The Dance of the Seagull

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I can’t tell you over the phone.”

  She was very scared. Her voice was trembling.

  “Try to stay calm. You can tell me tomorrow evening.”

  “No. I absolutely have to tell you tonight, so that you can—”

  “All right, listen, I can see you for five minutes, but let’s meet halfway between here and Fiacca, so I can get back to the station as quickly as possible. Have you finished your shift?”

  “I got off fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Do you know the Torrisi Motel? If we leave right now, we can meet there in forty-five minutes. Oh, and don’t get out of your car when you arrive, just wait for me in the parking lot. And make sure nobody follows you.”

  While driving there, he was thinking not of what he would say to Angela, but of how to corner Sinagra and, by association, Di Santo with him. Because what Mimì had called to his attention was all well and good, but it was also true that everything has its limit. For example: it’s one thing to go out to eat with someone vaguely associated with the Mafia, and it’s another thing to be seen in the company of a mafioso publicly known to have ordered two murders and another attempted murder. Knowledge of the fact would make Sinagra’s arrest all the more sensational and the public disgracing of the honorable undersecretary all the more effective. So the problem came down to one thing only: how to screw Sinagra?

  When the inspector pulled into the parking lot, which was almost entirely in darkness, he still hadn’t found an answer. He got out of the car. There were three other cars in the lot. One flashed its brights.

  “Get in,” said Angela, opening the car door.

  The moment he was inside, she threw her arms around him and gave him a long kiss.

  “I’m not sure I wasn’t followed,” she said in a low voice as the inspector, still numb from the unexpected attack, was regaining consciousness. “So we should pretend we’re meeting here to . . .”

  “Then let’s get into the backseat,” Montalbano suggested. “Like lovers who, even when they have only five minutes . . .”

  They got out and went in back.

  “Lie down,” Angela ordered him.

  The inspector obeyed and, after climbing on top of him, with her left leg on the seat next to his and her right foot resting on the floor of the car, she held him tight. Montalbano couldn’t move.

  “Carmona told me that tomorrow night I’m supposed to make you drink a lot and get very tired. And that when I see that you are in a deep sleep . . .”

  The problem was that when she spoke in her present state of agitation, moving her hips one minute and her breasts the next, it had a devastating effect on the inspector.

  “. . . when I see that you are in a deep sleep, I am supposed to go and open the door to let them in. But, are you listening to me?”

  “Hmm?” said Montalbano.

  At that exact moment he was reviewing in his mind Book I of The Iliad, “Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus . . . ,”* after having first tried to think in rapid succession of the last funeral he’d been to, two or three massacres, and an old woman who’d been murdered and quartered . . . But the girl’s weight, body heat, and breath were too much for him to blot out. He was making a superhuman effort to make what he was feeling, well, intangible.

  “They want me to open—”

  “Right, right, I got that. But why?”

  “Carmona says they want to photograph you naked with me beside you, also naked. To blackmail you.”

  “And why was it so urgent for you to tell me this?”

  “Because I’m not convinced that all they want to do is take your picture. And also to let you know, so that you can maybe catch Carmona in the act.”

  “You’re right. I’ll see what I can do, thanks.”

  Detached, yes, but always polite, our Inspector Montalbano. Always compos sui (but why the hell was he thinking in Latin?), even when he had a beautiful young woman lying on top of him.

  “And now, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I really have to go.”

  Angela got off him, he sat up, and they got out of the car and kissed. Exactly like two lovers who had just released a little of their pent-up desire.

  “I’ll ring you tomorrow,” the inspector said.

  He waited for her to leave, then went into the motel.

  “Excuse me, but could I use your bathroom?” he asked the porter, who knew him.

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  Locking himself inside, he took off his jacket and shirt, turned on the faucet, and put his steaming head under the running water.

  Compromising photos, right! They would take those afterwards, since the way things would have gone would have been as follows: Carmona and his friend would have gone into his house with the camera and had Angela lie down next to him, naked. Then Carmona would have pulled out his gun and killed them both. Almost a repeat of what they did to Manzella. Then they would have arranged the corpses in more or less obscene poses and photographed them. The newspaper and TV headlines: INSPECTOR MONTALBANO AND HIS YOUNG LOVER KILLED WHILE SLEEPING. A CRIME OF PASSION? And then it would turn out that they were shot by some jealous ex-lover of Angela.

  Everybody’d already seen the movie, but people never got tired of seeing it again.

  But why were they aiming at him? Maybe Mimì was right. Maybe the Via Bixio house was under surveillance. Their suspicions must have been aroused when the inspector didn’t immediately call Forensics but had kept the whole business to himself. This silence got them worried and upset. They must have thought: If Montalbano was acting this way, it must mean he found something very damning to us in there. Better silence him before he takes any action.

  And this meant he didn’t have much time left to neutralize Sinagra. By this point it was an open duel.

