The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  There was no reaction.

  Montalbano kept repeating his name, almost in tune with the man’s lament.

  And it worked. The wailing stopped.

  Osman raised his head very slowly.

  Upon seeing his face, Montalbano felt a cold shudder snaking up his spine. The expression in the doctor’s eyes seemed to belong to someone much older than him. Osman’s features looked transformed.

  He muttered something the inspector didn’t understand.

  “What?” Montalbano asked.

  “I want to see Elena.”

  “I’ll do everything within my power, I promise. Meanwhile, let me help you up.”

  With the inspector’s support, Osman managed first to get on his knees, and then, with some effort, he was able to slide his back up against the wall until he was standing.

  “Think you can manage to stay on your feet?”

  “Yes,” said Osman.

  Montalbano went and picked up the pair of shoes lying a short distance down the hall, then came back and, kneeling down, put them on the doctor, one after the other, with all the patience of a mother.

  He then led him to the nearest chair.

  “Wait for me here. Don’t move for any reason.”

  He rushed off towards Pasquano’s office, opened the door, and dashed in.

  The doctor leapt up in his chair.

  “What fucking way of entering is that?”

  “I haven’t got any time to waste,” said Montalbano. “Just tell me one thing: Is it strictly forbidden for nonrelatives to see the body?”

  “Absolutely. You would need a court order. Why, don’t you think that I would otherwise have let your friend in? He’s been busting my chops for the last two hours with his little song, which, if you ask me, is going to bring bad luck.”

  “And what if I told you my friend is the victim’s brother?”

  “I would reply that you’re lying through your teeth. But since you’re such a good liar, I’ll pretend to believe you. So you will take full responsibility for this?”

  “Yes. You have my word.”

  “All right, then, follow me.”

  As they were walking down the hall towards Osman, Pasquano said under his breath:

  “You two wait for me here. It’s better if I go in first. I’ll cover the poor woman up with a sheet and leave just the head exposed. Luckily, her face was unmarred.”

  He moved towards the door, opened it, and went inside, leaving it open behind him.

  Montalbano went over to Osman.

  “Just another minute or two, and you’ll be able to see her.”

  “Thank you,” Osman managed to say.

  Moments later, Pasquano poked his head out.

  “Come,” he said.

  Osman stood up. Montalbano put his arm around his shoulders and guided him into the room. One of the freezer doors was open. Pasquano had wheeled out Elena’s stretcher and was standing beside it, holding one end of the sheet up.

  At this point Osman came abruptly out from under Montalbano’s arm and said:

  “I can manage on my own.”

  Montalbano was certain the man would stagger as he walked, but in fact Dr. Osman took those five steps with assurance and precision.

  When he reached Pasquano, he stopped and looked at the victim’s face.

  Osman no longer wore any expression at all. His lips were moving, but no sound came out of his mouth. Then he slowly bent down until his lips were touching Elena’s forehead. He stayed that way for a few seconds, then stood back up and headed out of the room as though sleepwalking.

  “Thank you,” Montalbano said to Pasquano.

  Osman was now making straight for the exit.

  As soon as he was outside, he said:

  “Thank you for everything.”

  “But do you intend to drive back to Vigàta in your own car?”

  “Yes,” said Osman.

  “Get that idea out of your head. You can come and fetch your car another time. I’ll drive you home. But, come to think of it, would you like to come to my house in Marinella?”

  “Yes,” the man repeated.

  * * *

  As they were getting in the car, Montalbano’s cell phone rang.

  “Hello!”

  “Inspector, I’m sorry. This is Meriam. I’m calling you because I’m very worried. I’ll explain. You don’t know . . . but Elena . . . I’m sorry, but . . . I haven’t been able to get in touch with Dr. Osman since this morning . . .”

  Before replying, Montalbano got out of the car so that the doctor couldn’t hear.

  “He’s here with me.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s in a bad way.”

  “Are you at the police station?”

  “No. I thought I would take him back to my place to give him a little time to recover.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better just to take him home?”

  “I wouldn’t feel right leaving him alone.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m already at his place, just outside. I’ll wait for you.”

  “All right,” said the inspector, getting back in the car.

  He told the doctor he was taking him home. Osman was still so disoriented that he didn’t even bother to ask the reason for the change in plan.

  As soon as Osman saw Meriam outside his front door, he opened the car door, got out, ran towards her, and embraced her.

  Montalbano put the car in gear and drove off.

  He wanted to head home to Marinella, but suddenly found himself, for no apparent reason, outside the police station.

  By this point he was so tired that he could no longer think on his own, and so he let his car decide. He parked and went into the building.

  “Ahh, Chief! F’rensix called jess now ’cuz ’ey wannit a know from yiz poissonally in poisson ’oo was asposta pay fer the Vissikassi.”

  “And what the hell is a Vissikassi?”

  “Wha’, Chief? Ya never hoid a Vissikassi? ’Ey show it alla time on TV.”

