“You’re getting my floor all dirty. The bathroom’s down the hall on the right. Go clean yourself up. The kitchen’s across the hall. There should be some ice in the freezer. You know what to do, being a nurse when you’re not torturing small children.”
The whole time the man was fussing about in the bathroom and kitchen, Montalbano tried hard not to think about the scene Marzilla had just described to him, that hell shrunken down to the little space inside the ambulance, the terror in those eyes open wide on the violence . . .
And it was he who had taken that child by the hand and turned him over to the horror. He couldn’t forgive himself . . . It was no use repeating to himself that he’d thought he was doing the right thing . . . He mustn’t think about it, mustn’t give into the rage, if he wanted to continue the interrogation. Marzilla returned. He’d made an ice pack with his handkerchief and held this over his nose with one hand, his head bent slightly backwards. He sat down in front of the inspector without a word.
“Now I’ll tell you why you got so scared when I came to your shop. You had just learned that your bosses had to kill that boy, the one you’d given the shot of sedatives to. Had to cut him down like some wild animal. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“And so you got scared. Because you’re a two-bit hood, a sleazeball, a piece of shit, but you don’t have the stuff to be an accomplice to murder. You can tell me later how you found out that the kid you were involved with was the same one they ran over with their car. Now it’s your turn to talk. But I’ll save you a little breath by telling you that I already know that you’re swimming in debt and need money, a lot of money, to pay off the loan sharks. Now go on.”
Marzilla began to talk. The two hard slaps the inspector had dealt him must have dazed him, but they also seemed to have calmed him down a bit. By this point, what was done was done.
“When the banks refused to give me any more loans, I risked losing everything I had. So I started asking the people I knew where I might get a helping hand. They gave me a name and I went to talk to the person. That’s how it started. It’s worse than being broke; I’m ruined. The guy lent me the money, but at an interest rate so high I’m ashamed to tell you. I scraped by for a while, then I couldn’t take it any longer. Then, about two months ago, this man made me an offer.”
“Tell me his name.”
Marzilla shook his head, which he kept tilted backwards. “I’m scared, Inspector. He’s liable to have me and my wife killed.”
“Okay, go on. What was this offer he made you?”
“He said he needed to help some immigrant families get back together here. Apparently their husbands had found work here, but since they were illegals, they couldn’t bring their wives and children over. In exchange for my help, he would reduce some of the interest I owed him.”
“A fixed percentage?”
“No, Inspector. We were supposed to discuss it each time.”
“How did he let you know when it was time to act?”
“He would phone me the day before a scheduled arrival. He would describe the people and what they were supposed to do to get taken aboard the ambulance. The first time it all went smoothly. There was an old woman with two little kids. But the second time it went the way I said, and the oldest kid rebelled.”
Marzilla stopped and heaved a deep sigh.
“You’ve got to believe me, Inspector. I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the scene before my eyes, the woman holding him down, me with the syringe, the other kids crying, and I couldn’t fall asleep. A couple of days ago, at about ten in the morning, I went to see the man about reducing my interest. But he said this time he wasn’t reducing anything, because the deal had gone sour, the goods were damaged. That’s exactly how he put it. But before he sent me away, he said I could still make up for it, since there were some new arrivals coming. I went home feeling depressed. Then I heard on TV that a little immigrant kid had been killed by a hit-and-run driver. And I thought maybe that was what the man meant when he said the goods were damaged. Then you came to my wife’s shop, after you’d already been asking questions at the hospital, and . . . well, I realized I had to get out, whatever the price.”
Montalbano got up and went out on the veranda. The sea was barely audible, like a small child breathing. He stood there a moment, then went back inside and sat down.
“Listen. So you don’t want to give me the name of this . . . this gentleman, for lack of a better term.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, I can’t!” the medic nearly screamed.
“Okay, calm down. Don’t get upset or your nose’ll start bleeding again. I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“You realize I can have you put in jail?”
“Yes.”
“You’d be ruined. You’d lose your job at the hospital, and your wife would have to sell the shop.”
“I understand that.”
“So, if you’ve got any brains left in your head, you only have to do one thing. Let me know the minute the guy calls you. That’s all. We’ll take care of everything else.”
“Will you keep me out of it?”
“I can’t guarantee you that. But I can try to limit the damage. I give you my word. Now get the hell out of here.”
“Thank you,” said Marzilla, standing up and heading for the door on shaky legs.
“Don’t mention it,” Montalbano replied.
He didn’t go to bed right away. He took out half a bottle of whisky and went out on the veranda to drink it. Before each swig, he raised the bottle in the air. A toast to the little warrior who had fought as long as he could, but didn’t make it.
