IM4 The Voice of the Violin (2003)

  The Voice of the Violin

  Andrea Camilleri

  Translated by Stephen Sartarelli

  Andrea Camilleri is one of Italy's most famous contemporary writers. His Montalbano series has been adapted for Italian television and translated into nine languages. He lives in Rome-Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator. He is also the author of three books of poetry, most recently The Open Vault, He lives in France.

  PICADOR

  First published 2001 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. New York

  This edition first published in Great Britain 2005 by Picador

  First published in paperback 2006 by Picador an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London ni 9r.r Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world www.pamnacmjllan.com

  isbn-ij: 978-0-330-49199-7 isbn-io: 0-330-49299-3

  Copyright O Seilerio editore 1997 Translation copyright (c) Stephen Sartarelli 2003

  The right of Andrea Camillcri to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  135798642

  A QP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset by SetSystems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex Printed and bound in Great Britain by Madcays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Praise for the Montalbano series

  'The novels of Andrea Camilleri breathe out the sense of place, the sense of humour, and the sense of despair that fills the air of Sicily. To read him is to be taken to that glorious, tortured island' Donna Leon

  'Both farcical and endearing, Montalbano is a cross between Columbo and Chandler's Philip Marlowe, with the added culinary idiosyncrasies of an Italian Maigret... The smells, colours and landscapes of Sicily come to life' Guardian

  'Sly and witty ... Montalbano must pick his way through a labyrinth of corruption, false clues, vendettas -- and delicious meals. The result is funny and intriguing with a fluent translation by New York poet Stephen Sartarelli' Observer

  'Delightful... funny and ebulliently atmospheric' The Times

  'This savagely funny police procedural proves that sardonic laughter is a sound that translates ever so smoothly into English' New York Times Book Review

  'Camilleri is as crafty and charming a writer as his protagonist is an investigator' Washington Post

  'Wit and delicacy and the fast-cut timing of farce play across the surface ... the persistent, often sexually bemused Montalbano, moving with ease along zigzags created for him, teasing out threads of discrepancy that unravel the whole' Houston Chronicle

  'Montalbano's deadpan drollery and sharp observations refresh as much for their honesty as their wit. All he wants is a quiet corner and an uninterrupted afternoon; what reader feels otherwise?' Kirkus Reviews

  'Camilleri writes with such vigour and wit that he deserves a place alongside Michael Dibdin and Donna Leon, with the additional advantage of conveying an insider's sense of authenticity' Sunday Times

  'Stephen Sartarelli's translation from the idiosyncratic Sicilian dialect savours the earthy idiom and pungent characterizations that Camilleri uses to cushion the impact of his story' New York Times

  'Quirky characters, crisp dialogue, bright storytelling -- and Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging protagonists in detective fiction' USA Today

  'The charm lies in the vivid portrayal of the small Sicilian town in which Montalbano works and lives and in the endearing personality of the detective' Sunday Telegraph

  ONE

  Inspector Salvo Montalbano could immediately tell that it was not going to be his day the moment he opened the shutters of his bedroom window. It was still night, at least an hour before sunrise, but the darkness was already lifting, enough to reveal a sky covered by heavy rain clouds and, beyond the light strip of beach, a sea that looked like a Pekingese dog. Ever since a tiny dog of that breed, all decked out in ribbons, had bitten painfully into his calf after a furious fit of hacking that passed for barking, Montalbano saw the sea this way whenever it was whipped up by crisp, cold gusts into thousands of little waves capped by ridiculous plumes of froth. His mood darkened, especially considering that an unpleasant obligation awaited him that morning. He had to attend a funeral.

  The previous evening, finding some fresh anchovies cooked by Adelina, his houskeeper, in the fridge, he'd dressed them in a great deal of lemon juice, olive oil and freshly ground black pepper, and wolfed them down. And he'd relished them, until it was all spoiled by a telephone call.

  filo, Chief? Izzatchoo onna line?'

  'It's really me, Cat. You can go ahead and talk.'

  At the station they'd given Catarella the job of answering the phone, mistakenly thinking he could do less damage there than anywhere else. After getting mightily pissed off a few times, Montalbano had come to realize that the only way to talk to him within tolerable limits of nonsense was to use the same language as he.

  'Beckin' pardon, Chief, for the 'sturbance.'

  Uh-oh. He was begging pardon for the disturbance. Montalbano pricked up his ears. Whenever Catarella's speech became ceremonious, it meant there was no small matter at hand.

