He automatically headed towards the Trattoria San Calogero.The owner put a seafood appetizer in front of him, and, without warning, the inspector felt a kind of pincer close the opening to his stomach. It was impossible to eat. In fact, the sight of the squid, baby octopus, and clams nauseated him. He sprang to his feet.
Calogero, the waiter-owner, came running up, worried.
“Inspector, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Calò, I just don’t feel like eating anymore.”
“Don’t turn your nose up at that appetizer, Inspector. It doesn’t come any fresher!”
“I know. Please give it my apologies.”
“You don’t feel so good?”
An excuse came to mind.
“Ah, I don’t know. I feel a little chill, maybe I’m coming down with the flu.”
He left, knowing this time where he was headed. To the lighthouse, to sit down on the flat rock beneath it, which had become a kind of rock of tears. He had sat there the day before as well, when he couldn’t get that friend from ‘68 out his head, what was his name, he couldn’t remember. The rock of tears. And he had once shed tears in earnest there, liberating tears, when he first learned that his father was dying. Now he was back there again, because of another end foretold, over which he would shed no tears, but which deeply saddened him. An end, yes, that was not an exaggeration. It didn’t matter that Mimi had withdrawn his request for a transfer. The fact remained that he had submitted it at all.
Bonetti-Alderighi was a notorious imbecile, and he brilliantly confirmed this when he called the inspector’s police department a “band of mafiosi.” In reality it was a team, tightly knit and compact, a well-oiled machine, where every little cog had a function and—why not?—a personality of its own. And the belt that made the whole mechanism run was none other than Mimi Augello. One had to recognize the problem for what it was: a crack, the beginning of a break. The beginning of an end. How long would Mimi be able to hold out? Another two months? Three? Eventually he would give in to Rebecca’s tears and pressure—that is, Rachele’s tears and pressure—and then, good-bye, it was nice knowing you.
“And what about me?” he asked. “What the hell am I doing?”
One of the reasons he so feared promotion and the inevitable transfer was the certainty that he would never again be able, anywhere else, to put together a team like the one he’d managed, miraculously, to assemble in Vigata. But even as he was thinking this, he knew that it wasn’t the real reason for what he felt at that moment, the truth behind his suffering—There, goddamn it, you’ve finally managed to say the word! What, were you ashamed? Go on, repeat it: suffering. He was very fond of Mimi. He considered him more than a friend, rather like a kid brother, and this was why his pre-announced abandonment had hit him right in the chest with the force of a gunshot. The word “betrayal” had flitted through his brain for a moment. And Mimì’d had the gall to confide in Livia, utterly certain that she would never—Christ!—say a word to him, her man. And he’d even mentioned his possible transfer to her, and even this she withheld from him, complicitous in every respect with her friend Mimi! What a pair!
He realized that his suffering was turning into senseless, stupid rage. He felt ashamed. What he was thinking at that moment wasn’t really him.
Filippo Tortorici showed up at three-forty-five, a bit out of breath. He was a scrawny little man somewhere in his fifties, with a little crest of hair in the middle of his head and bald everywhere else. He looked exactly like a bird Montalbano had once seen in a documentary on the Amazon rain forest.
“What did you want to talk to me about? My boss, Mr. Malaspina, ordered me to come here right away but didn’t give me no explanation.”
“Were you the driver for the Vigàta- Tindari excursion last Sunday?”
“Yessir, I was. When the company organizes these tours, they always turn to me. The customers ask for me personally They want me for their driver. They trust me. I’m calm and patient.You have to understand them; they’re all old and have a lot of needs.”
“Do you do these tours often?”
“In the warm season, at least once every couple of weeks. Sometimes we go to Tindari, sometimes to Erice, sometimes to Siracusa, sometimes—”
“Is it always the same passengers?”
“There’s about ten who’re always there. The rest are different.”
“As far as you know, were Alfonso and Margherita Griffo on Sunday’s excursion?”
“Sure they were! I’ve got a good memory! Why do you ask?”
“Don’t you know? They’ve disappeared.”
“O Madunnuzza santa! What you mean, disappeared?”
“They haven’t been seen since they went on the tour. It was even mentioned on television. They said the son was desperate.”
“I didn’t know, I really didn’t.”
“Listen, did you know the Griffos before the excursion?”
“No, never seen ‘em before.”
“So how do you know the Griffos were on the bus?”
“Because before we leave, the boss always gives me the list of passengers. And before we leave, I call roll.”
“And do you do it again for the return trip?”
“Of course! And the Griffos were there.”
“Tell me what happens on these excursions.”
“Normally we set out at seven in the morning. It depends on how long it will take to get to where we’re going. The passengers are all getting on in years, retired, that kind of people. They go on the tour not so they can see, say, the Black Madonna of Tindari, but so they can spend a day in the company of other people.You know what I mean? Their kids are grown up and far away, they don’t have any friends ... During the drive, there’s always somebody in the coach to entertain them, selling things, like, I dunno, household goods, blankets, that sort of thing. And we always arrive in time for the midday Mass. For lunch they go to a restaurant the boss has an arrangement with. The cost of the meal is included in the ticket. And you know what happens after they eat?”
