“Just stick it in the lock and try turning clockwise . . .”
Maria did as he said, and they immediately heard a click in the drawer lock.
“Thank you,” said Montalbano. “That’ll be all.”
As the girl put the pin back in her hair, the inspector noticed that her hands were trembling and her face had turned pale. She went and sat back down at her desk.
Montalbano bent down slightly, put one hand under the drawer, and pulled it out.
“See how easy that was?” he said to Tudesco.
“Yes, I see. And that gives me great relief.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, since I wasn’t here, just about anyone could have opened that drawer and taken the keys.”
“How many employees do you have at this agency?”
“Just one. Signorina Maria del Castello.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t . . .” the girl protested firmly.
“I don’t doubt you for a minute,” said the inspector. “It could have been the cleaning lady.”
At this point he realized that the best thing would be to let the two stew in their own juices for a bit. He slapped himself in the forehead:
“Sorry, but I have to go now. Have a good day.”
And he went out, leaving the two of them there immobile, like statues of salt. Or, better yet, two statues of wax.
* * *
—
“You know what, Mimì? I get the feeling your dalliance with Genoveffa has numbed your brain.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, it seems to me you haven’t understood a goddamn thing about all that’s happened.”
“Such as?” Augello asked in an offended tone.
“Such as, your cadaver didn’t die of a stab wound, he was shot.”
“. . . But it was so dark in there . . . Come on, how could I . . . ?”
“But since you did put your hand on his forehead, you could have noticed something else . . .”
“Such as?” Augello repeated, this time sounding more worried than offended.
“Such as the fact that the cadaver in Via Biancamano wasn’t a real corpse.”
“What the fuck are you saying . . . ?”
“Shut up, Mimì, you’ll be better off. Your cadaver was a puppet made out of wax.”
To avoid falling out of the chair he was sitting in, Augello grabbed Fazio, who was sitting beside him.
“Who on earth told you that . . . ?”
“Mimì, I just now got back from the Palumbo waxworks in Fela. It was they who created your cadaver: a good-looking man, life-size, nicely painted and groomed, all dressed up and shot in the heart. He looked like a man but in fact was a real work of art. Just think, all we see is a very fine layer of wax, laid over a gridwork of very fine resin wire. He was light as a feather! And he could be broken down into two parts.”
“But why all this song and dance? Why all this playacting?”
“Because, Mimì, we are indeed dealing with the theater,” said the inspector. “Catalanotti had the waxworks make him a dummy for his auditions. The fake corpse was supposed to be Martin.”
At that moment the telephone rang.
“Ahh, Chief, Chief! ’Ere’s summon onna line’s got two discos, but I din’t unnastan’ a woid ’e said, ’cept fer the fac’ ’at ’e wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“And did you hear disco music in the background?”
“Nah, Chief, nuttin’ like ’at.”
“Okay, put him through.”
“Hello, Inspector, this is Michele Tudesco.”
Montalbano put the speakerphone on at once.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Following your visit here I came to the conclusion that the only person who could have used the keys to Via Biancamano is my assistant, Maria. I put some pressure on her and she confessed. I fired her on the spot.”
“Tell me something,” said Montalbano. “Did she explain why she needed that apartment?”
“Yes, to meet her lover there. Maria didn’t want to bring him home because she was afraid the neighbors would gossip.”
“She must have been very upset to have been found out. I’d like to speak to her. Do you know where I could find her?”
“Very upset, I wouldn’t say, not at all. She was merely keen on repeating to me that she was not a thief and didn’t touch a single shell. If you want to know the truth, I think this job was just a way to pay her rent more than anything else. Her real passion is the theater.”
18
Montalbano smiled. Tudesco continued. “Maria’s an actress, or at least she considers herself one. She used to repeat to me often that as soon as she was able, she would drop everything and go and register at the academy in Rome. Just think, this very evening she’s debuting in a new show at the Satyricon Theater in Montelusa. I’d promised her I would go . . . but, with everything that’s happened, now I can luckily spare myself.”
That was enough for Montalbano.
“Thank you so much for your help. It’s been precious. I’ll keep you posted.”
As soon as he hung up, he was assailed with questions from Fazio and Augello.
“So who’s this Maria? More stuff to do with the theater? Why are you keeping us in the dark about everything?”
It took Montalbano a good ten minutes to tell them about Maria del Castello and the surprising conclusion that Pasquano had come to. He gave them her address and phone number and then added: “Mimì, I don’t feel up to it myself, but I want you now to go to the prosecutor and ask for a warrant to search the girl’s apartment.”
“And what about you?” asked Fazio.
“Well, seeing what time it is, I’m gonna go and eat.”
* * *
—
In the car he started thinking that the Catalanotti murder case was now drawing to a conclusion.
For whatever reason, instead of feeling pleased by this, the thought merely triggered a bout of melancholy. Not only was he coming to the conclusion of the case, he was coming to the conclusion of his affair with Antonia.
He suddenly felt an overwhelming need to hear her voice.
