“Ahh, Chief Chief! Dacter Pisquano phoned lookin’ f’yiz sayin’ as how as ’e’s lookin’ f’yiz a talk t’yiz poissonally in-”
“Did he say whether he’d call back?”
“-poisson. Nah, Chief. ’E said sumpin’ ellis.”
“What’d he say?”
“’E said as how y’oughter call ’im atta Isstitute a Lethal Midicine.”
“It’s Legal Medicine, Cat, not lethal medicine.”
“Iss whatever it is, Chief, ’slong as y’unnastand.”
“Call the Institute and when you’ve got the doctor on the line, put him through to me.”
About ten minutes later, the telephone rang.
“What’s going on, Doctor?” the inspector asked.
“Are you surprised?”
“Of course. A phone call from you is so rare an occurrence, we’re liable to get an earthquake tomorrow!”
“Well, aren’t you the wit! Listen, since the mountain didn’t come to Mohammed, Mohammed has gone to the mountain.”
“But in this specific case, the mountain had no reason to go to Mohammed.”
“That’s true. Which is why this time it was up to me to come and break your balls.”
“Go right ahead. It’ll make up for all the times I’ve done the same to you.”
“Not so fast, my friend! Don’t get smart with me! I’ve still got a lot of credit left! You can’t compare the incessant, humongous ball-bustings I’ve had to put up with, with this one-”
“Okay, okay. Don’t keep me on tenterhooks.”
“See what old age does? You used to hate clichés and now you’re using them! At any rate, I’m writing up the report on the unknown corpse found in the dinghy.”
“While we’re on the subject, I should tell you that he’s no longer unknown. I found his passport, which says his name is Émile Lannec, French, born at-”
“I couldn’t give a flying fuck.”
“About what?”
“About his name or the fact that he’s French… To me he’s just a corpse and nothing else. I wanted to tell you that I performed a second autopsy because there was something that had left me wondering.”
“Namely?”
“I’d noticed some scars, despite the fact that they’d smashed up his face… It looked like he’d had it remade.”
“What?”
“Is your question an expression of surprise or do you want to know what he’d had remade?”
“Doctor, I understood perfectly well that he’d had his face remade.”
“What a relief! You see, there are a few things you can still grasp.”
“Are you sure he’d had such an operation?”
“Absolutely certain. And it wasn’t just a snip here and a tuck there, mind you, but a major transformation.”
“But why then-”
“Listen, I’m not interested in your whys and wherefores. It’s not up to me to give you the answers. You have to find them yourself. Or, at your advanced age, are your brain cells so deteriorated that-”
“You know what I say to you, Doctor?”
“No need to tell me. I can intuit exactly what you want to say to me, and I return the compliment with all my heart.”
When he carefully considered the information Pasquano had just given him, it wasn’t as if it changed the general picture much.
What difference did it really make whether the Frenchman’s face was the one Mother Nature had given him or a fake, remade face?
Whoever killed him wanted to make it so that the dead man’s face, whatever it was at that time, couldn’t be recognized. Why?
He’d already dealt with this question, but maybe it was best to come back to it for a minute.
Especially because, searching Lannec after he was dead, the killers realized he didn’t have his passport on him. And so they rightly concluded he’d left it at the hotel. Therefore, if the victim’s face appeared on television or in the newspapers, it would be easy for the hotel people to…
Wait a second, Montalbà!
He grabbed the phone book, looked up the number of the Bellavista Hotel, and dialed it.
An unknown voice picked up. In must have been the day-shift porter.
“Inspector Montalbano here.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Is Signor Toscano there?’
“He called to say he wouldn’t be in today. You can reach him at the furniture factory.”
“Could you please give me the number?”
The man gave it to him, and the inspector dialed it.
“Signor Toscano? Montalbano here.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector.”
“There’s something I need to ask you, something very important.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Pay close attention. The night that Lannec arrived, did anything strange happen at the hotel?”
Toscano paused to think for a moment, then spoke.
“Well, actually, yes, now that you mention it… But it was something that… which I don’t…”
“Go on, tell me.”
“You see, the hotel is sort of isolated. One night, in high season, three months after we’d opened for business, some burglars broke in and took the safe in which we keep our customers’ money and valuables.”
“But wasn’t the night porter on duty?”
“Of course he was. But it was three in the morning, and it’s always very quiet at that time of the night and so Scimè had lain down on a little bed in the room just behind the front desk… They must have drugged him, because he woke up two hours later with a terrible headache…”
How come he’d never heard a thing about this?
“Did you report the burglary?”
“Of course. To the carabinieri.”
“And what was their conclusion?”
“Since there’d been no break-in, only the theft of the safe, the carabinieri concluded the burglars had an accomplice staying at the hotel as a customer, and that he must have drugged the porter with a gas canister and opened the door for his partners. But they didn’t take the investigation any further than that. It was a good thing we were insured!”
