IM1 The Shape of Water (2002) Page 12

  Yes.

  Are you going to spit it out or do you need a midwife to pull the words out of your mouth?

  Well, Id sent him to the town market on an emergency, some kind of brawl, and he took off in a hurryyou know how he isand he skidded and crashed into a telephone pole. The car got towed to our depot in Montelusa and they gave us another.

  Tell me the truth, Fazio: had the tires been slashed?

  Yes.

  And did Gallo check, as I had told him a hundred times to do? Cant you clowns understand that slashing tires is the national sport in this goddamned country? Tell him hed better not show his face at the office or Ill bust his ass.

  He slammed the door to his room, furious. Searching inside a tin can in which he kept most everything from postage stamps to buttons, he found the key to the old factory and went out without saying good-bye.

  Sitting on the rotten beam near where hed found Ingrids purse, he was staring at what had previously looked like an indefinable object, a kind of coupling sleeve for pipes, but which he now easily identified: it was a neck brace, brand-new, though it had clearly been used. As if by power of suggestion, his neck started hurting again. He got up, grabbed the brace, left the old factory, and returned to headquarters.

  Inspector? This is Stefano Luparello.

  What can I do for you?

  Yesterday I told my cousin Giorgio you wanted to see him this morning at ten. Just ten minutes ago, however, my aunt, Giorgios mother, called me. I dont think Giorgio can come see you, though he had intended to do so.

  What happened?

  Im not exactly sure, but apparently he was out all night, my aunt said. He got back just a little while ago, around nine oclock, in a pitiful state.

  Excuse me, Mr. Luparello, but I believe your mother told me he sleeps at your house.

  He did, but only until my father died, then he moved back home. At our house, without Father around, he felt uneasy. Anyway, my aunt called the

  doctor, who gave him a shot of sedative. Hes in a deep sleep right now. Im very sorry for him, you know. He was probably too attached to Father.

  I understand. But if you see your cousin, tell him I really do need to talk to him. No hurry, though, nothing important, at his convenience.

  Of course. Ah, Mama, whos right next to me, tells me to give you her regards.

  And I send mine. Tell her I Your mother is an extraordinary woman, Mr. Luparello. Tell her I respect her immensely.

  I certainly shall, thank you.

  Montalbano spent one hour signing papers and a few more hours writing. They were complicated, and useless, questionnaires for the public prosecutors office. Suddenly Galluzzo, very upset, not only didnt knock, but threw open the door with such violence that it crashed against the wall.

  What the fuck! What is it?

  Montelusa headquarters just called. Counselor Rizzos been murdered. Shot. They found him next to his car, in the San Giusippuzzu district. If you want, Ill find out more.

  Forget it, Im going there myself.

  Montalbano looked at his watcheleven oclock and rushed out the door.

  Nobody answered at Saros flat. Montalbano knocked next door, and a little old lady with a belligerent face opened up.

  What is it? What you doin, botherin people like that? she said in thick dialect.

  Excuse me, signora, I was looking for Mr. and Mrs. Montaperto.

  The mister and the missus! Some mister and missus! Thems garbage people, scum!

  Relations apparently were not good between the two families.

  And who are you?

  Im a police inspector.

  The womans face lit up, and she started yelling in a tone of extreme contentedness.

  Turiddru! Turiddru! Come here, quick!

  What is it? asked a very skinny old man, appearing.

  This mans a police inspector! Doncha see I was right! Dya see who the cops are lookin for? Dya see they were nasty folk! Dya see they ran away so they wouldnt end up in jail?

  When did they leave, signora?

  Not half an hour ago. With the lil brat. You go after em right now, you might still catch em along the road.

  Thank you, signora. Im going after them right now.

  Saro, his wife, and their little son had made it.

