“Last night,” he said, smiling, “I was here.”
“Here where?”
“On your landing. I’d been called by Signor Bracceri concerning a matter that turned out to be of no importance. You’d forgotten to close your door and I took the liberty of closing it.”
“Ah, so it was you.”
“Yes, I’m sorry if I made too much noise. But there was something I was curious about. There was a piece of paper attached to your door with a thumbtack, if I recall, with the words: general rehearsal.”
He smiled and assumed a distracted expression.
“Were you rehearsing anything interesting?”
They both became suddenly very serious and drew even closer to each other. And with the most natural of gestures, one they must have repeated thousands of times, they held hands and looked at each other. Then Andrea Di Giovanni said:
“We were rehearsing our death.”
And as Montalbano sat there, frozen, he added:
“But we’re not working from a script, unfortunately.”
And now the wife spoke up.
“When we got married, I was nineteen and Giovanni was twenty-two. We’ve always been together and never accepted jobs with different companies. And for that reason we sometimes went hungry. Then, when we got too old to work anymore, we retired here.”
The husband continued.
“For some time now we haven’t been well. We’re just getting old, we thought. But then we went to the doctor’s. Our hearts are a shambles. When it comes time to part, it will be sudden and inevitable. And so we decided to start rehearsing. Whoever goes first will not be alone in the afterlife.”
“The best thing would be to die together, at the same instant,” she said. “But it’s unlikely we’ll be granted that favor.”
She was wrong. Eight months later, Montalbano read two lines in the newspaper. Signora Di Giovanni died peacefully in her sleep, and Andrea, realizing this upon awakening, had rushed to the phone to call for help. But halfway between the bed and the phone, his heart gave out.
AMORE
Born to parents who had trouble making ends meet—her mother washed the stairs at city hall, while her father, a seasonal worker in the countryside, was blinded by a hand grenade left over from the war—Michela Prestìa got more and more beautiful as she began to grow up. The threadbare clothes she wore, little more than rags but very clean, couldn’t hide the gift from God that lay beneath them. A brunette with dark eyes always shining as if happy to be alive despite her poverty, she had learned only to read and write. She dreamed of becoming a salesgirl in one of those great department stores she found so fascinating. At age fifteen, already fully developed, she ran away from home with a man who wandered from town to town in a small truck selling kitchenware: glasses, dishes, cutlery. When she returned a year later, her father and mother acted as if nothing had happened, or rather, they acted as if they had another mouth to feed. In the five years that followed, many were the men in Vigàta, single as well as married, who went with her and then dropped her, or were dropped by her, though always without fuss or quarrels. Michela’s vitality was able to accommodate change, to make it seem natural. At age twenty-two she moved in with the elderly Dr. Pisciotta, who made her his mistress, showering her with gifts and money. But the good life lasted only three years for Michela. After the doctor died in her arms, the young widow got mixed up with lawyers who took away everything the old man had given her, leaving her destitute and crazy. Less than six months later, Michela met an accountant named Saverio Moscato. At first it seemed an affair like all the rest, but soon it became clear around town that things were very different this time.
Saverio Moscato, a clerk at the cement works, was a good-looking man of thirty, the son of an engineer and a Latin teacher. Though very attached to his family, he didn’t hesitate to leave the fold the moment his parents let him know what they thought of his relationship with a girl who was a favorite subject of the town gossips. Without a word, Saverio rented a flat by the port and moved in with Michela. They were happy. Saverio had not only his salary to live on, but some land and shops an uncle had left to him. Yet what surprised people most was Michela’s behavior. Having always shown herself to be free and independent, she only had eyes for Saverio now. She hung on his every word, did everything he said, and never rebelled. And Saverio repaid her in kind, attentive to her every desire, even those expressed not aloud but with a mere glance. When they went out for a stroll or to the movies, they walked together so tightly embraced that it looked as if they were saying good-bye and would never see each other again. And they would kiss whenever they could, and even when they couldn’t.
“No doubt about it,” said Smecca, the land surveyor, who had briefly been Michela’s lover. “They’re in love. And if you really want to know, I’m glad. I hope it lasts. Michela’s a good girl, she deserves it.”
Having done everything humanly possible not to absent himself from Vigàta and leave Michela’s side, Saverio Moscato finally had to go to Milan for the cement works and stay there for about ten days. Before leaving, he went to see his only friend, Pietro Sanfilippo, who found him desperate.
“First of all,” his friend comforted him, “ten days is not eternity.”
“For me and Michela it is.”
“Then why not take her with you?”
“She doesn’t want to come. She’s never been outside of Sicily. She says a big city like Milan would only frighten her, unless she stayed with me the whole time. But I can’t have that. I have to go to meetings, see people . . .”
During Saverio’s stay in Milan, Michela never left the house and wasn’t seen about town. But the strange thing was that even when Saverio returned, the girl no longer appeared at his side. Perhaps the time her love was away had made her unwell or depressed.
