The Dance of the Seagull im-15

  The Dance of the Seagull

  ( Inspector Montalbano - 15 )

  Andrea Camilleri

  The latest from the New York Times bestselling author of The Potter's Field, winner of the Crime Writers' Association's International Dagger Award, and *The Age of Doubt*

  With Inspector Montalbano's most recent outings hitting the New York Times bestseller list, Andrea Camilleri's darkly refined Italian mysteries have become favorites of American crime novel fans. This latest installment finds Montalbano in search of his missing right-hand man.

  Before leaving for vacation with Livia, Montalbano witnesses a seagull doing an odd dance on the beach outside his home, when the bird suddenly drops dead. Stopping in at his office for a quick check before heading off, he notices that Fazio is nowhere to be found and soon learns that he was last seen on the docks, secretly working on a case. Montalbano sets out to find him and discovers that the seagull's dance of death may provide the key to understanding a macabre world of sadism, extortion, and murder.

  A PENGUIN MYSTERY

  THE DANCE OF THE SEAGULL

  ANDREA CAMILLERI

  Translated by Stephen Sartarelli

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  1

  At about five-thirty in the morning, he could no longer stand lying in bed with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

  This was something that had started with the onset of old age. Normally, after midnight, he would lie down, read for half an hour, and as soon as his eyelids began to droop, he would close the book, turn off the lamp on the bedside table, get into the right position—which was always on his right side, knees bent, right hand open, palm up, on the pillow, cheek resting on his hand—close his eyes, and fall immediately asleep.

  Often he was lucky enough to sleep through till morning, all in one stretch, but on other nights, such as the one that had just ended, he would wake up for no reason, after barely a couple of hours of sleep, unable for the life of him to fall back asleep.

  Once, on the verge of despair, he’d got up and guzzled half a bottle of whisky in the hope that it would put him to sleep. The upshot, though, was that he showed up at headquarters at dawn, completely drunk.

  He got up and went to open the French door leading onto the veranda.

  The dawning day was a thing of beauty. All polished and clean, it looked like a just-painted picture, the paint still wet.

  The surf, however, was a little rougher than usual.

  He went outside and shuddered from the cold. It was already mid-May. Normally it would be almost as hot as in the summer, whereas it still felt like March.

  And it looked as if the day would go to the dogs by late morning. To the right, behind Monte Russello, a few black clouds were already gathering slowly.

  He went inside, into the kitchen, and made coffee. Drinking the first cup, he went into the bathroom. He came out all dressed, poured a second cup of coffee, and went out onto the veranda to drink it.

  “Up bright an’ early this mornin’, Inspector!”

  Montalbano raised a hand in greeting.

  It was Signor Puccio, pushing his boat into the water. He then climbed aboard and started to row, heading for the open sea.

  For how many years had Montalbano watched him go through the same motions?

  He lost himself gazing at a seagull in flight.

  Nowadays one didn’t see many seagulls anymore. They’d moved into town, go figure. And there were hundreds even in Montelusa, a good six miles from the shore. It was as if the birds had grown tired of the sea and were staying away from the water. Why were they reduced to foraging through urban refuse for food instead of feasting on the fresh fish in the sea? Why did they now stoop to squabbling with rats over a rotten fish head? Had they abased themselves on purpose, or had something changed in the natural order?

  All at once the gull folded its wings and started to dive straight down towards the beach. What had it seen? But when its beak touched the sand, instead of rising back up in the air with its prey, it crumpled and turned into a motionless pile of feathers lightly fluttering in the early morning wind. Maybe it had been shot, though the inspector hadn’t heard any sound of gunshots. What kind of imbecile would go and shoot a seagull, anyway? The bird, which lay about twenty yards from the veranda, was most certainly dead. But then, with Montalbano still looking on, it sort of shuddered, pulled itself up, staggering to its feet, leaned entirely to one side, opened only one wing, the one closer to the sand, and started spinning around, with the tip of its wing inscribing a circle, its beak pointed upwards towards the heavens unnaturally, its neck all twisted out of shape. What was it doing? Dancing? It was dancing and singing. Actually, no, it wasn’t singing, the sound coming out of its beak was hoarse, desperate, as if it were crying for help. And every so often, still turning round and round, it stretched its neck rather unnaturally upwards, waving its beak back and forth, like an arm and a hand trying to place something at a higher point but not managing to reach it.

  In a flash Montalbano jumped down onto the beach and pulled up a step away from the bird. It showed no sign of even having seen him, but immediately its spinning motion became more uncertain and unsteady. Finally, after making a very shrill noise that sounded human, the bird staggered, as the wing gave out from under it, and it collapsed to one side and died.

  It danced to its own death, the inspector thought, shaken by what he’d just seen.

  But he didn’t want to leave the bird to the dogs and ants. Picking it up by the wings, he brought it to the veranda, then went into the kitchen to get a plastic bag. He put the bird in the bag and ballasted the package with two heavy stones he kept around the house as ornaments, then took off his shoes, trousers, and shirt, and went onto the beach in his underpants and into the water until it was up to his neck. Then he spun the bag over his head and hurled it as far out to sea as he could.

