Montalbano's First Case

by Andrea Camilleri

  At that moment, Montalbano, who couldn’t stand it any longer and who could barely resist the urge to vomit, said good-bye to the journalist Zito and left. By now, he was certain that Cusumano was going to get off scot free and that it would be a lucky day if Melluso wasn’t convicted in his stead.

  As he turned into the hallway that led outside, he suddenly froze. The girl had moved two steps forward and was now talking to a skinny, long-haired man of about forty, poorly dressed, with one of those bowties that only certain lawyers wear. The man shook his head to say no and then walked toward the guard. The girl went back to her spot, to her usual immobility. Montalbano walked in front of her, and then found himself outside the building. There was no point in asking questions, in poking holes in his brain by wondering why or how; certainly he was never going to see that girl ever again. And so he might as well forget all about her.

  He tried to start his car without any luck. He tried and tried, but it wouldn’t budge. What now? Should he call the station and ask for someone to pick him up? No, the reason for his being in Montelusa was a private matter. He remembered he had seen a garage on his way to the courthouse. He walked there and told the mechanic what had happened. The man was very kind and had one of his workers drive Montalbano back to his car. They took a look at the engine and found a problem with the electrical system. He could return later that afternoon, but no earlier, to pick up his car. Montalbano handed him the keys:

  “Is there a bus to Vigata?”

  “Yes, it leaves from the train station’s parking lot.”

  He walked all the way down the main drag, which was luckily downhill, and arrived at the station. From the bus schedule he learned that the one to Vigata had just left; the next one would leave an hour later.

  He rummaged around a street lined with trees, from which he could see the entire Valley of Temples and, in the background, the blue line of the sea. What a difference from the almost-Swiss landscape of Mascalippa! When he got back to the station, he saw a bus waiting out front, and on the side it read, MONTELUSA-VIGATA.

  The doors were open. He got on in the front, but then stopped on the first step, from where he could see the whole cabin. What stopped him wasn’t the fact that the bus was empty, with the exception of a single passenger, but rather the fact that the passenger was the girl from the courthouse.

  She was in one of the two seats behind the driver, the one closest to the window, but she wasn’t looking outside; she was staring right in front of her and didn’t even notice there was a new passenger standing on the steps. Montalbano wondered if it was worth provoking the young girl into transforming her absence into a presence by sitting right next to her, while the rest of the bus was completely empty.

  But what reason did he have to act like that? What was she doing wrong? She wasn’t doing anything at all. And so?

  He got on and sat down in one of the two seats across from her; now he could see her profile. She was motionless, she kept her bag on her lap, and she held it with both her hands.

  The driver got into his seat and started the engine. In that precise moment, he heard a crowd chorus, “Wait! Wait!”

  About forty Japanese tourists led by a guide, each wearing glasses and a big smile, each carrying a camera, swarmed the bus and took up all of the available seats.

  None of them sat next to Montalbano or the girl. The bus left.

  At the first stop, nobody got off and nobody got on. The Japanese tourists were competing in an all-out war, using the weapon of lethal politeness to compete for window space to take pictures. At the second stop, the driver had to get up to help an old couple of about a hundred onto the bus.

  “Sit there,” the driver ordered Montalbano, pointing to the seat next to the girl.

  The chief inspector complied, and the elderly couple sat together so they could hold on to each other.

  The girl didn’t even move. As he changed seats, Montalbano inadvertently brushed her leg, but she didn’t seem to notice. Feeling awkward, the chief inspector turned to face the aisle.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her firm breasts that moved up and down under her summer dress, following the rhythm of her breath, to which he synchronized his hearing. It was a trick Sanfilippo had taught him: experiencing a sound by synchronizing vision and hearing. Soon after, little by little, he began to hear her breathing more and more clearly, over the chatter of the Japanese tourists and the sound of the engine. It was long and regular, almost like the breathing of someone sleeping. But how could anyone reconcile that breathing with the desperate—that’s the right word: desperate—question you could read in her eyes? The hands that were grasping the bag had long, spindly, elegant fingers, but her skin was marked by the toil of the countryside; her nails were broken, but here and there, they still had traces of red polish. It was clear that the girl had been letting herself go for a while. The chief inspector noticed another thing that contradicted the apparent composure of her demeanor: every now and then, her right thumb would start shaking without her noticing it.

  At the stop for the temples, the group of Japanese tourists got off. The inspector could have changed seats, gotten more comfortable somewhere else, but he didn’t move. A few minutes after they passed a sign marking the border of Vigata, she got up.

  She kept her head bent so as not to bump into the luggage rack above. Clearly, she wanted to get off, but she just stood there staring at Montalbano without asking him to move, without opening her mouth. The inspector had the impression the girl was looking at him as if he were an object, an unspecified obstacle rather than a man. What was she thinking about?

  “Do you need to get by?”