  He needed to remain lucid for at least another two hours. He prepared the large espresso pot, and when the coffee bubbled up, he took the whole thing out to the veranda. The night was a little chilly, and he also felt chilled for his own reasons, as the weariness of the day began to make itself felt. But he didn’t put his jacket back on to go outside. The cold actually helped him to think. By now he knew Manzella’s letter by heart and could repeat it to himself word for word. Which was what he started to do, changing registers each time: first as a lament, then stressing practically every syllable, then pausing after each line. The fifth time through, one sentence in particular struck him: a stingy man who had a sort of tic; he would appropriate everything that came within his reach . . . Giovanna had nicknamed him “the Thieving Magpie.”

  The Thieving Magpie. What did it mean? Why did this seem so important to him? The phrase started repeating itself in his head, together with certain passages of Rossini’s music, the way it used to happen with old vinyl records when the needle would get stuck on a single syllable or note.

  At last there was a flash of light.

  A crazy thought, real loony-bin stuff, like betting everything he owned on the roulette wheel—no, better yet, like a sort of Russian roulette, a game of chance where if he got it wrong, he would be out of the police force the very next day. But he couldn’t think of anything else, and it seemed like the best option.

  He studied it from every possible, imaginable angle. With a little luck, it might work. He looked at his watch. Two A.M.

  He got up, went into the house, and dialed Angela’s number. After calming her down from the fright he’d given her, he asked her:

  “Do you have some old female relative that you can think of, say, over eighty, preferably a widow, half senile, who doesn’t live in Fiacca but is in the phone book?”

  “Have you gone crazy?”

  “Almost. Do you or don’t you?”

  “Well, there’s Zia ’Ntunietta . . .”

  “Excellent. Now listen
to me very carefully.”

  He then took a shower and went to bed. He slept soundly and peacefully, like a baby, until seven.

  The telephone rang at seven-thirty, as planned. He’d barely had time to take a quick shower, shave, and drink a cup of coffee.

  “Hello?”

  “MontalbanothisisTommaseowhat’sthisbusinessabouta letterfromayoungwomanyouhaven’tanswered?”

  The prosecutor spoke as if all the words were stuck together. He sounded quite agitated.

  “What letter, sir?” Montalbano asked, feigning great surprise.

  “A young woman with a very sensuous voice, among other things?”

  Tommaseo stopped. He must have heard Angela’s voice again in his mind. Whenever a case had anything to do with women, the prosecutor lost his head.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go and get a drink of water.”

  He returned a few moments later, speaking normally.

  “. . . Her name is Antonietta Vullo, from Rivera, she says she sent you a letter in which she claims that a certain Franco Sinagra is holding a transsexual named Giovanna Lonero prisoner at his residence in Via Roma 28 and routinely and repeatedly torturing this man—I mean, er, woman. But you’ve done nothing about this letter. Why not?”

  “To be honest, the whole story seemed a little far-fetched to me.”

  “Look, I can tell you that Antonietta Vullo is in the Rivera phone book. She’s real. Did you call her up to check? No, right? Well, I did!”

  Montalbano turned frosty.

  “And what did she tell you?”

  “An old woman answered the phone, she sounded senile. I couldn’t understand a word she said. She must be the girl’s grandmother. But she said she wasn’t there. At any rate, I’ve already sent you a search warrant, Montalbano.”

  “Look, sir, this is a complicated matter. This Franco Sinagra is a Mafia boss with some very powerful friends.”

  “You know what the girl said to me, Montalbano? That if we don’t immediately try to free this man—I mean, this transsexual—she will go straight to the newspapers and television. So, if the story turns out to be true, we’ll all be neck-deep in shit. Because we didn’t take a letter seriously even though it was signed by a real person with a real address. Speaking of which, do you still have it?”

  “Nah, I threw it away.”

  “It doesn’t matter. But it would be a serious breach of duty not to clear this up. Do you understand?”

  “And what, sir, if the whole thing turns out to be the fantasy of a crazy girl? How will Sinagra react?”

  “If you don’t find the wom—I mean, the transsexual—you’ll find something else, I’m sure of it. Can you imagine not finding anything in a mafioso’s—”

  “All right, sir, if you put it that way . . . I guess I have no choice but to follow your orders.”

  “As well you should, for once.”

  “Zito? Montalbano here.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I want to return the favor you did for Fazio. I want you and a cameraman here in Vigàta at Via Roma, number 28, in half an hour. But don’t let yourselves be seen before I arrive.”

  “But Via Roma 28 is Franco Sinagra’s house!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Holy shit!”

  As soon as he hung up, the inspector rang the station and asked for Galluzzo. Once he’d given him instructions, he called Mimì.

  “Are you at Via Bixio?”

  “Yeah, it looks a massacre took place in there. I immediately called Forensics and am now outside waiting for them. I couldn’t stay inside.”

  “Don’t tell me you felt metaphysically disconcerted!”

  “Metaphysically, no. But did you see the condoms on the floor? Do you realize what they did to Manzella? Who are these animals anyway? Oh, and listen, I almost forgot to tell you: Arquà’s coming in person, know what I mean? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m on my way to headquarters; Tommaseo’s looking for me.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s he want?”

  “Dunno.”

  The two squad cars arrived about twenty minutes later. Galluzzo, who was driving the first one, handed the inspector the warrant and let him in on the passenger’s side. The other car was driven by Lamarca, who was accompanied by another young officer, Di Grado.

