Patience of the Spider

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Wait, I’ll fix him,” said Montalbano.

  He quickly dialed a number and then waited a few minutes, the receiver glued to his ear.

  “Hello? Montalbano here. The commissioner, please. Yes, thank you. Yes, I’ll remain on the line. Yes. Mr. Commissioner? Good day. Sorry to bother you, but I’m calling from the offices of the Free Channel. Yes, I know that Nicolò Zito just called you. Of course, he’s a responsible citizen and was only doing his duty . . . He set aside his interests as a journalist and . . . Of course, I’ll tell him . . . Well, what I wanted to say, sir, was that as I was sitting here, another anonymous call came in.” Nicolò looked at him, flabbergasted, shaking his hand at him, a cacocciola, as if to say: “What the hell?”

  “The same voice as before,” Montalbano continued, still on the phone, “told him to get ready to record. Except that when they called back five minutes later, not only was there a bad connection and you couldn’t understand a thing they said, but the tape recorder didn’t work.” “What kind of bullshit are you feeding him?” Nicolò said under his breath.

  “Yes, Mr. Commissioner, I’ll remain at the scene and wait for them to retry. What’s that you say? TeleVigàta has just broadcast the phone call? That’s not possible! And they replayed the father’s plea? No, I didn’t know. But this is unheard of! It can even be considered a crime! They should have turned the tape over to the authorities, not broadcast it on the air! Just as Zito did! You say the judge is looking into what measures can be taken? Good! Excellent! Oh, sir, something just occurred to me. Only a hunch, mind you. If they just called back the Free Channel, they certainly must have also called back TeleVigàta. And maybe TeleVigàta had more luck and managed to tape the second call. . . . Which of course they’ll deny having received, because they’ll want to save it to broadcast at the right moment . . . A dirty game, you’re absolutely right . . . Far be it from me to give you advice, sir, what with all your expertise, but I think a thorough search of the TeleVigàta offices might produce . . . yes . . . yes . . . My humble respects, Mr. Commissioner.” Nicolò looked at him in admiration.

  “You’re a master showman!”

  “You’ll see, between the prosecutor’s machinations and the commissioner’s search, they won’t even have time to piss, let alone rebroadcast their special edition!” They laughed, but then Nicolò turned serious again.

  “To hear first the father, then the kidnappers,” he said, “it sounds like a conversation between deaf people. The father says he hasn’t got a cent, and the others tell him to get the money ready. Even if he sells his villa, how much money could they possibly get?” “Are you of the same opinion as your distinguished colleague Pippo Ragonese?”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That the kidnapping is the work of inexperienced third worlders who don’t realize they have nothing to gain and everything to lose?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Maybe the kidnappers don’t have a TV and haven’t seen the father’s appeal.”

  “Or maybe . . .” Nicolò began but then stopped, as if in doubt.

  07

  “Or maybe what?” Montalbano prodded.

  “I just had an idea, but I’m embarrassed to tell you what it is.”

  “I promise you that no matter how stupid it is, it will never leave this room.”

  “It’s like something out of an American movie. People in town say that up until about five or six years ago, the Mistrettas lived high on the hog. Then they were forced to sell everything. Isn’t it possible that the kidnapping was organized by someone who came back to Vigàta after a long absence and was therefore unaware of the Mistretta family’s financial situation?” “Your idea sounds to me more like something out of Totò and Peppino than an American movie. Use your brains! You can’t pull off this kind of kidnapping alone, Nicolò! Some accomplice would surely have told your homecoming son of Vigàta that Mistretta could scarcely put bread on the table! By the way, could you tell me how the Mistrettas happened to lose everything?” “You know, I don’t have the slightest idea myself? I believe they were forced to sell everything off, all at once . . .”

  “To sell off what?”

  “Land, houses, stores . . .”

  “They were forced, you say? How strange!”

  “What’s so strange about it?”

  “It’s as though, six years ago, they urgently needed money to pay, well, a ransom.”

  “But there was no kidnapping six years ago.”

