IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002)

by Andrea Camilleri

  He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a photograph, which he passed to the inspector. The cre really was beautiful; Mr. Burruano was right. It seemed so ephemeral, so perishable, and at the same time conveyed a comforting warmth, a superhuman serenity.

  Its astonishing, Montalbano complimented him, his emotions welling up. But only for an instant, as the cop in him got the upper hand and began carefully examining the dog. There was no doubt about it: that was the same dog he had found in the cave. Burruano put the photo back in his pocket.

  The cre performed a miracle, you know. For a few days we were considerate towards one another.

  What became of the statues?

  This was where Montalbanos real interest lay. The old man smiled.

  I sold them at auction, all of them. I made enough to pay Chiarenza, who wanted only to be reimbursed for his expenses, and to give alms to those who needed them most. And there were many.

  Who bought the statues?

  Well, thats the problem. I dont remember. I had the receipts and all, but they were lost when city hall caught fire during the American invasion.

  During the period youre talking about, had you heard any news about a young couple disappearing?

  Burruano smiled, but Headmaster Burgio actually laughed out loud.

  Was that a stupid question?

  Im sorry, Inspector, but it really was, remarked the headmaster.

  You see, in 1939, the population of Vig was fourteen thousand, Burruano explained. I know my numbers. By 1942, we were down to eight thousand. The people who could leave, did, finding temporary refuge in the inland towns, the tiny little villages of no importance to the Americans. Then, between May and July of 43, our numbers dropped, give or take a few, to four thousand, without counting the Italian and German soldiers, and the sailors. Everyone else had scattered across the countryside, living in caves, in barns, in any hole they could find. How could we have known about one disappearance or another? Everybody disappeared!

  They laughed again. Montalbano thanked them for the information.

  Good, at least hed managed to find a few things out.The moment the headmaster and accountant left, the surge of gratitude the inspector had felt towards them turned into an uncontrollable attack of generosity which he knew he would sooner or later regret. He called Mimugello into his office, made a full apology for his misdeeds towards his friend and collaborator, put his arm around the young mans shoulders, walked around the room with him, expressed his unconditional faith in him, spoke at great length of the investigation he was conducting in weapons trafficking, told him about the murder of Misuraca, and informed him hed requested a court order to tap Ingrassias telephone lines.

  So what do you want me to do? asked Augello, overcome with enthusiasm.

  Nothing. You must only listen to me, said Montalbano, suddenly himself again. Because if you do the slightest thing on your own initiative, Ill break your neck.

  The telephone rang. Picking up the receiver, Montalbano heard the voice of Catarella, who served as phone operator.

  Hullo, Chief ? Thereswhats he called?Chief Jacomuzzi to talk to you.

  Put him on the line.

  Talk with the chief, Chief, over the phone, he heard Catarella say.

  Montalbano? Since I was passing by here on the way back from the Crasticeddru

  But where are you?

  What do you mean where am I? Im in the room next to yours.

  Montalbano cursed the saints. Was it possible to be stupider than Catarella?

  Come on in.

  The door opened and Jacomuzzi entered, covered with red sand and dust, disheveled and rumpled.

  Why would your officer only let me talk to you by phone?

  Jacomats more idiotic, Carnival or the people who celebrate it? Dont you know what Catarellas like? You should have just given him a kick in the pants and come in.

  Ive finished my examination of the cave. I had the sand sifted. Worse than the gold-seekers in American movies! We found absolutely nothing. And that can mean only one thing, since Pasquano told me they both had entrance and exit wounds.

  That the two were shot somewhere else.

  Right. If theyd been killed in the cave, we would have found the bullets. Oh, and another thing, rather odd. The sand inside the cave was mixed together with very tiny fragments of snail shells. There must have been thousands of the creatures in there.

  Jesus! Montalbano muttered. The dream, the nightmare, Livias naked body with the slimy things crawling over her...What could it mean? He brought a hand to his forehead and found it drenched in sweat.

