The Dance of the Seagull

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I said I don’t know!”

  “Listen, don’t get up to your usual tricks, I won’t stand for it!”

  “And what are these usual tricks of mine?”

  “When you say you’ll be there at a certain time and you show up three hours late.”

  “I’ll be extremely punctual.”

  “But you haven’t told me what time you—”

  “Livia, stop! Are you trying to drive me insane?”

  “You already are insane!”

  He hung up. And less than thirty seconds later, the phone rang. He grabbed the receiver and yelled angrily:

  “I am not insane! Understand?”

  There was a slight pause, and then Catarella began to speak, voice quavering.

  “Chief! I swear on my mortal soul an’ dead body, I nivver tought you wuz insane! I nivver said it!”

  “Sorry, Cat, I thought you were someone else. What is it?”

  “Iss Fazio’s wife is what it is.”

  “On the phone?”

  “Nossir, she’s ’ere poissonally in poisson.”

  “Show her in.”

  Why had Fazio sent his wife? Couldn’t he have just phoned if he was sick?

  “Hello, Grazia. What’s wrong?”

  “Hello, Inspector. I’m so sorry to bother you, but—”

  “No bother at all. What is it?”

  “You tell me.”

  Good God, what did that mean?

  Signora Grazia, to judge from her eyes, looked worried and troubled.

  Montalbano decided at once to try to find out more, in the hopes of gaining some understanding and responding properly.

  “Meanwhile, please sit down. You seem upset.”

  “My husband went out last night at ten o’clock, after you called him. He said he had to meet you at the port. And I haven’t heard from him since. Usually when he stays out all night he gives me a call. But this time he didn’t, so I’m a little worried.”

  Ah, so that’s what this was about. But in fact he hadn’t called Fazio the night before. And they didn’t have an appointment at the port. What on earth was the good man up to?

  At any rate, the first thing to do was to calm down the wife. And thus began an Oscar-caliber performance. Montalbano let out a sort of groan and slapped himself loudly on the forehead.

  “Madonna mia! I completely forgot! I’m so sorry, signora, but it totally slipped my mind!”

  “What, Inspector?”

  “Your husband had told me to phone you, since he couldn’t! And to think he’d repeated it to me so many times! And I, like an idiot—”

  “Please don’t say that, Inspector.”

  “Good God, I’m so sorry to have made you worry so! But rest assured, Grazia, your husband is just fine. He’s involved in a very delicate—”

  “That’s enough for me, Inspector. Thank you.”

  She stood up and held out her hand.

  Fazio’s wife was a woman worthy of the man. Of few words and great dignity, she never, on the few occasions the inspector had eaten at their house (but what a terrible cook!), got involved in the two men’s conversation when they discussed work-related matters.

  “I’ll see you out,” said Montalbano.

  He accompanied her to the parking lot, still apologizing, and watched her get into her husband’s car. Which meant that Fazio hadn’t taken it to go wherever he’d gone.

  He went back into the station and stopped in front of the closet that served as a switchboard room. He said to Catarella:

  “Call Fazio for me on his cell phone.”

  Catarella tried twice in rapid succession.

  “Iss off, Chief.”

  “Then tell Inspector Augello to come to my office at once.”

  “But ’e’s still wit’ Signor Mizzica.”

  “Tell him to tell the guy to fuck off.”

  What could have possibly happened to Fazio? he wondered, worried, entering his office.

  Fazio had lied to his wife, telling her he had an appointment at the port. Why at the port of all places? That might be the answer to everything, or it might mean nothing at all. He might have simply said the first thing that had come into his head.

  The troubling thing was that he hadn’t phoned his wife. And that must certainly have been because . . . because apparently he was in no condition to do so.

  Be clearer, Montalbà, said Montalbano Two.

  He doesn’t want to be any clearer because he’s afraid, Montalbano One cut in.

  Of what?

  Of the conclusions he’s forced to draw.

  And what are they?

  That Fazio can’t phone because he’s being held prisoner by someone, or else he’s injured or dead.

  But why do you always have to imagine the worst?

  What else can you imagine in this situation? That Fazio ran off with another woman?

  Augello came in.

  “What’s the big rush?”

  “Close the door and sit down.”

  Augello obeyed.

  “Well?”

  “Fazio has disappeared.”

  Mimì gawked at him, open-mouthed.

  After talking for fifteen minutes, they arrived at a conclusion. Which was that Fazio had clearly started an investigation on his own without telling anyone. He did get these sorts of brilliant ideas every once in a while. This time, however, he’d underestimated the danger, which seemed strange, given his experience, and had ended up in trouble.

  There was no other possible explanation.

  “We have to track him down by tomorrow at the very latest,” said Montalbano. “I can probably keep his wife at bay until then, since she has a lot of faith in me, but sooner or later I’ll have to tell her the truth. Whatever it is.”

  “Where do you want me to start looking?”

  “Let’s assume the story about the port is true. You should start there.”

  “Can I bring someone with me?”

