IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “If I’m not in, leave a message with Catarella. But make sure he writes the numbers and letters down correctly, otherwise we’re liable to come up with a license plate from Minnesota.”

  On the drive back, a stop at the Saracen olive tree seemed almost obligatory. He needed a pause for reflection, a real one, not like what politicians call a pause for reflection, which is in fact a lapse into a deep coma. He climbed astride the usual branch, leaning back against the trunk, and lit a cigarette. He immediately felt uncomfortable, however, as the knots and nubs in the wood dug into the inside of his thighs. He had an odd sensation, as if the olive tree didn’t want him sitting there and was trying to make him change position.

  Some of the shit that goes through your head ... !

  He held out a bit longer, then couldn’t stand it anymore and climbed off the branch. He went to his car, grabbed a newspaper, returned to the olive tree, spread the pages out on the ground, and lay down on top, after removing his jacket.

  Viewed from below, from this new perspective, the tree looked bigger and more intricate. He saw complex ramifications he couldn’t see before, from inside. Some words came to mind: “There’s a Saracen olive tree, a big one ... which solved everything for me.” Who had said them? And what had the tree solved? Then his memory came more clearly into focus. It was Pirandello who’d said those words, to his son, a few hours before dying. And they referred to The Giants of the Mountain, his unfinished novel.

  He lay there for a good half-hour, on his back, never once taking his eyes off the tree. And the longer he looked, the more the tree opened up to him, the more it told how the play of time had slashed and twisted it, how the water and wind, year after year, had forced it to take its present form, not by whim or chance, but by necessity.

  His eyes remained fixed on three thick branches that for a brief stretch ran almost parallel before each took off on a personal fantasy of sudden zigzags, backward turns, sidesteps, detours, arabesques. One of the three, the middle one, looked slightly lower than the other two, but with its twisted little offshoots it grabbed at the two branches above, as if wanting to cling to them for the duration of the stretch they had in common.

  Tilting his head to get a better look, Montalbano realized that the three branches were not born independently of one another in their common proximity, but all originated from the same point, a sort of great, wrinkly boil protruding from the trunk.

  It was probably a light gust of wind that shifted some leaves, but a sudden ray of sunlight shone right in the inspector’s eyes, blinding him. Squinting hard, he smiled.

  Whatever De Cicco ended up telling him that evening, Montalbano was now certain that the person at the wheel of the car behind the bus was Nenè Sanfilippo.

  They lay in wait behind a shrub of boxthorn, pistols cocked. Father Crucillà had led them to a secluded farmhouse he said was Japichinu’s secret hideout. Before leaving them, however, the priest had made a point of advising that they should approach very carefully; he wasn’t sure whether Japichinu was ready to give himself up without reacting. Most important, the fugitive was armed with an assault rifle and had shown on many occasions that he knew how to use it.

  The inspector therefore decided to go by the rule book, and had sent Fazio and Galluzzo behind the house.

  “By now they must be in position,” said Mimì.

  Montalbano said nothing. He wanted to give his two men enough time to find the right spot for positioning themselves.

  “I’m going in,” Augello said, impatient. “Cover me.”

  “Okay,” the inspector consented.

  Mimì began to crawl along the ground. The moon was shining, otherwise his movements would have been invisible. The farmhouse door, strangely, was wide open. Not so strangely, come to think of it: Japichinu obviously wanted to give the impression that the house was abandoned, when in fact he was lurking inside, assault rifle in hand.

  In front of the door, Mimi half stood up, stopped on the threshold, leaned his head in for a look. Then, stepping lightly, he went inside. He reappeared moments later, waving an arm in the inspector’s direction.

  “There’s nobody here,” he said.

  “What could be going through his head?” Montalbano asked himself nervously. “Doesn’t he realize he could come under fire?”

  At that moment, feeling himself shudder in fear, he saw the barrel of a machine gun emerge from the little window vertically above the door. Montalbano leapt to his feet.

  “Mimi! Mimi!” he shouted.

  Then he stopped, thinking he was singing La Bohème.

  The machine gun fired and Mimi fell.

  The same burst that killed Mimi woke the inspector up.

  He was still lying on the pages of the newspaper, under the olive tree, drenched in sweat. At least a million ants had taken possession of his body.

  13

  Few, and at first glance insubstantial, were the ultimate differences between the dream and the reality. The secluded little farmhouse pointed out by Father Crucillà as Japichinu’s secret hideout was the same as the one Montalbano had dreamt, except that this one, instead of a little window, had an open balcony directly over the door, which was also wide open.

  Unlike in the dream, the priest did not run off in haste.

  “You might,” he said, “be needing me.”

  And Montalbano, in his mind, had duly knocked on wood. Father Crucillà, crouching behind a huge sorghum bush with the inspector and Augello, eyed the house and shook his head in concern.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Montalbano.

  “I don’t like the look of the door and balcony. The other times I came to see him, it was all closed up, and you had to knock. Be careful, I mean it. I can’t swear that Japichinu is ready to turn himself in. He keeps a machine gun always within reach, and he knows how to use it.”

  When he was sure that Fazio and Gallo had reached their positions behind the house; Montalbano looked at Augello.

