Someone else then started yelling.
“It’s all the fault of the euro! They’re trying to mix chickpeas and favas, apples and oranges. What could we possibly have in common with the Finns?”
“Leave Europe alone,” said the well-dressed gentleman. “You’re just kids and you have no idea what a miracle it is to be able to think that there won’t be any more wars between us and the French, or us and the Germans, or us and . . .”
As they were all talking, some dense black smoke that was having trouble rising into the air turned the corner and poured into the street. Some started coughing. Seeing that the conversation had degenerated into politics, Montalbano began to walk ever so slowly, one step at a time, back to the police station.
The first thing he did in his office was to call Livia, and as soon as he said “I’m sorry,” she simply retorted, “I was expecting it,” and hung up.
Montalbano decided to kill some time signing a few of his hated documents. Fazio returned about an hour later, looking disheveled, with his tie crooked and one of his jacket pockets torn and hanging.
“There was a flare-up, Chief. Our guys had almost managed to calm things down when the carabinieri unfortunately intervened, and one of them saw fit to slap some cuffs on a guy from Vigàta. Which got everything going again, even worse than before. And you wanna know something? When the Swedes get pissed off, they’re even worse than us!”
“Yeah, I know,” said Montalbano, thinking of the blond bear. And he asked: “Were there any injuries?”
“Yeah, six or seven people, but pretty minor stuff.”
“Any arrests?”
“The carabinieri took four people away. Two Vigatese and two Swedes—just to keep things even, if you ask me—but the fact of the matter is that the set was damaged, and so tomorrow’s shoot has been postponed.”
“Excellent! That way, tomorrow morning at ten we can go and visit the Sabatello villa. I’ve already informed Cannizzaro.”
Fazio smiled.
“What are you thinking?” asked Montalbano.
Fazio didn’t answer. He was happy to work with a man who still had the time to feel passionate about staring at a wall.
4
It was time to eat. Before entering the trattoria, he noticed he couldn’t hear any loud voices inside. In fact, there was total silence, as if the place was empty. He poked his head in cautiously to have a look. And indeed, all the tables were unoccupied. He went in just as Enzo was coming out of the kitchen.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re all at the carabinieri station, Inspector, protesting that the four men who were arrested should be set free.”
“I don’t think the carabinieri change their minds so easily.”
“Apparently the mayor went and talked to the lieutenant. If you’d like to take advantage of the situation and sit down in here . . .”
“Not on your life,” said the inspector. “What if they clear the whole thing up in the next ten minutes and then all come rushing in here hungry as wolves? It’s much safer in the little room.”
In it was only ragioniere Butera, who was just finishing up a dish of pasta.
“Good afternoon,” Montalbano greeted him, sitting down at the table opposite his.
“Hello,” said Butera. “Did you go and look at the ruins?”
He was speaking while eating, with his mouth open, and one could therefore see little bits of chewed-up spaghetti sticking to his tongue and palate, or wedged between his dentures.
“I haven’t had time,” said the inspector.
“I remembered something,” said Butera.
But, having swallowed his last forkful of pasta, he did not continue. Silence descended. Then Enzo arrived, served the ragioniere some boiled cod, and took the inspector’s order. With his first bite of fish, Butera resumed speaking.
“In ’45, when I was already working at city hall, I went with Surveyor Sabatello to look at the damage sustained during the war. We inspected the villa from top to bottom. And I realized something odd. Francesco’s bedroom was adjacent to his poor brother Emanuele’s room. Nothing unusual about that, of course. But Francesco, just to be sure he could watch over—indeed, protect—his brother even during his sleep, had had a sliding door installed in the wall between the two rooms.”
“It’s possible Emanuele had sleep disturbances and his brother wanted to make it easier to give him sedatives in the middle of the night,” said Montalbano. Then, taking advantage of the fact that Butera had brought another forkful to his lips, he asked: “Were they well-off?”
“They certainly didn’t have any problems in that regard.”
“Couldn’t they have hired a nurse to look after Emanuele night and day?”
“Of course they could have. But at the time that sort of thing wasn’t done. And at any rate I’m absolutely certain that Francesco would never have entrusted the care of his brother to another person.”
Now that Butera had also finished his cod, he broke off all verbal communication, got up, nodded vaguely by way of good-bye, and went out.
* * *
Montalbano sat down on the flat rock and fired up a cigarette. Having overcome a minor bout of remorse for having so readily failed to deliver on his promise to Livia, he started thinking back on what Butera had told him. Francesco’s ideal situation probably would have been for him to have Emanuele sleeping on a cot right there in the master bedroom, though it’s possible his wife would have been against it. That was no longer brotherly love taken to an extreme, but a different, mysterious sort of bond. They were twins, and maybe Francesco felt a sort of echo, in his flesh and in his head, of Emanuele’s suffering.
And there, beside him, was a crab. It stood motionless in the middle of the rock next to the inspector’s, and seemed to be staring at the shard of rock in front of it.