  “No, it’s better if you go alone. I don’t want word to go around that we’re looking for him. It might get back to the wife. If by this time tomorrow we haven’t made any progress, then we’ll get moving on a big scale.”

  After Augello left, the inspector had an idea.

  “Catarella, get someone to sit in for you for five minutes, then come into my office.”

  “Straightaways, Chief.”

  And indeed he appeared straightaways.

  “Listen, Cat, I need you to give me a hand with something.”

  Catarella’s eyes began to sparkle with contentment, and he stood at attention.

  “I’ll even give yiz both ’ands, Chief.”

  “Think hard before answering. There’s no direct phone line in Fazio’s office, right?”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Therefore every phone call that comes in for him has to pass through the switchboard, right?”

  Catarella didn’t reply, but twisted up his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Chief. Fazio’s gotta sill phone. If summon happens a call ’im on ’is sill phone, Fazio’s sill phone, I mean, that summon callin’ ’ass callin’ don’ go true the swishboard.”

  “That’s true. But let’s just put that problem aside for now. Let’s think only about the switchboard. I want you to tell me whether there’ve been any phone calls for Fazio in the last four or five days, from anyone who had never called before. Is that clear?”

  “Poifickly, Chief.”

  “Now I want you to sit down at my desk, grab a pen and a sheet of paper, and write down every name you can remember. And in the meantime I’m going to go outside to smoke a cigarette.”

  “I’m sorry, Chief
, but I coun’t do that.”

  “You can’t remember who called?”

  “No, no, Chief, I can’t sit atcher disk.”

  “Why not? The chair’s the same as any other.”

  “Yessir, ’ass right, sir, but iss the ass, if you’ll ascuse the ’spression, o’ the poisson sittin’ in the chair ’at makes the chair wha’ it is.”

  “All right, then just stay seated where you are.”

  He went outside the building, smoked a cigarette while walking slowly around the parking lot, then went back inside.

  3

  Catarella handed him a sheet of paper. There were three names written on it. Loccicciro (which must have been Lo Cicero); Parravacchio (only God knew what the real name was); and Zireta (here the error was slight: Ziretta).

  “Only three?”

  “No, Chief, there’s four.”

  “But you wrote only three names.”

  “I din’t write the fourth cuz I din’t need to. Y’see how, ’tween Garavacchio an’—”

  “Here you wrote down Parravacchio.”

  “Iss not important. Y’see, how ’tween Saravacchio an’ Zireta ’ere’s a blank space?”

  “Yes. What’s it mean?”

  “Blank, Chief. It means blank.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Means the fourth poisson ’at called’s name’s Blank.”

  Brilliant.

  “Listen, isn’t Blanc the guy who was arrested last week for brawling?”

  “Yessir, Chief. An’ Loccicciro was callin’ cuz summon livin’ onna floor above ’is floor’s pissin’ on ’im—if you’ll pardon my lankwitch—every mornin’ from the overlookin’ balcony.”

  “And do you know what Parravacchio wanted?”

  “Nah. But Taravacchio’s a rilitive o’ Fazio’s.”

  “Between Parravacchio and Ziretta, do you know which called more often?”

  “Yessir, ’twas Pinetta, but he’s calling ’bout a application fer applyin’ fer a passpott.”

  Montalbano felt disappointed.

  “But insofar as concerning the continuous pain-in-the-ass calls in continuosity, ’twas Mansella doin’ the callin’ till five days ago.”

  “Is that Mansella with an S or a Z?”

  “Wit’ a S like a Z, Chief.”

  “And did this Manzella go through the switchboard when he called Fazio?”

  “Chief, Mansella call true the swishboard insofar as cuz Fazio’s sill phone’s always busy. Or swished off. An’ so he tol’ me ’e’s Mansella an’ ’at I’s asposta tell summon a tell Fazio ’at ’e’s asposta call ’im, ’im bein’ Mansella. Or ellis ’e’s asposta toin ’is sill phone on.”

  “And did Fazio call him back?”

  “I dunno, Chief. Insofar as cuz I’s never present. If he called ’im back, ’twas witta sill phone.”

  “I guess you don’t remember the first time this Manzella called.”

  “Wait a seccon’, Chief.”

  He went out of the room, then returned at a run, holding a notebook with a black cover. He started leafing through it. The pages were densely covered with names and numbers.

  “What’s that?”

  “Chief, innytime innyone calls, I write down ’is name, who’s they want, the day, anna zack time o’day.”

  “Why?”

  “Cuz ya nivver know.”

  “But aren’t they automatically registered?”

  “Yessir, ’ass true, but I don’ trust nuthin’ attomattic. Who knows ’ow the attomattic feels about it! Awright, ’ere we are: Mansella calla foiss time tin days ago. Then ’e call ivry day till five days ago. A lass time ’e call tree times. ’E’z noivous. An’ ’e tol’ me a tell Fazio ’at ’e better toin ’is sill phone on.”

  “And then?”

