The Dance of the Seagull

by Andrea Camilleri

  7

  The moment he saw the inspector, Catarella very nearly threw himself at his feet.

  “Jeezis, Chief, I ain’t seen yiz f’such a long time! I rilly rilly missed yiz! An’ Gallo tol’ me ivryting! Ann’ ’iss mornin’ I call a haspitol an’ Fazio’s wife tol’ me ’at—”

  “Everything’s fine, Cat. And thanks.”

  “Fer what, Chief?”

  “For talking to Livia.”

  Catarella turned beet-red.

  “Ah, y’gotta ’scuze me, Chief, f’takin’ a libbity, but the young lady, insomuch as she lookt rilly rilly upset, she—”

  “You did exactly the right thing, Cat. Now send me Inspector Augello.”

  “Any news of Fazio?” was Mimì’s first question.

  “He’s under the knife.”

  “Gallo told me he didn’t recognize either one of you.”

  “He even shot at us! But he’s going to recover, you’ll see. What did Pasquano say about the second corpse?”

  “He didn’t find any bullet or knife wounds. The guy was simply chucked into the well still alive. In my opinion, your hypothesis that it was Fazio that pushed him in self-defense is probably correct.”

  “Has he been identified?”

  “Not yet. He didn’t have any documents on him. Forensics took his fingerprints. But I don’t think they’ll find anything.”

  “You think the guy’s clean?”

  “No, but I saw his hands.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As he was falling, he must have tried desperately to grab hold of something without success. He didn’t have any fingertips left, all the flesh was scraped off.”

  “We’ll know more when Fazio can talk again. And what can you tell me about the other corpse?”

  “The first one we found? I’m still waiting to hear from Forensics.”

  “And have you spoken to Pasquano?”

  “Nobody can talk to the guy! If I try to talk to him, it’ll probably turn into a shouting match.”

  “I’ll call him myself, but not till later in the morning.”

  “Listen, don’t get pissed off, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Don’t you think it’s time to inform Bonetti-Alderighi about what happened to Fazio?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I wouldn’t want him to find out from somebody else.”

  “From whom?”

  “I dunno, maybe some journalist.”

  “Zito doesn’t talk.”

  “Zito’s not in question. But just think about it, Salvo. Fazio’s at Fiacca Hospital, under his own first and last name, for a head wound caused by a firearm. Now, imagine some journalist from Fiacca—”

  “You’re right.”

  “And bear in mind that you’ll have to grant Fazio convalescent leave. What are you going to tell the commissioner, that he had typhoid fever?”

  “You’re right.”

  “I wouldn’t waste any more time, if I were you.”

  “I’ll do it right now.”

  He dialed the direct number to the commissioner’s office and turned on the speakerphone as soon as he heard someone pick up.

  “Hello, Montalbano here. I’d like to—”

  “Dear Montalbano, how are you? And the family?”

  It was that colossal pain-in-the-ass Dr. Lattes, chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, who held the unshakable belief that the inspector was married and had a large family.

  “Everybody’s fine, with thanks to the Blessed Virgin.”

  “We must always give thanks. Did you wish to speak with the commissioner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unfortunately he had to go to Palermo and won’t be back until late afternoon tomorrow. If you’d like to tell me—”

  “I wanted to inform the commissioner that one of my men was wounded in a gun battle, and that therefore—”

  “Is it serious?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God!”

  “We must always give thanks! Will you let him know?”

  “Of course! And please give my very best wishes to the family.”

  “I certainly will.”

  Mimì, who’d listened to the exchange, stared at the inspector, wonderstruck.

  “What’s with you?” asked Montalbano.

  “But . . . are you married with children?”

  “Cut the shit, Mimì.”

  “So then why, with Lattes . . .”

  “I’ll explain later, all right? Actually, no, you know what I say? I say that since we’ve got nothing to go on yet, you’re going to go back to your office now, and I’m going to sign a few stacks of papers.”

  Two hours later, with his right arm stiff from too many signatures, he decided it was time to call Dr. Pasquano. But as he grabbed the receiver, he realized that if the doctor’s cojones were in a spin, as they often were, then he was liable to tell the inspector to get stuffed and say nothing about the corpses. The best thing, therefore, was to go and talk to him in person. Before leaving the office, however, he rang Adelina and told her that Livia had left, and that the coast was therefore clear.

  “I c’n imagine a candition the good woman a lefta house in,” said Adelina, who never gave Livia a break.

  “What condition do you think, Adelì? It’s clean!”

  “ ’Assa whatta you say, cuzza you’s a man anna you don’a notice a nuttin’! She always a leave it uppa side down! You know where I fine a pair odda younga lady’s a sòccassa one a time? Jess guess!”

  “C’mon, Adelì, this isn’t a quiz show.”