  Are you ill? asked Jacomuzzi, concerned. Its nothing, a little dizziness. Im tired, thats all. Call Catarella and have him bring you a cordial from

  the caf Catarella? Are you joking? Once, when I asked him to

  bring me an espresso, he brought me a postal envelope. Jacomuzzi put three coins on the desk. These were from the bowl. I sent the rest to the lab.

  They wont be of any use to you. You can keep em as souvenirs.

  14

  With Adelina, it was possible for an entire season to go by without the two of them ever seeing each other. Every week Montalbano would leave shopping money for her on the kitchen table, and every thirty days her monthly wages. Between them, however, a tacit system of communication had developed: when Adelina needed more shopping money, she would leave the carusothe little clay money box he had bought at a fair and kept because it looked niceon the table for him to see; when new supplies of socks or underwear were needed, she would leave a pair on the bed. Naturally the system did not work in one direction only; Montalbano, too, would tell her things by the strangest means, which she, however, understood. For some time now, the inspector had noticed that, when he was tense, troubled, and nervous, Adelina would somehow know it from the way he left the house in the morning, and in these instances she would make special dishes for him to find on his return, to lift his spirits. That day, Adelina had been back in action: in the fridge Montalbano found a squid sauce, dense and black, just the way he liked it. Was there or wasnt there a hint of oregano? He inhaled the

  aroma deeply before putting it on the heat, but this investigation, too, came to nothing. Once hed finished eating, he donned his bathing suit with the intention of taking a brief stroll on the beach. After walking only a little while, he felt tired, the balls of his feet sore.

  Sex standing up and walking on sand

  will bring any man to a bad end.

  Hed once had sex standing up and afterward did not feel so destroyed as the proverb implied; whereas it was true that if you walked on sand, even the firm sand nearest the sea, you tired quickly. He glanced at his watch and was amazed: some little while! Hed been walking for two hours. He collapsed on the beach.

  Inspector! Inspector!

  The voice came from far away. He struggled to his feet and looked out at the sea, convinced that someone must be calling him from a boat or dinghy. But the sea was deserted all the way to the horizon.

  Inspector, over here! Inspector!

  He turned around. It was Tortorella, waving his arms from the highway that for a long stretch ran parallel to the beach.

  As Montalbano quickly washed and dressed,Tortorella told him theyd received an anonymous telephone call at the station.

  Who took the call? asked Montalbano.

  If it was Catarella, who knows what harebrained idiocies he might have understood or reported?

  Dont worry, said Tortorella smiling, having guessed what his chief was thinking. Hed gone out to the bathroom for a minute, and I was manning the switchboard for him. The voice had a Palermo accent, putting is in the place of rs, but he might have been doing it on purpose. He said we would find some bastards corpse at the Pasture, inside a green car.

  Who went to check it out?

  Fazio and Galluzzo did, and I raced over here to get you. Im not sure that was the right thing; maybe the phone call was only a joke.

  What a bunch of jokesters
we Sicilians are!

  Montalbano arrived at the Pasture at five oclock, the hour of what Gegalled the changing of the guard, the time of day when the unpaid couplesthat is, lovers, adulterers, boyfriends and girlfriendsgot off (in every sense, thought Montalbano), giving way to Geg flock, bitchin blondes from Eastern Europe, Bulgarian transvestites, ebony Nigerian nymphs, Brazilian viados, Moroccan queens, and so on in procession, a veritable UN of cock, ass, and cunt. And there indeed was the green car, trunk open, surrounded by three carabinieri vehicles. Fazios car was stopped a short distance away. Montalbano got out and Galluzzo came up to him.

  We got here late.

  They had an unwritten understanding with the National Police. Whoever arrived first at the scene of a crime would shout Bingo! and take the case. This prevented meddling, polemics, elbowing, and long faces. But Fazio was gloomy.

  They got here first.

  So what? What do you care? Were not paid by the corpse, on a job-by-job basis.