  The girl didn’t answer. So Montalbano got up and stepped into the aisle to make way for her. She walked toward the exit and stopped on the first step, holding her bag in one hand and the rail in the other, right in front of the elderly couple. After a few yards, the driver stopped, opened the door, and the girl got out.

  “Wait a second!” Montalbano said in such a squeaky voice that the driver turned to look at him. “Please don’t close the doors; I need to get off.”

  He had made the decision on the fly. But what the hell was he doing? Why was he so interested? He looked around; they were on the outskirts of the old part of Vigata, where there were neither new buildings nor any of those dwarfish skyscrapers. There were only rundown houses held up by scaffolding, the kind of places inhabited not by people who made their living at the port or in town, but by those who lived off the land, raising whatever they could in their backyards.

  The girl was walking in front of him. She moved slowly, as if she really didn’t want to be there. Now she was holding her head low, as if she were looking intently at the ground underneath her feet. But did she really see it? What was she looking at with those eyes of hers?

  The girl turned left into a sort of alley that looked like the set of a ghost movie at night. On one side, there was a row of warehouses with their doors kicked in and their roofs collapsed. On the other side, there was a row of agonizing abandoned houses. There was literally no one there, not even a dog.

  “What am I doing here?” Montalbano asked himself, as if waking up from a nightmare.

  He was about to turn back, but at that exact moment, the girl swerved, lost her balance, dropped her bag, and leaned against the wall of one of those houses. At first the inspector didn’t know what to do. But he soon realized that she must have felt lightheaded, or something of the sort, since she hadn’t tripped on a rock or anything like that. In any case, she needed help and by now, his intervention was completely justified. He approached her.

  “Are you all right?”

  The scream the girl let out when she heard his voice was so sudden and piercing that Montalbano, caught off guard, jumped back, scared. The girl hadn’t heard him coming and his words had brought her back to reality. Now she was looking at Montalbano with wide eyes and was seeing him for the first time as he really was—a man and a stranger
who had just asked her something.

  “Are you all right?” the inspector repeated.

  The girl didn’t answer. She started to lean forward, in slow motion, her arm outstretched, her hand open, trying to pick up her bag from the ground.

  But Montalbano was quicker; he got to the bag first. He meant it as a nice gesture, so he was surprised by her reaction—using both her hands, she tried to it take it away from him.

  Out of instinct, Montalbano held onto it. He looked in the girl’s eyes and saw wild desperation. For a while they kept up this absurd, ridiculous tug of war without saying a single word. Then, as was to be expected, the seams of the bag gave way and it came apart, its contents spreading on the ground. A very heavy object hit the inspector’s left foot, on his big toe. He looked down and caught a glimpse of a big revolver, but the girl, whose movements had become very quick, grabbed it before he could do anything.

  Montalbano took hold of her wrist and twisted it, but she kept holding on. The inspector, using the weight of his body, pushed the girl against the wall, pinning her against it, so the hand holding the revolver and his own hand clutching her wrist were caught between the girls back and the wall itself. The girl reacted, using her free hand to scratch Montalbano’s face. The inspector managed to grab that, too, pushing her harder against the wall. They were both breathing heavily as if they were making love; positioned between the girl’s spread legs, Montalbano was pushing the lower part of his body against her stomach. Her breasts and the slightly sour smell of her sweat were not unpleasant, not even under the circumstances. They were at a stalemate. All of a sudden, the inspector heard a loud screeching of tires coming from behind him, and a voice that yelled, “Stop, you pig! Police! Let the girl go!”

  And he realized that that policeman must have thought that he was preventing a rape. It was a justified misunderstanding. He turned his head slightly and recognized one of his men, Officer Galluzzo. Galluzzo recognized him immediately and froze.

  “In … in … in …” he stuttered.

  He meant to say inspector but the word wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

  “Help me, she’s armed!” Montalbano panted.

  Galluzzo was a man of quick decisions. Without hesitating, he socked her right in the jaw. She closed her eyes and slid down along the wall, unconscious. Montalbano laid her down gently, but he had a hard time getting the revolver. The girl’s fingers wouldn’t let go of the weapon.

  5

  The ID that fell on the ground, along with the other objects in the bag, established beyond any reasonable doubt that Rosanna Monaco, born to Gerlando and Concetta Marullo, residing in Vigata, Via Fornace 37, had just come of legal age. Thus, as far as the law was concerned, she was fully responsible for her actions. Sitting in the chair in front of the inspector’s desk, she kept her head down, looking at the floor, her arms limp alongside her body. She hadn’t opened her mouth for the last two hours.

  “Why don’t you tell me who the revolver belongs to?”

  “Are you using it for protection?”

  “Who are you afraid of?”

  “Were you planning on shooting somebody?”

  “Who did you want to shoot?”

  “Why were you waiting at the entrance of the courtroom?”

  “Were you waiting for someone?”