“And what happened the other night?”
“Well, after the robbery we hired a night guard who makes the rounds outside the building every half hour. On the night in question, he saw a car stopped with its lights off, outside the back door of the hotel. But the moment he approached, the car drove away in a hurry. That time, however, since nothing actually happened, we didn’t bother to report it… Do you think it might have a connection to the murder?”
Montalbano had no intention of telling him exactly just how close a connection it had.
“Absolutely not. But it’s all grist for the mill, you know.”
Damn! Pasquano was right! The older he got, the more he spoke in clichés!
Therefore, to return to the matter at hand, someone from the Ace of Hearts had tried to recover Lannec’s passport and hadn’t succeeded. As soon as they’d seen the night guard they’d sped off. It was too dangerous.
Because, once they were identified as being from the cruiser, the investigation of the murder would most certainly have led back to them. They couldn’t risk it.
But they’d had the right idea: the passport was the only thing that might make it possible to identify the dead man. Getting rid of it would have meant the corpse would probably remain forever nameless. And since they’d failed to get their hands on it, they had to content themselves with smashing in the dead man’s face.
Want to bet the false face was better known than the real one?
The inspector decided it was best to inform Geremicca of the surgically remade face. He was about to phone him when Fazio came in.
“I’ve spoken with the lieutenant,” said Fazio.
Montalbano immediately felt envious.
Fazio had had a chance to see Laura, to be close to her, to hear her breathing and talk to her…
“What did you find out?” His voice sounded choked.
“You stuffed up?” Fazio asked.
“No, it’s nothing, my throat’s just a little dry. Tell me.”
“First of all, I found out that this Ace of Hearts turns out to belong to an Italo-French company that-”
“That sort of thing happens all the time. It’s unlikely it would belong to an individual. They do it to pay less tax. And what’s this company’s business?”
“Import-export.”
“Of what?”
“A bit of everything.”
“And what do they need a monster motorboat like that for?”
“The lieutenant told me the company operates all over the Mediterranean, from Morocco and Algeria to Syria, and even Turkey and Greece…”
The same places stamped in the Frenchman’s passport.
“The lieutenant also said that it’s not the first time the cruiser has called at the port of Vigàta. Normally, though, it stays only for a day, two at the most. This time, however, they’ve stayed longer because they’re waiting for someone from outside to come and look at the engines, which have been misfiring.”
“But wouldn’t it have been better for them to get an airplane?”
“What do you want me to say, Chief? It’s their business.”
“The other day, I saw a sort of colossus on their deck, saying goodbye to the owner of the Vanna and the captain.”
“He’s the company’s chief exec. His name’s Matteo Zigami, and he’s six-three-and-a-half.”
“How many people are there on board?”
“Five. Zigami, his secretary François Petit, and a three-man crew. The company’s called MIEC.”
“What’s that stand for?”
“Mediterranean Import-Export Corporation. According to Lieutenant Garrufo-”
“Ah, so you didn’t speak with Lieutenant Belladonna?”
“No.”
“She wasn’t there?”
“No. The marshal at the entrance to the Harbor Office told me she’d been up all night…”
What? Was it possible? So even at the Harbor Office they knew that she and Mimì…? Jesus, how embarrassing!
“… due to the sudden landing of about a hundred illegal immigrants at the harbor, and she’d had to stay on duty till dawn.”
So she hadn’t spent the night at Mimì’s place! She’d never even had the chance to set foot there!
Somebody set a couple of bells ringing in his head. But it wasn’t just bells; there were also about a thousand violins. He could see Fazio’s mouth opening and closing but couldn’t hear what he was saying. Too much noise.
He shot to his feet.
“Well done, Fazio!”
Fazio, utterly flummoxed, let the inspector embrace him, wondering if his boss hadn’t suddenly lost his mind.
Then, when Montalbano finally let go of him, he ventured to ask in a thin little voice:
“So, how should we proceed?”
“We’ll deal with that later, we’ll deal with that later!”
As he was leaving, Fazio heard the inspector start singing. Then, still practically singing, Montalbano told Geremicca about the reconstructed face.
All at once he was in the grips of a gargantuan hunger.
He glanced at his watch. It was already eight-thirty. The violins had stopped playing, but the bells kept on ringing, though at a lower volume.
He got up, went out of the office, and walked by Catarella with his eyes closed, looking like a sleepwalker. Catarella got worried.
“You feel okay, Chief?”
“I feel great, Cat, great.”
So they were worried about his health? But at that moment he felt like a kid again! Twenty years old. No, better not exaggerate, Montalbà. Let’s say forty.
He got in the car and headed home to Marinella. As soon as he went inside he raced to see what was in the fridge. Nothing. Totally empty, except for a plate of olives and a little bowl of anchovies. He ran to the oven and opened it. Nothing there either. Only then did he notice a note on the kitchen table.
