The Dance of the Seagull

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I remembered Manzella’s address. Via Bixio 22.”

  “Thanks. Now try to get some sleep.”

  The man on the beach hadn’t moved and was still watching. Montalbano turned off the outdoor light and locked the French door.

  She hadn’t got undressed. She merely sat at the edge of the bed, staring at her shoes.

  “Would you prefer I undressed you myself?”

  “You won’t get upset if I tell you something?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t feel like it anymore.”

  “All right, then, I’ll call a cab.”

  She balked. She hadn’t expected Montalbano to give up so quickly. Then she recovered and said:

  “Couldn’t I stay here a little while longer?”

  She couldn’t leave the house too early. To those waiting for her, it would mean she’d failed.

  “Not here. Let’s go back onto the veranda.”

  “No. I feel cold outside.”

  Sitting back down on the veranda, with that guy still looking on, would mean that she hadn’t accomplished anything.

  “Listen, if we remain in the bedroom, the situation becomes harder and harder for me. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “We could make an agreement.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Come on, Montalbano, say it. The more vulgar you are, the more quickly she’ll cave in.

  “Just give me a blow job and I’ll let you go.”

  “No!”

  “Would you please tell me why you’ve been so available? In fact, it was you who suggested we come to my place. And now, suddenly”—even more vulgar, Montalbano—“and now you don’t want to pull down your panties and spread your legs?”

  She gave a start and put a hand on her left cheek, as if she’d been slapped.

  “I don’t feel like it anymore, I’ve already told you.”

  That’s a lame excuse, Angelina. But let’s pretend it works.

  “Listen, tell you what. I’ll drive you back to Fiacca.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “Couldn’t we wait . . . an hour or so?”

  “Just long enough so people will think we fucked?”

  She shot to her feet.

  “What are you talking about? Who will think?”

  “Sit down.”

  “No.”

  He grabbed her by the arm and threw her down on the bed. She sat up, propping herself up with arms tensed and fists clenched.

  “All right, this is where the gloves come off. Either you do what I say or I’ll make you do it.”

  “Please . . .”

  “So you eat an’ drink on my nickel, an’ now you say you don’ feel like it no more? Thought you could fuck around wit’ me, eh? I can play this old fart like a fiddle! Izzat whatchoo was thinkin’, li’l bitch? Well, think again, ’cause I’m gonna show you a thing or two!”

  It wasn’t so much the tone as the fact that he’d suddenly switched to dialect that seemed to terrify Angela. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  “I thought you were . . . different.”

  “You was wrong!”

  In the twinkling of an eye, he furiously tore off his jacket and shirt and stood there barechested. He felt ridiculous, and probably looked it. Though ashamed of what he was doing, he had to continue the charade until she broke.

  “Take off your blouse and bra.”

  Still on the bed, she obeyed. For a second, Montalbano was spellbound by the sight of the girl’s beautiful breasts.

  “Now the rest, baby. C’mon!”

  She stood up and, turning her back to him, took off her jeans.

  For a second, Montalbano felt like Saint Anthony’s twin brother.

  “Now the panties.”

  As soon as she took them off, Montalbano came up behind her and pulled down his zipper, making as much noise as possible. Then he grabbed Angela by the hips.

  “Bend over.”

  She leaned against the back of a chair. His hands felt her shudder all over, and then she made a strange sound with her mouth, as if she’d been about to throw up and had strained to hold it in.

  “Now get dressed,” he said, going and sitting on the edge of the bed.

  As she was putting her jeans back on, the inspector saw her shoulders heave with sobs.

  “Shall we drop the pretense now, and start talking seriously?”

  “Okay,” said Angela, sniffling like a little girl.

  “I already realized something wasn’t right the first time we met. You made a big mistake.”

  “What?”

  “You asked me who I was looking for. And I replied that I wanted to visit a friend named Fazio who’d had an operation on his brain. And you took me immediately to the fourth floor.”

  “Where else was I supposed to take you? You know how hospitals are organized! Into wards. If you tell me your friend has had a brain operation, I already know he’s on the fourth floor, on Dr. Bartolomeo’s ward.”

  “Of course. But how did you know he was in room six? You didn’t ask anybody, you didn’t look at any lists, you just took me straight to the right door. Do you want me to believe that you know the room numbers of all three hundred patients in the hospital?”

  The girl bit her lip and said nothing.

  They were sitting in the dining room, with the French door closed.

  Angela had gone to the bathroom and freshened herself up a little. And the inspector had put his shirt back on and then washed his own face in turn, as he had worked up a sweat during the performance.

  “That same day, in the afternoon, I came back in my car, not the squad car I’d taken that morning. But you somehow knew I’d come in my own car. You alluded to this when we decided we’d come here to Vigàta. How did you happen to know? The visitors’ parking lot is far from the hospital, you can’t see it from the windows, and so someone must have told you. Isn’t that right?”

