The Safety Net

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Did he shoot himself in the head, in the heart? Do you know?”

  “I think I remember hearing them say he shot himself in the head.”

  “And, as far as you can recall, did he shoot himself inside the house?”

  “No, he did it outside.”

  “Do you know where, exactly?”

  “Not really, to be honest. Perhaps Gasparino could tell you.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “He’s over eighty, but healthy as an ox.”

  “Could you tell me where he lives?”

  “On Salita Papa Giovanni, but I don’t recall the street number. Every so often I go and see him. But it’s a short street. All you have to do is ask around.”

  Montalbano made a mental note of this.

  “You didn’t have any servants?”

  “I remember an old housekeeper, Lucia, who came only to clean, because Mamma would never give up her post at the stove to anyone.”

  “And was she there, that day?”

  Sabatello thought about this for a moment.

  “I don’t think she was there that day.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because she was the person who used to take me to kindergarten. She would put me on the donkey’s back until we reached the edge of town. Then we’d continue on foot. But that morning it was Mamma who took me.”

  “Have you ever tried to find out what might have made him want to kill himself?” the inspector then asked.

  “Yes. And I came up with a possible answer. Maybe, I thought, he unfortunately had a moment of what you might call lucidity, of normal consciousness, and he was able to see himself as he really was. I can’t think of any other reason.”

  “When did your father get sick?”

  “My mother told me that he was first diagnosed with a brain tumor in early 1957, in Rome.”

  “You don’t know anything more precise than that?”

  “No. Another medical luminary he went to in Milan not only confirmed the first diagnosis but gave him only a few months to live. But then a sort of miracle happened.”

  “And what was that?”

  “The illness went into remission. But his last two years were terrible. The bedroom was moved to the ground floor, and when he wanted to go out and sit in the garden for a few hours, Gasparino would carry him outside in his arms . . .”

  “Tell me something. Why did you let the villa go to ruin?”

  “Your question confirms to me that I turned to the right person, Inspector,” said Sabatello, half grinning.

  “Look, you’re perfectly free not to—”

  “No, no, I’m happy to answer your question. From age five to eleven, my life there became very sad. First, because of our grief for Zio Emanuele, and later because of Papa’s long illness and death . . . At first I lost my love of the place, but I finally ended up detesting it. But being far away had a lot to do with it, too. You see, after my mother died I went to work in Argentina . . . If anyone had asked me to sell them the villa, I probably would have accepted whatever offer they made. But nobody came forward, and so . . .”

  He stopped and looked at Montalbano with a smile.

  “I haven’t been much help to you, have I?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t put it so drastically,” said the inspector. “We were already in total darkness, so even a firefly creates a bit of light.”

  Congratulating himself on his poetic image, he stood up.

  “I’ll be on my way, then,” he said, holding his hand out to Sabatello. “And I thank you for giving me some of your time.”

  “Will you stay on the case?” Sabatello asked anxiously.

  “I’ll get in touch as soon as I have any news,” the inspector replied, to reassure him.

  * * *

  As had already happened that morning, at the office he found only Catarella.

  “Where’s Inspector Augello?”

  “’E called sayin’ as how ’e’s still atta meetin’ atta c’mishner’s, meetin’ wit’ peoples, ann’ ’ey’s not gonna finish meetin’ afore eight a’clack.”

  “What about Fazio?”

  “’E’s on ’is way. ’E went to the garage t’see ’bout ’is car.”

  “Do you know how to play chess, Cat?”

  It seemed like the only thing to do to make the time pass.

  “Nah, Chief. I c’n play chickers but I don’t gotta chickerboard.”

  Montalbano went into his office, sat down, and the phone rang.

  “Chief, Signura Sciosciostrom’d be onna line f’yiz.”

  “Put her through.”

  “Ciao, Salvo. We’re on a half-hour break, so I thought I’d give you a ring. Thanks to you, everything’s going very smoothly now, and we’re making up for lost time. But I wanted to ask you. Could I drop by at the station with Maj? We won’t take up much of your time, I promise. If it’s okay with you, we can be there in five minutes.”

  Montalbano balked.

  “With Maj? Why?”

  “I dunno. She wanted to meet you.”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  Just to be safe, he went into the bathroom, had a look at himself in the mirror, combed his hair, and went back into his office and sat down. A split second later, Catarella knocked at the door. He was out of breath, as if he’d run a long way, and was holding one hand over his heart.

  “Matre santissima, Chief!”

  “What’s wrong, Cat? Something happen?”

  “Signura Sciosciostrom’s ’ere wit’a woman named Maj, an’ alls I c’n say is my, my, my, oh my . . . Did I jess say ‘woman’? Wha’ I mean, Chief, is Venus in poisson, Chief! My oh my oh my . . .”

  “Okay, okay, knock it off, or you’ll end up getting a heart attack. Calm yourself down and then show her in.”

  Indeed Catarella was not mistaken.