A month after Saverio Moscato’s return, Michela’s mother came in to see Inspector Salvo Montalbano of Vigàta Police. But it wasn’t maternal concerns that had brought her there.
“My daughter Michela missed the monthly payment she usually gives me.”
“She gives you money?”
“She certainly does. Every month. A hundred euros, two hundred, depending. She’s always been a responsible daughter.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Well, I went to see Saverio Moscato, the man she lives with. He said Michela doesn’t live there anymore. Says she was gone when he got back from Milan. He even showed me the rooms. Her things are all gone. There’s nothing, no clothing, not even a pair of panties.”
She blushed.
“What did Moscato say? How did he explain her disappearance?”
“He had no explanation for it. He said maybe Michela, being the way she was, had run away with another man. But I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause she was in love with Moscato.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Bah, I dunno . . . Go and talk to him, maybe he’ll tell you what really happened.”
To avoid giving an official cast to the questions he wanted to ask him, Montalbano waited until he ran into Moscato by chance. One afternoon he saw him sitting alone at a table at the Caffè Castiglione, drinking a glass of peppermint soda.
“Hello, I’m Inspector Montalbano.”
“I know.”
“I’d like to talk with you a minute.”
“Please sit down. Would you like anything?”
“I wouldn’t mind some cassata ice cream.”
The accountant ordered the ice cream.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“I feel a bit awkward mentioning this, Mr. Moscato, but the other day Michela Prestìa’s mother came to see me. She says her daughter has disappeared.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“Could yo
u explain a little better?”
“For what reason?”
“You live, or used to live, with Michela Prestìa, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t referring to myself. I was asking why you, Inspector Montalbano, were interested in the matter.”
“Well, since her mother came to see—”
“Michela’s an adult, I think, and free to do whatever she feels like. She left. It’s as simple as that.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’d like to know more about it.”
“I had to go to Milan for business, and she didn’t want to come with me. She claimed that big cities like Milan frightened her, made her feel uneasy. Now I think it was just an excuse to be left alone so she could prepare her escape. Whatever the case, the first week I was away, we spoke every day, in the morning and at night. On the morning of the eighth day, she said she was in a bad mood. She said . . . she couldn’t stand to be away from me anymore. When I called back that night, she didn’t answer. But I didn’t worry. I assumed she’d taken a sleeping pill. The next morning the same thing happened, and I started to worry. I called a friend of mine, Pietro Sanfilippo, and told him to go and have a look. He called me back a little while later and said the house was locked up. He said he knocked a long time but nobody answered. I figured she must have got sick or something. So I called my father, whom I’d given an extra set of keys before leaving. He unlocked the door, but found nothing. Not only was there no trace of Michela, but all her belongings were gone. Even her lipstick.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Do you really want to know? I started to cry.”
But why, then, as he was talking about his beloved’s disappearance and his tears of despair, was there not only no sadness in his eyes, but something rather like a glimmer of contentment? He was trying, of course, to assume the proper expression for the occasion, but he wasn’t entirely succeeding. Out of the ash he was trying to spread over his gaze, a flame of joy leapt treacherously forth.
“My dear Inspector,” said Pietro Sanfilippo, “what do you want me to say? I’m at a loss. Just to give you an idea, when Saverio came back from Milan, I requested a three-day leave from work. You can ask at the office, if you don’t believe me. I thought he’d be desperate after Michela ran away, so I wanted to be at his side every minute. I was afraid he might do something stupid. He was too much in love. So I went to the Montelusa station, but when he got off the train, he was cool as a cucumber. I was expecting to see him wailing and weeping, and instead . . .”
“Instead?”
“As we were driving back to Vigàta from Montelusa, he started singing softly to himself. He’s always liked opera and actually has a pretty good voice. He was singing “Tu che a Dio spiegasti l’ali.” It sent chills down my spine. I thought it must be shock. That evening we went out for dinner together, and he was perfectly calm and untroubled as he ate. I decided to go back to work the next day.”
“Did you talk about Michela?”
“Are you kidding? It was as if the woman had never existed!”
“Do you know if they’d had some sort of spat?”
“Are you kidding? They were always in love, always in agreement.”
“Were they jealous of each other?”
“She wasn’t. He was, but in his own kind of way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he wasn’t jealous of Michela’s present life, but of her past.”
“Nasty stuff.”
“Yeah. It’s the worst kind of jealousy. There’s no cure for it. One evening, when he was in a particularly bad mood, he came out with something I’ll never forget: ‘Everyone’s always gotten everything they wanted from Michela,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing new, nothing pure, left for her to give me.’ I wanted to tell him that if that’s how he felt, he’d really picked the wrong woman. She had too much of a past. But I decided it was better to keep quiet.”
“You, Mr. Sanfilippo, were Saverio’s friend even before he met Michela, weren’t you?”
“Of course. We’re the same age; we’ve known each other since elementary school.”