  By strange coincidence, the green car was right next to the same bush beside which an outstanding corpse had been found a year earlier, a case in which Montalbano had become very involved. The lieutenant of the carabinieri, who was from Bergamo and went by the name of Donizetti, approached, and they shook hands.

  We were tipped off by a phone call, said the lieutenant.

  Someone really wanted to make sure the body was found. The inspector studied the curled-up corpse in the trunk. The man appeared to have been shot only once, with the bullet entering his mouth, shattering his teeth and lips, and exiting through the back of the neck, opening a wound the size of a fist. Montalbano didnt recognize the face.

  Im told you know the manager of this open-air whorehouse, the lieutenant inquired with some disdain.

  Yes, hes a friend of mine, Montalbano replied in a tone of obvious defiance.

  Do you know where I could find him?

  At home, I would imagine.

  Hes not there.

  Excuse me, but why do you think I can tell you where he is?

  Youre his friend, you said so yourself.

  Oh, and I suppose you can tell me, at this exact moment, where all your friends from Bergamo are and what theyre doing?

  Cars were continually arriving from the main road, turning onto the Pastures small byways, noticing the swarm of carabinieri squad cars, shifting into reverse, and quickly returning to the road theyd come from. The blondes from the East, Brazilian viados, Nigerian nymphs, and the rest of the gang were coming to work, smelling something fishy, and scattering in every direction. It promised to be a miserable night for Geg business.

  The lieutenant walked back towards the green car. Montalbano turned his back to him and without saying a word returned to his own vehicle. He said to Fazio:

  You and Galluzzo stay here. See what theyre doing and what they find out. Im going to the station.

  Montalbano stopped in front of Sarcutos Stationery and Book Shop, the only one in Vig that was true to its sign; the other two sold not books but satchels, notebooks, and pens. He remembered hed finished the Vasquez Montalb novel and had nothing else to read.

  Weve got the new book on Falcone and Borsellino!

  Signora Sarcuto announced as soon as she saw him enter.

  She still hadnt understood that Montalbano hated books that talked about the Mafia, murder, and Mafia victims. He didnt know why she couldnt grasp this, since he never bought them and didnt even read their jacket copy. He bought a book by Luigi Consolo, whod won an important literary prize some time before. After hed taken a few steps outside, the book slid out from under his arm and fell onto the sidewalk. He bent down to pick it up, then got back in his car.

  At headquarters Catarella told him there was no news. Montalbano obsessively wrote his name in every book he bought. As he reached for one of the pens on his desk, his eye fell on the coins that Jacomuzzi had left him. The first one, a copper coin dated 1934, had the kings profile and the words Victor Emmanuel III, King of Italy on one side, and a spike of wheat and C. 5, five centesimi, on the other. The second coin, dated 1936 and also copper, was a little bigger and had the same kings head with the same words on one side, and a bee resting on a flower with the letter C and the number 10, ten centesimi, on the other. The third was made of a light metal alloy, with the inevitable kings head and accompanying words on one side, on the other an eagle displayed, with a Roman fasces partially visible behind it. This side also had four inscriptions: L. 1, which meant one lira; ITALIA, which meant Italy; 1942, which was the date of minting; and XX, which meant year twenty of the Fascist era. As he was star

  ing at this last coin, Montalbano remembered what it was he had seen when bending down to pick up the book hed dropped in front of the bookshop. Hed seen the front window of the store next door, which featured a display of antique coins.

  He got up from his desk, informed Catarella he was going out and would be back in half an hour at the most, and headed off to the shop on foot. It was called Things, and things were what it sold: desert roses, stamps, candlesticks, rings, brooches, coins, semiprecious stones. He went inside, and a neat, pretty girl welcomed him with a smile. Sorry to disappoint her, the inspector explained that he wasnt there to buy anything, but since hed seen some ancient coins displayed in the window, he wanted to know if there was anyone, there in the store or in Vig, with expertise in numismatics.