  “An’ ’enn ’e din’t call no more. But after ’twas Fazio allways askin’ a’ least twice a day if Mansella a call askin’ fr’im. An’ ivry time I say no, ’e says if ’e calls to put ’im true straightaways cuz iss a rilly important matter.”

  “All right, thanks, Cat. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “One more ting, Chief, if I mays.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Wass’ goin’ on wit Fazio?”

  “Nothing, just some chickenshit, no need to worry.”

  Catarella went out, not very convinced.

  Montalbano took a deep breath and decided to do something he really had no desire to do. Might as well start with the worst. He dialed Dr. Pasquano’s phone number.

  “Hello, is the doctor in?”

  “The doctor’s busy.”

  “Montalbano here. Please get him for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m really not up to it. He’s darker than a storm cloud this morning, and at the moment he’s right in the middle of an autopsy.”

  Pasquano must have dropped a lot of cash playing poker at the club last night. When this happened, one was better off dealing with a starving polar bear.

  “Maybe you know the answer to my question. Did any new bodies come in last night?”

  “You mean fresh corpses? No.”

  The inspector heaved a sigh of mild relief.

  He got up, went out of the office, and when passing by Catarella, told him:

  “I’m off to Montelusa. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. If Inspector Augello asks for me, tell him to call me on my cell phone.”

  There were three hospitals and two private clinics in Montelusa. It used to be that all you had to do was tell them over the phone that you were with the police, and they would tell you anything about anyone. Then, with the advent of pain-in-the-ass privacy laws, if you didn’t go in person and show your badge, they wouldn’t tell you a goddamn thing. At any rate, Fazio wasn’t in any of the three hospitals. Now came the hard part: the private clinics, whose concept of secrecy outdid even that of Swiss banks. How many fugitive mafiosi had been operated on in those clinics? The reception area of the first clinic Montalbano visited looked like the lobby of a five-star hotel. Behind a front desk so shiny it could have been used as a mirror were two women dressed in white, one young and the other old. He went up to the latter and donned a very serious face.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, police,” he said, taking out his badge.

  “How may I help you?”

  “My men will be here in ten minutes. I want all the patients to remain in their rooms, and no visitors who are already here can leave.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “I have a search warrant. We are looking for a dangerous fugitive named Fazio who we believe was admitted here yesterday.”

  The woman, who had turned pale as a ghost, reacted.

  “But no one has been admitted here for the past two days! Look for yourself!” she said, turning her computer screen towards him.

  “Listen, there’s no point arguing! We have learned that the Materdei Clinic—”

  “But this isn’t Materdei!”

  “It’s not?”

  “No! We’re the Salus Clinic.”

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I’ve made a mistake. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll be on my way, then. Ah, but one very important thing: you mustn’t, under any circumstances, notify the Materdei.”

  At the second clinic they actually threw him out. There was a head nurse of about sixty, at least six-foot-one, skinny as death and just as ugly, the spitting image of Olive Oyl.

  “We don’t accept wounded people off the street.”

  “Fine, signora, but—”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Well, don’t despair. You’ll see, one day your prince charming will come.”

  “Out!”

&n
bsp; As he was getting back in his car, he heard someone call him. It was a doctor he knew. The inspector explained the situation to him. His friend told him to wait outside, then returned five minutes later.

  “We haven’t had any new admissions for two days.”

  What was going on? Was everyone bristling with good health, or did they simply not have enough money to pay the bills of the private clinics? Whatever the case, he had to conclude that Fazio hadn’t been hospitalized anywhere around there. Then where had he gone off to hide?

  As he was driving back to Vigàta, his cell phone rang. It was Mimì Augello.

  “Salvo, where are you?”

  “I was just now in Montelusa making the rounds of the hospitals. There’s no sign of Fazio anywhere. I’m on my way back.”

  “Listen . . . Maybe you should . . .”

  Montalbano immediately understood.

  “Don’t worry, he’s not at the morgue, either. How about you? Got any news?”

  “That’s what I was calling about. Can you come to the port? I’ll wait for you at the entrance.”

  “Which one?”

  “I’m just outside the southern gate.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  The southern gate, the one closest to the eastern jetty, where the inspector often went for a walk after eating, was used mostly by the steady flow of cars and trucks about to get on the ferryboat for Lampedusa. The ferry left at midnight. Once the season began, that area of the port was a bivouac of foreign kids waiting to board.

  On either side of the enormous gate was a sort of sentry-box for the customs police on duty, who checked the comings and goings.

  But at that hour of the morning, all was quiet. The pandemonium of cars and passengers began around five P.M.

  “At night this gate and the central one are closed. Only the northern gate stays open,” Mimì explained.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because that’s the area of the port where the trawlers dock and put out and where the cold storage houses and refrigerator trucks are. It’s basically the hub for the seafood business.”

  “Well, if something has happened to Fazio, it happened at night.”

  “That’s my point.”

  “Then why are we standing at the wrong gate?”