  “Maybe not. Or maybe nobody knew about it.”

  o o o

  Although the judge had taken immediate action, TeleVigàta managed to broadcast a replay of the special report before the restraining order went into effect. And this time not only all of Vigàta, but the entire province of Montelusa watched and listened, spellbound. The news had spread by word of mouth with lightning speed. If the kidnappers’ intention had been to make everyone aware of the situation, they had fully succeeded.

  One hour later, in the place of another rebroadcast of the special report, Pippo Ragonese appeared on the screen with his eyes popping out of his head. In a hoarse voice he said he felt duty-bound to inform everyone that at that moment the television station was being subjected to “some highly unusual ha-rassment that was clearly an abuse of power, an intimidation tactic, a veritable persecution.” He explained that the recording of the kidnappers’ message had been confiscated by court order and that police were presently searching the premises for something, though nobody quite knew what. He concluded by saying that never in a million years would the authorities succeed in throttling the voice of free information as represented by him and TeleVigàta, and that he would keep the public duly informed of any new developments in this “dire situation.”

  o o o

  Montalbano relished all the confusion he’d caused from Nicolò Zito’s office, then went back to the station. He had barely entered when he received a call from Livia.

  “Hello, Salvo?”

  “Livia! What’s wrong?”

  When Livia called him at the office, it usually meant that something serious had happened.

  “Marta phoned me.”

  Marta Gianturco was the wife of an officer with the Har-bor Authority and one of Livia’s few friends in Vigàta.

  “So?”

  “She told me to turn on the television immediately and watch the special edition of TeleVigàta News, which I did.” Pause.

  “It was terrible . . . that poor girl . . . her voice was heart-breaking . . .” she continued, after a moment.

  What was there to say?

  “Yeah . . . I know . . .” said Montalbano, just to let her know he was listening.

  “Then I heard Ragonese say you were searching his offices.”

  “Well . . . actually . . .”

  “Are you getting anywhere?”

  We’re sinking fast, he wanted to say. Instead he said:

  “We’re making progress.”

  “Do you suspect Ragonese of having kidnapped the girl?” Livia asked ironically.

  “Livia, this is no time for sarcasm. I told you we were making progress.”

  “I hope so,” Livia said stormily, in the sort of tone a low, black cloud might have.

  And she hung up.

  o o o

  So now Livia had taken to making insulting and threatening phone calls. Wasn’t it a bit excessive to call them threatening?

  No, it was not. She was liable to prosecution, in fact. Come on, stop being such an asshole and get over your anger. There. Are you calm now? Yes? Then call the person you were thinking of calling and forget about Livia.

  “Hello? Dr. Carlo Mistretta? Inspector Montalbano here.”

  “Any news?”

  “No, I’m sorry to say. But I’d like to have a few words with you, Doctor.”

  “I’m terribly busy this morning. And this afternoon as well. I’ve been neglecting my patients a bit, I’m afraid. Could we do it this evening? Yes? All right,
let’s see, we could meet at my brother’s house around—” “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I would like to speak to you alone.”

  “Do you want me to come to the station?”

  “No, you needn’t bother.”

  “Okay, then come to my house around eight o’clock this evening. All right? I live on Via . . . well, it’s too complicated to explain. Let’s do this. I’ll meet you at the first filling station on the road to Fela, just outside Vigàta. At eight o’clock.” The telephone rang again.

  “H’lo, Chief? There’s some lady wants to talk to you poissonally in poisson. Says iss a poissonal matter.”

  “Did she say what her name is?”

  “I tink she said GI Joe, Chief.”

  What! Mostly out of curiosity to find out what the woman’s real name was, he accepted the call.

  “Is det you, Signore? This is Adelina Cirrinciò.” His housekeeper! He hadn’t seen her since Livia arrived.

  What could have happened? Or maybe she wanted to threaten him, too, with something like: If you don’t free that girl within two days, I’m not going to come to your house and cook for you anymore. A terrifying prospect, especially as he remembered one of her favorite sayings: Tilefunu e tiligramma portanu malanna, or, “Phone calls and telegrams bring bad news.” Therefore, if she’d picked up the phone, it meant she had something very serious to tell him.

