That evening he called Mery to thank her.
“I had my own interests in my mind,” she said.
“What interests? I don’t understand.”
“If they had sent you to Abbiategrasso or Casalpusterlengo it would have been impossible to see each other. But it’s only two hours to Vigata from Catania. I checked the map.”
Montalbano didn’t know what to say; he was touched.
“Did you think you were going to get rid of me that easily?” Maria continued.
They laughed.
“One of these days I want to swing by Vigata. I want to see if it’s still like I remember. Naturally, I won’t tell anyone that …”
He stopped talking. An icy snake slithered down his spine, paralyzing him.
“Salvo, what’s up? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Nothing, I was just thinking of something …”
“What?”
Montalbano hesitated; he was afraid of offending her. But the doubt was stronger than any other consideration.
“Mery, can Uncle Giovanni be trusted? Are we absolutely sure that …”
He heard a deep laugh come from the other end of the line.
“I knew it!”
“What did
you know?”
“That sooner or later you’d have asked that question. My uncle told me your destination is already final. The decision has been made. You can be sure of it. Actually, let’s do this. When you decide to go to Vigata, let me know ahead of time. That way I can get a day off and we can go together. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Of course what? About Vigata or about tomorrow?”
“About both.”
But he immediately knew that was bullshit. Or at least partly bullshit. The next evening he would certainly go to Catania to spend time with Mery, but he was going to visit Vigata on his own. Her presence would distract him. To tell the truth, the first verb that came to his mind wasn’t distract, but rather disturb. And he was a little ashamed of it.
Vigata was more or less the way he remembered it. There were a few new buildings on Piano Lanterna; they were horrible dwarfish skyscrapers about fifteen to twenty stories high, while the little houses piled one on top of the other against the limestone hill, their small and intricate streets teeming with life, had disappeared completely. Those used to be mostly catoj—that is, houses made up of one single room; during the day the front door would remain open to let in air and light. That way, as you walked through those alleys, you could observe a woman giving birth, a family feud, a priest administering a dying man his last rites, the preparations for a wedding or a funeral. All out in the open. And everything drowned in a babble of voices, laments, laughs, prayers, blasphemies, and insults. He asked a passerby what had happened to those small houses and the man told him that a terrible flood had washed them into the sea a few years earlier.
He had forgotten, by contrast, the smell of the port. A mixture of stagnant seawater, rotten seaweed, decaying ropes, sunbaked tar, diesel fuel, and sardines. Each element contributing to that scent, taken by itself, wasn’t exactly a celebration of the senses, but the whole thing together concocted the most refined of perfumes, mysterious and unmistakable. He sat down for a bit. He didn’t even light a cigarette, not wanting to contaminate, with the smell of tobacco, the perfume he had just rediscovered. He remained like that for a while, watching the seagulls, until a grumbling in his stomach told him it was time to eat. The sea air had awoken his appetite.
He returned to the main drag, called Via Roma, and he immediately noticed a sign that read TRATTORIA SAN CALOGERO. Commending his soul to our lord and savior, he went in. All the tables were empty; certainly it wasn’t the right time—too early.
“Can I eat?” he asked the waiter with white hair who, hearing him come in, had appeared at the kitchen door and was looking at him.
“I don’t know, can you?” he answered in a dry tone.
He sat down, mad at himself for having asked such a stupid question.
“Today we have seafood salad—spaghetti with squid ink or clams, or with sea urchin.”
“Spaghetti with sea urchin is hard to get right,” Montalbano said doubtfully.
“I got my degree in sea urchin,” the waiter said.
Montalbano wanted to swallow his own tongue in one big gulp. Two to nothing.
Two stupid remarks on his part and two smart answers from the waiter.
“And for the second course?”
“Fish.”
“What kind of fish?”
“Whatever kind you want.”
“But how is it prepared?”
“That depends on the fish.”
Better to keep his mouth shut.
“Bring whatever you think is best.”
He realized he had made the right decision. When he left the trattoria he had consumed three appetizers, a bowl of spaghetti with sea urchin big enough for four people, and six perfectly fried red mullets, and yet, he felt light as a feather, filled with a sense of well-being so intense he had a stupid smile stamped on his face. He was absolutely certain that once he moved to Vigata, this was going to be his restaurant of choice.
By then it was three in the afternoon. He spent an hour rummaging around town and then decided to take a long walk along the east pier. He took it slowly, one step at a time. The silence was broken only by the sound of the waves against the docks, by the cries of the seagulls, and, from time to time, by the rumbling of a diesel engine on a fishing boat. Right under the lighthouse there was a flat rock. He sat on it. The day was of an almost painful clarity; every now and then he would feel a breeze. After a while, he got up. It was time to go back to the car and return to Mascalippa. Halfway down the pier, he suddenly stopped. An image had appeared before his eyes: some kind of hill, blindingly white, which looked like a giant staircase that led down into the sea. What was it? Where was it? The Turkish Staircase—that’s what it was! It had to have been around there somewhere.
