The Safety Net

by Andrea Camilleri

  The house had been stripped of everything, including the floor tiles, leaving a surface of beaten earth. The place looked like a veritable dump: empty cans, condoms, bottles, syringes, turds, even dead rats. The walls, which must have once been covered with fine wallpaper, now looked like one of those posters by the artist Mimmo Rotella, who amused himself showing the passage of time through the practice of décollage: unpeeling city walls to unveil old advertisements and various announcements from times past. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, the truss beams exposed and full of holes, now home to swallows and pigeons. The stairway leading to the second floor was clearly rickety and dangerous, and what was left, in spots, of the cast-iron bannister looked like fragments of abandoned bones of prehistoric animals.

  Commending his soul to God, Montalbano headed up the staircase and had a look at all the rooms, one after the other. There must have been a variety of bedrooms, studies, small sitting rooms, libraries. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Butera certainly hadn’t been lying.

  There were two rooms, one big and one smaller, whose windows gave onto the back of the house, linked by a sort of rectangle that must once have been the small sliding door between Francesco’s and Emanuele’s bedrooms.

  Next to the master bedroom was a bathroom.

  Montalbano went in.

  He looked out the window. The view led in a straight line to the storage shed, but the home movie couldn’t have been made from there, because the angle would have been from above.

  He figured there was no point—especially because it was too dangerous—in going all the way up to the turret.

  He went back downstairs.

  In addition to the salon there was a big kitchen recognizable only by all the soot everywhere. The whole place had been ransacked.

  Towards the back was another large bedroom with a bathroom beside it, directly under the one upstairs.

  He looked out the window.

  And he became absolutely certain that all the film reels had been shot from that exact spot, with the camera resting on the windowsill.

  As he was looking, the shed, as if by magic, became whole again before his eyes, and he saw before him the very same stretch of wall he’d seen so many times in the home movies.

  “Find anything?” asked Fazio, who was chatting with the master builder nearby.

  “Yes,” replied Montalbano, in the tone of someone not wanting to be asked any more questions.

  As they were heading back out the main allée towards the exit, before their stunned eyes the heavy cast-iron gate, which had been dangling there for years and years, decided to give up the ghost. That is, emitting an ironlike wail, it came off the one hinge holding it in place and crashed with all the weight in the world against the hood of Fazio’s car, caving it in.

  Cursing the saints, Fazio started running towards his car, followed by the other two.

  He managed to get into the driver’s seat and tried to start up the car, but the engine didn’t respond.

  It became clear that they had a rather thorny predicament on their hands. The first thing they would have to do was to lift the gate off the car; and the second, to have a look at the damage it had done to the engine.

  From their initial attempts it became immediately clear that the three men would never succeed in moving the gate, which turned out to be heavier than they thought.

  After half an hour of vain efforts, they gave up.

  “So what are we gonna do?” asked the master builder.

  Fazio didn’t answer, managing only to look over at the inspector with the eyes of a beaten dog.

  “Give Catarella a ring and tell him to send some people to lend us a hand,” said Montalbano. “They should also bring a long, strong cable.”

  * * *

  It took Gallo forty-five minutes—a record—to get there. He brought two beat cops with him. Cannizzaro took the situation in hand. He had them attach one end of the cable to the uppermost part of the gate, and the other end to the trailer hitch on Gallo’s car. Then, as the gate came slowly off, the others pushed Fazio’s car from behind until it was completely liberated. Cannizzaro had to use his mason’s hammer to pry open the hood, and it became immediately clear the engine had been severely damaged and was not in working condition. And so Montalbano decided that Gallo’s car should tow Fazio’s back into town.

  They all got into the two cars and started on their way back, but of course they had to proceed very slowly.

  “At this rate it’ll take us till morning,” Montalbano said in a huff.

  Turning then to Gallo, he asked:

  “How long do you think it’ll take us to get to Vigàta?”

  “A good two hours at the very least,” Gallo replied gloomily, being accustomed to driving his car as if he was on the track at Indianapolis.

  All of a sudden, without warning, a wolflike hunger came over Montalbano. Maybe because he’d spent the whole morning out in the open air?

  At last, as they were beginning to see the town’s first outlying houses in the distance, Montalbano spotted, on the left, a pole bearing a sign that said: TRATTORIA BONOCORE 150 M.

  Yes, he thought. I can manage to hold out for another hundred and fifty meters.

  Ten minutes later they were passing in front of the restaurant.

  “Stop here!” Montalbano yelled.

  Gallo slammed on the brakes, and Fazio’s car nearly crashed into his from behind.

  “What’s going on?” asked Gallo.

  “What’s going on,” said Montalbano, “is that we’re going to stop here, get out of the cars, and all go and eat. You’re my guests.”

