The Age of Doubt

by Andrea Camilleri

  “And what happened the other night?”

  “Well, after the robbery we hired a night guard who makes the rounds outside the building every half hour. On the night in question, he saw a car stopped with its lights off, outside the back door of the hotel. But the moment he approached, the car drove away in a hurry. That time, however, since nothing actually happened, we didn’t bother to report it . . . Do you think it might have a connection to the murder?”

  Montalbano had no intention of telling him exactly just how close a connection it had.

  “Absolutely not. But it’s all grist for the mill, you know.”

  Damn! Pasquano was right! The older he got, the more he spoke in clichés!

  Therefore, to return to the matter at hand, someone from the Ace of Hearts had tried to recover Lannec’s passport and hadn’t succeeded. As soon as they’d seen the night guard they’d sped off. It was too dangerous.

  Because, once they were identified as being from the cruiser, the investigation of the murder would most certainly have led back to them. They couldn’t risk it.

  But they’d had the right idea: the passport was the only thing that might make it possible to identify the dead man. Getting rid of it would have meant the corpse would probably remain forever nameless. And since they’d failed to get their hands on it, they had to content themselves with smashing in the dead man’s face.

  Want to bet the false face was better known than the real one?

  The inspector decided it was best to inform Geremicca of the surgically remade face. He was about to phone him when Fazio came in.

  “I’ve spoken with the lieutenant,” said Fazio.

  Montalbano immediately felt envious.

  Fazio had had a chance to see Laura, to be close to her, to hear her breathing and talk to her . . .

  “What did you find out?” His voice sounded choked.

  “You stuffed up?” Fazio asked.

  “No, it’s nothing, my throat’s just a little dry. Tell me.”

  “First of all, I found out that this Ace of Hearts turns out to belong to an Italo-French company that—”

  “That sort of thing happens all the time. It’s unlikely it would belong to an individual. They do it to pay less tax. And what’s this company’s business?”

  “Import-export.”

  “Of what?”

  “A bit of everything.”

  “And what do they need a monster motorboat like that for?”

  “The lieutenant told me the company operates all over the Mediterranean, from Morocco and Algeria to Syria, and even Turkey and Greece . . .”

  The same places stamped in the Frenchman’s passport.

  “The lieutenant also said that it’s not the first time the cruiser has called at the port of Vigàta. Normally, though, it stays only for a day, two at the most. This time, however, they’ve stayed longer because they’re waiting for someone from outside to come and look at the engines, which have been misfiring.”

  “But wouldn’t it have been better for them to get an airplane?”

  “What do you want me to say, Chief? It’s their business.”

  “The other day, I saw a sort of colossus on their deck, saying goodbye to the owner of the Vanna and the captain.”

  “He’s the company’s chief exec. His name’s Matteo Zigami, and he’s six-three-and-a-half.”

  “How many people are there on board?”

  “Five. Zigami, his secretary François Petit, and a three-man crew. The company’s called MIEC.”

  “What’s that stand for?”

  “Mediterranean Import-Export Corporation. According to Lieutenant Garrufo—”

  “Ah, so you didn’t speak with Lieutenant Belladonna?”

  “No.”

  “She wasn’t there?”

  “No. The marshal at the entrance to the Harbor Office told me she’d been up all night . . .”

  What? Was it possible? So even at the Harbor Office they knew that she and Mimì . . . ? Jesus, how embarrassing!

  “. . . due to the sudden landing of about a hundred illegal immigrants at the harbor, and she’d had to stay on duty till dawn.”

  So she hadn’t spent the night at Mimì’s place! She’d never even had the chance to set foot there!

  Somebody set a couple of bells ringing in his head. But it wasn’t just bells; there were also about a thousand violins. He could see Fazio’s mouth opening and closing but couldn’t hear what he was saying. Too much noise.

  He shot to his feet.

  “Well done, Fazio!”

  Fazio, utterly flummoxed, let the inspector embrace him, wondering if his boss hadn’t suddenly lost his mind.

  Then, when Montalbano finally let go of him, he ventured to ask in a thin little voice:

  “So, how should we proceed?”

  “We’ll deal with that later, we’ll deal with that later!”

  As he was leaving, Fazio heard the inspector start singing. Then, still practically singing, Montalbano told Geremicca about the reconstructed face.

  All at once he was in the grips of a gargantuan hunger.

  He glanced at his watch. It was already eight-thirty. The violins had stopped playing, but the bells kept on ringing, though at a lower volume.

  He got up, went out of the office, and walked by Catarella with his eyes closed, looking like a sleepwalker. Catarella got worried.

  “You feel okay, Chief?”

  “I feel great, Cat, great.”

  So they were worried about his health? But at that moment he felt like a kid again! Twenty years old. No, better not exaggerate, Montalbà. Let’s say forty.

  He got in the car and headed home to Marinella. As soon as he went inside he raced to see what was in the fridge. Nothing. Totally empty, except for a plate of olives and a little bowl of anchovies. He ran to the oven and opened it. Nothing there either. Only then did he notice a note on the kitchen table.