10
Horrid, windy morning, wan sun smothered by fast-moving dirt-grey clouds. It was more than enough to top off the inspector’s already dark mood. He went in the kitchen, made coffee, drank a first demitasse, smoked a cigarette, did what he had to do, got in the shower, shaved, and put on the same clothes he’d been wearing for two days. Before going out, he went back in the kitchen with the intention of drinking another coffee but only managed to fill the demitasse halfway, because he spilled the other half on his trousers. Without warning, his hand, entirely on its own, had swerved. Cursing as if to a platoon of Turks lined up before him, he undressed, leaving his suit on a chair so that Adelina could clean and iron it. He emptied the pockets of their contents so he could move them all into the suit he was going to put on. To his surprise he found an unopened envelope in the pile. Where did that come from? Then he remembered. It was the letter Catarella had given him, which he said had been personally delivered by Pontius Pilate, the journalist. His first impulse was to toss it into the waste basket, but then, for whatever reason, he decided to read it, since he could always choose not to answer. His eyes ran down to the signature at the bottom: Fonso Spàlato, which could easily translate to Pontius Pilate in Catarellese. The letter was rather brief, already a point in favor of the person who’d written it.
Dear Inspector Montalbano,
I am a freelance journalist. I’ve written for a variety of newspapers and magazines, but belong to no single one. I have done rather extensive investigations into the mafia of the Brenta region and arms smuggling from the former Eastern-bloc countries, and for some time now have been devoting much of my time to illegal immigration in the Adriatic and Mediterranean.
A few evenings ago I caught a glimpse of you on the landing wharf at the port, during a typical arrival of refugees. I know you by reputation and thought we might find it mutually useful to meet and exchange ideas (though not for an interview, heaven forbid: I know how much you hate them).
Please find my cell-phone number at the bottom of the page.
I’ll be staying on the island another two days.
Sincerely,
Fonso Spàlato
The inspector liked the lean style. He decided to call up the journalist as soon as he got to work, assuming, of course, that the man was still around.
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br /> The first thing he did when he walked into the station was to call Catarella and Mimì into his office.
“Catarella, listen to me very carefully. A certain Mr. Marzilla is supposed to call me. As soon as he does—”
“ ’Scuse me, Chief,” Catarella interrupted, “what’d you say this Marzilla’s name was? Cardilla?”
Montalbano felt reassured. If Catarella was back to screwing up people’s names, it meant the end of the world was not yet nigh.
“For the love of the Blessed Virgin, why would he be called Cardilla when you yourself just called him Marzilla?!”
“Did I?” asked an astonished Catarella. “Then what’s the man’s name, for Chrissakes?”
The inspector took out a sheet of paper, grabbed a red marking pen, wrote MARZILLA in large block letters on it, and handed it to Catarella.
“Read it.”
Catarella read it correctly.
“Excellent,” said Montalbano. “I want you to hang that piece of paper next to the switchboard. The minute he calls, you’re to put him on the line to me, whether I happen to be here or in Afghanistan. Understand?”
“Yessir, Chief. You go right on ahead to Afghanistan, and I’ll put him on for you.”
“Salvo, why did you have me witness this little vaudeville act?” Augello asked as soon as Catarella left the room.
“Because I want you to ask Catarella, three times in the morning and three times in the afternoon, if Marzilla has called.”
“Mind telling me who this Marzilla is?”
“I’ll tell you if you’ve been a good boy and done your homework.”
Nothing whatsoever happened for the rest of the morning. Or rather, only routine stuff: a call for the police to intervene in a violent family quarrel that turned into an aggressive face-off between the suddenly reunited family on the one hand, and Gallo and Galluzzo, guilty of trying to make peace, on the other; a report filed by the deputy mayor, who came in pale as a corpse, saying he’d found a rabbit with its throat slashed, nailed to his front door; a drive-by shooting at a man standing at a filling station who, unharmed, rushed back into his car and drove off into the void before the pump attendant had time to get his license plate number; the nearly daily holdup at a supermarket. Meanwhile, the journalist Spàlato’s cell phone remained stubbornly turned off. In short, if Montalbano wasn’t entirely fed up, he was close. He rewarded himself with lunch at the Trattoria Da Enzo.
Around four o’clock that afternoon, Fazio phoned in. He was calling on his cell phone from Spigonella.
“Chief? I’ve got some news.”
“Let’s have it.”
“At least two people here think they saw the dead guy you found. They recognized him from the photo with the mustache.”
“Do they know what his name was?”
“No.”
“Did he live there?”
“They don’t know.”
“Do they know what he was doing around there?”
“No.”
“Well, what the hell do they know?”
Fazio chose not to answer directly.
“Chief, why don’t you come out here? That way you can assess the situation yourself. You can either take the coastal road, which is always clogged, or you can come by way of Montechiaro, taking the—”
“I know that road.”
It was the same road he’d taken when he went to see the place where the little kid had been killed. He phoned Ingrid, with whom he was supposed to go out to dinner. She immediately apologized and said she couldn’t see him because her husband had invited some friends to dinner without telling her, and she therefore had to play housewife. They arranged that she would come by the station around eight-thirty the following evening. If he wasn’t there, she would wait.
He tried the journalist’s number again, and this time Fonso Spàlato answered.
“Inspector! I was worried you wouldn’t call back.”
“Listen, can we meet?”
“When?”
“Immediately, if you want.”
“That’d be hard for me. I had to fly up to Trieste and have spent the whole day either in airports or in planes running late. Fortunately Mama isn’t as sick as my sister had me believe.”