“No, I don’t. Tell me.”
“They go back to the bus for a little nap. After they wake up, they take a stroll around town, buy little gifts and souvenirs. At six—in the evening, that is—I take roll call and we leave. At eight, by prior arrangement, we stop at a café at the halfway point, and they have coffee and cookies. That’s also included in the price of the ticket. Then we’re supposed to be back in Vigàta around ten o‘clock.”
“Why did you say ‘supposed to be’?”
“‘Cause it always ends up being later.”
“Why’s that?”
“As I said, Inspector, the passengers are all old folks.”
“So?”
“If one of ‘em asks me to stop at the first café or service station because they need a lavatory, what’m I gonna say, no? So I stop.”
“I see. And do you remember if anyone on last Sunday’s return trip asked you to stop?”
“Inspector, they made it so we didn’t get back until almost eleven! Three times, we stopped! And the last time we weren’t but half an hour from Vigata! I even asked if they could wait, we were so close. Nothing doing. And you know what happens then? One of ‘em gets out, they all get out. They all need a lavatory, and we end up losing a lot of time.”
“Do you remember who it was that asked you to make the last stop?”
“No, sir, I honestly don’t remember.”
“Did anything strange or unusual happen, anything out of the ordinary?”
“What could possibly happen? If anything did, I didn’t notice.”
“Are you sure the Griffos made it back to Vigàta?”
“Inspector, once we’re back, I don’t have to call the roll anymore. If any of these people didn’t get back on the bus after one of the stops, the others would have noticed. Anyway, before leaving, I always toot the horn three times and wait at least three minutes.”
“Do you remember where you made the extra st
ops on the way back?”
“Yessir.The first was on the Enna highway, at the Cascino service station. The second was on the Palermo-Montelusa expressway, at the Trattoria San Gerlando; and the last was at the bar-trattoria Paradiso, a half-hour drive from here.”
Fazio straggled back around seven o‘clock.
“You took your time.”
Fazio didn’t reply. Whenever the inspector chided him for no reason, it merely meant he needed to let off steam. Answering would have made things worse.
“Anyway, Chief. There were forty people who went on that excursion. Eighteen married couples, which makes thirty-six, two old ladies, which makes thirty-eight, and the Laganà brothers, twins, who never miss a single one of these tours, who aren’t married, and who live together in the same house. The Laganà brothers were the youngest of the bunch, fifty-eight years old. And the passengers also included the Griffos, Alfonso and Margherita.”
“Did you tell them all to be here tomorrow morning at nine?”
“I did. And I didn’t do it by phone, but by going door-to-door. You should also know that two of them can’t come tomorrow. We’ll have to go to their place if we want to question them. The name’s Scimè: the wife is sick with the flu, and the husband has to stay by her side and can’t go anywhere. I took one liberty, Inspector.”
“What was that?”
“I divided them up into groups. They’ll come in ten at a time, one hour apart. There’ll be less confusion that way.”
“Good idea, Fazio. Thanks.You can go now.”
Fazio didn’t move. The moment had come for avenging the unjustified reproach of a few minutes before.
“As for taking my time, I wanted to mention that I also went to Montelusa.”
“What for?”
What was happening to the inspector? Was he forgetting things?
“You don’t remember? I went to do what you told me to do. To talk to the people at Manzo and Company, the ones who cut the check for two million we found in Nenè Sanfilippo’s pocket. All aboveboard. Mr. Manzo paid the kid a million lire a month to keep an eye on his computer and fix anything that needed fixing ... Last month there was a snag and he didn’t get paid, and that’s why the check was for double the amount.”
“So Nenè worked.”
“Worked? With the money Manzo paid him he could barely pay the rent! Where’d he get the rest?”
When Mimi Augello stuck his head inside the door it was already dark outside. His eyes were red. For a moment Montalbano thought Mimi had been crying, having suddenly repented. Which was the fashion, in any case: everyone, from the pope to the latest mafioso, was repenting about something. But, no, nothing of the sort! In fact, the first thing Augello said was: “This is wrecking my eyes, going through Nenè Sanfilippo’s papers! I’m only halfway through the letters.”
“Are there only letters from him?”
“Are you kidding! It’s a regular correspondence. Letters from him and letters from a woman, but hers aren’t signed.”
“How many are there?”
“About fifty from each. For a while they exchanged letters every other day ... They’d do it and then comment on it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain. Let’s say they slept together on a Monday. On Tuesday, they would write to each other, commenting, in detail, on everything they’d done the day before. From her perspective and from his. On Wednesday, they’d get together again and the next day they’d write to each other. The letters are pure filth. They had me blushing at moments.”
“Are the letters dated?”
“All of them.”
“Seems fishy to me. With our postal system, how could the letters always arrive punctually the next day?”
Mimi shook his head no.
“I don’t think they were mailed.”
“So how did they send them?”