  Of course there is, said the girl, still smiling delightfully. Theres my grandfather.

  Where might I disturb him?

  You wouldnt be disturbing him at all. Actually, hed be happy to help you. Hes in the back room. Just wait a moment while I go tell him.

  He hadnt even had time to look at a hammerless late- nineteenth-century pistol when the girl reappeared.

  You can go inside.

  The back room was a glorious jumble of old phonographs with horns, prehistoric sewing machines, copying presses, paintings, prints, chamber pots, and pipes. And it was entirely lined with bookshelves on which sat, higgledy-piggledy, an

  assortment of incunabula, parchment-bound tomes, lampshades, umbrellas, and opera hats. In the middle of it all was a desk with an old man sitting behind it, an art-nouveau lamp shedding light on his labors. He was holding a stamp with a pair of tweezers and examining it under a magnifying glass.

  What is it? he asked gruffly, without looking up.

  Montalbano laid the three coins down in front of him. The old man took his eyes momentarily off the stamp and glanced distractedly at them.

  Worthless, he said.

  Of the various old men hed been encountering in his investigation of the Crasticeddru deaths, this one was the grumpiest.

  I ought to gather them all together at an old folks home, the inspector thought. Thatd make it easier to question them.

  I know theyre worthless.

  So what is it you want to know?

  When they went out of circulation.

  Use your brain a little.

  When the Republic was proclaimed? Montalbano hesitantly guessed.

  He felt like a student who hadnt studied for the exam. The old man laughed, and his laugh sounded like the noise of two empty tin cans rubbing together.

  Am I wrong?

  Very wrong. The Americans landed here the night of July 910, 1943. In October of that same year, these coins went out of use. They were replaced by Amlire, the paper

  money printed up by Amgot, the Allied military administration of the occupied territories. And since these bills were for one, five, and ten lire, the centesimo coins disappeared from circulation.

  By the time Fazio and Galluzzo returned, it was already dark.

  The inspector scolded them.

  Damn you both! You certainly took your time!

  Who, us? Fazio shot back. You know what the lieu- tenants like! Before he could touch the body, he had to wait for Pasquano and the judge to arrive. And they certainly did take their time!

  And so?

  A new-laid corpse if I ever saw one, f
resh as can be. Pasquano said less than an hour had passed between the killing and the phone calls. The guy had an ID card on him. Pietro Gullos his name, forty-two years old, blue eyes, blond hair, fair complexion, born in Merfi, resident of Fela, Via Matteotti 32, married, no distinguishing features.

  You ought to get a job at the Records Office.

  Fazio nobly ignored the provocation and continued.

  I went to Montelusa and checked the archives. This Gullo had an uneventful youth, two robberies and a brawl. Then he straightened himself out, at least apparently. He dealt in grain.

  175

  I really appreciate that you could see me right away, Montalbano said to Headmaster Burgio, who had answered the door.

  What are you saying? The pleasures all mine. He let the inspector in, led him into the living room, and

  asked him to sit down. Angelina! the headmaster called. A tiny old woman appeared, curious about the unex

  pected visit, looking smart and well groomed, her lively, at

  tentive eyes sparkling behind thick glasses. The old folks home! thought Montalbano. Allow me to introduce my wife, Angelina. Montalbano gave her an admiring bow. He sincerely

  liked elderly ladies who kept up appearances, even at home. Please forgive me for bothering you at suppertime. No bother at all. On the contrary, Inspector, are you

  busy this evening? Not at all. Why dont you stay and have supper with us? Were just

  having some old-people fare, since were supposed to eat

  light: soft vegetables and striped mullet with oil and lemon. Sounds like a feast to me. Mrs. Burgio exited, content. What can I do for you? asked the headmaster. Ive managed to situate the period in which the double

  homicide of the Crasticeddru took place. Oh. So when did it happen?

  Definitely between early 1943 and October of the same year.