  On the other hand, unlike the Swedish export model known around the world, she wasn’t blonde but brunette, with skin white as snow, eyes blue as the heavens, and hair curly as the Greek gods’. Tall of stature, and designed with a compass that made perfect curves. Naturally provocative, but with an irresistibly likable manner, she even had the inevitable kiss magnet, a beauty mark near her mouth, which Montalbano made a great effort not to kiss, extending his hand to her instead.

  The two women sat down, and Ingrid began speaking.

  “We haven’t got much time. I’m sorry, Maj, but I have to tell Salvo something first. I have some bad news for you. Starting tomorrow the production team will be shooting along the jetty for what they think will take two days. Along your jetty.”

  “So what you’re saying is I won’t be able to take my walks?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Montalbano cursed the saints in his mind.

  “Okay, Maj, now you can say what you wanted to say to Salvo.”

  “I came here to thank you. Ingrid said you’re serious, honest man, and I can imagine the effort you had to make to tell lie to get out of situation that might become war.”

  Lie? What the hell did the Swedish girl mean by that? She might be referring to the show he put on at the restaurant. To be sure he wasn’t mistaken, he replied:

  “Well, in my line of work I sometimes have to force people’s hands a little, like I did with the fake phone call at the restaurant, to make the truth come out. At any rate it was for the sake of justice, since Mimì told me about your long conversation on the boat . . .”

  The Swedish woman looked at him questioningly, knotting her jet-black eyebrows for a second.

  “That’s what Mimì say to you?” she then asked.

  “Yes, he said you talked for a long time . . .”

  “Ahhh,” said Maj. “If that’s what he told you . . .”

  She had an amuse
d little glint in her blue eyes that did not escape Montalbano’s notice. Suddenly he understood everything. And he didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of the Swedish beauty. He smiled, though he was fuming inside.

  “Don’t think too much of the word ‘talk’ that Mimì say. He was a gentleman the whole time.”

  Maj returned his smile and looked over at Ingrid. They both stood up.

  “I apologize, and I thank you again.”

  Montalbano kissed Ingrid good-bye, then held out his hand to Maj, but, as soon as he leaned forward, his lips, independently of his brain, went straight to the beauty mark and planted a kiss there.

  * * *

  As soon as the two women had left, Montalbano stood up cursing and gave his desk a hard kick. What a great big son of a bitch Mimì was! He’d gone there and told him the bald-faced lie that nothing had happened between him and Maj in the boat, just to tweak the inspector’s sense of justice, knowing perfectly well that if he’d told him what had actually happened on the boat, he probably would have refused to have anything to do with it.

  But, as there was a God in heaven, he was going to make him pay for this. Immediately, and not later, by surprise. And it had to be something that wouldn’t involve Beba. He had to think of something concerning work at the station. Okay, but what, since not a fucking thing was happening at the station these days?

  He sat there racking his brains until the ghost of an idea finally began to take shape in his head. Yes, that was it. He liked it so much he started laughing to himself.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and Fazio came in.

  “How are things with the car?”

  “It’s gonna take a lot of work. Luckily they gave me another car to use in the meantime.”

  “This afternoon,” said the inspector, “I went and paid a visit to Engineer Sabatello.”

  “And what’d he say?”

  The inspector told him everything, including about the strong impression made on him by the look exchanged by the two brothers in the photograph.

  Fazio remained silent.

  “What are you thinking?” asked the inspector.

  “I’m thinking about something you just said to me.”

  “Feel like telling me right away, or will I have to wait thirty years to find out?”

  “But . . . it’s just speculation . . . nothing to back it up.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “If Francesco Sabatello was first told about the brain tumor in early 1957, isn’t it possible he told Emanuele he was sick, and his brother shot himself because he knew he couldn’t survive without his brother’s continual help?”

  “That’s a plausible, logical hypothesis, but I’m not convinced. You see, Fazio, we know that Francesco was able to speak and communicate with his brother, but we don’t know to what extent. In other words: To what degree did they understand each other? Was Emanuele, moreover, capable of distinguishing the notions of life and death? And, if so, wouldn’t it have been cruel of Francesco to reveal his condition to him?”

  “So, in conclusion, you favor Engineer Sabatello’s hypothesis, that Emanuele had a moment of lucidity?”

  “No. I honestly don’t feel like taking a position one way or another. Because, on the scale of plausibility, both your argument and Sabatello’s weigh exactly the same.”

  After a brief silence, Fazio resumed speaking.

  “While you were telling me what Sabatello said to you, I remembered something that occurred to me when we were inspecting the old villa but later forgot to tell you after the gate fell on my car.”

  “Okay, then tell me now.”

  “Do you remember when I asked you what it might mean to have filmed a wall, and you said that that wall was a symbol, a place of memory, like when young lovers carve their initials into a tree and then go back later to look at them, to keep the memory alive?”

  “Yes. And so?”

  “Couldn’t it be that Emanuele shot himself while standing in front of that wall—or rather, leaning up against that wall?”