  “I’m going in now. You cover me.”

  “What kind of novelty is this?” Mimi reacted. “We’ve always done it the other way around.”

  Montalbano couldn’t tell him he’d seen him die in a dream.

  “This time we’re doing it differently.”

  Mimi didn’t answer. He merely hunkered down with his .38. He could tell, by the inspector’s tone of voice, when there was room for discussion and when there was not.

  Night hadn’t fallen yet. There was that gray light that precedes darkness, making it possible to distinguish silhouettes.

  “How come he hasn’t turned on the lights?” asked Augello, gesturing with his chin towards the darkened house.

  “Maybe he’s waiting for us,” said Montalbano.

  And he rose to his feet, out in the open.

  “What are you doing? What are you doing?” Mimi said in a whisper, trying to grab him by the jacket and pull him down. Then all of a sudden a terrifying thought occurred to him.

  “Have you got your gun?”

  “No.”

  “Take mine.”

  “No,” the inspector repeated, taking two steps forward. He stopped and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Japichinu! This is Montalbano. I’m unarmed.”

  There was no answer. The inspector advanced a short distance, calmly, as though out for a stroll. About ten feet from the door, he stopped again and said in a voice only slightly louder than normal:

  “Japichinu! I’m coming inside now. So we can talk in peace.”

  Nobody answered, nobody moved. Montalbano raised his hands and entered the house. It was pitch-dark inside. He stepped slightly to one side, so as not to be visible in the doorway. And that was when he smelled it, that odor he had smelled so many times, which always gave him a vague feeling of nausea. Before turning on the light, he already knew what he would see. Japichinu lay in the middle of the room, on top of what looked like a red blanket but was in fact his blood. Throat slashed. He must have been taken by surpr
ise, treacherously, when he turned his back to his assassin.

  “Salvo! Salvo! What’s happening?”

  It was Mimi Augello. Montalbano appeared in the doorway.

  “Fazio! Gallo! Mimi! Come!”

  They all came running, the priest following behind, out of breath. Then, at the sight of Japichinu, they froze. The first one to move was Father Crucillà, who knelt beside the dead man, unconcerned by the blood soiling his frock, blessed him, and began to murmur some prayers. Mimi, for his part, touched the corpse’s forehead.

  “They must have killed him not two hours ago.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Fazio.

  “The three of you are going to get in one car and go,” said Montalbano. “You’ll leave me the other car. I want to stay and have a little talk with the priest. Just remember: We never came to this house, and we never saw Japichinu’s corpse. Anyway, we’re not authorized to be here; it’s outside our territory. There could be some hassles.”

  “All the same—” Mimi Augello started to say.

  “All the same, my ass. We’ll meet back at the office.”

  They filed out like beaten dogs, obeying against their will. The inspector heard them muttering intensely as they walked away. The priest was lost in prayer. He had more than his share of Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and requiems to recite, what with the load of murders on Japichinu’s shoulders, wherever he might be sailing at that moment. Montalbano climbed the stone staircase that led to the room above and turned on the light. There were two cots with only their mattresses, a nightstand between them, a shabby armoire, and two wooden chairs. In one corner, a small altar consisting of a low table covered with an embroidered white tablecloth. On the altar stood three statuettes: the Virgin Mary, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and Saint Calogero. Each statue had a little light burning in front. Japichinu was a religious kid, as his grandfather Balduccio had said. So religious he even had a spiritual father. The only problem was that the kid and the priest both mistook superstition for religion. Like most Sicilians, for that matter. The inspector remembered once having seen a crude votive painting from the early twentieth century, depicting a viddrano, a peasant, fleeing from two plumed carabinieri in hot pursuit. On the upper right, the Madonna was leaning down from the clouds, showing the fugitive the best path of escape. The scroll bore the words: For excaping the cluches of the law. On one of the cots, lying crosswise, was a Kalashnikov. He turned off the light, went downstairs, pulled up one of the two wicker chairs, and sat down.

  “Father Crucillà.”

  The priest, who was still praying, roused himself and looked up.

  “Eh?”

  “Pull up a chair and sit down. We need to talk.”

  The priest obeyed. He was congested and sweating.

  “How am I ever going to tell Don Balduccio?”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Why?”

  “Because by now he’s already been told.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the killer, naturally.”

  Father Crucillà struggled to grasp this. He kept staring at the inspector and moving his lips without forming any words. Then he understood and, eyes bulging, bolted out of his chair, reeled backwards, slipped on the blood, but managed to remain standing.

  Now he’s going to have a stroke and die, thought Montalbano, alarmed.

  “In God’s name, what are you saying?!” the priest wheezed.

  “I’m just saying how things stand.”

  “But Japichinu was sought by the police, the carabinieri, the Secret Service!”

  “Who don’t usually slit the throats of people they’re trying to arrest.”

  “What about the new Mafia? Or the Cuffaros?”

  “Father, you just don’t want to accept that you and I have both been taken for a ride by that sly fox, Balduccio Sinagra.”

  “What proof do you have—”

  “Sit back down, if you don’t mind. Would you like a little water?”