  “I tink I canna mebbe come a dis aftanoon. You wann’ I make a somethin’ a eat a fer tonite?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  The moment he hung up, the phone rang again. It was Fazio’s wife.

  “Everything’s fine, Inspector. The operation is over, and it went very well. They told me I can see him around five o’clock. But the doctors don’t want any other visitors. So for you it’d be better if you came tomorrow morning.”

  “All right. But if you’d like to go home and rest for a little while, I could send one of my—”

  “Thank you, Inspector, but don’t worry, my sister’s here with me.”

  As he passed Catarella’s post on his way out of the office, he informed him.

  “Signora Fazio just called. The operation was a complete success. Tell everyone.”

  As he was parking in the lot in front of the Institute, he saw Dr. Pasquano standing outside the main entrance, smoking a cigarette.

  “Good morning, Doctor.”

  “If you say so.”

  Always so cordial, the good doctor. But he seemed only half angry, since he didn’t start insulting the inspector.

  “I didn’t know you had the vice,” Montalbano said, just to make conversation.

  “What vice are you referring to?”

  “Smoking.”

  “Never had that one.”

  “But you’re smoking!”

  “Montalbano, you think just like a cop, which is no surprise.”

  “And how do I think?”

  “You link a man with a single act, whereas that man is not always engaged in that act . . .”

  “What are you doing, Doctor? Misquoting Pirandello? You know what I say to you?”

  “Do tell.”

  “That I don’t give a flying fuck whether you have the vice or not.”

  “That’s a little better, though you’ve still come to bust my balls and ruin the only cigarette I’ll smoke all day.”

  “Even one cigarette a day is a vice, according to the Americans.”

  “
You can all go fuck yourselves, you and the Americans.”

  “Keep your voice down, or President Bush will have you bombed at once. Anything new to tell me?”

  “Who, me?! How could I have anything new to tell you? By now I’ve seen every manner of violent death imaginable. All I’m missing, to round out my collection, is a specimen of death by napalm.”

  “I meant anything new about the two bodies found in the wells.”

  “I figured that out perfectly well all by myself. I was hardly under the delusion that you’d come to ask after my health.”

  “Let me remedy that at once: how are you?”

  “At the moment I can’t complain. And thank you for your courteous, ready interest. Where shall we start?”

  “With the second one, the younger corpse.”

  “You mean the fresher one? The guy died when somebody threw him into the well. He was fine before that.”

  “Did he bear any marks of a struggle?”

  “Can’t you see you’re getting soft in the head with age? A guy falls a hundred feet into a well, bouncing between the walls all the way down, and you’re asking me if . . . Come on! You want some advice?”

  “If you must.”

  “Given your age, why don’t you just pack up and resign? Can’t you see for yourself that you’re not right in the head anymore? Both heads, actually, above and below.”

  “Doctor, I think you’re laying it on a little thick.”

  “I’m a physician. We’re always supposed to tell the truth.”

  “And do you? Even when you’re bluffing at poker?”

  “When I’m playing poker, I’m not a doctor, but a poker player. But, as for you, didn’t you see the corpse?”

  “No, Doctor, I had to leave shortly before they pulled it out of the well.”

  It was half lie, half truth. Apparently Augello hadn’t told him that Montalbano had passed out. Otherwise one could only imagine what Pasquano would have said.

  “About thirty years old, in good health, good shape, a perfect recruit for the lists of hell. He would have lived to be a hundred, if not for shootouts and a variety of potential accidents.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “The other one . . . Shall we go into my office?”

  They went inside, entered Pasquano’s study, and the doctor told him to sit down.

  “How long had he been in the well?” the inspector began.

  “For at least a week. Which accelerated the decomposition process. They must have thrown him in shortly after killing him. But I also have to tell you—and this is only an opinion, mind you—that they took a little while to finish him off. Let’s say a good half day.”

  “You mean they tortured him?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know . . . but . . .”

  “Doctor, you were much more decisive in your younger days. Now you’ve even got a tremor in your voice. You want some advice? Why don’t you retire to the private life so you can play poker all day from morning till night? I’m only trying to help, since it pains me a little to see you this way. I promise you that whatever you tell me, even if it’s totally fucking stupid, won’t leave this room.”

  Pasquano started laughing.

  “Boy, you really can’t take it, can you? Well, all right. Bear in mind that what I’m about to tell you won’t be written in my report. In my opinion, the first thing they did to him was shoot him in the foot.”

  “Which one?”

  “What difference does it make? The left.”

  “Apparently they wanted to make him talk.”

  “Maybe. They left him that way for a few hours, then worked him over with a knife—he had cuts all over his body—and then they stabbed him five times to kill him. Three times in the thorax and twice right in the face.”

  “So he’s unrecognizable.”

  “These dickheaded comments of yours drive me crazy! Didn’t you see for yourself the state he’d been reduced to?!”