  Sints I don feel so good coz I gotta headache I cant cook and gonna go home. My appalogies, Adelina.

  No, there was no way he could get through this special night on an empty stomach. He would never be able to sleep. The only solution was to get back in the car and go to Enzo’s.

  “Wha’? Adelina let you down tonight?” Enzo asked when he saw him come in.

  “She wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t cook. What can you give me?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  He started with a seafood antipasto. Since the nunnati were crispy as can be, he ordered a second side dish of them. He continued with a generous helping of spaghetti in squid ink. And he ended with a double portion of mullet and striped bream.

  When he came out, he became immediately convinced of the need for a nocturnal stroll to the lighthouse. This time he didn’t go out of his way to check on the cruiser and the yacht. The jetty was deserted. Two steamers were docked there, but they were completely in the dark. He took his walk slowly, one step at a time.

  He felt at peace with himself that evening. The sea was breathing gently.

  He sat down on the flat rock and fired up a cigarette.

  And he concluded that as a cop, he was quite good, and as a man, he was half-assed.

  Because as he was approaching the lighthouse, he’d done nothing but think about Laura and the way he’d reacted when he learned she hadn’t gone to Mimì’s place after all.

  His happiness had suddenly evaporated when a thought had popped into his head—namely: And just how do you see this girl, Montalbà? You were so certain that the same person who the day before hadn’t wanted to stay alone with you because she was scared by what she was beginning to feel, was ready, the very next day, to fall inexorably into Mimì’s arms! And you were despairing over it!

  How could you be so certain? It surely wasn’t because of Laura’s honest, forthright behavior with you.

  And so? Wasn’t this conviction of yours based solely, perhaps, on a prejudice concerning not only Laura but the very nature of all women?


  Namely, that in the end it takes very little, or nothing at all, to persuade a woman to say yes? Wasn’t this what you were thinking inside? And isn’t this actually the dick-brained mistake of someone who simply doesn’t understand women? Need proof? Just tell Laura you thought she would end up in Mimì’s bed, and see how she reacts. Punches and slaps at the very least, and a demand that you apologize.

  “Laura, I’m so sorry,” he said aloud.

  And he promised himself he would call her in the morning.

  After smoking another cigarette, he stood up and started walking back. Halfway down the jetty he heard the sound of a patrol boat crossing the harbor. He turned around to look.

  A Coast Guard patrol was shining a floodlight on a barge lingering on the water.

  He could see a dark mass inside the barge. There were about thirty illegal immigrants clinging to one another, frozen and hungry.

  He also saw that two powerful searchlights had been lit on the western wharf, the one where the refugees usually disembark. His colleagues from the police force must already be there with buses, ambulances, cars, and a crowd of rubberneckers.

  He’d once happened, by bad luck, to get caught right in the middle of a landing of the poor wretches and since then had decided never to be present for another. Luckily his own police department was not part of the force assigned to the problem; Montelusa dealt with it directly.

  Seeing them, he could tolerate those eyes bulging in fear over what they had been through and what uncertainties awaited them; he could tolerate the sight of gaunt bodies that couldn’t stand up straight, of trembling hands and silent tears, of little children whose faces became wizened and old in an instant . . .

  What he could not tolerate was the smell. But maybe there was no smell at all; maybe it was just his imagination. But, real or not, he smelled it just the same, and it made his knees buckle and pierced his heart.

  It wasn’t the smell of filth. No, it was something completely different. It arose directly from their skin, an ancient yet present, strong smell of despair, of resignation, of misfortunes and violence suffered with heads bowed.

  Yes, what that heartrending smell communicated was the sorrows of the injured world, as Elio Vittorini had put it in a book he’d once read.

  And yet this time, too, his footsteps, disobeying his brain, headed towards the western wharf.

  When he arrived, the patrol boat had just docked. He kept a distance, however, sitting down on a bollard.

  It looked like a half-silent movie. By now the people in charge knew what they had to do; there was no need to give or receive orders. One heard only sounds: car doors slamming, footsteps, ambulance sirens, vehicles driving away.

  And there were the usual TV cameramen, even though there was no point in refilming a scene already too familiar. They could have easily rebroadcast the material they’d shot a month before, since it was exactly the same, and nobody would have noticed.

  He waited until the spotlights suddenly went out and the darkness seemed to thicken. Then he stood up, turned his back on the three or four shadows that remained talking to each other, and headed towards his car.

  All of a sudden he clearly heard some footsteps running up to him from behind.

  He stopped and turned around.

  It was Laura.

  Without knowing how, they ended up in each other’s arms. She buried her face in his chest, and Montalbano could feel her trembling all over. They were unable to speak.

  Then Laura broke free of his embrace, turned her back to him, and started running until she disappeared into the darkness.

  12

  The first thing he did when he got back home was to unplug the telephone. God forbid Livia should call. No way he could carry on a conversation with her. Every syllable of his would be a burning twist of the knife of remorse and shame for being forced to lie.

