IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002) Read online

  She stopped, took a sip of coffee, and continued.

  She was brave, very brave. In the shelter, when the bombs were falling and we were trembling and crying from fear, it was she who gave us courage and consoled us. But to do what she did, she needed twice that much courage, to defy her father and run out under a hail of bullets, to come all the way here and make love to someone who wasnt even her official lover. Back then we were different from todays seventeen-year-olds.

  Signora Angelinas monologue was interrupted by the return of her husband, who seemed restless.

  I couldnt find Burruano, he wasnt home. Come, Inspector, lets go.

  To look for Burruano?

  No, no, Ive just had an idea. If were lucky, and Ive guessed right, Ill donate forty thousand lire to San Calogero on his next feast day.

  San Calogero was a black saint revered by the townsfolk.

  If youve guessed right, Ill throw in another fifty myself, said Montalbano, caught up in the old mans enthusiasm.

  Think you could tell me where youre going?

  Ill tell you later, the headmaster said to his wife.

  And leave me here in the lurch? the woman insisted.

  Burgio, frantic, was already out the door. Montalbano bowed down to her.

  Ill keep you informed of everything.

  How the hell did I forget La Pacinotti? the headmaster muttered to himself as soon as they were in the street.

  Whos she? Montalbano asked. He imagined her fifty- ish and stubby. Burgio didnt answer. Montalbano asked another question.

  Should we take the car? Are we going far?

  Far? Its right around the corner.

  Would you explain to me who this Pacinotti woman is?

  Woman? She was a ship, a mother ship that would repair any damage the warships sustained. She anchored in the port towards the end of 1940 and never moved. Her crew was made up of sailors who were also mechanics, carpenters, electricians, plumbers...They were all kids. And because the ship was there for so long, many of them became like family and ended up seeming like townfolk. They made friends, and they also took girlfriends. Two of them married local girls. One of them has since died, name was Tripcovich; the others name is Marin and he owns the repair garage in Piazza Garibaldi.You know him?

  Hes my mechanic, the inspector said, bitterly thinking he was about to resume his journey through the old folks memories.

  A fiftyish man in filthy overalls, fat and surly, said nothing to the inspector and attacked Headmaster Burgio.

  Why are you wasting your time coming here? Its not ready yet. I told you the work would take a long time.

  I didnt come for the car. Is your father here?

  Of course hes here. Where else would he be? Hes here busting my balls, telling me I dont know how to work, that the mechanical geniuses in his family are him and his grandson.

  A twentyish lad, also in overalls, whod been looking under a car hood, stood up and greeted the two men with a smile. Montalbano and Burgio walked across the garage, which must have originally been a warehouse, and came to a kind of partition made of wooden boards.

  Inside, behind a desk, was Antonio Marin.

  I overheard everything, he said. And if arthritis hadnt messed me up, I could teach that one a thing or two.

  We need some information.

  What do you need to know, Inspector?

  Its better if I let Headmaster Burgio tell you.

  Do you remember how many crew members of the Pacinotti were killed or wounded or declared missing in combat?

  We were lucky, the old man said, growing animated. Apparently he liked talking about that heroic time; at home they probably told him to shut up whenever he started in on

  the subject. We had one dead from bomb shrapnel, name was Arturo Rebellato; and one wounded, also from shrapnel, and his name was Silvio Destefano; and one missing, Mario Cunich. We were all very close, you know; most of us hailed from up north,Venice,Trieste...

  Missing at sea? asked the inspector.

  What sea? We were moored in the harbor the whole time. We practically became an extension of the wharf.

  Then why was he declared missing?

  Because the evening of July the seventh, 1943, he never returned to ship. The bombing had been heavy that afternoon, and he was out on a pass. Cunich was from Monfalcone, and he had a friend from the same town who was also my friend, Stefano Premuda. Well, the next morning Premuda forced the whole crew to go looking for Cunich. We spent the entire day going from house to house asking after him, to no avail. We went to the military hospital, the civilian hospital, we went to the place where they collected all the dead bodies found under the rubble . . . Nothing. Even the officers joined in the search, since some time before that theyd been given advance notice, a kind of warning, that in the coming days we were going to have to weigh anchor... We never did, though; the Americans arrived first.

  Couldnt he have simply deserted?

  Cunich? Never! He believed in the war. He was a Fascist. A good kid, but a Fascist. And he was smitten.

  What do you mean?

  Smitten, in love. With a girl from here. Like me, actually. He said that as soon as the war was over, he was going to get married.

  And you never had any news of him again?

  Well, when the Americans landed, they decided that a repair ship like ours, which was a jewel, suited them just fine. So they kept us in service, in Italian uniform, but they gave us an armband to wear on our sleeves to avoid any misunderstandings. So Cunich had all the time in the world to return to ship, but he never did. He just disappeared. I stayed in touch with Premuda afterward, and now and then Id ask him if hed heard from Cunich or had any news of him... Nothing, not a word.