  Nothing. After all the strength, agility, and stamina she had displayed during that silent fight that Montalbano thought resembled, at times, sex, she had gone back to that sort of tormented impassivity that had sparked the inspector’s curiosity since the first time he had seen her. Yes, Montalbano was perfectly aware that “tormented impassivity” was a stupid oxymoron, but he couldn’t find any other words to express how Rosanna’s demeanor made him feel.

  He made a decision; they couldn’t go on this way.

  “Lock her up,” he ordered Galluzzo, who was behind the typewriter, ready to take down her statement, but hadn’t managed to type anything but the date. “And bring her something to eat and drink.”

  And then, raising his voice, he said, “I’m going to talk to her parents.”

  He made a point of letting her know his intentions, but the girl looked as if she didn’t even hear him. Before leaving the station, he had Fazio explain where Via Fornace was, told him to do a few things, went out, got into his car, and left.

  The street was the second on the right after the place where the revolver incident had happened. It wasn’t paved and it looked like a country road. Number Thirty-Seven was a single-story building next to a warehouse only slightly bigger than a doghouse, but at least it was less rundown than the others. The front door was open and as Montalbano got closer, he could hear loud, wild voices. Looking in from the doorstep, he saw something like a kindergarten or an elementary school. There was about half a dozen children in there, from ages one to seven.

  A woman of an indeterminable age, holding a newborn, was cooking over a wood stove. There was no telephone, no fridge, no TV. But clearly it wasn’t a matter of poverty; the children were well dressed and several cheeses and salamis hung from the ceiling. They must have been just backwards, a question of mentality, or perhaps they were entrenched in their own ignorance.

  “What do you want?” the woman asked.

  “My name’s Montalbano, I’m a police inspector. Is your husband home?”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “Is he here or not?”

  “No, he’s not here. He’s working in the fields, with the other children.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “Tonight, at dark.”

  “Are you Mrs. Concetta Marullo?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Do you have a daughter named Rosanna?”

  “I have that misfortune.”

  “Listen, we arrested your daughter for …”

  “What do I care?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll say it again: What do I care? Go ahead, arrest her, lock her up and throw away the key.”

  “Does she live here with you?”

  “No, I kicked her out three years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s shameless.”

  “Why do you say she’s shameless? What did she do?”

  “She did what she did.”

  “Do you know where she’s been living since then?”

  “Right next door. My husband, who has a good heart, lets her sleep in the pigsty, and she likes it just fine, because the pigsty is where she really belongs.”

  “Could I take a look?”

  “At the pigsty? Of course. The door’s unlocked.”

  “Listen, do you know if your daughter has any reason to be angry at someone?”

  “How the hell should I know? I told you I haven’t talked to her in years. I don’t know anything.”

  “One last question: Does your husband own a gun?”

  “What kind of gun?”

  “A revolver.”

  “Are you kidding? My husband only carries a knife to cut his bread.”

  “As soon as he gets back, tell him to come by the station.”

  “Look, he always comes back late and tired.”

  “Sorry. I’ll wait for him.”

  He went out feeling the onset of a bad headache, since they were forced to scream throughout the whole exchange over the noise made by the children.

  Rosanna had cleaned the pigsty inside and out, and somebody had painted the walls white. It was barely big enough for a cot, a small table, and two chairs. Looking at it from a different perspective, it could have been a cell in a Franciscan monastery. The kitchen consisted of a burner made out of cinder blocks. To wash up, Rosanna used a large bowl, which she kept on the table, and she drew her water from a well not too far away. A wire stretched between the walls served as a closet; two dresses and an overcoat were hanging from it. Her underwear was folded on one of the chairs. Everything was extremely shabby, but extremely clean as well. He couldn’t find a singl
e photo, newspaper, or book. In that vein, he spent a long time looking for a letter, a note, anything written.

  He went back to the station with more questions than answers.

  “I did what you asked me to do,” Fazio said as soon as he came in, following him into his office.

  “So?”

  “Well,” Fazio said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket that he would consult every now and then, “the father, Gerlando Monaco, born to the late Giacomo and the late Elvira La Stella, born in Vigata on …”

  “Excuse me, Fazio,” Montalbano interrupted, “why are you telling me all this?”

  “What do you mean?” Fazio asked, confused.

  “Father’s name, mother’s name … What do I care? I asked you to check if Rosanna’s father had any priors and what they say about him in town. That’s all.”

  “No priors,” Fazio said resentfully, putting the piece of paper back into his pocket, “and in town, the few who know him say he’s a good person.”

  “Does he have any older sons?”

  Fazio was about take out his piece of paper again, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a look in the inspector’s eyes.

  “Two of them. Giacomo, twenty-one, and Filippo, twenty. They both work with him in the fields. They are also known for being good kids.”

  “Then Rosanna seems to be the black sheep of the family.”