He pulled the car over, took out his cell phone, and dialed her number, hoping she would answer.
“Ciao, Salvo, I was about to call you.”
Silence.
“Salvo . . .”
He finally drew enough breath to speak.
“To tell me something?”
“To say good-bye. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“What do you mean, ‘leaving’?”
“Leaving. I’m going away. I’ve been transferred, effective immediately. They say it’s urgent.”
Silence.
“Salvo . . .”
“Can I see you?” asked Montalbano in a faint voice.
“Well, that’s why I was going to call you. It’s sort of a problem. I haven’t got time. Somebody’s coming to pick me up in an hour, to take me to Catania. My former boss has organized a sort of going-away party for me this evening and—”
“Can I come and say good-bye to you in Catania?”
“No, Salvo. I don’t see why you—”
“It really means a lot to me.”
“Oh, all right. My train leaves tomorrow evening at eight o’clock.”
“Then I’ll see you at the Catania station tomorrow at seven-thirty. Okay?”
“Okay.”
* * *
—
His appetite was completely gone.
He got back in the car and headed for the port.
When he got out, he started the long walk out to the flat rock under the lighthouse.
Sitting down, he fired up a cigarette, feeling completely empty inside. He couldn’t
even remain seated and had to lie down on the rock. The cigarette left a bitter taste in his mouth, so he tossed it into the sea and closed his eyes.
Ah! How much better it would have been to be not a man in flesh and blood but a wax puppet made in Fela!
A wax puppet, with no brain, and therefore no past, no present, no future.
A thing. A thing that, if a wave bigger than the rest suddenly came crashing down on it, would be dragged out to sea.
He had to make an enormous effort to sit back up. Running his hands over his face, he realized his cheeks were wet. And not with seawater.
And so he did something strange: He stuck out his tongue and started licking his hands, cleaning them of his tears, then rubbed his hands on his trousers to dry them.
He’d thought that by his age such tears should never have fallen from his eyes. But those tears gave him strength and dignity, or at least just enough to head for his car—at a crawl, it was true, but at least he was a man again.
* * *
—
“The prosecutor,” said Mimì, “didn’t make any fuss and gave me the warrant immediately. You want it?”
“Yes,” said the inspector, taking it and putting it in his jacket pocket.
“So when are we gonna go there?” asked Fazio.
“My idea is to go and search the apartment when we’re absolutely sure the girl isn’t at home. And since we know she has a performance in Montelusa this evening, we’ll plan accordingly.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that as of this moment, you’re going to start watching her building. As soon as she goes out, give me a ring and I’ll come.”
“But are you going to stay here at the office in the meantime?”
“Yes. I want to make this big stack of papers disappear.”
“What about me?” asked Mimì.
“Mimì, you’ve already done what you had to do. Thank you, and good-bye.”
* * *
—
Sign on the dotted line. Sign, sign, sign. Let’s go, Montalbà, sign until you become an automaton. That way, you won’t think of anything.
Salvo Montalbano. Salvo Montalbano.
That’s it, keep signing, drown yourself in a sea of paper, Montalbà. And even if your arm starts hurting, fuck it, keep signing, keep signing . . .
The telephone rang.
Montalbano looked at his watch. Half past six. He picked up the phone.
“Chief,” said Fazio. “The girl just left. She got in her car and drove off in the direction of Montelusa. I think the coast is clear.”
“I’ll be right there.”
* * *
—
He pulled up outside Maria’s building, and Fazio opened the car door.
“What’s the situation?” the inspector asked.
“No doorman. The girl lives on the fourth floor. Sorry to say, there’s no elevator. I had a look at the lock. It looks pretty easy.”
“Let’s go.”
It was a studio apartment. Everything was contained in a space of just a few square feet: alcove kitchen, double bed, a fine bookcase full of theatrical works, and on the wall against which stood a tiny little desk, a huge photo-portrait of Maria in beautiful seventeenth-century dress.
They opened the armoire, and it took them twenty minutes to realize that there was nothing of any remote interest to them in that apartment.
Just a moment before they were about to leave in disappointment, Montalbano heeded the call of nature.
He went into the little bathroom, and as he was relieving himself, he noticed that the ceiling in the room was lower than in the others. Looking a little closer, he spotted a double ceiling with a trapdoor the same color.
He called Fazio, who wasted no time, grabbing a chair, climbing up, and opening the trapdoor with a strong shove. He then reached in with one hand and pulled out a light, foldable aluminum ladder.
“Be my guest,” he said to the inspector.
“No, you go,” said Montalbano.
Fazio disappeared. And a moment later Montalbano heard his voice shout in triumph.
“Augello’s cadaver’s here! Inside a box. What should I do? Bring it down?”
“No,” said the inspector, “leave it there and come down.”
Fazio put the little ladder back in place and closed the trapdoor.
“And that brings things to a close. You can go back to the station or wherever you want to go.”