  Along the road to Montelusa the inspector was stopped twice, first by an army patrol of Alpinists and then by another patrol of carabinieri. The worst came on the way to San Giusippuzzu, where between barricades and checkpoints it took him forty-five minutes to go less than three miles. At the scene he found the commissioner, the colonel of the carabinieri, and the entire Montelusa police department on a full day. Even Anna was there, though she pretended not to see him. Jacomuzzi was looking around, trying to find someone to tell him the whole story in minute detail. As soon as he saw Montalbano, he came running up to him.

  A textbook execution, utterly ruthless.

  How many were there?

  Just one, or at least only one fired the gun. The poor counselor left his study at six-thirty this morning. Hed picked up some documents and headed to

  ward Tabb, where he had an appointment with a client. He left the study alonethis much is certain but along the way he picked up someone he knew in the car.

  Maybe it was someone who thumbed a ride.

  Jacomuzzi burst into laughter so loud that a few people nearby turned and stared at him. Can you picture Rizzo, with all the responsibilities he has on his shoulders, blithely giving a ride to a total stranger? The guy had to beware of his own shadow! You know better than I that behind Luparello there was Rizzo. No, no, it was definitely someone he knew, a mafioso.

  A mafioso, you think?

  Id bet my life on it. The Mafia raised the pricethey always ask for moreand the politicians arent always in a position to satisfy their demands. But theres another hypothesis. He may have made a mistake, now that he felt stronger after his recent appointment. And they made him pay for it.

  Jacomuzzi, my congratulations, this morning youre particularly lucidapparently you had a good shit. How can you be so sure of what youre saying?

  By the way the guy killed him. First he kicked him in the balls, then had him kneel down, placed his gun against the back of his neck, and fired.

  Immediately a pang shot through Montalbanos neck.

  What kind of gun?

  Pasquano says that at a glance, considering the entrance and exit wounds and the fact that the barrel was practically pressed against his skin, it must have been a 7.65.

  Inspector Montalbano!

  The commissioners calling you, said Jacomuzzi, and he stole away.

  The commissioner held his hand out to Montalbano, and they exchanged smiles.

  What are you doing here?

  Actually, Mr. Commissioner, I was just leaving. I happened to be in Montelusa when I heard the news, and I came out of curiosity, pure and simple.

  See you this evening, then. Dont forget! My wife is expecting you.

  It was a conjecture,only a conjecture,and so fragile that if he had stopped a moment to consider it well, it would have quicklyevaporated.And yet hekept the accelerator pressed to the floor and even risked being shot at as he drove through a roadblock. When he got to Capo Massaria, he bolted out of the car without even bothering to turn off the engine,leaving the door wide open, easily opened the gate and the front door of the

  house, and raced into the bedroom. The pistol in the drawer of the bedside table was gone. He cursed himself violently. Hed been an idiot: after discovering the weapon on his first visit,he had been back to the house twice with Ingrid and hadnt bothered to check if the gun was still in its place, not once, not even when hed found the gate open and had set his own mind at rest, convinced that it was he whod forgotten to shut it.

  And now Im going to dawdle a bit, he thought as soon as he got home. He liked the verb dawdle, tambasiare in Sicilian, which meant poking about from room to room without a precise goal, preferably doing pointless things. Which he did
: he rearranged his books, put his desk in order, straightened a drawing on the wall, cleaned the gas burners on the stove. He was dawdling. He had no appetite, had not gone to the restaurant, hadnt even opened the refrigerator to see what Adelina had prepared for him.

  Upon entering, he had as usual turned on the television. The first item on the TeleVig news gave the details surrounding the murder of Counselor Rizzo. Only the details, because the initial announcement of the event had already been given in an emergency broadcast. The newsman had no doubt about

  it, Rizzo had been ruthlessly murdered by the Mafia, which became frightened when the deceased had recently risen to a position of great political responsibility from which he could better carry on the struggle against organized crime. For this was the watchword of the political renewal: all-out war against the Mafia. Even Nicolto, having rushed back from Palermo, spoke of the Mafia on the Free Channel, but he did so in such contorted fashion that it was impossible to understand anything he said. Between the lines indeed, between the wordsMontalbano sensed that Zito thought it had actually been a brutal settling of scores but wouldnt say so openly, fearing yet another lawsuit among the hundreds he already had pending against him. Finally Montalbano got tired of all the empty chatter, turned off the television, closed the shutters to keep the daylight out, threw himself down on the bed, still dressed, and curled up. What he wanted to do now was accuttufarsianother verb he liked, which meant at once to be beaten up and to withdraw from human society. At that moment, for Montalbano, both meanings were more than applicable.