“Think hard. If we look at the time with Michela as an interlude, do you notice any difference in your friend before and after?”
Pietro Sanfilippo thought hard.
“Saverio’s never been very open about his feelings. He’s the quiet type, and often moody. The few times he’s looked happy to me was when he was with Michela. Now he’s more closed than ever. He avoids even me. On the weekends he goes out to the country.”
“Does he have a house in the country?”
“Yes, around Belmonte, in Trapani province. His uncle left it to him. Before now, he never wanted to set foot in the place. But tell me something.”
“If I can . . .”
“Why are you so interested in Michela’s disappearance?”
“Her mother asked me to look into it.”
“That woman doesn’t give a damn. She’s only interested in the spare cash Michela used to pass on to her!”
“Don’t you think that’s a good reason?”
“Look, Inspector, I’m not stupid. You’re asking more questions about Saverio than about Michela.”
“You want me to level with you? I have a suspicion.”
“About what?”
“I have the strange impression that your friend Saverio was expecting it. And that maybe, just maybe, he even knew the man Michela ran off with.”
Pietro Sanfilippo took the bait. Montalbano congratulated himself for improvising a convincing reply. How could he tell him that what bothered and perplexed him was a bright flame in Saverio Moscato’s eyes?
The inspector didn’t want any of his men to get involved in this. He was afraid to look ridiculous. And so he went through the effort of interrogating all the tenants in Moscato’s building himself. Everything about this investigation—which wasn’t even an investigation—was tenuous, if not downright nonexistent, and the starting point for all his questions was as airy as a spiderweb. If what Saverio Moscato told him was true, Michela had answered his phone call that morning, but not that night. Therefore, if she had run away, she’d done so during the day, and somebody may have noticed something.
The building had six floors, with six flats per floor. The inspector dutifully began on the top floor. Nobody had seen or heard anything. Moscato lived on the second floor, in apartment 8. Discouraged, Montalbano rang the doorbell to apartment 5. The nameplate outside said: MARIA COSTANZO, WIDOW DILIBERTO. And it was she who answered the door, a little old lady, neatly dressed, with sharp, penetrating eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Montalbano’s the name, I’m with the police.”
“What do you please?”
She was impossibly deaf.
“Is there anybody home?” the inspector yelled.
“Why are you shouting?” the old lady asked, indignant. “I’m not that deaf!”
Hearing the commotion, a fortyish man appeared from one of the back rooms.
“You can talk to me; I’m her son.”
“May I come in?”
The man showed him into a small living room. The old woman sat down in an armchair in front of Montalbano.
“I don’t live here; I just came to see Mamma,” the son said, just to be safe.
“As you must know by now, Michela Prestìa, who lived in apartment number eight with Saverio Moscato, disappeared without a word when Moscato was away in Milan, between the seventh and the sixteenth of May.”
The old woman gave a look of impatience.
“What’s he saying, Pasqualì?”
“Wait,” Pasquale Diliberto said in a normal voice. Apparently his mother was accustomed to reading his lips.
“What I’d like to know is whether your mother, during this period, saw or noticed a
nything that—”
“I’ve already asked her. Mamma doesn’t know anything about Michela’s disappearance.”
“But I do!” said the old woman. “I saw him. I even told you. But you say it’s not true.”
“Whom did you see, ma’am?”
“Inspector, I should warn you,” said the son. “My mother is not only deaf, she’s not really right in the head.”
“Oh, so I’m not right in the head, eh?” said Maria Costanzo, widow of Augusto Diliberto, springing to her feet. “You horrible, wretched son! How dare you insult me in front of strangers like that!”
And she left the small living room, slamming the door behind her.
“You tell me about it,” Montalbano said sternly.
“The thirteenth of May is Mamma’s birthday. That evening, my wife and I came to see her. We had dinner together, then some cake and a few glasses of Spumante. At eleven we went home. Now, my mother claims, maybe because she sort of overdid it with the cake—she’s a bit of a glutton, you know—that she couldn’t sleep that night. Around three o’clock in the morning, she actually remembered that she forgot to take the garbage out. When she opened the front door, she noticed that the hall light was burnt out. She says that in front of apartment number eight, which is opposite ours, she saw a man with a big suitcase. And she thought he looked like Moscato. But I said: Do you realize, woman, what you’re saying? Saverio Moscato didn’t come back from Milan until three days later!”
“Inspector,” said Angelo Liotta, manager of the cement works, “I checked all the things you asked me to. Our accountant Moscato duly presented me with his plane tickets and lists of out-of-pocket expenses. So here’s what I’ve got: He left Sunday, from Palermo airport, at six-thirty p.m., on a flight for Milan. He spent that night at the Hotel Excelsior and stayed there until the morning of the seventeenth, when he returned on the seven-thirty a.m. flight out of Milan’s Linate Airport. And it looks like he attended all the meetings and made all the contacts he went to Milan for. If you have any other questions, I’m at your service.”
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 18