to her.
Signora no home. You say, I write.
The Cardamones specialized in finding housekeepers in places where not even Tristan da Cunha would have dared set foot.
Manau tupapau, said the inspector.
No understand.
Hed cited the title of a Gauguin painting. That eliminated Polynesia and environs from the housekeepers possible land of origin.
You ready write? Signora Ingrid phone Signor Montalbano when she come home.
When Ingrid got to Marinella, wearing an evening dress with a slit all the way up to her ass, it was already past two in the morning. She hadnt batted an eyelash at the inspectors request to see her right away.
Sorry, but I didnt have time to change. I was at the most boring party.
Whats wrong? You dont look right to me. Is it simply because you were bored at the party?
No, your intuitions right. Its my father-in-law. Hes started pestering me again. The other morning he pounced on me when I was still in bed. He wanted me right away. I convinced him to leave by threatening to scream.
Then well have to take care of it.
How?
Well give him another massive dose.
At Ingrids questioning glance, he opened a desk drawer that had been locked, took out an envelope, and handed it to her. Ingrid, seeing the photos portraying her getting fucked by her father-in-law, first turned pale, then blushed.
Did you take these?
Montalbano weighed the pros and cons; if he told her it
was a woman who took them, Ingrid might knife him then
and there.
Yeah, it was me.
The Swedish womans mighty slap thundered in his skull, but he was expecting it.
Id already sent three to your father-in-law. He got scared and stopped bothering you for a while. Now Ill send him another three.
Ingrid sprang forward, her body pressing against Montal- banos, her lips forcing his open, her tongue seeking and caressing his. Montalbano felt his legs giving out, and luckily Ingrid withdrew.
Calm down, she said, its over. It was just to say thank you.
On the backs of three photos personally chosen by Ingrid, Montalbano wrote: resign from all your posts, or next time youll be on tv.
Im going to keep the rest here, said the inspector. When you need them, let me know.
I hope it wont be for a long time.
Ill send them tomorrow morning, and then Ill make an anonymous phone call thatll give him a heart attack. Now listen, because I have a long story to tell you. And when Im done, Im going to ask you to lend me a hand.
He got up at the crack of dawn, having been unable to sleep even a wink after Ingrid had left. He looked in the mirror:
his face was a wreck, maybe even worse than after hed been shot. He went to the hospital for a checkup, and they pronounced him perfect. The five medicines theyd been giving him were reduced to just one. Then he went to the Montelusa Savings Bank, where he kept the little money he was able to put aside. He asked to meet privately with the manager.
I need ten million lire.
Do you need a loan, or have you got enough in your account?
Ive got it.
I dont understand, then. Whats the problem?
The problem is that its for a police operation I want to pay for myself, without risking the States money. If I go to the cashier now and ask for ten million in bills of one hundred thousand, itll seem strange. Thats why I need your help.
Understanding, and proud to take part in a police operation, the manager bent over backwards for Montalbano.
Ingrid pulled her car up alongside the inspectors, right in front of the road sign indicating the superhighway for Palermo, just outside of Montelusa. Montalbano gave her a bulging envelope with the ten million lire inside, and she put it in her shoulder bag.
Call me at home as soon as youre done. And be careful not to get your purse snatched.
She smiled, waved him a kiss from her fingertips, and put her car in gear.
In Vig he got a new supply of cigarettes. On his way out of the tobacco shop, he noticed a big green poster with black lettering, freshly pasted up, inviting the townspeople to attend a cross-country motorbike race the following Sunday, starting at three in the afternoon, in the place called the Crasticeddru flats.
He could never have hoped for such a coincidence. Perhaps the labyrinth had been moved to pity and was opening another path for him?
24
The Crasticeddru flats, which stretched out behind the rocky spur, werent close to being flat, not even in dreams. But the vales, jags, and marshes made it an ideal place for a cross-country motorcycle race. The weather that day was a definite foretaste of summer, and people didnt wait for three oclock to go out to the flats. Actually, they began to gather in the morninggrandmothers, grandfathers, tots, and teens and everyone else determined not so much to watch a race, as to enjoy a day in the country.