  “Do you think that hasn’t occurred to me? But think about it for a second. If somebody shoots himself—say, in the head—up against a wall, do you realize how blood-spattered that wall would get?”

  “Sorry, Chief, but we’re seeing a clean wall, one year later, in the 1958 reel.”

  “So, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means the blood could easily have been washed away, say, by heavy rain.”

  “No. If any trace of his brother’s blood had remained on that wall—it’s his blood we’re talking about, after all—if there’d been any left on that wall, I’m convinced Francesco would have preserved and protected that trace, perhaps by building a little roof overhang above it, or covering it with glass. He would never have let his brother’s blood vanish into the void. Being able to keep looking at it might have been for him a way to keep his lost brother alive.”

  “What do you think you’ll do?” asked Fazio.

  “The only thing I can.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Go and talk to Gasparino Sidoti. I’ll do so tomorrow morning. Because I’m going home in a minute. Listen, Fazio, I want you to call Mimì and tell him to come to the station after his meeting, because I left an important piece of paper on his desk. So, good-bye for now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  After Fazio went out, he grabbed a pen and paper and starting writing a letter to Mimì, carefully weighing every word.

  7

  Dear Mimì,

  This letter must remain strictly confidential. I mean it. Nobody is to know about it. It must remain between us.

  Late this afternoon, I received some absolutely reliable information, given the source, which I am not, at the moment, at liberty to reveal.

  I will confess that, as soon as I got the information, I waffled for a long time over whether or not to pass it on to the narcotics unit, as should have been my duty. In the end, I decided against it. The idea of screwing those assholes at Narcotics made me feel a little better. I hope you will agree.

  Here’s the deal.

  Tonight, sometime between midnight and five a.m. (the informer unfortunately couldn’t be more specific), a small yellow van, with only the driver aboard, will come down Via Lincoln. The driver will pull up outside number 54, Via Lincoln, get out of the car, and deposit a medium-sized package outside the closed front door. After which he will get back in the van and drive away.

  Moments later a car will arrive, probably an old green VW Polo, with two men inside. One of them will grab the package, and the car will drive off to an unknown destination.

  Your job will be:

  1. To wait for the yellow van and try to get its license plate number and any other information that might lead to identifying its owner;

  2. To follow the car with the package to its final destination, which you will then duly note;

  3. Not to take any action on your own, no matter what happens.

  Dear Mimì, I understand how tired you must be after your endless meeting at the commissioner’s, but I have no choice but to ask you to make this one final effort, because you’re the only person I can trust to handle this.

  See you tomorrow morning at nine.

  Break a leg.

  SALVO

  He reread the letter, thought it was good, grabbed an envelope, put the letter inside, and then wrote on the envelope:

  FOR INSPECTOR AUGELLO. STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL.

  He stood up, went into Mimì’s office, set the letter down on the desk, and headed home.

  * * *

  In the refrigerator he found an enormous seafood salad, fresh and fragrant. He set the table on the veranda. The moon looked just like a ball of light, bright enough to illuminat
e his dinner.

  The silence was so deep, you could cut it with a knife. It was interrupted only by the rhythmical rumble of a distant trawler, which sounded like the sea’s own heartbeat.

  He ate and drank slowly, savoring every forkful. Nobody was clamoring for him.

  Then he cleared the table, came back out on the veranda, and sat down, this time with whisky and cigarettes. But he still didn’t turn on the light. He spent an hour in this fashion, mind free of thoughts. Until, at last, a thought came into his head, strong and clear.

  He had to put an end, as quickly as possible, to the unpleasantness that had developed between him and Livia.

  There was no point in trying to call her. She wouldn’t pick up. Anyway, it wasn’t the kind of thing you could clear up over the phone. They had to talk things over face-to-face, looking each other in the eye.

  Why not, in fact, leave the following morning for Boccadasse?

  Yes, the best thing would be to go and knock at Livia’s door without warning. His surprise arrival would certainly help them to make up.

  What the hell was he doing lolling about in Vigàta, anyway?

  He wouldn’t even be able to take his usual postprandial strolls along the jetty for a few days, because of those assholes and their TV movie . . .

  And so, as if to avoid having any second thoughts, he stood up, closed the French door, and went and started packing a suitcase, figuring he would stay in Boccadasse for at least four days.

  Afterwards, he spent half an hour in front of the television, channel surfing, then went to bed.

  His last thought was for Mimì Augello, staked out on Via Lincoln, waiting for a small yellow van that would never come.

  He fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

  * * *

  The following morning he showed up at the office at eight-thirty. He immediately rang the personnel office in Montelusa to tell them he wanted a week’s leave. They were happy to grant it, since Montalbano had accumulated three whole months of vacation time he’d never taken. Then he summoned Fazio and told him to look up Gasparino Sidoti’s telephone number. Fazio found it and gave it to him. Montalbano dialed it immediately.