“I’m happy to hear. So?”
“Let’s do this. If all goes well, I hope to catch a plane to Rome tomorrow and go on from there. I’ll keep you posted.”
At a certain point past Montechiaro, after turning onto the road for Spigonella, the inspector saw the turn for Tricase. At first he hesitated, then made up his mind. He would only lose about ten minutes, at most. He rounded the bend. The peasant was not out working his fields. There was silence, not even a barking dog. The wildflowers at the base of the mound of gravel had wilted.
He had to summon all of his modest driving skills to back the car up that earthquake-riven former goat path and return to the road for Spigonella. Fazio was waiting for him next to his car, which was parked in front of a white and red two-storey villa that looked uninhabited. A rough sea roared below.
“Spigonella starts at this house,” said Fazio. “It’s probably better if we take my car.”
Montalbano got in. Fazio turned on the ignition and began to act as his guide.
“Spigonella sits on a rocky plateau. To reach the sea, you have to go up and down stairways that are cut straight into the rock. It must be murder in summertime. You can also reach the sea by car, by taking the road you just took towards Tricase and then coming up this way from there. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Tricase, on the other hand, is right on the sea, but it’s been settled differently.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that here in Spigonella these villas were built by people with money—lawyers, doctors, businessmen—whereas in Tricase there’re only little houses, one after another, lived in by little people.”
“But the little houses are just as unauthorized as the villas, aren’t they?”
“Sure, Chief, but I just meant that here every villa is secluded. See over there? High walls, electric gates with dense vegetation behind them . . . It’s hard to see from outside what goes on in there. Whereas the houses in Tricase are out in the open, like they’re talking to one another.”
“Have you become a poet, Fazio?” Montalbano asked.
Fazio blushed.
“Sometimes,” he confessed.
Having reached the edge of the plateau, they got out of the car. At the bottom of the cliff, the sea foamed white where the waves struck a cluster of rocks, and further down it had completely flooded a small beach. It was an unusual shoreline, with stretches of bristling rocks alternating with flat areas of beach. A solitary villa had been built at the very top of a small promontory. Its vast terrace balcony hung as though suspended over the sea. The stretch of shore below consisted entirely of tall rocks, some of them looking like monoliths, but it had nevertheless been closed off—illegally, of course—to create a private space. There was nothing else to see. They got back in the car.
“Now I’m going to take you to talk to a guy—”
“No,” said the inspector. “There’s no point. You can tell me later what those people said. Let’s go back.”
During the entire drive there and the entire drive back, they didn’t encounter a single automobile. And they didn’t see any parked, either.
In front of a decidedly luxurious villa, they saw a man sitting on a cane chair, smoking a cigar.
“That gentleman,” said Fazio, “is one of the two who said they had seen the man in the photograph. He’s the villa’s caretaker. He told me that about three months ago, he was sitting outside the way he is now, when he saw a car come sputtering up from the left. The car stopped right in front of him and a man got out, the same man as in the photo. He’d run out of gas. So the caretaker offered to go get him a canful from the filling station outside Montechiaro. When he came back with the gas, the man gave him a tip of a hundred euros.”
“So he didn’t see where the guy came from.”
“No. And he’d never seen him before. As for the other guy that recognized him, I was only able to have a brief discussion with him. He’s a fisherman and had a basket full of fish he had to go sell in Montechiaro. He told me he’d seen the man in the picture about three, four months ago, on the beach.”
“Three or four months ago? But that was the middle of the winter! What was he doing there?”
“That’s the same thing the fisherman asked himself. He’d just pulled his boat ashore when he saw the man from the photograph on a rock nearby.”
“On a rock?”
“Yeah, one of those rocks right under the villa with the big terrace.”
“And what was he doing?”
“Nothing. He was looking out at the sea and talking on a cell phone. But the fisherman got a good look at him, ’cause at one point the man turned around and started glaring at him. He had the impression the guy on the rock was trying to tell him something.”
“Like what?”
“Like get the fuck out of here . . . What do I do now?”
“I don’t understand. What are you supposed to do?”
“Should I keep looking, or should I stop?”
“Well, it seems useless to waste any more of your time. You can go back to Vigàta.”
Fazio breathed a sigh of relief. This search hadn’t agreed with him from the start.
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be along later. First I need to stop for a few minutes in Montechiaro.”
It was a bald-faced lie; he had nothing whatsoever to do in Montechiaro. For a stretch he followed Fazio’s car, and then, when he’d lost sight of it, he did a U-turn and drove back in the direction he’d come. Spigonella had made an impression on him. Was it possible there wasn’t a living soul besides the cigar-smoking caretaker in that entire residential area? He hadn’t seen any dogs, either, or even a single cat turned feral by the seclusion. It was an ideal location for anyone who wanted to do whatever he pleased—like shack up with a woman in secret, set up a gambling house, or organize an orgy or giant snortfest. One needed only take care to cover the windows with shades that didn’t let a single ray of light filter out, and nobody would ever know what was going on inside. Every villa had enough space around it for cars to enter and park well inside the gate and walls. Once the gate closed, it was as though those cars had never come.
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