  Angela nodded yes.

  “Another mistake: the elderly woman at the information desk didn’t know that Fazio had been transferred. Whereas you, right before my eyes, went to ask her, then came back and took me straight to the elevator that led to the attic. Therefore you already knew where Fazio had been taken and had just done a little playacting to make me think it was the old lady at the desk who’d told you. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “One final mistake, much bigger than the rest. When I gave you the keys to my car, which I’d parked in a spot not easy to find, I gave you a license plate number totally different from the real one. Still, when I came out later, there you were, in my car. Which meant that you knew my car so well from the description they’d given you, that you didn’t even look at the license plate.”

  Montalbano poured himself a little whisky.

  “Let me have a little of that too. I assure you I’m no longer in a state to get drunk,” said Angela.

  The inspector gave her some.

  “So how did they drag you into this mess?”

  14

  “You’re a nice girl, I’m convinced. Want me to tell you how they did it?”

  “You couldn’t possibly know.”

  “Lemme try an’ guess. I’ll ask you some questions and you just say yes or no. Did you lose your boyfriend when he died after being thrown into a well?”

  She recoiled, eyes popping, turned pale, and muttered a few inaudible words the inspector couldn’t grasp. The surprise had knocked the wind out of her. She tried again to speak:

  “But . . . how . . . how did you . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that, you’ve answered my question. So I’l
l go on. Then a friend of your boyfriend, somebody he always worked with, came to tell you what happened. A guy with a big scar on his face. He told you that it was Fazio who killed him, and they wanted revenge. And that it was your duty to be part of the vendetta. All you had to do was tell him what floor Fazio was on and what room he was in. And you went along.”

  “But . . .”

  “I know, you only told him the floor but not the room number. You had second thoughts, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I didn’t want . . . At first I was very angry and desperate, but then I thought that the poor man was only doing his duty.”

  “Did you know that your boyfriend . . . What was his name?”

  “Same as mine. Angelo. Angelo Sorrentino.”

  “. . . Did you know that he did the kind of things he did?”

  “He never talked to me about it. But for the last few months I’d been suspecting something.”

  “What’s the name of the guy with the scar?”

  “Vittorio Carmona.”

  “Is that him out there in the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who’s the guy with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So then you told Carmona you didn’t want to have anything more to do with this business, and he blackmailed you. Is that right?”

  “Yes, he told me he would write a letter saying it was me who let him into the hospital because I was Angelo’s girlfriend. And if that wasn’t enough to convince me, he would kill me.”

  “What did he order you to do with me tonight?”

  “He wanted me to sleep with you and make you talk.”

  “What did they want to know?”

  “What Fazio could remember, and whether he’d named any names.”

  “But I’d already answered that question at the restaurant, so there was no need for you to sleep with me.”

  “No, you’re wrong, that wasn’t the reason.”

  “Why, then?”

  “I suddenly thought of Angelo. And I couldn’t do it. And then . . .”

  “. . . Then you realized you couldn’t play Judas.”

  She didn’t reply. Her chin quivered.

  “Is that all they wanted?”

  “No.”

  Now she was blushing red. She seemed offended.

  “Come on, speak.”

  “I’m too embarrassed.”

  “Then I’ll tell you myself. They wanted you to act in such a way that I would fall for you, become obsessed with your body, so that the relationship would continue for a while. That way they could know the police department’s moves in advance.”

  “I was supposed to become their whore, in every way. But what will I tell him now? Carmona’ll kill me.”

  “I’ll tell you what to say to him. Now listen carefully.”

  He straggled into the station the next morning around nine, dead tired. He’d gone out of the house at four A.M. hand in hand with Angela, and then, for the benefit and enjoyment of any and all spectators and stalkers, they had given each other a long kiss, holding each other tight. Like two lovers for whom the night spent together hadn’t sufficed. Feeling Angela’s lips against his, however, Montalbano had realized that her kiss wasn’t just playacting. There was also warm gratitude and affection in it. He’d felt his blood begin to boil and his head start to spin.

  “Could I drive?” she asked.

  The inspector gladly let her take the wheel. After that kiss, he’d remembered the sight of the girl’s breasts and was in no condition to drive. He would have turned every straightaway into a curve.

  Angela drove well and fast. The metallic car was no longer following them. They must have left after a certain amount of time, convinced that he and Angela were rolling around in bed. Still, it took the girl an hour and fifteen minutes to get to Fiacca.

  On the return drive, however, it took the inspector an hour and fifty. Back in Marinella, he took a shower that used up nearly all the water, then drank five cups of coffee in a row.

  He hadn’t even finished parking when he heard Catarella’s voice cry out in distress.