That morning, Montalbano phoned Nicolto.
Are you coming to the cross-country motorbike race this afternoon?
Me? Why should I? Weve sent one of our sports reporters and a cameraman over there.
Actually, I was suggesting that we go together, the two of us, just for fun.
They got to the flats around 3:30, but there was no sign the race would be starting any time soon. There already was,
however, a deafening racket, produced mostly by fifty or so motorcycles being tested and revved up, and by loudspeakers blasting raucous music.
Since when are you interested in sports? Zito asked in amazement.
Now and then I get the urge.
Although they were outside, they had to shout to converse. As a result, when a little touring airplane trailing its publicity banner appeared high in the sky over the ridge of the Crasticeddru, few in the crowd noticed, since the noise of the planewhich is what usually makes people look up couldnt reach their ears. The pilot must have noticed he would never get their attention in this fashion since, after flying three tight circles round the crest of the Crasticeddru, he headed straight for the flats and the crowd, going into an elegant dive and flying extremely low over everyones head. He practically forced people to read his banner and then to follow it with their eyes as he pulled up slightly, flew over the ridge three more times, descended to the point of almost touching the ground in front of the caves gaping entrance, and then dropped a shower of rose petals from the aircraft. The crowd fell silent. They were all thinking of the two young lovers found dead in the Crasticeddru as the small plane turned round and came back, skimming the ground, this time dropping countless little strips of paper. It then headed westward toward the horizon and disappeared. And while the banner had aroused a lot of curiositysince it wasnt advertising a soft drink or a furniture factory, but displayed only the two
names Lisetta and Marioand the rain of rose-petals had given the crowd a kind of thrill, the words on the strips of paper, all identical, set them all guessing, sending them on a lively merry-go-round of speculation and conjecture. What indeed was the meaning of: lisetta and mario announce their reawakening? It couldnt be a wedding or christening announcement. So what was it? Amid the swirl of questions, only one thing seemed certain: that the plane, the petals, the pieces of paper, and the banner had something to do with the dead lovers found in the Crasticeddru.
Then the races began, and the people watched and amused themselves. Nicolto, upon seeing the rose petals fall from the plane, had told Montalbano not to move from where he stood and then had disappeared into the crowd.
He returned fifteen minutes later, followed by a Free Channel cameraman.
Will you grant me an interview?
Of course.
This unexpected compliance on Montalbanos part convinced the newsman in his suspicion, which was that the inspector was involved up to his neck in this business with the airplane.
Just a few minutes ago, during the preliminaries for the cross-country motorcycle race current
ly taking place here in Vig, we were all witness to an extraordinary event. A small advertising airplane . . . And here he followed with a description of what had just occurred. Since, by a fortunate co
incidence, we have Inspector Salvo Montalbano here with us among the crowd, we would like to ask him a few questions. In your opinion, Inspector, who are Lisetta and Mario?
I could dodge the question, the inspector said bluntly, and say I dont know anything about this and that it might be the work of some newlyweds who wished to celebrate their marriage in an original way. But I would be contradicted by what is written on that piece of paper, which speaks not of marriage but of reawakening. I shall therefore answer honestly and say that Lisetta and Mario were the names of the two young people found murdered inside the cave of the Crasticeddru, that spur of rock right here in front of us.
But what does all this mean?
I cant really say. Youd have to ask whoever it was that organized the airplane stunt.
How were you able to identify the two?
By chance.
Could you tell us their last names?
No. I could, but I wont. I can disclose that she was a young woman from these parts, and he was a sailor from the North. I should add that the person who wanted, in such manifest fashion, to remind us of their rediscoverywhich this person calls reawakeningforgot about the dog, which, poor thing, also had a name: he was called Kytmyr, and was an Arab dog.