  Father Crucillà nodded yes. Montalbano grabbed a jug full of water, still nice and cool, and handed it to the priest, who put his lips to it at once.

  “I have no proof and don’t believe we ever will.”

  “And so?”

  “Answer me first. Japichinu wasn’t staying here alone. He had a bodyguard who even slept beside him at night, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name, do you know?”

  “Lollò Spadaro.”

  “Was he a friend of Japichinu’s or one of Don Balduccio’s men?”

  “One of Don Balduccio’s. It was the don who wanted it this way. Japichinu didn’t even like ‘im, but he said with Lollò around, he felt safe.”

  “So safe that Lollò was able to kill him without any problem.”

  “How can you think such a thing! Maybe they cut Lollò’s throat before doing the same to Japichinu!”

  “Well, Lollò’s body’s not upstairs. And it’s not down here, either.”

  “Maybe it’s out there, outside the house!”

  “Sure, we could look for it, but there’s no point.You forget that my men and I surrounded the house and carefully searched the whole area. And we didn’t stumble over Lollò’s body anywhere.”

  Father Crucillà wrung his hands. The sweat was pouring down his face.

  “But why would Don Balduccio set up a scene like this?”

  “He wanted us as witnesses. What should I have done, in your opinion, as soon as I discovered the murder?”

  “I don’t know ... Whatever you usually do. Call the forensics lab, the judge ...”

  “And that would have allowed him to play the despairing grandfather, to scream that it was the new Mafia that killed his beloved grandson, whom he loved so much he would rather have seen him in jail and whom he actually succeeded in persuading to turn himself in to me. And you, a priest, were even there ... As I said, he took us for a ride. But only so far. Because in five minutes I’m going to leave and it’ll be exactly as if I’d never been here before. Balduccio’s going to have to come up with a new plan. But if you see him, give him some advice: tell him he’d better bury his grandson on the sly, without any fanfare.”

  “But you ... How did you arrive at these conclusions?”

  “Japichinu was a hunted animal. He was suspicious of everything and everyone. You think he would have turned his back on someone he didn’t know extremely well?”

  “No.”

  “Japichinu’s Kalashnikov is on his bed. Do you think he would have let himself piddle around here downstairs, unarmed, in the presence of someone he didn’t absolutely trust?”

  “No.”

  “And tell me another thing: were you told what course of action Lollò was supposed to take if Japichinu was arrested?”

  “Yes. He was supposed to let himself be captured, too, without reacting.”

  “And who gave him this order?”

  “Don Balduccio himself.”

  “That’s what Balduccio told you. Whereas he told Lollò something completely different.”

  Father Crucillà’s throat was dry, and he set to the jug of water again.

  “Why did Don Balduccio want his grandson to die?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. Maybe the kid screwed up, maybe he didn’t recognize his grandfather’s authority. You know, wars of succession don’t only happen among kings and captains of industry ...”

  He stood up.

  “I’m going to go. You want a lift in my car?”

  “No, thanks,” the priest replied. “I’d like to stay a little longer and pray. I was very fond of him.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  At the door, the inspector turned around. “I wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?” asked the priest, alarmed.

  “In all the different conjectures you made as to who might have killed Japichinu, you didn’t once mention the bodyguard. You could have said it was Lollò Spadaro, who’d sold himself to the new Mafia. But
you knew that never in a million years would Lollò betray Balduccio Sinagra. And your silence confirmed my hunch beyond the shadow of a doubt. Oh, one last thing. When you leave, don’t forget to turn off the light and lock the door. I wouldn’t want any stray dogs ... Understand?”

  He went out. The night was completely dark. Before reaching his car, he stumbled over some rocks and holes in the ground. It reminded him of the Griffos’ calvary, with their killer kicking them from behind, cursing, rushing them to the place and the hour of their death.

  “Amen,” he said, heart aching.

  On his way back to Vigàta, he became convinced that Balduccio would follow the advice he was sending him through the priest. Japichinu’s corpse would end up at the bottom of some rocky cliff. No, the grandfather knew how religious his grandson was. He would have him buried anonymously in consecrated ground. In somebody else’s coffin.

  Passing through the front door to headquarters, he found things unusually quiet. Could everyone have left, even though he told them to wait for him to return? No, they were there, Mimi, Fazio, and Gallo, each seated at his desk, face gloomy as after a defeat. He called them into his office.

  “I want to tell you something. Fazio must have told you what went down between me and Balduccio Sinagra. Well, do you believe me?You must believe me, because I’ve never lied to you guys before, not about anything big, at least. From the very first, I realized that Don Balduccio’s request that I arrest Japichinu, because he’d be safer in jail, didn’t make sense.”

  “So why did you give it any consideration?” Augello asked polemically.

  “To see what he was up to. And to thwart his plan, if I could figure out what it was. Which I did, and then I made the proper countermove.”

  “Which was what?” asked Fazio this time.

  “Not letting our discovery of Japichinu’s body become official. That’s what Balduccio wanted: for us to be the ones to discover it, which would have provided him with an alibi.You see, he was expecting me to inform the judge that he’d intended for us to capture his grandson safe and sound.”