Sints I don feel so good coz I gotta headache I cant cook and gonna go home. My appalogies, Adelina.
No, there was no way he could get through this special night on an empty stomach. He would never be able to sleep. The only solution was to get back in the car and go to Enzo’s.
“Wha’? Adelina let you down tonight?” Enzo asked when he saw him come in.
“She wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t cook. What can you give me?”
“Whatever you like.”
He started with a seafood antipasto. Since the nunnati were crispy as can be, he ordered a second side dish of them. He continued with a generous helping of spaghetti in squid ink. And he ended with a double portion of mullet and striped bream.
When he came out, he became immediately convinced of the need for a nocturnal stroll to the lighthouse. This time he didn’t go out of his way to check on the cruiser and the yacht. The jetty was deserted. Two steamers were docked there, but they were completely in the dark. He took his walk slowly, one step at a time.
He felt at peace with himself that evening. The sea was breathing gently.
He sat down on the flat rock and fired up a cigarette.
And he concluded that as a cop, he was quite good, and as a man, he was half-assed.
Because as he was approaching the lighthouse, he’d done nothing but think about Laura and the way he’d reacted when he learned she hadn’t gone to Mimì’s place after all.
His happiness had suddenly evaporated when a thought had popped into his head-namely: And just how do you see this girl, Montalbà? You were so certain that the same person who the day before hadn’t wanted to stay alone with you because she was scared by what she was beginning to feel, was ready, the very next day, to fall inexorably into Mimì’s arms! And you were despairing over it!
How could you be so certain? It surely wasn’t because of Laura’s honest, forthright behavior with you.
And so? Wasn’t this conviction of yours based solely, perhaps, on a prejudice concerning not only Laura but the very nature of all women?
Namely, that in the end it takes very little, or nothing at all, to persuade a woman to say yes? Wasn’t this what you were thinking inside? And isn’t this actually the dick-brained mistake of someone who simply doesn’t understand women? Need proof? Just tell Laura you thought she would end up in Mimì’s bed, and see how she reacts. Punches and slaps at the very least, and a demand that you apologize.
“Laura, I’m so sorry,” he said aloud.
And he promised himself he would call her in the morning.
After smoking another cigarette, he stood up and started walking back. Halfway down the jetty he heard the sound of a patrol boat crossing the harbor. He turned around to look.
A Coast Guard patrol was shining a floodlight on a barge lingering on the water.
He could see a dark mass inside the barge. There were about thirty illegal immigrants clinging to one another, frozen and hungry.
He also saw that two powerful searchlights had been lit on the western wharf, the one where the refugees usually disembark. His colleagues from the police force must already be there with buses, ambulances, cars, and a crowd of rubberneckers.
He’d once happened, by bad luck, to get caught right in the middle of a landing of the poor wretches and since then had decided never to be present for another. Luckily his own police department was not part of the force assigned to the problem; Montelusa dealt with it directly.
Seeing them, he could tolerate those eyes bulging in fear over what they had been through and what uncertainties awaited them; he could tolerate the sight of gaunt bodies that couldn’t stand up straight, of trembling hands and silent tears, of little children whose faces became wizened and old in an instant…
What he could not tolerate was the smell. But maybe there was no smell at all; maybe it was just his imagination. But, real or not, he smelled it just the same, and it made his knees buckle and pierced his heart.
It wasn’t the smell of filth. No, it was something completely different. It arose directly from their skin, an ancient yet present, strong smell of despair, of resignation, of misfortunes and violence suffered with heads bowed.
Yes, what that heartrending smell communicated was the sorrows of the injured world, as Elio Vittorini had put it in a book he’d once read.
And yet this time, too, his footsteps, disobeying his brain, headed towards the western wharf.
When he arrived, the patrol boat had just docked. He kept a distance, however, sitting down on a bollard.
It looked like a half-silent movie. By now the people in charge knew what they had to do; there was no need to give or receive orders. One heard only sounds: car doors slamming, footsteps, ambulance sirens, vehicles driving away.
And there were the usual TV cameramen, even though there was no point in refilming a scene already too familiar. They could have easily rebroadcast the material they’d shot a month before, since it was exactly the same, and nobody would have noticed.
He waited until the spotlights suddenly went out and the darkness seemed to thicken. Then he stood up, turned his back on the three or four shadows that remained talking to each other, and headed towards his car.
All of a sudden he clearly heard some footsteps running up to him from behind.
He stopped and turned around.
It was Laura.
Without knowing how, they ended up in each other’s arms. She buried her face in his chest, and Montalbano could feel her trembling all over. They were unable to speak.
Then Laura broke free of his embrace, turned her back to him, and started running until she disappeared into the darkness.