But why would the murderer have wanted to stage such a scene?
Wait a second. Who ever said that the murderer and the person behind this spectacle are one and the same? I, for one, dont believe they are.
Ive got to run and edit the report, said Nicolto, giving Montalbano a strange look.
Soon the crews from TeleVig, the RAI regional news, and the other private stations arrived. Montalbano answered all their questions politely and with, for him, unnatural ease.
Prey to violent hunger pangs, he stuffed himself with seafood appetizers at the Trattoria San Calogero and then raced home, turned on the television, and tuned into the Free Channel. In his report on the mysterious airplane, Nicolto piled it on thick, pumping up the story in every way possible. What crowned it all, however, was not his own interview, which was aired in its entirety, but another interview which Montalbano hadnt expectedwith the manager of the Publi-2000 agency of Palermo, which Zito had tracked down easily, since it was the only advertising agency in western Sicily that had an airplane available for publicity.
The manager, still visibly excited, recounted that a beautiful young womanJesus, what a woman! She looked unreal, she really did, like a model in a magazine. Jesus, was she beautiful!an obvious foreigner because she spoke bad Ital- ianDid I say bad? Im wrong, actually, on her lips our words were like honeyno, he couldnt be sure as to her
nationality, maybe German or Englishhad come to the agency four days earlierGod! An apparition!and had asked about the plane. Shed explained in great detail what she wanted written on the banner and the strips of paper.Yes, the rose petals were also her doing. And, oh yes, as for the place, was she ever particular! Very precise. Then the pilot, on his own, the manager explained, had a brilliant idea: instead of releasing the pieces of paper at random along the coastal road, he thought it would be better to drop them on a large crowd that had gathered to watch a race. The ladyFor the love of God, lets stop talking about her or my wife will kill me!paid in advance, cash, and had the invoice made out to a certain Rosemarie Antwerpen at a Brussels address. He had asked nothing more of the lovely strangerGod! but then, why should he have? She certainly wasnt asking them to drop a bomb! And she was so beautiful! And refined! And polite! And what a smile! A dream.
Montalbano relished it all. He had advised Ingrid: You must make yourself even more beautiful than usual. That way, when they see you, they wont know whats what anymore.
TeleVig went wild with the story of the mysterious beauty, calling her Nefertiti resurrected and cooking up a fanciful story intertwining the pyramids with the Crasticeddru; but it was clear they were following the lead set by Nicoltos story on their competitors news program. Even the regional RAI news gave the matter extensive coverage.
Montalbano was getting the uproar, the commotion, the resonance he had sought. His idea had turned out to be right.
Montalbano? Its the commissioner. I just heard about the airplane. Congratulations. A stroke of genius.
The credit goes to you. It was you who told me to carry on, remember? Im trying to flush our man out. If he doesnt turn up reasonably soon, it means hes no longer among us.
Good luck. Keep me posted. Oh, it was you, of course, who paid for the plane?
Of course. Im counting on my promised bonus.
Inspector? This is Headmaster Burgio. My wife and I are
speechless with admiration. What an idea.
Lets hope for the best.
Dont forget, Inspector: if Lillo should turn up, please let us know.
On the midnight edition of the news, Nicolto devoted more time to the story and showed photos of the two corpses in the Crasticeddru, zooming in on the images in detail.
Provided courtesy of the ever-eager Jacomuzzi, thought Montalbano.
Zito isolated the body of the young man, whom he called Mario, then that of the young woman, whom he called Lisetta. Then he showed the airplane dropping rose petals and gave a close-up of the words on the strips of paper. From here he went on to weave a tale that was part mystery, part tearjerker, and decidedly not in the Free Channel style, but rather more like TeleVig fare. Why were the two young lovers killed? What sad fate led them to that end? Who was it that took pity on them and set them up in the cave? Had the beautiful woman who showed up at the advertising agency perhaps returned from the past to demand revenge on the victims behalf ? And what connection was there between this beauty and the two kids from fifty years ago? How were we to understand the word reawakened? And how did Inspector Montalbano happen to know even the name of the terra- cotta dog? How much did he know about this mystery?