He’s doing what I’ve been doing with that goddamned patch of wall, thought Montalbano.
Trying to provoke it, he bent down, picked up a pebble, and aimed it to the side of the animal. But his aim was off and the pebble struck one of the crab’s legs, sending the animal scampering off contortedly. Montalbano felt bad for it, thinking he might have seriously injured it.
The word “injure” set off a string of free associations in his mind. He thought of Mimì Augello’s face, scratched by Beba’s fingernails.
With an excuse like that, Mimì was liable not to show up at work for a good month.
I’ve got half a mind to go and pay a little call on him, he thought, just to see how things really stand.
Then it occurred to him that it might be better, at least out of respect for Beba, to forewarn them of the visit by telephone.
But he didn’t have his cell phone in his pocket. Oh, well. He would just show up unannounced.
Meanwhile the crab had reappeared.
“I’m sorry,” the inspector said to him.
And he headed off to Mimì’s.
* * *
It was Beba who came to the door. Montalbano hadn’t seen her for a while, and noticed that her eyes looked tired. Still, she was well-groomed, made up, and in fine working order.
A big, sincere smile lit up her face.
“Salvo! What a lovely surprise! Come in, come in.”
The inspector went in, and Beba closed the door behind him.
“Sorry I didn’t call before coming, but—”
“Oh, come on! You’re one of the family here. Mimì’s taking a little nap. Let me go and wake him up.”
“No, wait,” Montalbano said impulsively.
Beba gave him a confused look.
“Has something happened between you and Livia?”
“No, of course not. Is this not a good time?”
“What are you talking about? I was just in the kitchen reading the newspaper.”
; “Then let’s go into the kitchen. That way you can make me some coffee.”
Beba kept her house and kitchen splendidly clean. The inspector sat down at the table.
“Where’s Salvuzzo?” he asked.
“He just went out. To a friend’s house, to do their homework together.”
“He’s a studious boy, is he?”
“Yes, and the teachers have a lot of good things to say about him.”
The coffee was ready. Beba filled Montalbano’s demitasse and then poured her own and sat down.
“Did you come to find out how things were between Mimì and me?” she asked with a half smile.
“Not exactly, but if you want to talk about it . . .”
“Salvo, already after just one year of married life, I was convinced that Mimì was incorrigible. I could leave him, but I still love him and he loves me, too. In his own way, but he does love me. I’ve accepted the situation, but he just won’t acknowledge any limits, and so lately I’ve been losing it . . .”
“You were right to scratch his face,” said the inspector.
Beba looked at him wide-eyed in surprise.
“Is that what he told you?”
“He called in to say he couldn’t come to work because his face was all—”
“The son of a bitch! I gave him the tiniest little scratch under his left eye, and he started making like it was the end of the world and I’d ruined his face! The poor peacock!”
She ran a hand over her eyes and sighed.
“Sorry for the rant,” she said.
Montalbano reached out with one hand and stroked her face.
“The worst thing of all,” Beba resumed, “is that he’s gotten meaner with age. He doesn’t give a damn about anything at home. I have to take care of everything. Let me give you an example. It’s over a week now he’s supposed to go and talk to the principal of Salvuzzo’s school, and he keeps putting it off from day to day. And it’ll end up the way it always does: I’ll have to go myself!”
“Why do you need to talk to the principal? Are there any problems?”
“Yes, but nothing to do with his studies.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“In Salvuzzo’s class there are a few nasty toughs who have ganged up on one of their classmates and are putting him through the meat grinder. This boy, whose name is Luigi Sciarabba and who according to Salvuzzo is a computer wizard, is utterly unable to defend himself.”
“But aren’t the teachers aware of this?”
“No, because this stuff all happens outside of class.”
“So what’s Salvuzzo got to do with any of this?”
“Well, about ten days ago, he couldn’t take it anymore and came to Sciarabba’s defense. And as a result he came home with a torn shirt and a black eye.”
“Keep me posted on this,” said Montalbano.
“I’ll go and wake him now,” said Beba, getting up.
Montalbano stopped her a second time.
“No, don’t bother.”
He stood up.
“Don’t even tell him I came by.”
“All right.”
“Tell him I phoned and that, scratched face or no, I want him in his office tomorrow, because I have to go and do an on-site investigation.”
* * *
“Get me Fazio,” said Montalbano upon entering.
“’E in’t onna premisses, Chief.”
“And where is he?”
“Dunno, Chief, ’cuz ’e never came back afta lunch.”
This meant that, to make the time pass, the inspector had no choice but to do the usual thing: sign more of those hated papers. This time he really gave it his all, to the point that the stack went from a height of about six unabridged Webster’s to that of a mere Roget’s Thesaurus.
“May I?” Fazio asked from the doorway.
“Come on in,” said Montalbano, instinctively looking at his watch. It was six.