  15

  More than a new recipe for baby octopus, the dish invented by Signora Elisa, the commissioners wife, seemed to Montalbanos palate a truly divine inspiration. He served himself an abundant second helping,but when he saw that this one,too,was coming to an end,he slowed down the rhythm of his chewing, to prolong, however briefly, the pleasure that delicacy afforded him. Signora Elisa watched him happily; like all good cooks, she took delight in the expressions that formed on the faces of her table companions as they tasted one of her creations. And Montalbano, because he had such an expressive face, was one of her favorite dinner guests.

  Thank you very, very much, the inspector said to her at the end of the meal, sighing. The purpiteddri had worked a sort of partial miraclepartial because while it was true that Montalbano now felt at peace with man and God, it was also true that he still did not feel very pacified in his own regard.

  When the meal was over, the signora cleared the table and knowingly put a bottle of Chivas on the table for the inspector and a bottle of bitters for her husband.

  Ill let you two talk about your murder victims, the real ones; Im going into the living room to watch the pretend murders, which I prefer.

  It was a ritual they repeated at least twice a month. Montalbano was fond of the commissioner and his wife, and that fondness was amply repaid in kind by both. The commissioner was a refined, cultured, reserved man, almost a figure from another age.

  They talked about the disastrous political situation, the unknown dangers the growing unemployment held in store for the country, the shaky, crumbling state of law and order. Then the commissioner asked a direct question.

  Can you tell me why you havent yet closed the Luparello investigation? I got a worried phone call from Lo Bianco today.

  Was he angry?

  No, only worried, as I said. Perplexed, rather. He cant understand why youre dragging things out so much. And I cant either, to tell you the truth. Look, Montalbano, you know me and you know that I

  would never presume to pressure one of my officers to

  settle something one way or another.

  Of course.

  So if Im here asking you this, its out of personal curiosity, understood? Im speaking to my friend Montalbano, mind you. To a friend whom I know to possess an intelligence, an acumen, and, most important, a courtesy in human relations quite rare nowadays.

  Thank you, sir, Ill be honest with you. I think you deserve as much. What seemed suspicious to me from the start of the whole affair was the place where the body was found. It was inconsistent, blatantly inconsistent, with the personality and lifestyle of Luparello, a sensible,prudent,ambitious man. I asked myself: why did he do it? Why did he go all the way to the Pasture for a sexual encounter,putting his life and his public image in danger? I couldnt come up with an answer. You see, sir, it was as if, in all due proportion, the president of the Republic had died of a heart attack while dancing to rock music at a third-rate disco.

  The commissioner raised a hand to stop him.

  Your comparison doesnt really work, he observed with a smile that wasnt a smile. We recently had a minister go wild on the dance floor of third- and worse-rate nightclubs, and he didnt die...

  The unfortunately he was clearly about to add disappeared on the tip of his tongue.

  But the fact remains, Montalbano insisted. And this first impression was abundantly confirmed for me by the engineers widow.

  So youve met her? Quite a mind, that lady.

  It was she who sought me out, after you had spoken well of me. In our conversation yesterday she told me her husband had a pied-erre at Capo Massaria and gave me the keys. So what reason would he have to go risk exposure at a place like the Pasture?

  I have asked myself the same question.

  Let us assume for a moment, for the sake of argument, that he did go there, that he let himself be talked into it by a woman with tremendous powers of persuasion. A woman not from the place, who took an absolutely impassable route to get him there. Bear in mind that its the woman whos driving.

  The road was impassable, you say?

