Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  “No. Katarina could not forgive her father for being complicit in the murder of her child’s father, so she ran away. She came with Tonio to ask my father’s help.”

  Commissario Talaia, having held his peace, remarks, “I am not sure what this has to do with our investigations, Signor. Perhaps we have bothered you for no reason.”

  “Hold on Maso,” Ric says, reaching over and urging the little detective to sit back down. “Give me a couple more minutes, please?”

  Talaia demurs, but reluctantly.

  “Nino,” Ric turns back to the old man, “what you are suggesting is that Katarina Maggiore’s body does not rest in the Maggiore mausoleum, which means there is more than one empty grave in the cemetery?”

  “Yes, that is true. After much searching, the family assumed that Katarina was overcome by her grief and that she had, as she had said she would, thrown herself into the sea. Her body was never found and the funeral was purely ceremonial. It was very sad, very solemn; a girl had died of a broken heart which would never be mended. At the time of the funeral, I did not know my father had spirited her away to Baarìa with Tonio Sciacchitano. It was only much later that my mother explained this to me and told me I was never to tell anyone. She knew if Vincenzo ever found out my father had taken Katarina to Baarìa, Vincenzo would kill him.”

  “And this was in July of 1930?”

  “About then, yes.”

  “Nino, do you know where Valeria Vaccariello was born?”

  “No.”

  “Or when?”

  “Such things are not polite to ask.”

  “Or what her mother’s Christian name was?”

  Nino thinks and begins to understand the direction Ric is taking in the line of his questioning. “No, I don’t believe we have ever discussed her mother. However,” Nino looks so directly at Ric, it is disconcerting, “I am sure you are about to answer all three of your own questions.”

  “You’re right, Nino, I am. Valeria was born in Baarìa, in late 1930 and her mother’s Christian name was Katarina. The man she knew as her father was a man her mother married in order to provide her child with a family name.”

  The old man’s brow furrows in astonishment. “It is so? Really? She told you this?”

  “Yes,” Ric replies, “but you, also, you told me in a round about way. I spent an afternoon in the cemetery and put two and two together. After that, I told her. Leastways I put it to her and the rest of the facts just seemed to fit in around it.”

  Old Nino sits back in his chair and cups his hands to his face.

  The Commissario is, however, still none the wiser. Ric glances at him, encouraging him to be patient.

  When Nino has arranged all the information into some semblance of order, he drops his hands and stares out of the window in the direction of Salina. His expression suggests that he can see it standing tall and proud and green. The clouds and driving rain prevent Ric, Maso Talaia and Officer Paolo from seeing the island across the Canale di Salina, but Nino suffers no such restrictions.

  “If this is true,” he says, “Valeria is not only Farinelli’s daughter, but she is also Marcello’s cousin.”

  59

  “Ariana?” Old Nino shouts, “La prego di portare altro caffè ed altre nacatuli.”

  “Si, subito,” floats the reply from the kitchen.

  “Apetta un minuto, per favore,” Talaia pleads.

  “You would prefer wine, Commissario?”

  “Non, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is, you have already been very hospitable, Signor Cafarella, but as interesting as it is for me to hear that between you, you have solved the riddle of Signor Ross’ and La Signorina Vaccariello’s complicated ancestry, I am still none the wiser regarding what relevance this has to my investigation into Girolamo Candela’s murder. And the day, as we can all see…” he indicates the fading light, “Oh pardon, that was insensitive of me. But the day is drawing to a close and I have other business to attend to, thank you.”

  “But, you are a policeman,” Nino replies, his tone dismissive. “Surely you have not forsaken the art of looking and listening? Please, I urge you to be patient and let us see where this road takes us.”

  Talaia is noticeably piqued at having the merits of his own virtues thrust upon him, but once again he demurs, “Per rispetto, signore. Vi prego di continuare.”

  “Grazie, Commissario.” Nino smiles, but with his dark glasses, liver-spotted complexion and his yellowed teeth, his expression comes across more as maniacal leer than smile.