  “And what do they show, Cat?”

  “’Ey show cats all happy an’ smilin’ an’ stuff ’cuzza Vissikassi.”

  “So this Vissikassi is something that makes cats happy and we’re supposed to pay to make Forensics happy?”

  “’A’ss right, Chief. Assolutely right. Vissikassi’s a cat food ’at makes cats rilly ’appy.”

  “I get it, Cat. But now explain to me why we should pay for this Vissikassi and, more important, who’s it for.”

  “Iss fer the cat o’ the tailor lady. The witness cat, in utter woids.”

  “Rinaldo!” Montalbano exclaimed. “Okay, tell Forensics that I’ll pay the bill myself but only if they bring me the cat here after it testifies. I’m afraid they’ll just let it starve to death, because they’ll end up eating the Vissikassi themselves.”

  “Y’er right, Chief! Man, ya know so many tings! I’ll call ’em now straightaways!”

  Montalbano went into his office and found Fazio sitting straight up in a chair, immobile, eyes popping out of his head. He was clearly daydreaming.

  “Fazio!” the inspector yelled.

  His assistant gave a start.

  “Yessir!” he replied. He then managed to take a breath and said: “But what ever happened to you?”

  “I’ll tell you later. You got any news?”

  “Yeah, Chief,” said Fazio, immediately thrilled. “I learned something of tremendous importance.”

  “So tell me.”

  Fazio assumed a conspiratorial air.

  “Apparently, I’m told—now pay attention—that Dr. Osman and Elena used to be . . . know what I mean?”

  “No,” said Montalbano, who was starting to enjoy himself.

  “Well, in sh
ort, apparently they were a little more than just friends.”

  Montalbano almost felt touched. How could someone like Fazio, who’d seen so many nasty things in his life, still feel embarrassed to talk about love?

  But the inspector’s emotion didn’t prevent him from twisting the knife just a wee bit in the wound.

  “And so?” he persisted.

  “And so I think it might be useful to find out whether this story is true or not.”

  “It’s true. Already known,” said Montalbano, in the same tone that Fazio always used when he said “already taken care of.”

  Fazio opened his eyes wide.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I just dropped Dr. Osman off five minutes ago outside his front door.”

  And he told him everything that had happened after they’d parted ways at the trattoria.

  “So you weren’t able to question him?” asked Fazio.

  “No. In an hour or so I want you to call him at home and tell him I’ll be waiting for him at the station tomorrow morning around nine-thirty. And I want you there, too, of course. But now I have to tell you that I’m dead tired and need to go home and get some rest. Have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  When passing by Catarella, he said:

  “Cat, I’m going home and don’t want to be disturbed by anyone, even if Hizzoner the minister of justice calls.”

  “Yessir, Chief! I wannit a tell yiz ’at F’rensix axed me t’ax yiz if y’er also gonna pay for the cat’s letter.”

  “Letter? What letter?”

  “Chief, I swear, I tried a ax ’em, but I din’t unnastand. ’Ey jess said sum’n ’at sounded like a ‘cat letter.’”

  “Was it cat litter?”

  “Yeah, ’a’ss it, Chief! ’A’ss azackly right!”

  “Tell ’em not to get all bent out of shape over it. I’ll pay for it myself. And tell ’em I’ll pay for the sand, too.”

  “Don’t botter ’bout ’at, Chief. I c’n go an’ shovel up some sand at the beach if we need any. ’Ere’s so much roun’ here, nobody’s gotta pay for it.”

  * * *

  When he got home it was almost six p.m. There was a gorgeous sunset. Montalbano felt his nervous tension let up the moment he sat down on the veranda.

  He just stayed there motionless, breathing in the air, too weak even to stick his hand in his pocket and pull out the pack of cigarettes. He was sitting so still, in fact, that a dove came and perched on the railing of the veranda. It started pacing back and forth, and then stopped and looked at him.

  “I don’t feel like talking,” said Montalbano, feeling his eyelids beginning to droop.

  The dove flew away.

  Montalbano closed his eyes.

  * * *

  When he reopened them, it was pitch-dark outside. He got scared. He flicked his lighter and looked at his watch. Nine p.m.

  He went inside and turned on the lights.

  Maybe it was the tremendous fatigue weighing down on him, or maybe it was the fact of having slept in the open air, but in any case he’d got a chill.

  So he went into the bathroom, took off his clothes, and got into the shower.

  He immediately felt much better, and with this improvement in his condition, a powerful hunger came over him.

  Slipping on a pair of underpants, he raced into the kitchen. His hunger led him straight, and unfailingly, to the oven. He opened it.

  Oh, wonder of wonders!

  Timballo di riso! God only knew how long it had been since he’d eaten any.

  Not bothering even to set the table, he simply spread a large napkin over the oilcloth, set a bottle of wine and a glass down on it, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and attacked the timballo without removing it from the pan.