  “What is it, Adelì?”

  “Signore, I wanna youta know that Pippina’s a jess hedda baby.”

  Who the hell was Pippina? And why was she telling him she’d just given birth? His housekeeper realized the inspector was drawing a blank.

  “Don’ you rimimber, Signore? Pippina’s my son a Pasquali’s wife.”

  Adelina had two criminally inclined sons who were constantly in and out of jail, and the inspector had attended the wedding of the younger son, Pasquale. Had nine months already passed? Jesus, how time flew! He grew sullen. For two reasons: one, because old age was drawing closer and closer and, two, because old age brought to mind banal clichés like the one that had just come into his head. But his anger at having had such a commonplace thought cut short the sadness rising up inside him.

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Boy, signore.”

  “My heartfelt congratulations.”

  “Wait, signore. Pasquali an’ Pippina said they wanna youta be the godfather atta bappetism.”

  In short, he’d done them one good turn by attending the wedding, and now they wanted him do them another by becoming the kid’s godfather at the baptism.

  “And when’s the baptism?”

  “In about ten days.”

  “Gimme a couple of days to think about it, Adelì, okay?”

  “Okay. And when’s a Miss Livia leaving?”

  o o o

  He went to his usual trattoria. Livia was already sitting at a table. From afar one could see, from the look she gave him as he sat down, that this going to be no picnic.

  “So, are you getting anywhere?” she attacked.

  “Livia, we spoke less than an hour ago!”

  “So what? A lot of things can happen in an hour.”

  “Does this seem like the proper place to discuss these things?”

  “Yes. Because when you come home you never tell me anything about your work. Or would you rather I come to the station to discuss it, Inspector?”

  “Livia, we really are doing everything we can. At this very moment, most of my men, including Mimì and another squad from Montelusa, are scouring the nearby countryside, looking for—” “And why, while your men are out scouring the countryside, are you quietly sitting here with me in a trattoria?”

  “It’s what the commissioner wanted.”

  “The commissioner wanted you to go eat at a trattoria while your men are working hard and that girl’s life is a living hell?”

  What a pain in the ass!

  “Livia, stop breaking my balls!”

  “Hiding behind obscenity, eh?”

  “Livia, you would make a peerless agent provocateur. The commissioner has divvied up responsibilities. I’m working with Minutolo, who’s in charge of the investigation, while Mimì and others keep searching. It’s hard work.” “Poor Mimì!”

  Poor everybody, according to Livia. Poor girl, poor Mimì . . . The only person unworthy of her pity was him. He pushed away the dish of plain spaghetti all’aglio e olio, which he’d been forced to order because Livia was with him. Enzo, the proprietor, came running, concerned.

  “What’s wrong, Inspector?”

  “Nothing, I’m just not very hungry,” he lied.

  Livia didn’t make a peep and went on eating. In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere and get himself ready to savor the second course he’d ordered— aiole in a sauce whose fragrance was wafting out from the kitchen, sending him positive signals—he decided to tell Livia about the phone call from his housekeeper. He set off on the wrong foot.

  “Adelina rang me at the office this morning.”

  “I see.”

  She shot out the words like bullets.

  “What’s ‘I see’ supposed to mean?”

  “It means Adelina rings you at the office, not at home, because at home I might answer instead of you, which would surely leave her traumatized.”

  “Okay, never mind.”

  “No, I’m curious. What did she want?”

  “She wants me to go be the godfather at the baptism of her grandson, the son of her son Pasquale.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I asked her to give me a couple of days to think about it.

  But I have to confess, I’m leaning toward saying yes.”

  “You’re insane!”

  She said it too loudly. Mr. Militello, an accountant sitting at the table to their left, stopped his fork in midair, mouth hanging open; Dr. Piscitello, sitting at the table on their right, choked on the wine he’d just sipped.

  “Why?” asked Montalbano, puzzled at her vehement reaction.

  “What do you mean, why? Isn’t this Pasquale, your housekeeper’s son, a repeat offender? Haven’t you arrested him several times yourself?”