  “Bene, Ric. This is very interesting that Farinelli Massimo was very possibly Valeria’s father; it would explain why she is so earnest in her politics.”

  “It does, Nino. Commissario, didn’t you tell me Candela started out as an ultra left-wing candidate in Palermo?”

  Talaia nods, “You are correct, I did. He stood in Palermo, even though he began his political career in Bagheria; the town which used to be called Baarìa and the town in which, as you have just told me, La Signorina Vaccariello was born. But Candela Girolamo was much younger than La Signorina Vaccariello; to suggest there has been a recent relationship between them is, frankly, preposterous.”

  “I agree,” Ric confirms. “But if I remember rightly, you said Candela received a lot of funding from left-wing celebrities, movie stars, writers and the like.”

  “He did. We know this,” the Commissario replies, tersely.

  “Do you know if he ever received any funds from Valeria Vaccariello?”

  “No, not that we know of.”

  “Or her husband?”

  “Again,” Talaia replies, very obviously tiring of being treated like a witness for the defence, “not that we know of.”

  Nino raises his hand, wishing to be heard: “Gentlemen, what you have singularly failed to take into account is that Vaccariello is her stage name.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Nino, but it is the name of the man her mother married,” Ric adds.

  “Yes, yes,” Nino agrees, impatiently, “but, more importantly, this was her stage name. She was married twice; both of her husband’s names were different from this. If she had made any political donations, they would in all probability have been made in the name of either of her husbands. Do either of you know what their names were?”

  Commissioner Talaia shrugs. He looks to Ric, who shakes his head and looks to Old Nino. And it is clear from the bewildered look on the blind man’s face that he doesn’t have the first clue either.

  Ric trawls his mind for something Valeria said when they were talking about Candela. He snaps his fingers, “I remember Valeria telling me Candela was “once a good communist and now he is no longer”. I thought she meant he was no longer a good communist because he was, by that time, dead. I also remember asking her if he’d ruffled enough feathers for someone to want to shoot him.”

  Talaia is now paying far more attention. “And what was her response?”

  “If I remember rightly, she said people had been killed for less. However, it wasn’t so much what she said, as the way she said it. She was very casual about it, as though it would have been perfectly natural for someone to shoot him; like it would make no difference to her.”

  Old Nino sniggers into the back of his hand, “Oh, Ric, we are forgetting…” and he continues to snigger until he can control himself no longer and bursts out laughing.

  “What, Nino. What am I forgetting?”

  “Oh, Ric, we are such fools. If Valeria told me my sight would return, I would believe her.” He roars with laughter, so much so that Ariana comes from the kitchen to see what all the fuss is about.

  Talaia looks across at Ric and shrugs again, and they wait until the old man steps down off the cloud of his amusement.

  “Okay, Signor Cafarella, we appreciate that we are not seeing, sorry, grasping something that appears obvious to you, But–”

  Old Nino raises his stick-like arm and offers his surrender, “No, I apologise, Commissario. I am not laughing at you
; I am laughing at us.”

  Ric and the Commissario frown in ignorance.

  “For what,” Nino continues, “is Valeria, if she is not an actress?”

  The only sound is the howl of the gale across the terrace and the belts of rain whipping against the window.

  Talaia scratches his head, examines his hat as though it has let him down in some way, and sighs. The curl of his lips suggests he has sampled a food which offends him.

  “No! I simply refuse to entertain the idea that a woman of La Signorina Vaccariello’s age can lure a man like Candela to a deserted alley and shoot him dead. This proposition is surely the product of a fertile imagination. No wonder Signor Cafarella was laughing. What possible bait could this woman offer that it would attract Candela, alone and late at night, to the Piazza San Bartolo?”

  “Money, Commissario,” Nino replies. “What else? Like the totani drawn to the ontreto by the flashing light only to impale themselves on the hooks, the promise of a woman’s money would draw most politicians to their death. And if she had donated to Candela’s cause before, there would be all the more reason for him to answer her call.”