Fazio sat down opposite the desk, but on the edge of his chair, as he did when he felt uneasy.
Montalbano realized this, and so asked, with inquiring eyes:
“So, where’ve you been?”
Before answering, Fazio squirmed a little in his chair and swallowed twice.
“You have to forgive me, Chief, but I took another one of my own initiatives. Since you’ve been so keen on knowing as much as possible about that bit of wall, I remembered that my father used to collect a newspaper they used to publish once a week in Vigàta called Libertas, which was an organ of the old Christian Democratic Party. And so I went to the town library and looked at all the issues from the last week in March for the years 1958 to 1963. But I didn’t find anything on the Sabatello family.”
“You were wrong,” said Montalbano.
“Why?”
“Because if the first film is from 1958 and was made to commemorate something, then that something must have happened before that year.”
“Oh, my God!” said Fazio. “You’re right.”
“So go on back to the library.”
Fazio shot out of there like a pebble from a slingshot.
Montalbano resumed signing papers, this time with a certain sense of satisfaction.
The ink was just drying on the last goddamned memo when Fazio returned, out of breath.
“Chief! Did you know that Engineer Sabatello’s father had a brother?”
“Yes, a twin brother. And so?”
“I found five lines in the newspaper, Chief.”
He put one hand in his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and read:
Last Wednesday, Emanuele Sabatello, twin brother of the respected surveyor Francesco Sabatello, died in tragic circumstances. Sick from birth but always supported by his family’s loving care, Emanuele quit this life amidst the comfort of his loved ones. The entire editorial staff sends the family their most heartfelt condolences.
“I wonder what those ‘tragic circumstances’ were,” said Fazio.
“He killed himself,” replied Montalbano.
“Really? And do you know what was the date that Wednesday?”
“March 27, 1957,” said Montalbano.
“It really is no fun talking to you,” said Fazio, leaving in a huff.
* * *
Back at home, Adelina had left an homage to Sweden in the fridge: a plate of cold pasta with salmon and passuluna olives. A perfect sistering.
He ate on the veranda, smoked his usual cigarette, drank two fingers’ worth of whisky, and, steeling himself, dialed Livia’s number. There was no answer. He waited five minutes and then called again. With the same result. So he set his mind at rest and sat himself down in front of the TV. And he watched a movie full of shoot-outs, and when even the protagonist got killed, he realized the story had reached the end, and he turned off the set and went to bed.
But he did not fall asleep right away. He realized that, thanks to Fazio, they’d actually established a solid fact. On every twenty-seventh day of March, Francesco Sabatello commemorated his brother’s suicide, which presumably occurred at half past ten in the morning. But why film a patch of wall to etch that date in one’s memory? Engineer Sabatello would certainly be no help in answering the question. He was too small at the time to understand what was going on, or to have anyone explain it to him.
Therefore the only thing to do was to stop thinking about the wall and go to sleep.
And, in so doing, he dreamt of the wall.
At three o’clock in the morning he woke up from a nightmare, all in a sweat. He’d been trying to climb a smooth wall, over and over, dozens of times, using his fingernails and the tips of his toes, but he never managed to reach the top, because halfway up he always started sliding back down to the bottom.
* * *
They got out of the car. Cannizzar
o headed straight for the fragment of enclosure wall that still held the dilapidated gate in place. He had his mason’s hammer with him, but there was no need. He bent down near a part of the wall completely stripped of stucco and called to the inspector.
“Have a look. The enclosure wall is made out of structural stones, so it’s not the one we see in the film.”
They went through the gate. At that point began a broad allée that led to the main door of the house, but halfway there it branched off, and the second lane went on around to the back of the house.
Cannizzaro started walking towards the front of the villa, and this time, too, there was no need for his mason’s hammer. He pointed to the blocks of cement that had become exposed.
“As you can see, this isn’t the wall, either.”
“Let’s go and see what there is behind the house,” Montalbano suggested.
Once they’d rounded the corner, the first thing they saw was a garage with a caved-in roof. Here, too, Cannizzaro showed the inspector that the walls were made of hollow bricks. All that remained behind the villa was a ruin that stood about twenty feet from the house. It must originally have been some kind of toolshed or storage facility. About ten feet square. Now all that was left was a side wall, the one farthest from the house.
But the outline of the structure’s perimeter remained visible on the ground.
Cannizzaro went straight to the surviving wall, bent down, looked at the blocks of tufa, and said:
“Inspector, the wall in the films is the same as this one.”
Montalbano looked at it closely, then said:
“Excuse me for just a second.”
“Where you going?” asked Cannizzaro.
“I want to go into the villa.”
“Be careful. It might be unsafe.”
Montalbano turned the corner, then made another turn, entering the villa through the opening that had once been the grand main door. The first thing that struck him was a terrible stench of rot, despite the fact that air circulated freely in the space. He took out his handkerchief and held it close to his nose the whole time.
The Safety Net Page 5