“They didn’t. They handed them to each other next time they met. They probably read them in bed, and then started fucking. Sounds like an excellent stimulant.”
“I can see you’re an expert in these things. Aside from the date, do the letters mention the place of origin?”
“Nenè’s always come from Vigàta. Hers are from Montelusa or, on rarer occasions, from Vigàta. Which bolsters my hypothesis. Which is that they would get together sometimes here, sometimes in Montelusa. She’s married. Both he and she often mention the husband, but they never say his name. The period they saw each other most often coincided with a trip abroad by the husband. Who, as I said, is never mentioned by name.”
“That gives me an idea, Mimi. Isn’t it possible the whole thing is a pile of bullshit dreamed up by the kid? Isn’t it possible this woman doesn’t exist, that she’s a product of his erotic fantasies?”
“I think the letters are authentic. He typed them into the computer and then destroyed the originals.”
“What makes you so sure the letters are authentic?”
“What she writes. They minutely describe what a woman feels when she’s making love. They give details that would never remotely occur to us men. They do it in every way possible: normal, oral, anal, in all the positions, on different occasions, and every time, she says something new, intimately new. If it was all made up by the kid, he would surely have turned out to be a great writer.”
“How far did you get?”
“I’ve got about twenty left. Then I’ll get started on the novel.You know, Salvo, I have a feeling I might know who the woman is.”
“Tell me.”
“Not yet. I have to think it over.”
“I have a vague idea about it too.”
“What’s that?”
“I think we’re dealing with a woman who’s not so young anymore, and who took on a twenty-year-old lover. Whom she paid handsomely.”
“I agree. Except that if it’s the woman I think it is, she’s not middle-aged. She’s rather young. And there’s no money involved.”
“So you think it’s a question of infidelity?”
“Why not?”
“Maybe you’re right.”
No, Mimi wasn’t right. Montalbano sensed instinctively, in his gut, that behind the killing of Nenè Sanfilippo there must be something big. So why was he agreeing with Mimi’s hypothesis? To keep him happy? What was the proper verb? Ah, yes: to cajole him. He was pandering to him shamelessly. Perhaps he was behaving like that newspaper editor in the movie The Front Page, who resorts to every expedient on earth and in heaven to keep his ace reporter from moving, for love, to another city It was a comedy with Matthau and Lemon, and he remembered that he died laughing. Why was it that, thinking back on it now, he didn’t even crack a smile?
“Livia? Hi, how are you? I want to ask you two questions, and then tell you something.”
“What are their numbers?”
“What are what’s numbers?”
“The questions. What are their reference numbers?”
“Come on ...”
“Don’t you realize you’re talking to me as if I was some kind of office?”
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean—”
“Go ahead, ask me the first one.”
“Livia, imagine we’ve made love—”
“I can’t.The prospect is too remote.”
“Please, I’m being serious.”
“All right, but give me a minute while I collect my memories. Okay. Go on.”
“Would you ever think, the day after, to write me a letter describing everything you felt?”
There was a pause, and it lasted so long that Montalbano thought Livia had hung up on him.
“Livia? You there?”
“I was trying to think. No, I, personally, wouldn’t do that. But another woman, in the throes of a violent passion, might.”
“The second question is this: When Mimi Augello confided in you that he planned to get married—”
“Oh, God, Salvo, you’re such a bore when you put your mind to it!”
�
��Let me finish. Did he also say he was going to ask to be transferred? Did he?”
This time the pause was even longer than before. But Montalbano knew she was still at the other end, because her breathing had grown heavy. Then, in a faint voice, she asked:
“Did he do that?”
“Yes, Livia, he did. Then, because the commissioner made an asinine comment, he withdrew his request. But only temporarily, I think.”
“Salvo, believe me, he never said anything to me about leaving Vigàta. And I don’t think he had that in mind when he talked about his marriage plans. I’m sorry. Very sorry. And I realize how sorry you must be. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“That I miss you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“A lot a lot.”
There, that’s how you do it. Trust in the most utterly obvious thing. And surely the truest.
He went to bed with the book by Vázquez Montalbán and began rereading it from the beginning. At the end of the third page, the telephone rang. He thought about it a moment; the desire not to answer was strong, but the caller was liable to persist until his nerves were frayed.
“Hello? Am I speaking with Inspector Montalbano?”
He didn’t recognize the voice.
“Yes.”
“Inspector, I beg your pardon for disturbing you at this hour, when you’re finally enjoying some much-desired rest with your family ...”
What family? Had everyone gone batty, from Dr. Lattes to this stranger, with this idea of his nonexistent family?
“Who is this?”
“... but I was certain to find you at home. I am Orazio Guttadauro, the lawyer. I don’t know if you remember me ...”
How could he not remember Guttadauro, the Mafia’s favorite lawyer, who during the investigation into the murder of the beautiful Michela Licalzi had tried to entrap the then captain of the Montelusa Flying Squad? A worm had a deeper sense of honor than Orazio Guttadauro.
IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005) Page 5