  “Okay, okay,” Talaia says, waving his hand as though swatting a fly, “I cannot deny your theory has the air of plausibility about it, but as to whether it is…? It sounds to me as though we are fitting the horse to the blanket, and not the blanket to the horse, which is how it should work. I still find it hard to believe that La Signorina Vaccariello would steal the gun from Signor Ross’ boat and shoot a man in cold blood. No,” he decides. “There are times when a policeman would like to follow the road of convenience; after all, it makes life easier in the long run. But, there are also times when he must follow the trail of hard evidence and not allow himself to be distracted from his path by the fantastic imaginings of an old man and his primary suspect.”

  At this, Nino perks up, “Ah, Ric, is it true? Are you the Commissario’s prime suspect?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Talaia stands up. “We have Signor Ross’ fingerprint on the gun used to shoot Signor Candela.”

  “Was it your gun?” Old Nino asks.

  “The Commissario seems to be under the impression the gun arrived here on the Mara, with me.” But as he says this, Ric notices Talaia throw Officer Paolo a knowing look.

  “Signor Cafarella,” Talaia steps over to the old man and bends respectfully, “we have taken up too much of your time and I must return to Lipari. I am grateful for your sharing your thoughts with us.”

  Nino looks up, “Commissario, your presence has filled the void of a rainy afternoon and it is I who should thank you for going to the trouble of listening to the ramblings of an old man. I hope I have been of some service to you. But,” he pauses, “there are times when a man who has lost his sight recognises more than those who see all that is there before them. I must tell you that Tonio Sciacchitano was, as it says on his grave, un uomo integerrimo. He provided a great service to a community suffering at the hands of the Fascisti. For this he paid the price of not only having to leave the island of his birth, but also of giving up the name of his family. You will appreciate how difficult this must have been for him. This uomo, Signor Ross,” he points in the direction of Ric, “is made of the same material as his forebear. I doubt that he is a murderer. He is, in my opinion, also un uomo integerrimo.”

  Even though he knows the old man cannot see him, Talaia clearly believes that his smile will put the old man at ease, “Thank you, Signor Cafarella. Please rest assured I will take your reference for his character into account. Arrivederla, Signore.”

  Ric reaches out for the old man’s hand. It feels slight and brittle. “Ciao, Nino,” he says, “e mille grazie.”

  “Ciao, Ric. Buona fortuna, eh.”

  Salina disappears into a bank of low cloud as they drive back down through Quattropani. The atmosphere in the car is strained and Talaia fidgets, inspecting his hat as though the tall tales it has been subjected to have in some way wilted it. A large coach lumbers round a corner at them, leaving Officer Paolo no alternative other than to slam the car against the uneven kerb.

  “Scusi, Commissario,” he says.

  But Talaia ignores his apology, “I must congratulate you, Signor Ross. This was an interesting diversion listening to Cafarella Nino entertain us with his stories. There is much I have to look into and it will take others some time to assemble the information I need. Remember I am still waiting for the results of more tests on your Beretta.”

  “My Beretta?” Ric repeats, glancing at the detective. “If I was a betting man, I’d put a lot of money on the pistol, or my Beretta as you insist on calling it, not having my prints on it. But I guess we’ll have to wait to find that out.”

  Talaia simply raises an eyebrow and pouts as if it’s all the same to him.

  “What’s next, Commissario? Slap me in irons and beat a confession out of me?”

  “Oh, how very medieval, Signor Ross: Schiavettoni and a Saint Antony?” he chuckles.

  “Schiavettoni? I’ve heard that word before.”

  “Yes, these Schiavettoni were iron handcuffs which were tightened with a heavy screw. They were extremely painful to wear. Each of the political deportees who came here in the twenties and thirties would have worn these while in transit.” He wags his finger to emphasise his point. “And each of these handcuffs would have been locked to a chain and this chain would have been attached to three other prisoners. These chains were so heavy, the prisoners found it almost impossible to stand up and walk carrying this weight.”

  “And a Saint Antony?”