  “Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief!” he yelled, running towards the car.

  It had to be something serious. Montalbano didn’t even bother getting out of the car.

  “Jeez, iss so long I bin tryin’ a call yiz, Chief! But you got yer home phone unplagged an’ yer sill phone turned off!”

  “All right, what happened?”

  “A lady was killed!”

  “Is Inspector Augello at the scene?”

  “Yessir, Chief. ’E tol’ me hisself, poissonally in poisson, a tell yiz poissonally in poisson ’atta minnit ya got in y’gotta call ’im emergently! ’Ass what ’e tol’ me a tell yiz.”

  “Give me the address.”

  Catarella searched his pockets.

  “I writ it onna piss a paper I can’t find. Ah, ’ere it is! But iss not too ligible. Sumpin’ like nummer thirteen, Via della Forchella or Forchetta.”

  It had to be Via della Forcella.

  “I’m going to go there right . . .”

  The inspector suddenly stopped. He’d just remembered who lived on that street.

  There was pandemonium when he got there. TV cameras, journalists, and some thirty people gathered outside the door, kept at bay by the curses and expletives of two municipal cops. Every balcony of the building was crammed full of people looking on in excitement. He got out of the car and made his way through the crowd by dint of pushing and swearing. A newsman grabbed him by the arm.

  “Tell us please what you think of all this!”

  “What do you think of it?”

  The man was thrown for a loop, allowing Montalbano to go on. The body lay in the main entrance, half inside, half outside, feet taking in the fresh air, partially covered by a bloody sheet. Galluzzo came running up to the inspector.

  “The victim was the concierge of the building. Fifty-four years old, name Matilde Verruso.”

  “How was she killed?”

  “When she went to open the front door early this morning, she was shot by somebody inside a car, which then sped off.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Some guy on the third floor. He was sitting and looking out the window when—”

  “I’d like to question him later. Where’s Augello?”

  “Inside.”

  The inspector took two steps and turned back.

  “But if she was shot early this morning, why’s the body still here?”

  “Because at almost the exact same moment they killed this poor dame, the mayor of Gallotta was murdered, and everybody rushed there first. They should all be here in forty-five minutes or so.”

  Right. Politics takes priority. He went inside the porter’s lodge and heard somebody snoring.

  “Who’s that sleeping?” he asked Mimì.

  “The husband. He’s stinking drunk.”

  “Listen, do you know where I might find the key to Manzella’s apartment?”

  “There’s no point in going there. I’ve already checked it out myself. I had the same idea as you.”

  “And?”

  “The telescope you mentioned to me is gone, and so are the binoculars. They took ’em.”

  “When?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mimì, think for a second. If the guys who shot her drove away immediately, they couldn’t have taken the telescope and binoculars. Not even after committing the murder. Those things disappeared before the murder. Is that clear to you?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I want to talk to that witness.”

  “Signor Catalfamo? Third floor, number twelve. But basically, he didn’t see anything.” />
  “I want to talk to him anyway.”

  Montalbano had to ring the doorbell a long time. Apparently Signor Catalfamo was out on the balcony and couldn’t hear it. At last he decided to come in and answer the door. A substantial cloud of garlic smell took advantage of the situation to waft out of the apartment.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, police.”

  “And I’m Eugenio Catalfamo, retired, widower, no children, seventy-eight years old. Come in, come in.”

  “No, thank you, Signor Catalfamo, I only need to ask you a question.”

  “Please come in just the same.”

  The poor guy wanted someone to talk to. But how long would Montalbano be able to hold his breath?

  “All right, thanks.”

  He went in. The apartment was exactly the same as Manzella’s. There were two chairs around a small table. Catalfamo pulled one out for him.

  “Please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  The inspector couldn’t stand it. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and put it over his nose.

  “I’m sorry, but I have a bad cold. I only wanted to know if you got a good look at what happened.”

  “I got good eyes.”

  “I’m glad. Did you see the car the gunman fired from?”

  “Of course I saw it! It arrived less than a minute before poor Signura Matilde reopened the front door. She didn’t even have time to make a peep, poor thing! They just fired and drove away!”

  Why would Signora Matilde have wanted to make a peep?

  “Do you remember the license plate number?”

  “I didn’t pay any attention.”

  “How about the color?”

  “Metallic blue. Big car.”

  He’d expected that reply. After finishing their guard duty in Marinella, at the crack of dawn Vittorio Carmona and his associate had gone off to attend to a little early-morning business. But something the old retiree had said didn’t quite add up.

  “I’m sorry, Signor Catalfamo, you said something about the concierge and the open door that I didn’t quite get.”

  “I only sleep three hours a night, Inspector.”

  “I’m sorry. It happens to the best of us.”