  'Get to the point, Cat.'

  'Tree days ago somebody aks for you, Chief, wanted a talk t' you in poisson, but you wasn't 'ere an' I forgotta reference it to you.'

  'Where were they calling from?'

  'From Florida, Chief

  Montalbano was literally overcome with terror. In a flash he saw himself in a sweatsuit jogging alongside fearless, athletic American narcotics agents working with him on a complicated investigation into drug trafficking.

  'Tell me something. What language did you speak with them?'

  'What langwitch was I asposta speak? We spoke 'Talian, Chief'

  'Did they tell you what they wanted?'

  'Sure, they tol' me everyting about one ting. They said as how Vice Commissioner Tamburrano's wife was dead.'

  Montalbano breathed a sigh of relief, he couldn't help it. They'd called not from Florida, but from police headquarters in the town of Floridia near Siracusa. Caterina Tamburrano had been gravely ill for some time, and the news was not a complete surprise to him.

  'Chief, izzat still you there?'

  'Still me, Cat, I haven't changed.'

  'They also said the obsequious was gonna be on Tursday morning at nine o'clock.'

  'Thursday? You mean tomorrow morning?'

  'Yeah, Chief.'

  He was too good a friend of Michele Tamburrano not to go to the funeral That way he could make up for not having even phoned to express his condolences. Floridia was about a three-and-a-half-hour drive from Vigata.

  'Listen, Cat, my car's in the garage. I need a squad car at my place, in Marinella, at five o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. Tell Inspector Augello I'll be out of the office until early afternoon. Got that?'

  He emerged from the shower, skin red as
a lobster. To counteract the chill he felt at the sight of the sea, he'd made the water too hot. As he started shaving, he heard the squad car arrive. Indeed, who, within a ten-kilometre radius, hadn't heard it? It rocketed into the drive at supersonic speed, braked with a scream, firing bursts of gravel in every direction, then followed this display with a roar of the racing engine, a harrowing shift of gears, a shrill screech of skidding tyres, and another explosion of gravel. The driver had executed an evasive manoeuvre, turning the car completely round.

  When Montalbano stepped out of the house ready to leave, he saw Gallo, the station's official driver, rejoicing.

  'Look at that' Chief! Look at them tracks.' What a -manoeuvre! A perfect one-eighty!'

  'Congratulations,' Montalbano said gloomily.

  'Should I put on the siren?' Gallo asked as they were about to set out.

  'Put it in your arse,' said a surly Montalbano, closing his eyes. He didn't feel like talking.

  Gallo, who suffered from the Indianapolis Complex, stepped on the accelerator as soon as he saw his superior's eyes shut, reaching a speed he thought better suited to his driving ability. They'd been on the road barely fifteen minutes when the crash occurred. At the scream of the brakes, Montalbano opened his eyes but saw nothing, head lurching violently forward before being jerked back by the safety belt. Next came a deafening clang of metal against metal, then silence again, a fairy-tale silence, with birds singing and dogs barking.

  'You hurt?' the inspector asked Gallo, seeing him rub his chest

  'No.You?'

  'Nothing. What happened?'

  'A chicken ran in front of me.'

  'I've never seen a chicken run in front of a car before. Let's look at the damage.'

  They got out. There wasn't a soul about. The long skid marks were etched into the tarmac Right at the spot where they began, you could see a small, dark stain. Gallo went up to it, then turned triumphantly around.

  'What did I tell you?' he said to the inspector. It was a chicken!'

  A clear case of suicide. The car they had slammed into, smashing up its entire rear end, must have been legally parked at the side of the road, though now it was sticking out slightly. It was a bottle-green Renault Twingo, positioned so as to block a unpaved drive leading to a two-storey house with shuttered windows and doors some thirty metres away. The squad car, for its part, had a shattered headlight and a crumpled right bumper.

  'So now what do we do?' Gallo asked dejectedly.

  'We're going to go on. Will the car run, in your opinion?'

  'I'll give it a try.'

  Reversing with a great clatter of metal, the squad car dislodged itself from the other vehicle. Nobody came to the windows of the house. They must have been fast asleep, dead to the world. The Twingo had to belong to someone in there, since there were no other homes in the immediate area. As Gallo was trying with his bare hands to bend out the bumper, which was scraping against the tyre, Montalbano wrote down the phone number of the Vigata police headquarters on a piece of paper and slipped this under the Twingo's windscreen wiper.

  When it's not your day, it's not your day. After they'd been back on the road for half an hour or so, Gallo started rubbing his chest again, and from time to time he twisted his face in a grimace of pain.