  “What did you do today?”

  “The usual things, Livia.”

  “All right, but tell me anyway.”

  And he would go from one whopper to the next, each one bigger than the last. And then the hesitations, the half-spoken words . . . No, at his age, it really wasn’t right.

  He had to reflect calmly, and as lucidly as possible, on the miracle that had happened to him, and then make a decision that was clear and definitive. And if he decided to submit to the miracle, to a grace that both thrilled him and filled him with dread, he owed it to Livia to tell her at once, face-to-face.

  But at that moment he wasn’t in any condition to think rationally. The excitement turned his thoughts into one big jumble. If, earlier, he’d heard bells and violins, now, after what had happened on the wharf, the music had disappeared, and all he heard was his blood coursing swift and limpid as an alpine stream, his heart beating fast and strong. He needed to release all this energy, which continued to build up almost unbearably with each minute that passed.

  He took off his clothes, put on a bathing suit, went down to the beach as far as the line where the sand was dense and compacted with moisture, and started running.

  When he got back home, his watch said twelve-thirty and some.

  He’d run for two hours straight without stopping for even a minute, and his legs ached.

  He slipped into the shower and stayed there a long time, then went to bed.

  Exhausted from the run. And from happiness.

  Which, when it is truly great, can cut your legs out from under you, just like severe pain.

  He woke up with the impression that the shutter outside the bedroom window was banging as usual. Where had all this strong wind suddenly come from?

  He opened his eyes, turned on the light, and saw that the shutter was closed.

  So what was banging? Then he heard the doorbell ring. Somebody was ringing and kicking the door. He looked at his watch. Ten past three. He got up and went to the door.

  It was Fazio who’d been making all the racket.

  “Forgive me, Chief, but I tried to ring you and there was no answer. Your phone must be unplugged.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “Shaikiri was found dead.”

  In a way, he’d been expecting something like this.

  “Wait while I go and get dressed.”

  He did it in the twinkling of an eye, and five minutes later he was sitting beside Fazio, who was at the wheel of a squad car.

  “Tell me how he died.”

  “Chief, I don’t know anything yet. It was Catarella who rang me. But the way he pronounced the name, Chaziki or something like that, it took me a good ten minutes to figure out that he was talking about the Arab with the Vanna. And so, after trying for a long time to phone you unsuccessfully, I decided to come and get you.”

  “Do you know at least where we need to go?”

  “Of course. To the pier, to the Vanna’s berth.”

  On the wharf, right in front of the yacht’s gangway, stood Lieutenant Garrufo, a sailor from the Harbor Office, and Captain Sperlì. Montalbano and Fazio shook hands with the group.

  “What happened?” Montalbano asked Garrufo.

  “Perhaps it’s better to let the captain speak,” said Garrufo.

  “I was in my cabin,” Sperlì began, “and about to get into bed, when I thought I heard a scream.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Quarter past two; I looked instinctively at my watch.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “That’s just it. It seemed to me to come from the crew’s quarters. Which is on this side, the one closest to the pier.”

  “You heard a scream and nothing else? No other sound?”

  “That was all. And the scream was sort of cut off, as though suddenly interrupted.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I left the cabin and went to the crew’s quarters. Alvarez, Ricca, and Digiulio were sleeping soundly, but Shaikiri’s bunk was empty.”

  “And so?”

  “And so I said to myself that maybe the cry ha
d come from the wharf. So I went out on deck with a flashlight. But from what I could see by the light of the lampposts, the quay was deserted. I leaned out over the railing—the one right there, above the gangway—and as I made that movement the flashlight pointed downwards. And that was when I saw him, completely by chance.”

  “Show me.”

  “You can see him from here, even without going aboard.”

  He went to the edge of the wharf and lit up the very narrow space between the quay and the side of the yacht. Montalbano and Fazio bent down to look.

  There was a human body wedged vertically, head down, under water up to the bottom of the rib cage. Only the hips and absurdly spread legs remained out of the water.

  A question immediately came to the inspector’s mind.

  “But with the body in that position, how could you tell it was Shaikiri?” he asked the captain.

  Sperlì didn’t hesitate for a second.

  “From the color of his jeans. He wore them often.”

  The jeans were so yellow they appeared to glow in the dark.

  “Have you informed Signora Giovannini?”

  This time the captain was unable to hide an ever so brief moment of hesitation.

  “N . . . no.”

  “Isn’t she on board?”

  “Yes, but . . . she’s asleep. I’d rather not bother her. Anyway, what use would she be?”

  “And have you told the crew?”

  “Well, when those guys get drunk, it takes a while to wear off. And last night they must have had a lot to drink. It would only create confusion.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I doubt they could tell us much. And what do you think happened, Captain?”

  “What else? Poor Ahmed, drunk as he certainly must have been, probably took a wrong step and fell into the water, getting stuck with his head down. He must have drowned.”

  Montalbano made no comment.

  “What should we do?” the lieutenant asked the inspector.