  “You know,” he sucks his cheek, remembering, “most of the prison warders of this period were either from Sicily, Calabria or Sardinia. They did not exactly understand a convention of human rights and, not unnaturally for men from poor backgrounds and with little education, they viewed politicians from the north as privileged fools. If they took the slightest dislike to one, they would take him to solitary confinement, throw a piece of carpet over his head and beat him senseless, often leaving him to drown in a pool of his own blood. He could, of course, not complain to the Prison Superintendent because, with his head covered, he could not identify his assailants. It is extraordinary to imagine such medieval practices were employed as recently as eighty years ago.

  “I have often wondered why it was called a Saint Antony, though. Perhaps it is because Saint Antony of Padua is the patron saint of finding things,” he turns and appeals to Ric. “Eh? You could never find out who was responsible for your assault.” He thinks for a moment, before adding, “Or perhaps I am confusing him with Saint Antony of Egypt who was continually being beaten by the devil. After listening to the old man proclaim Antonio Sciacchitano’s many virtues, I am surprised he was not proclaimed Saint Antony of Canneto.”

  “You think Old Nino is a diversion?”

  “No, Signor Ross, you are missing my point. The point is, or rather the points are that one: we no longer beat confessions out of suspects. And two: there is no point in putting you in irons with the weather as it is. No one is going anywhere until this storm lifts. So, you are at this time as much a prisoner to this island as the political deportees who were confined here in the time of Il Duce. You are going nowhere fast. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You sure do, Commissario. But where does that leave us with Claudio Maggiore?”

  “Where does that leave us? It leaves us without a body and therefore without a crime to investigate. That is precisely where it leaves us, Signor Ross.”

  They drive on in silence, the only noise the slapping of the windscreen wipers and the gentle humming of the engine, which magnifies to a reverberating boom as they pass through the tunnel back into town.

  “I suppose you’ll be going on to see La Signorina Vaccariello?” Ric suggests.

  Talaia blinks and shakes his head as though the world is full of idiots. “Signor Ross, do you think I am that stupid?” he asks. “First I must establish a reason for g
oing to see her. If you think I am about to arrest an old lady on suspicion of murder on the grounds of an elaborate preparation cooked up by an old blind chef and his secondo posto della cucina, then you have another think coming.”

  “Then I guess you’ll be wanting me to accompany you to the station?”

  Talaia shrugs: “What good would it do me to lock you up and feed you at the taxpayer’s expense, eh? No, I think for the moment you can look after yourself better than we can. And besides, you would do well to remember that the città sees all that goes on down in the town. That is always the way it has been.”

  Ric looks at the little detective and frowns. “Next thing you’ll be telling me the walls have ears, Commissario.”

  “Oh yes, my friend; the città hears everything too.”

  “In that case, Commissario, ask Officer Paolo to drop me off behind the sports stadium. I’d rather no one saw me being dropped off by a police car; wouldn’t want to get any of the tongues wagging. I’ll walk the rest of the way into town.”

  Talaia is amazed, “In this weather?”

  “Sure! But don’t think I didn’t appreciate the ride.”

  “Paolo, fermati qui per favore.”

  The car slows and halts, and Ric gets out. He is in no hurry to close the door, holding it open so that rain spatters the inside of the car causing the little detective to inch away from him.

  “And I’m sorry to have led you on such a wild goose chase, Commissario. I’ll try and come up with a body next time round. Ciao, Officer Paolo. Thanks for the ride.”

  60

  Down in the città bassa the wind whistles through the alleys and the rain lashes at the windows. Awnings are furled, tables and chairs stacked inside, and doors shut fast. Even the vegetable stall at the alimentari has been packed away and the gravel-voiced proprietor stands staring out from the dim confines of her shop, grumbling at Aeolus for yet another afternoon’s lost trade.

  As he passes La Precchia, Ric first hears then spots Sandro playing cards with three other redundant escurzionisti. The colourful array of picture cards laid spread out on the table matches their colourful language.