  'I'll drive' said the inspector. Gallo didn't protest.

  When they were outside the town of Fela, Montalbano, instead of continuing along the main road, turned onto the road that led to the centre of town. Gallo paid no attention, eyes closed and head resting against the window.

  'Where are we?' he asked, as soon as he felt the car come to a halt.

  We're at Fela Hospital Get out.' 'But it's nothing, Inspector!' 'Get out. I want them to have a look at you.' 'Well, just leave me here and keep going. You can pick . me up on the way back.'

  'Cut the shit. Let's go.'

  Between auscultations, three blood pressure exams, X-rays, and everything else in the book, it took them over three hours to have a look at Gallo. In the end they ruled that he hadn't broken anything; the pain he felt was from having bumped hard into the steering wheel, and the weakness was a natural reaction to the fright he'd had.

  'So now what do we do?' Gallo asked again, more dejected than ever.

  'What do you think? We keep going. But I'll drive.'

  The inspector had been to Floridia three or four times before. He even remembered where Tamburrano lived, and so he headed towards the Church of the Madonna delle Grazie, which was practically next door to his colleague's house. When they reached the square, he saw the church hung with black and a throng of people hurrying inside. The service must have started late. Apparently he wasn't the only one to have things go wrong.

  'I'll take the car to the police garage in town and have them look at it,' said Gallo. I'll come and pick you up afterwards.'

  Montalbano entered the crowded church. The service had just begun. He looked around and recognized no one. Tamburrano must have been in the first row, near the coffin in front of the main altar. The inspector decided to remain where he was, near the entrance. He would shake

  Tamburrano's hand when the coffin was being carried out of the church. When the priest finally opened his mouth after the Mass had been going on for some time; Montalbano gave a start. He'd heard right, he was sure of it.

  The priest had begun with the words, 'Our dearly beloved Nicola has left this vale of tears

  Mustering up the courage, he tapped a little old lady on the shoulder.

  'Excuse me, signora, whose funeral is this?'

  'The dear departed Ragioniere Pecoraro. Why?'

  'I thought it was for the Signora Tamburrano.'

  'Ah, no, that one was at the Church of Sant' Anna.'

  It took him almost fifteen minutes to get to the church of Sant' Anna, practically running the whole way. Panting and sweaty, he found the priest in the deserted nave.

  'I beg your pardon. Where's the funeral of Signora Tamburrano?'

  'That ended almost two hours ago,' said the priest, looking him over sternly.

  'Do you know if she's being buried here?' Montalbano asked, avoiding the priest's gaze..

  'Most certainly not. When the service was over, she was taken in the hearse to Vibo Valentia, where she'll be entombed in the family vault. Her bereaved husband followed behind in his car.'

  So it had all been for naught. He had noticed, in the Piazza della Madonna delle Grazie, a cafe with tables outside. When Gallo returned, with the car repaired as well as could be expected, it was almost two o'clock. Montalbano told him what happened.

  'So now what do we do?' Gallo asked for the third time, lost in an abyss of dejection.

  'You're going to eat a brioche with a granita di caffe, which they make very well here, and then we'll head home. With the Good Lord's help and the Blessed Virgin's company, we should be back in Vigata by evening.'

  Their prayer was answered, the drive home smooth as silk.

  'The car's still there' said Gallo when Vigata was already visible in the distance.

  The Twingo was exactly the way they'd left it that morning, sticking slightly out from the top of the unpaved drive.

  'They've probably already called headquarters,' said Montalbano.

  He was bullshitting: the look of the car and the house with its shuttered windows made him uneasy. .

  'Turn back' he suddenly ordered Gallo.

  Gallo made a reckless U-turn that triggered a chorus of horn blasts. When they reached the Twingo, he executed another, even more reckless, then pulled up behind the damaged car.

  Montalbano stepped out in a hurry. What he thought he'd just seen in the rear-view mirror, when passing by, turned out to be true: the scrap of paper with the telephone number was still under the windscreen wiper. Nobody'd touched it.

  'I don't like it,' the inspector said to Gallo, who was now standing next to him. He started walking down the drive. The house must have been recently built; the grass in front was still burned from the lime
. There was also a stack of new tiles in a corner of the yard. Montalbano carefully examined the shuttered windows. No light was filtering out.

  He went up to the front door and rang the doorbell He waited a short while, then rang again. 'Do you know whose house this is?' 'No, Chief.'