  “So what? I would be the godfather of a newborn infant who, until proved otherwise, hasn’t yet had the time to become a repeat offender like his father.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Do you know what it means to be the godfather at a baby’s baptism?”

  “I dunno, you hold the baby while the priest—” Livia shook her forefinger.

  “Sorry, darling, but becoming a godfather means taking on specific responsibilities. Didn’t you know?”

  “No,” Montalbano said sincerely.

  “If anything should happen to the father, the godfather is supposed to take his place in all matters concerning the child.

  He becomes a kind of standin for the father.”

  “Really?!” said Montalbano, in shock.

  “Ask around, if you don’t believe me. So, what may happen is that next time you arrest this Pasquale, he’ll go to jail and you’ll have to see to the needs of his son and keep an eye on his behavior . . . Can you imagine that?” “Er . . . shall I bring the fish?” asked Enzo.

  “No,” said Montalbano.

  “Yes,” said Livia.

  Livia refused to let him drive her home, taking the bus to Marinella instead. Since he hadn’t eaten anything, Montalbano skipped the walk along the jetty and went back to the office. It wasn’t even three o’clock yet. Catarella intercepted him in the main entrance.

  “Ahh, Chief! Chief! The c’mishner called!”

  “When?”

  “Now, now! In fack, he’s still onna line!” The inspector grabbed the phone from the closet that passed for a switchboard.

  “Montalbano? You must activate yourself immediately,” Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi said in an imperious tone.

  How was he supposed to do that? By pushing a button?

  Turning a knob? And wasn’t the propellorlike spin his cojones went
into whenever he so much as heard the commissioner’s voice a kind of activation?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve just been informed that Inspector Augello fell and hurt himself in the course of his investigations. He must be immediately replaced. You, for the moment, will take over for him. But don’t take any initiatives. Within a few hours I’ll arrange for a younger person to step in.” Ah, how kind and sensitive of the commissioner! A younger person. What, did Bonetti-Alderighi somehow think himself a babe in arms?

  “Gallo!”

  He put all the pique that was bubbling up inside him into that shout. Gallo appeared in an instant.

  “What is it, Chief?”

  “Find out where Inspector Augello is. Apparently he’s hurt himself. We must go relieve him at once.” Gallo turned pale.

  “Matre santa!” he said.

  Why was he so worried about Augello? The inspector tried to console him.

  “I don’t think it’s anything serious, you know. He must have slipped and—”

  “I was thinking about myself, Chief.”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, Chief, it must’ve been something I ate . . .

  The fact is that my stomach’s all upside down and I’m running to the bathroom every couple of minutes.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to hold it in.”

  Gallo went out muttering to himself, then returned a few minutes later.

  “Inspector Augello and his team are in Cancello district, on the road to Gallotta. About forty-five minutes from here.”

  “Let’s go. Go fetch the squad car.”

  o o o

  They’d been rolling along the provincial road for over half an hour when Gallo turned to Montalbano and said:

  “Chief, I can’t take it anymore.”

  “How far are we from Cancello?”

  “A couple of miles at most, but I—”

  “Okay, pull over the first chance you get.” On their right began a sort of trail marked by a tree with a board nailed to it. On the board were the words: fresh eggs.

  The countryside was uncultivated, a forest of wild plants.

  Gallo turned onto the trail, stopped almost at once, dashed out of the car, and disappeared behind a thicket of boxthorn.

  Montalbano also got out and lit a cigarette. About a hundred yards away was a little white die of a country cottage with a small yard in front. That must be where the fresh eggs were sold. He walked over to the edge of the trail and started to open the zipper on his trousers, but it promptly got stuck on his shirt and refused to budge any further. Montalbano looked down to examine the hitch, and as he was lowering his head, a shaft of light struck him square in the eyes. Once he’d finished, the zipper got stuck again, and he repeated the same motion, with the exact same results. That is, he lowered his head and the shaft of light struck his eyes again. He looked to see where the gleam was coming from, and there, half hidden by the bottom part of a bush, was some sort of round object.