  And so their morning inspection ended in a feast.

  5

  It was late when they came out of the trattoria all feeling a little heavier, so that the journey back to the station looked a lot like a funeral procession. Fazio had them drop him off at the mechanic’s garage where he usually took his car to be serviced. Montalbano took advantage of this to get out of the car himself and continue on foot, in the hopes of jump-starting his digestive process. When he was outside the Caffè Castiglione, he heard a woman’s voice call his name. He stopped. It was Ingrid.

  “Salvo! It’s so nice to see you! Have you got five minutes? Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  They went inside and sat down. Ingrid stroked his hand.

  “You have no idea how much I miss those evenings we used to spend together . . . but lately this job’s been taking up all of my time. I haven’t got a free minute.”

  “How’s the filming going?”

  “You couldn’t really say it’s going too well.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the director won’t forgive Maj.”

  “They haven’t made up yet?”

  “Are you kidding! He mistreats her right there on the set, makes her do a scene six, seven times over, until Maj starts crying or has a nervous breakdown and the shooting has to be stopped . . . The producers are very worried and upset. At this rate it’s all going to take twice as long as expected.”

  Upon hearing these words, Montalbano felt his heart sink. That meant that the carnival was going to drag on longer than scheduled, and he wouldn’t be able to stand it. He would go crazy, being forced to live for a minute longer than necessary in a Vigàta that was no longer his town, but a Vigàta invented by television. No, those people had to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. Then he had an idea. It seemed brilliant to him.

  He didn’t want to waste any time.

  “Think you can manage to come out to dinner with me tonight?”

  Ingrid looked at him as though stunned by the sudden invitation.

  “Maybe. But . . .”

  “And would you be so kind as to bring the director along?”

  Ingrid’s expression grew even mo
re astonished.

  “But what have you got in mind, anyway?”

  “I want to try to reassure him that nothing happened between his Maj and Mimì.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “I’ve already got an inkling how. And I’ll just improvise the rest. With your help, of course.”

  “Okay,” said Ingrid. “I’ll call you later, at the office, to tell you whether I’ve managed to work something out or not.”

  * * *

  Fazio straggled back in about half an hour after the inspector. He looked crestfallen.

  “Wha’d the mechanic say?”

  “Between fixing the engine and the bodywork, those repairs are gonna eat up two months’ salary, Chief.”

  “Can’t you request a reimbursement?”

  “How will I justify it? I wasn’t out on an investigation, but merely accompanying you while you looked into some personal business about a wall.”

  “You’re right,” said the inspector. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “And so, as you see . . .”

  “I’ll pay for the damages myself,” said Montalbano.

  Fazio sprang to his feet, turning pale.

  “You’re insulting me, sir. If you think I came in here to ask you for—”

  “It’s you who’s insulting me, Fazio,” the inspector replied harshly, “by assuming that I was thinking of something that was the furthest thing from my mind. Now sit back down.”

  Fazio obeyed.

  “You’re a man with a good head on your shoulders. So use it, then. Did you go to that villa on your own initiative, or because I, your commanding officer, asked you to?”

  “Because you asked me.”

  “Therefore it’s my responsibility. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

  Fazio sat there pensively for a moment, then said:

  “Could we do it so that you pay for the engine and I pay for the bodywork?”

  “No. You know that when I say something, that’s it.”

  “All right,” said Fazio.

  “Let’s talk about something else. Tonight, at ten o’clock sharp, I want you to call me on my cell phone.”

  “What for?”

  “Just call and start saying the first bullshit that comes into your head. And pay no mind to what I say. I’m going to put on a little tragic performance.”

  “But you’ll explain it all to me afterwards?”

  “Promise,” said Montalbano.

  There was a knock. It was Mimì Augello. He had a minuscule Band-Aid on his face.

  “Welcome back,” said the inspector. “Come in and sit down.”

  “Sorry, Fazio, but I’d like to speak alone with the—”

  “No problem,” said Fazio, going out and closing the door behind him.

  “I wanted to tell you about that damned boat ride.”

  “Mimì, I don’t give a fuck what you did with the Swedish girl on that boat. You were not in service, and she’s a legal adult . . .”

  “Nothing happened between Maj and me,” Mimì said all in one breath.

  Montalbano opened his eyes wide.

  “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

  “I mean nothing.”

  “Were you suddenly overcome by an urge to remain chaste?”

  “No, no, but, for whatever reason, once we were inside the boat, we both felt sort of strangely depressed. So we started talking. Maj’s Italian is pretty good . . . At any rate, for that innocent little boat ride, Beba and I had a fight and Maj’s now in trouble with her boyfriend. I would give anything to see Maj and her boyfriend make peace.”

  “So why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I was thinking that you might in some way intervene . . .”

  “How?”