He went straight to Café Castiglione, which was still where it had always been—he had checked earlier to make sure.
“Can you tell me how to get to the Turkish Staircase?”
“Of course.”
The waiter told him how to get there.
“Could you bring me a wedge of pezzo duro? I’ll be in the billiard room.”
“What kind?”
“Cassata.”
He walked into the other room. Two gentlemen were playing a game of pool, with the help of two of their friends. He sat down at a table, and he slowly ate his cassata, savoring every single spoonful. All of sudden an argument broke out between the two players. Their friends intervened.
“Let’s ask the gentlemen to settle this,” one of them said.
Another, speaking to Montalbano, said, “Do you know how to play pool?”
“No,” Montalbano said, a bit embarrassed.
They looked at him with contempt and went back to their argument. Montalbano finished his cassata, paid at the register, went out, retrieved the car he had parked nearby, and left for the Turkish Staircase.
Following the waiter’s directions, at a certain point he took a left turn, drove a few meters of paved road leading downhill, and then stopped. The road ended and he had to walk on the sand. He took off his shoes and socks, and left them in the car, which he locked. Then he rolled up his pants and walked down to the shore. The water was cool, not cold. Behind the cape, the Turkish Staircase suddenly appeared.
It wasn’t as intimidating as he remembered; when you’re little everything looks bigger than it actually is. But even in its new dimensions, it still possessed a surprising beauty. The highest part of the white limestone hill popped against the clear, cloudless blue sky and was crowned by the deep green of the brush. At its base, the last steps, which dipped into the light blue of the sea, illuminated by the sun, took on the sparkling hue of an intense pink. The more withdrawn part of the ridge was painted with the yellow of sand. The excessive colors made Montalbano dizzy; they were literally screaming at him, so much so that he had to close his eyes for a moment and cover his ears with his hands. He still had a hundred yards to go before reaching the hill, but he preferred to look at it from a distance: He was afraid of becoming part of the painting’s reality, of becoming paint himself, another blotch of color—the wrong one, no doubt.
He sat down on the dry sand, mesmerized. He stayed like that for a while, smoking one cigarette after another, absorbed by the various colors the light of the setting sun took on as it reflected off the lowest steps of the Turkish Staircase. He got up after sunset and decided to return to Mascalippa later that night. The best thing would be to return to Trattoria San Calogero for another meal. He walked slowly back to the car. Every now and then he would turn around to look; he really didn’t want to leave that place. He drove toward Vigata at ten miles an hour, exposing himself to the insults and curses of the drivers who had to pass him on that narrow road. He paid them no mind; he was in one of those rare moods in which if someone had punched him, he would have turned the other cheek. Before entering the town, he stopped to restock on cigarettes for the journey home. Then he went to a gas station, filled up the tank, and had the oil and tire pr
essure checked. He looked at his watch; he still had a half hour to kill. He parked the car and walked back to the port. Now there was a large ferry docked at the pier.
A long line of cars and trucks was waiting to board.
“Where’s that going?” he asked a passerby.
“That’s the daily to Lampedusa.”
Finally, it was a decent hour. In fact, when he entered the trattoria, three tables were already taken. A younger apprentice was helping the waiter. He approached Montalbano with a faint smile.
“Same as at lunch?”
“Yes.”
The waiter leaned toward him.
“Did you like the Turkish Staircase?”
Montalbano looked at him, confused.
“Who told you I …”
“News travels fast in these parts.”
And they probably already knew he was a cop!
About a week later, while they were still in bed, Mery asked a question out of the blue.
“Did you ever go to Vigata?”
“No,” Montalbano lied.
“How come?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“Aren’t you curious to see what it’s like? You told me you’d been there as a child, but it must have changed since then.”
Gee, she really wouldn’t let it go! If he didn’t make an immediate decision, who knew how long she would keep it up.
“We’ll go next Sunday, okay?”
They decided that Mery would take her own car all the way up to the road to Caltanissetta. There she would leave it in a parking lot where Montalbano would pick her up.
So Montalbano had to go back to Vigata pretending as if he hadn’t been there a few days before.
First he took her to the port and then to the Turkish Staircase.
The girl was overwhelmed. But since she was a woman—that is, she was one of those creatures capable of reconciling the loftiest peaks of poetry with the coarsest concreteness—she looked at Montalbano, who couldn’t take his eyes off such a beautiful place, and, in dialect, said, “I’m starving.”
And this was the Shakespearean dilemma Montalbano had to face. Should he take her to Trattoria San Calogero, and risk being recognized by the waiter, or should he try a new restaurant, and risk being served horrible food?
Montalbano's First Case Page 2