Fazio looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Want to tell me what you have in mind to do?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
* * *
—
The Satyricon wasn’t a proper theater. One descended two steps and entered a kind of cellar. There wasn’t even a ticket booth. Montalbano saw only an elderly woman sitting behind a shabby wooden table.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“A ticket for the show, please.”
The woman threw her hands up.
“Unfortunately, there’s not going to be any show tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no audience.”
“What about me?”
Reluctantly, the woman stood up.
“Excuse me for just a moment,” she said. She took four steps, opened a curtain, and called into the darkness. “Marì, there’s a man here. Whattya decided? You gonna do the show or not?”
“Yes,” said a female voice in the distance.
The elderly woman returned and rudely tore off one ticket. Montalbano paid six euros and went in.
The theater consisted of some forty-odd wicker chairs and a stage that was probably no larger than fifteen feet wide by ten feet deep. There was no curtain, and no décor. All he saw was a small table with a 1930s-style telephone and an ashtray on it, and a half-collapsed armchair beside it. Montalbano sat down in the first row, and a spotlight came on onstage, falling perfectly on the area comprising the little table and armchair. Then Maria appeared, barefoot and wearing a skirt. She came forward and, shading her eyes with one hand, looked out at the sole member of the audience. Montalbano had the impression that the girl’s face suddenly seemed to cheer up. She had a stage presence and authority that commanded attention. A little smile appeared on her lips. She then stepped back and sat down in the armchair. She began:
“This evening I was supposed to present Jean Cocteau’s The Human Voice, but given the fact that we have a very special guest in the audience, I will improvise for him, and him alone.”
Montalbano nodded, almost as if to say, “Please go ahead.”
“I became a woman when there were still men around. I was brought up with the principle that males always want to do only one thing: fuck. Men were kind to women for one reason alone, men went out with women for the same reason, and sometimes they got married to women, again for the same, sole reason. To fuck them.”
The girl’s voice had become transformed. She was clearly speaking a truth, but using phrasings, tones, and colors that made her words seem more a thing of the theater than of real life.
“And so, for a long time, I tried in every way to be a respected, respectable girl, as my family had taught me. Never, however, respecting myself. I tried to hide my femininity so much that no man ever took any notice of me. Only onstage”—and she pressed her bare feet harder into the floorboards—“have I had a chance to be the real me, by interpreting the characters of women different from me: free women, who knew what they wanted, and went out and took it. In real life I remained Maria del Castello, a virgin, ready to defend myself from men. Then Carmelo, my demiurge, came into my life, and he explained to me that there was a way for me to be myself even off the stage. And I put my blind trust in him. Or rather, I let him mold me. And he was so good at making me really feel like Ophel
ia, and then Theodora, and then Irina and Nora. And, most of all, it was he who made me a woman.”
At this point her voice became deeper and more pained.
“Only once, however, did he make me a woman. It lasted just a few minutes, in the car. Afterwards, and I never knew why, he rejected me. But that one time, and the hope that there would be others, was enough to make me become his slave, his prisoner. Dependent on him, totally subject to his will, and especially to the desire that he would make me his again. And Carmelo took advantage of this. And how. As if to punish me for my submission, he stopped allowing me to take the stage. I did not rebel. I was always there wondering why he didn’t want me, why he rejected me. Had I not made love to him? Had I not done it well? Had I not done what he wanted of me? Why had everyone always told me that men want only that one thing, when he himself didn’t want it from me? Why did he leave me at the very moment I found myself as a woman, begging for his body, for a simple caress and embrace from him?
“Then came Dangerous Corner. He said maybe I could play Olwen. Olwen was my last chance. She’s a secondary character. Nobody even notices her until Martin, perhaps only because of drugs, decides he wants to possess her. And by refusing him and killing him, Olwen emerges from her anonymity. I wanted to be Olwen. But Carmelo quickly changed his mind: ‘You’ll never manage,’ he said. ‘How are you ever going to be able to pull on a man’s cock? And then actually shoot him? No, Maria, come on, forget about it. I’m going to get someone else for the part.’
“I begged him to let me audition. Carmelo then challenged me: If I really wanted that part, I had to show him I was ready to do anything. He asked me to find a venue in which to audition, because he didn’t feel like bringing me to his place. And so I stole the keys to that apartment from the agency. He asked me to dress up as Olwen. And so I became an anonymous secretary: thick, flesh-tone stockings, loafers, skirt down to the knee, the commonest of blouses, white gloves, and a briefcase for work. I had to go around dressed like that, at all times. We went to the Via Biancamano apartment a first time, then a second time. He asked me to leave him the keys to the place. We were going to meet there the following evening after dinner. When I arrived, I rang the doorbell, but then I noticed that the door was ajar, and so I went in. Carmelo didn’t answer when I called his name. Walking in the dark, I entered the bedroom and got a glimpse of a corpse on the bed. I thought it was him, and I started screaming. I screamed so loudly that Carmelo turned on the light and showed me that it was just a wax puppet. But I was very upset. ‘I told you you’d never manage. You’re afraid of a wax puppet; how would you ever be capable of killing someone? Come on, Maria. Forget about it.’
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