  “I dunno, maybe by letting them know through Ingrid . . .”

  Montalbano felt like laughing. Mimì was suggesting that he do exactly what he’d already thought of doing and had set up.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said the inspector, cutting short the discussion.

  Mimì thanked him and went out. Immediately the phone rang. It was Engineer Sabatello.

  “I’m just now on my way back to Vigàta, Inspector. Shall we meet tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “I can come to the police station.”

  “We would be constantly interrupted.”

  “Then could I invite you to my place? Viale Libertà, 14. Shall we say for lunch?”

  Montalbano shuddered. He ate only at the homes of people he knew were good cooks. He didn’t feel up to risking it.

  “Unfortunately I’m busy for lunch. I could stop by for a coffee, if that’s all right. Shall we say three o’clock?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  As soon as they hung up, the phone rang again.

  “It’s all set,” said Ingrid. “We get off at eight, but then I need to stop at my place.”

  “Is the director coming with you?”

  “Without me he wouldn’t know where to go.”

  “Do you remember the restaurant in Montereale?”

  “The one with all the antipasti?”

  “That’s right. Let’s meet there at nine.”

  “Don’t you want me to come and get you at home?”

  “No, Ingrid, I have an engagement and don’t know when I’ll be done. I’d rather take my own car.”

  For what he had in mind, having his own car was essential.

  Fazio came back in.

  “Sorry to bother, Chief, but we’ve got a hassle on our hands.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we’ve got a squad of four men who follow the orders given on the set during the filming.”

  “I know that.”

  “But you don’t know that three have requested reassignment. Only Gallo’s not making any waves, but he’s not married.”

  Montalbano felt confused.

  “What the hell difference does it make whether he’s married or not?”

  “It makes a difference because the three wives, after they found out about Inspector Augello and the Swedish actress, started going nuts with jealousy and keep making scenes with their husbands.”

  Montalbano sat there for a minute, thinking. Then he said:

  “Since the blame for all this mess lies with Inspector Augello, why don’t you go and tell him about it?!”

  “And what should I tell him to do?”

  “Tell him to write up a nice report for His Honor the commissioner. Given our limited means, we’ve been forced to acknowledge that we can no longer provide this service. Something along those lines. He can get the municipal cops to do it.”

  “I’ll go and talk to him right away,” said Fazio.

  * * *

  When he got home, as he went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, he stopped hesitantly in front of the refrigerator.

  To open or not to open, that was the question.

  Surely Adelina had cooked up something good for him, which he would have to forgo. He decided that it was best not to know what he was missing, and so he didn’t open the fridge.

  He went into the bathroom and then changed clothes, putting on a London-fog-colored suit with accompanying waistcoat, which made him look somewhat like a cross between a cardinal in civvies and the president of an investment bank. Then he put on a tie that would have been fitting for a visit of condolence.

  He needed to have a maximum air of authority and seriousness, to make the right impression on the Swedish director.

  He glanced at his watch: half past eight. If he left now, he would get there on time, and maybe even a bit early. But he actually wanted to arrive a little later than the others, so he could make a solemn entrance. And so he poured
himself two fingers of whisky and sipped it neat, leaning against the jamb of the French doors.

  Then he locked up the house and drove off.

  * * *

  As soon as he entered the restaurant, a waiter, who didn’t know him, came up and greeted him respectfully.

  “Buonasera, commendatore.”

  He replied with a gesture halfway between a friendly hello and someone swatting away a fly. He immediately spotted Ingrid and the director, who’d chosen a table just a few yards from the water’s edge. Good thing Ingrid knew the inspector’s preferences. He pretended not to see them and kept looking around.

  “Salvo! We’re over here!”

  He replied with a nod and made his way towards their table without smiling, walking with a slow, grave step. He shook the director’s hand and kissed Ingrid’s, then sat down between the two, sighing deeply. Then he cleared his throat, as if about to speak. But he said nothing.

  “Are you all right?” asked Ingrid, a little worried about how the inspector was acting.

  “Oh, I’m fine, fine,” said Montalbano, looking her in the eye.

  Ingrid smiled, relieved, having grasped from his glance that the play had begun.

  The blond bear, face screwed up in a frown, kept his eyes fixed on the sea. Maybe he was thinking of his Maj.

  “Ask your friend what he feels like eating.”

  Ingrid obeyed, then translated his reply.

  “He says he’s not hungry.”

  Montalbano made a face halfway between severe and offended.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t like eating with me?”

  As soon as she translated the question, the blond bear, talking all the while, held out an enormous paw to the inspector. Montalbano shook it, and very nearly came away with four fractured fingers.

  “He says, no, on the contrary, he’s very happy to be here with you, and that you’re an admirable person. The only problem is, he’s just not hungry,” said Ingrid.