  Yes. And not only do I have exact testimony to back this up, but I also had my sergeant take that route, and I took it myself. So the car is actually driven down the dry bed of the Canneto, ruining the suspension. When it comes to a stop, almost inside a big shrub in the Pasture, the woman immediately mounts the man beside her, and they begin making love. And it is dur

  ing this act that Luparello suffers the misfortune that kills him. The woman, however, does not scream, does not call for help. Cool as a cucumber, she walks slowly down the path that leads to the provincial road, gets into a car that has pulled up, and disappears.

  Its all very strange, youre right. Did the woman ask for a ride?

  Apparently not, and youve hit the nail on the head. And I have yet another testimony to this effect. The car that pulled up did so in a hurry, with its door actually open. In other words, the driver knew whom he was supposed to encounter and pick up without wasting any time.

  Excuse me, Inspector, but did you get sworn statements for all these testimonies?

  No, there wasnt any reason. See, one thing is certain: Luparello died of natural causes. Officially speaking, I have no reason to be investigating.

  Well, if things are as you say, there is, for example, the failure to assist a person in danger.

  Do you agree with me that thats nonsense?

  Yes.

  Well, thats as far as Id gone when Signora Luparello pointed out something very essential to me, that is, that her husband, when he died, had his underwear on backwards.

  Wait a minute, said the commissioner, lets slow down. How did the signora know that her husbands underwear was on backwards, if indeed it was? As far as I know, she wasnt there at the scene, and she wasnt present at the crime labs examinations.

  Montalbano became worried. He had spoken impulsively, not realizing he had to avoid implicating Jacomuzzi, who he was sure had given the widow the photos. But there was no turning back.

  The signora got hold of the crime-lab photos. I dont know how.

  I think I do, said the commissioner, frowning.

  She examined them carefully with a magnifying glass and showed them to me. She was right.

  And based on this detail she formed an opinion?

  Of course. Its based on the assumption that although her husband, when getting dressed in the morning, might by chance
have put them on backwards, inevitably over the course of the day he would have noticed, since he took diuretics and had to urinate frequently. Therefore, on the basis of this hypothesis, the signora believes that Luparello must have been caught in some sort of embarrassing situation, to say the least, at which point he was forced to put his clothes back on in a hurry and go to the Pasture,

  wherein the signoras opinion, of coursehe was to be compromised in some irreparable way, so that he would have to retire from political life. But theres more.

  Dont spare me any details.

  The two street cleaners who found the body, before calling the police, felt duty-bound to inform Counselor Rizzo, who they knew was Luparellos alter ego. Well, Rizzo not only showed no surprise, dismay, shock, alarm, or worry, he actually told the two to report the incident at once.

  How do you know this? Had you tapped the phone line? the commissioner asked, aghast.

  No, no phone taps. One of the street cleaners faithfully transcribed the brief exchange. He did it for reasons too complicated to go into here.

  Was he contemplating blackmail?

  No, he was contemplating the way a play is written. Believe me, he had no intention whatsoever of committing a crime. And this is where we come to the heart of the matter: Rizzo.

  Wait a minute. I was determined to find a way this evening to scold you again. For wanting always to complicate simple matters. Surely youve read Sciascias Candido. Do you remember that at a certain point the protagonist asserts that it is possible that

  things are almost always simple? I merely wanted to remind you of this.

  Yes, but, you see, Candido says almost always, he doesnt say always. He allows for exceptions. And Luparellos case is one of those where things were set up to appear simple.

  When in fact they are complicated?

  Very complicated. And speaking of Candido, do you remember the subtitle?

  Of course: A Dream Dreamed in Sicily.

  Exactly, whereas we are dealing with a nightmare of sorts. Let me venture a hypothesis that will be very difficult to confirm now that Rizzo has been murdered. On Sunday evening, around seven, Luparello phones his wife to tell her hell be home very latehe has an important political meeting. In fact, he goes to his little house on Capo Massaria for a lovers tryst. And Ill tell you right away that any eventual investigation as to the person who was with Luparello would prove rather difficult, because the engineer was ambidextrous.