  When he went back into the house to dry himself off, he was livid with cold. To warm up, he made another pot of coffee and drank it scalding hot.

  As he was driving towards the Palermo airport at Punta Raisi, his thoughts returned to the seagull he’d seen dancing and dying. For no real reason he’d always had the impression that birds were eternal, and whenever he happened to see a dead one he felt mildly wonderstruck, as if he were looking at something that should never have happened. He was almost positive that the gull he’d watched die had not been shot. Almost positive, that is, because it was possible that it had been struck by a single pellet of birdshot that didn’t draw a drop of blood but was enough to kill it. Did seagulls always die like that, performing that sort of heartbreaking dance? He couldn’t get the image of its death out of his head.

  Entering the airport, he looked up at the electronic arrivals board and had the nice and predictable surprise that the flight was running over an hour late.

  How could you go wrong? Was there anything whatsoever in Italy that left or arrived at the scheduled time?

  The trains ran late, the planes did too, the ferries required the hand of God to put out to sea, the mail we won’t even mention, the buses would actually get lost in traffic, public works projects were usually off by five to ten years, any law whatsoever took years before it passed, trials in the courts were backed up, and even television programs always started a good half hour after the scheduled time . . .

  Whenever Montalbano started to think about these things his blood would boil. But he really didn’t want to be in a bad mood when Livia arrived. He had to find some distraction to make the extra hour pass.

  The morning drive had whetted his appetite a little. Strange, since he never ate any breakfast. He went into the airport bar, where there was a line as long a
s at the post office on pension-check days. At last his turn came.

  “A coffee and a cornetto, please.”

  “No cornetti.”

  “You’re already out?”

  “No. The delivery’s late today. We should have ’em in half an hour or so.”

  Even the cornetti ran late!

  He drank his coffee with a heavy heart, bought a newspaper, sat down, and began to read. All idle chatter and hot air.

  The government chattered, the opposition chattered, the church chattered, the Manufacturers’ Association chattered, the trade unions chattered, and there was a welter of chatter about a famous couple who had split up, a photographer who had photographed something he wasn’t supposed to, the richest, most powerful man in the country whose wife had written him a public letter chastising him for things he’d said to another woman, and endless chatter and natter about stonemasons falling like ripe pears from scaffolds, illegal aliens drowning at sea, retirees with barely enough rags to cover their asses, and little children being raped.

  The papers chattered everywhere and always about every problem in existence, but always idly, without the chatter ever leading to any sort of understanding or concrete action . . .

  Montalbano decided then and there that Article 1 of the Italian Constitution needed to be revised to the following: “Italy is a republic founded on drug dealing, systematic lateness, and useless chatter.”

  Disgusted, he tossed the newspaper into a trash bin, stood up, went out of the airport, and fired up a cigarette. And he saw seagulls flying very near the shore. At once the seagull he’d seen dance and die came back to him.

  Since there was still another half hour before the flight got in, he retraced the incoming path he’d taken with the car until he was a few yards from the rocks and the water. And he stood there, relishing the scent of algae and brine and watching the birds pursue one another.

  Then he went back to the airport. Livia’s plane had just landed.

  She appeared before him, beautiful and smiling. They hugged each other tight and kissed. They hadn’t seen each other for three months.

  “Shall we go?”

  “I have to get my suitcase.”

  The luggage, naturally, arrived an hour late amidst yells, curses, and protests. But they were lucky it hadn’t been sent on to Bombay or Tanzania.

  As they were driving back to Vigàta, Livia said:

  “I reserved the hotel room in Ragusa for tonight, you know.”

  The plan they’d made beforehand was to travel around for three days in the Val di Noto and visit the Sicilian Baroque towns there, which Livia had never seen before.

  But it hadn’t been an easy decision.

  “Listen, Salvo,” Livia had said over the phone a week earlier. “I’ve got four days off. What do you say I come down and we spend a little quiet time together?”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “I was thinking we could even do a little tour of Sicily, maybe to an area I’m not familiar with.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea. Especially since there’s not much to do at the station these days. Do you know where you’d like to go?”

  “Yes. To the Val di Noto. I’ve never been there before.”

  Damn! How did she get it in her head to go there of all places?

  “Well, it’s certainly a remarkable place, I’ll grant you that, but believe me, there are other places that—”

  “No, I want to go to Noto, in particular. I’m told the cathedral is a pure marvel. Then we could push on to, I dunno, Modica, Ragusa, Scicli . . .”

  “Nice itinerary, no doubt about it. But . . .”

  “What, don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

  “Well, in a general sense, sure, I think it’s a great idea, absolutely. But we should probably inform ourselves first.”

  “Inform ourselves of what?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want them to be shooting.”

  “What are you talking about? Shooting what?”