Salvo? Hi, its Ingrid. I hope you didnt think I ran off with
your money.
Come on! Why, was there some left?
Yes. The whole thing cost less than half the amount you gave me. Ive got the rest with me. Ill give it back to you as soon as I return to Montelusa.
Where are you calling from?
Taormina. I met someone. Ill be back in four or five days. Did I do a good job? Did it go they way you wanted?
You did a fantastic job. Have fun.
Montalbano? Its Nicolid you like the reports? I think I
deserve some thanks, no?
For what?
For doing exactly what you wanted.
But I didnt ask you to do anything.
Thats truenot directly, at least. Except that Im not stupid, and so I gathered that you wanted the story to get as much publicity as possible and to be presented in a way that would touch peoples hearts. I said things I will never live down for the rest of my life.
Well, thankseven though, I repeat, I still dont know why you want me to thank you.
You know, our switchboard has been overwhelmed with phone calls. The RAI, Fininvest, Ansa, and all the national newspapers have asked for a videotape of the report. Youve made quite a splash. Can I ask you a question?
Sure.
How much did the airplane cost you?
He slept splendidly, as gods pleased with their handiwork are said to sleep. Hed done everything possible, and even something impossible. Now there was nothing to do but wait for an answer. The message had been sent out, in such a way as to allow somebody to decipher the code, as Alcide Maraventano would say. The first phone call came in at seven in the morn
ing. It was Luciano Acquasanta of Il Mezzogiorno,who wanted to corroborate one of his opinions. Was it not possible the two young people were sacrificed in the course of some Satanic rite?
Why not? said Montalbano, polite and open to anything.
The
second call came fifteen minutes later. It was Stefania Quattrini, from the magazine Essere Donna.Her theory was that Mario was caught making love to Lisetta by another, jealous womanwe know what sailors are likewho did away with both of them. She probably then skipped the country, but on her deathbed confided in her daughter, who in turn told her own daughter of the grandmothers crime. This girl, to make good in some way, had gone to Palermo she spoke with a foreign accent, didnt she?and arranged the whole business with the airplane.
Why not? said Montalbano, polite and open to anything.
Cosimo Zappalf the weekly magazine Vivere! communicated his hypothesis to Montalbano at 7:25. Lisetta and Mario, drunk on love and youth, were in the habit of strolling through the countryside hand in hand, naked as Adam and Eve. Surprised one unlucky day by a contingent of retreating German soldiers, also drunk, but on fear and ferocity, they were raped and murdered. On his deathbed, one of the Ger- mans...And here this version linked up curiously with Stefania Quattrinis.
Why not? said Montalbano, polite and open to anything.
At eight, Fazio knocked on the door and brought him all the dailies available in Vig, as hed been ordered to do the night before. The inspector leafed through them while repeatedly answering the phone. All of them, with greater or lesser degrees of emphasis, reported the story. The headline that most amused him was the one in the Corriere, which read: police inspector identifies terra-cotta dog dead for fifty years. All of it, even the irony, was grist for his mill.
Adelina was amazed to find him at home and not out, as was usually the case.
Adelina, Im going to be staying home for a few days. Im waiting for an important phone call, so I want you to make my siege comfortable.
I dint unnastand a word you said.
Montalbano then explained that her task was to alleviate his voluntary seclusion by putting a little extra imagination in her lunch and dinner dishes.
Around ten, Livia called.
Whats going on? Your phone is always busy!
Im sorry. Its just that Ive been getting all these calls in reference to
I know what theyre in reference to. I saw you on TV. You were so unselfconscious and glib, you didnt seem yourself. Its obvious youre better off when Im not around.
IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002) Page 21