  “Do exactly as I do,” Galluzzo said to Lamarca.

  As they entered Vigàta, Galluzzo put on the siren and started racing as if chasing a speeding car. Lamarca did the same. Pedestrians jumped onto the sidewalks, hurling curses and epithets at them as they passed. Total pandemonium, in short. Galluzzo came to a screeching halt in front of the house at number 28, Via Roma, then got out of the car with a machine gun in his hand while the inspector jumped out the other side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door of a car parked nearby fly open, and Zito and his cameraman came out. A window on the top floor of the house opened partway and was immediately closed.

  Before ringing the doorbell, Montalbano gave Lamarca and Di Grado, also holding machine guns, the time to take up positions well in view of the TV camera. Meanwhile, a great number of rubberneckers started gathering round.

  Come one, come all, ladies and gentlemen, to the great fireworks spectacular of the award-winning Salvo Montalbano & Co.! Who knows what you’ll see? Maybe the master pyrotechnist himself will get roasted to death in one of his own fireballs, but whatever happens, you can be sure to see a show you’ll never forget! Come one, come all!

  So, when ringing the doorbell, he heard its chimes as a cross between a Gloria and a Requiem.

  “Who’s there?” asked a frightened female voice.

  “Police! Open up!”

  The door opened, and a woman of about thirty-five with black hair and big eyes appeared, a hot-blooded sort, but scared out of her wits.

  “Are you Signora Sinagra?”

  “Yes, but . . . my husband’s not here.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We have a search warrant. Please let us in and then close the door immediately.”

  She stood aside. The ground floor consisted of a large living room, a dining room, bathroom, and kitchen. They found nothing there.

  Montalbano went upstairs, and the first thing he saw, inside a sort of study, was Manzella’s telescope in front of the window. On the desk was the case for the binoculars. For an instant, his knees buckled, and he grabbed on to Galluzzo to keep from falling.

  “You feel okay, Chief?”

  “I feel fantastic, Gallù!”

  The triumphal march from Verdi’s Aida had started playing in his head. As he’d imagined, the thieving magpie hadn’t been able to resist the allure of the sparkling chrome telescope! And he’d dug his own grave.

  In a small bedroom, they found a single bed unmade and still warm. But it was clear that two people had slept in the double bed in the master bedroom.

  The inspector went back downstairs, sat down in an armchair, and fired up a cigarette. Signora Sinagra, sitting in front of him, had gone from pale to increasingly red in the face. She was starting to get angry, and with every noise the policemen made upstairs, she became more upset.

  In the end she blurted out:

  “Mind telling me what you’re looking for?”

  In his mind, Montalbano flipped a proverbial coin. He’d already won, because Sinagra would have a very hard time explaining what Manzella’s telescope and binoculars were doing in his house. But he wasn’t satisfied yet. He wanted to have the man himself, Franco Sinagra, in his hands. The coin fell to the ground: heads. And so Montalbano decided to take another gamble.

  “I have no problem answering that, signora. We’re looking for a woman.”

  “A woman? What woman?” Signora Sinagra asked in shock.

  “A tran
ssexual named Giovanna Lonero, with whom your husband Franco has been in a relationship for some time, and who—”

  “Ahhhhhhh!”

  It was a sort of roar so loud and unexpected that Montalbano leapt to his feet. He could hear over his head the footsteps of the three men upstairs scrambling down the stairs to see what was happening.

  “They tried to tell me! Ahhhhhh! They tried to tell me! Ahhhhh! An’ I’s too stupid to listen! Ahhhhh!”

  “Calm down, signora, stop that!”

  “That goddamn son of a stinking whore! Jesus, how disgusting! Yechhh! Ahhhhhh! With someone you don’ even know if iss a man or a woman! I’m gonna kill the stinkin’ bastard wit’ my own hands!”

  They were unable to hold her back, and she dashed into the kitchen and moved an enormous refrigerator on wheels out of position. Montalbano immediately understood.

  “Lamarca, take her into another room.”

  Despite the fact that the young officer was strong and burly, he had a rather hard time dragging away the woman, who had stopped roaring and was now crying.

  The inspector bent down to examine the floor carefully and noticed a few tiles that formed a sort of single block.

  “This is a trapdoor. Galluzzo and Di Grado, try and see if you can open it.”

  After fifteen minutes of trying, they still hadn’t succeeded. Montalbano then noticed a small button next to the electrical socket of the refrigerator. He pressed it with one finger, and the trapdoor opened without a sound. The classic Mafia rabbit hole with no escape. As Galluzzo and Di Grado pointed their machine guns, the inspector bent down towards the entrance and, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound, said:

  “Come out immediately, or I’m going to throw a hand grenade down there!”

  Galluzzo and Di Grado looked at him, mystified. Hand grenade? Where? At that moment the raised hands and then the scarred face of Vittorio Carmona, killer and bodyguard, appeared.

  “’Cuff him! He’s wanted for murder!” the inspector ordered.

  Then Franco Sinagra popped out. He was in his underpants and carrying his clothes.