  “I wouldn’t want to run into a film crew shooting an episode of that television series right as we’re walking around there . . . They film them around there, you know.”

  “What the hell do you care?”

  “What do you mean, what the hell do I care? And what if I find myself face to face with the actor who plays me? . . . What’s his name—Zingarelli . . .”

  “His name’s Zingaretti, stop pretending you don’t know. Zingarelli’s a dictionary. But I repeat: What do you care? How can you still have these childish complexes at your age?”

  “What’s age got to do with it?”

  “Anyway, he doesn’t look the least bit like you.”

  “That’s true.”

  “He’s a lot younger than you.”

  Enough of this bullshit about age! Livia was obsessed!

  Montalbano felt offended. What the hell did youth and age have to do with any of this?

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Anyway, as far as that goes, the guy’s totally bald, whereas I’ve got more hair than I know what to do with!”

  “Come on, Salvo, let’s not fight.”

  And so, to avoid a quarrel, he’d let himself be talked into it.

  “I’m well aware that you reserved a room. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you’ll have to come home from the office no later than four o’clock for us to make it there.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’ve only got a few documents to sign.”

  Livia laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Salvo. You say that as if this were the first time you—”

  She broke off.

  “Come on, finish your sentence. The first time I what?”

  “Never mind. Have you packed a suitcase at least?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, great! It’s going to take you two hours to pack, and at your normal cruising speed we’ll be lucky to get to Ragusa before ten o’clock!”

  “Ah, ‘my cruising speed’! Aren’t we witty today! How long does it take to pack a suitcase? I’ll do mine in half an hour!”

  “Should I start packing it myself?”

  “For heaven’s sake, no!”

  The one time he’d let her pack his bags, he’d found himself on the island of Elba with one brown shoe and one black.

  “What’s that ‘for heaven’s sake’ supposed to mean?” Livia asked, sounding irritated.

  “Nothing,” he said, having no desire to quarrel.

  After a few minutes of silence, Montalbano asked:

  “Tell me something. Do seagulls die in Boccadasse?”

  Livia, who’d been staring at the road in front of her as though still resentful over the business of the suitcase, turned towards him with a look of astonishment and said nothing.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? I simply asked you if seagulls die in Boccadasse.”

  Livia kept staring at him without saying anything.

  “Would you please answer me? Do they or don’t they?”

  “But don’t you think that’s a stupid question?”

  “Can’t you just answer me without assigning an intelligence quotient to my question?”

  “I think they probably die in Boccadasse like anywhere else.”

  “And have you ever seen one die?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so? It’s not a matter of faith, you know. You’ve either seen one or you haven’t! You can’t go wrong!”

  “Don’t raise your voice. I’ve never seen one! Happy now? I’ve never seen one!”

  “Now you’re the one who’s yelling!”

  “But why do you ask me questions like that? You seem so strange this morning! Are you feeling all right?”

  “I feel great! I feel like a god, goddammit! Jesus motherfucking Christ, do I feel good! I’ve never felt better in all my life!”

  “Don’t use obscenities and don’t—”


  “I’ll speak however I want, okay?”

  Livia didn’t reply, and he fell silent. Neither of them said another word.

  But how was it that they never failed to squabble over the slightest thing? And how was it that it never passed through either of their heads to draw the logical conclusion of the situation, which was to shake hands and break up once and for all?

  They both remained silent for the rest of the drive back to Marinella.

  Once home, instead of leaving at once for headquarters, Montalbano felt like taking a shower. Maybe it would wash away the agitation that had come over him after quarreling with Livia in the car. She, however, had locked herself in the bathroom upon arrival.

  He took off all his clothes and tapped discreetly at the door.

  “What do you want?”

  “Hurry up, I want to take a shower.”

  “Just wait. I’m going to take one first.”

  “Come on, Livia, I have to go to the office!”

  “But you said all you have to do is sign some papers!”

  “All right, but don’t forget that I’ve just made a round trip, Vigàta–Palermo, to go pick you up! I need to take a shower!”

  “And haven’t I just come all the way from Genoa? Isn’t that a little farther? So I get to go first!”

  So now she’s counting the miles?

  He cursed the saints, looked for a bathing suit, put it on, and went down to the beach.

  Although the sun was high in the sky by now, the sand under his feet was cool.

  The instant he got in the water, the cold nearly gave him a heart attack. The only solution was to start swimming at once, and vigorously. After a good fifteen minutes of breaststrokes, he started floating on the surface.

  In the sky there wasn’t a bird to be seen anywhere, not for all the money in the world. As he lay there with his mouth open, a few drops of seawater slid down his face and into his mouth, between his palate and tongue. It tasted strange.

  He took a bit of water into his hand and brought it to his mouth. There was no doubt about it: the sea didn’t taste the way it used to. It seemed to lack salt, and tasted bitter and nasty, like stale mineral water. Maybe that was why the seagulls . . . But then why did the mullets he feasted on at the trattoria still have the same delightful fragrance they’d always had?