  “Were you able to tell whether he was dressed when—”

  “He was already naked; he wasn’t stripped afterwards.”

  “And when they shot him in the foot, was it already naked too?”

  “A strangely intelligent question, coming from you. Yes, it was already naked. They surprised him in his sleep, naked. And after killing him, they wrapped him in a blanket that was right there at hand.”

  Montalbano remained silent.

  “Mind telling me what thought is taxing your poor brain?” Pasquano asked.

  “I’m thinking that to make someone talk, normally you don’t shoot him in the foot. You burn his hand, you gouge out an eye . . . All the little knife cuts may make sense, but shooting his foot . . .”

  “They were very well taken care of.”

  “Who were?”

  “The guy’s feet.”

  “Spent a lot of time at the pedicurist’s?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Notice anything else?”

  “He’d been operated on, a long time ago, on his right leg. An excellent job, I must say.”

  “What for?”

  “A torn ligament.”

  “So he limped?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Got anything else to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  While driving back down to Vigàta, he noticed he was going 100 kilometers an hour, something he never did. He slowed down, realizing that what was pressing his foot onto the accelerator was the violent hunger that had come over him while leaving the Institute. He entered the trattoria in such a rush that Enzo, seeing him race in, asked:

  “Something happen?”

  “No, nothing.”

  Montalbano sat down at his usual table.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “Everything.”

  He stuffed himself shamefully. It was a good thing there weren’t any other patrons there, aside from a guy who never looked away from the newspaper in front of him, which was propped up against a bottle.

  When Montalbano had finished, Enzo congratulated him.

  “Enjoy it in good health, Inspector.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you like a digestivo?”

  “No.”

  There wasn’t even room for a drop of water in his belly. If he had a digestive liqueur, he was liable to explode like the fat man in the Monty Python movie.

  When he got into the car, the interior actually seemed smaller. Walking along the jetty, he took very small steps, perhaps because he couldn’t walk any faster, perhaps just to make it last longer. When he got to the flat rock, he sat down. Despite his long sleep the night before, he suddenly felt very woozy. Apparently he still wasn’t caught up. He turned back, got into the car, and headed off to Marinella for a two-hour nap.

  He reappeared at the station just before five o’clock.

  “Ahh Chief Chief! Seein’ as how F’rinsix sint a f’rinsic pitcher o’ one o’ the two disseasts inna well, I soitched a soitch o’ poissons whereforwhom’z diclared a diclaration as missing.”

  “And?”

  “Nuttin’, Chief, zwaz nuttin’.”

  “And did they tell you anything about the other one?”

  “Nuttin’, Chief.”

  “Try and see if there’s anything among last week’s declarations about a man around sixty who’d been operated on in his right leg.”

  “Straightaways, Chief.”

  “In the meantime, send me Fazio.”

  Catarella balked and stared at him.

  “Sorry, I meant Galluzzo.”

  The habit was so ingrained . . . A sudden tw
inge of melancholy pricked him, unexpectedly.

  “Your orders, Chief.”

  Signora Fazio phoned around six.

  “They let me see him! And he recognized me right away! The first thing he said was that he wanted to see the chief. So I went and asked for the chief of surgery, who was still at the hospital. When he came into the room, my husband got angry. It was you he wanted to see!”

  “Did you tell him I’m coming to see him tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  Between one thing and another, it was suddenly eight o’clock. Montalbano decided it was time to leave. Not that he was hungry. At lunch he’d eaten almost a ton. He was just tired of being in the office.

  Passing by Catarella, he said goodbye. When he was about to get in the car, out of the corner of his eye he saw Catarella come flying out of the building like a cannonball and race towards him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ahh Chief Chief! Iss the c’mishner’s onna tiliphone. Jeezus, Chief, y’oughter ’ear ’is voice, y’oughter!”

  “Why, what kind of voice has he got?”

  “’Slike a lion inna jangle!”

  8

  Cursing the saints, he went back into his office, and the moment he said “Hello” into the receiver, he was assailed by an enraged commissioner.

  “You are completely out of your mind! This is insane! Stuff for the madhouse!”

  “But weren’t they abolished?”

  It had slipped out. Luckily Mr. C’mishner didn’t even hear it.

  “There’s an exchange of fire, one of our men is wounded—thank God not seriously—and with a little phone call to Lattes, you wipe your hands of it! Utter insanity!”

  “Who else was I supposed to call, since you weren’t there?”

  “All right, but you should at least have left a detailed report on my desk! Come here at once. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  There was no way he could go. Because if the guy asked him exactly how Fazio was wounded, he wouldn’t have known what the hell to reply.

  “Just right now I can’t, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “Listen, Montalbano, I am ordering you—”

  “I just got a call from the hospital telling me that Fazio, my man, has regained consciousness and wants to see me . . .”