  And he managed to make a miracle happen. That is, he didn’t allow a single thought to enter his head. His brain had become a sort of blackboard on which appeared only expressions of praise for the flavor that began in his mouth and washed over his entire body all the way to the tips of his toes, from where it then resumed its journey back up to the top.

  The rhythm of his eating began to slow down little by little as the contents of the pan diminished. The last two or three forkfuls were merely gatherings of the rice grains left in the pan.

  When he’d finished eating he remained seated with his buttocks near the edge of the chair, intensely observing the design of the terra-cotta tiles of the kitchen floor.

  Once the ecstasy had passed, he realized it was time to phone Livia.

  He got up, went into the dining room, sat down, and dialed her number.

  But then he immediately hung up, because he could still feel the rice in his esophagus. He absolutely needed to take a walk.

  So he put on a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a jacket and went down to the beach barefoot.

  He touched the water with one foot. Freezing.

  But he liked the sensation, and so he rolled the bottoms of his pant legs up to his calves and started walking in the water, letting it come up to his ankles.

  Feeling something touch his feet, he bent down to look. There was a strange phosphorescence in the water, and he saw a great many tiny silvery fish swimming around his feet as in some kind of underwater slalom.

  Then, as if some sort of signal had sounded in his head, he suddenly remembered the whole business with Osman. Fazio had confirmed to him that the doctor and the seamstress had had a love affair.

  And it must have been a serious matter if a man with as much self-control as Dr. Osman had let himself fall into such deep, disconsolate despair. It was completely different from the grief he’d seen in Trupia’s face. And, come to think of it, Osman and Elena must have made a very handsome couple, because their faces and manners were quite complementary: He was as reserved as she was bright and cheerful, as closed as she was open.

  And physically, too, they must have made a fine sight.

  And so, if that’s how it was, what obstacle had stood in the way of their relationship and broken it up?

  Neither of them had a spouse, or any other kind of bond that might prevent them from being together.

  Why had they left each other, or been forced to break up?

  Why hadn’t they got married?

  The mere thought of the word “married” called up a long, past history of his own, concerning himself and Livia.

  He chased the idea from his head and started heading back to the house to call his longtime companion.

  11

  “Salvo! Finally! I couldn’t wait to talk to you!”

  “I’m sorry, Livia, but, you must realize, I—”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Did I do what?”

  “Catch the killer! Did you?”

  “Livia, don’t be silly. I don’t even know where to begin. Actually, you know what? I think you could help me out with this.”

  “How?”

  “Tell me about Elena. When, for example, did you first make her acquaintance? What were the circumstances?”

  “Well, I’m actually rather well prepared to answer that question. All I’ve been doing all day is thinking about Elena . . . The first time I saw her was about two years ago. I was walking past her storefront and saw some beautiful scarves in the display window. So I went inside and must have stayed there for at least two hours. I never told you about that?”

  “No. Go on.”

  “I remember that we talked as if we’d already known each other for a long time. I, who normally talk very little about myself—I found myself telling her everything. I told her about you, about how we’d met, how long we’d been together . . .”

  “And did she tell you anything about herself?”

  “Not very much, really. Elena was the one leading the conversation and choosing the subject. I may ha
ve tried asking her about herself, but the more I think about it, my impression of her is that she was open and friendly, but only up to a point.”

  “Explain.”

  “I don’t quite know how to put it . . . You know, when women are with women, they always end up talking about men, and yet she managed rather well not to tell me anything about her private life. She told me she’d married a man from Vigàta and that was why she moved down to your town. When I asked her if she was still married, I remember quite clearly that she said: ‘No. He died.’ But she’d said it in such a peremptory way that I didn’t feel like asking her anything more about it. And, come to think of it, I would say that Elena made it clear she didn’t want to go past a certain threshold. She was perfectly fine with our conversation as long as we were talking about me or her in a superficial way.”

  “And did you see her again after that?”

  “Yes, a few more times. Always ending with the promise that we’d go and have an aperitif together sometime. We even exchanged telephone numbers, but it became clear to me that we would never meet anywhere outside her shop.”

  “So you don’t know anything about Osman?”

  “Osman? You mean the doctor for the migrants?”

  “Yes. Apparently they were a couple for a while.”

  “What are you saying! They must have looked great together! But . . . but . . .”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Are you thinking he might be involved in this?”

  “Livia, what are you saying! No, absolutely not. Osman was with me the night Elena was murdered.”

  “And have you got any suspects?”

  “Yes, Livia. Though with no motive. Her most recent lover really has no alibi.”

  “So you’re thinking it was a crime of passion?”

  “I’m not thinking anything. I’m confused and so tired I can barely see. I haven’t slept in my bed for two days . . .”

  “What are you saying? In what bed have you been sleeping?”

  At this point the conversation took a different turn.

  Montalbano got angry. Livia got even angrier. They bade each other good night in a way that, in translation, meant “bad night,” and hung up.