  You said you knew Cunich had a girlfriend here. Did you ever meet her?

  Never.

  One more thing needed to be asked, but Montalbano stopped, and with a glance he let Burgio have the honor.

  Did he at least tell you her name? the headmaster asked, accepting Montalbanos generous offer.

  Well, Cunich was very reserved. But he did tell me once that her name was Lisetta.

  What happened? Did an angel pass, did time stop? Montalbano and Burgio froze, and the inspector grabbed his side. He felt a violent pain, while the headmaster brought his hand to his heart and leaned against a car to keep from falling. Marin became terrified.

  What did I say? My God, what did I say?

  Immediately outside the garage, the headmaster started shout

  ing cheerfully:

  We guessed right!

  And he traced a few dance steps. Two passersby, who knew him as a pensive, somber man, stopped in shock. Having got it out of his system, Burgio turned serious again.

  Dont forget we promised San Calogero fifty thousand lire a head.

  I wont forget.

  Do you know San Calogero?

  I havent missed the annual celebration since I moved to Vig.

  That doesnt mean you know him. San Calogero is someone whohow shall I say?who doesnt let things slide. Im telling you this for your own good.

  Are you joking?

  Absolutely not. Hes a vengeful saint, and it doesnt take much to get his dander up. If you make him a promise, you have to keep it. If you, for example, get in a car crash and narrowly escape with your life, and you make a promise to the saint which you dont keep, you can bet your last lira youre going to get in another accident and lose your legs at the very least. Get the idea?

  Perfectly.

  Lets go home now, so you can tell my wife the whole story.

  So I can tell her?

  Yes, because I dont want to give her the satisfaction of hearing me say she was right.

  To summarize, said Montalbano, things may have gone as follows.

  He was enjoying this investigation in slippers, in a home from another age, over a cup of coffee.

  The sailor Mario Cunich, who became a kind of local boy around Vig, fell in love with Lisetta Moscato, who loved hi
m too. How they managed to meet and talk to each other, God only knows.

  Ive given it a lot of thought, said Signora Angelina. There was a periodI think it was from 42 until March or April of 43when her father had to go far away from Vig on business. They could have fallen in love then, and they would certainly have had plenty of opportunities to spend time together in secret.

  They did fall in love, that much we know, resumed Montalbano. Then her fathers return again prevented them from seeing each other. Soon the evacuation also came between them. So when news came of his imminent departure...Lisetta escaped, she came here, she met Cunich, but we dont know where. The sailor, so he could have as much time as possible with Lisetta, didnt return to ship. And at some point, they were murdered in their sleep. So far, everything clicks.

  Clicks? asked Angelina, taken aback.

  Im sorry, I merely meant that thus far, our reconstruction makes sense. The person who killed them may have been a jilted lover, or even Lisettas father, who may have caught them together and felt dishonored. We may never know.

  What do you mean, we may never know? said Angelina. Arent you interested in finding out who murdered those two poor kids?

  He didnt have the heart to tell her that he didnt care that much about the killer himself. What really intrigued him was why someone, perhaps even the killer, had taken it upon himself to move the bodies into the cave and set up that scene with the bowl, the jug, and the terra-cotta dog.

  Before going back home he stopped at a grocery store and bought two hundred grams of peppered cheese and a loaf of durum wheat bread. He got these provisions because he was sure he wouldnt find Livia at the house. And indeed she wasnt there; everything was the same as when hed left to see the Burgios.

  He didnt have time to set the bag of groceries on the table when the phone rang. It was the commissioner.

  Montalbano, I thought I should tell you that Undersecretary Licalzi called me today, wanting to know why I hadnt yet put in a request for your promotion.

  But what the hell does that man want from me, anyway?

  I took the liberty of inventing a story of love, something mysterious, I said, left unstated, between the lines... He took the bait; apparently hes a passionate reader of pulp romances. But he did settle the matter. He told me to write to him and ask that you be given a substantial bonus. So I wrote the request and sent it. You want to hear it?

  Spare me.

  Too bad. I thought Id written a little masterpiece.

  Montalbano set the table and cut a thick slice of bread before the telephone rang again. It wasnt Livia, as he had hoped, but Fazio.

  Chief, Ive been working all bleeding day for you. This Stefano Moscato wasnt the kind of guy youd want to sit down to dinner with.

  A mafioso?

  Really and truly mafioso, I dont think so. But he was certainly violent. Various convictions for brawling, violence, and assault. They dont seem like Mafia offenses to me; a mafioso doesnt get himself convicted for stupid shit.

  Whats the date of the last conviction?

  Nineteen eighty-one, if Im not mistaken. With one foot in the grave he still busted some guys head with a chair.

  Do you know if he did any time in jail in 42 and 43?

  Sure did. Assault and battery. From March 42 to April 43 he was in Palermo, at Ucciardone prison.

  The news from Fazio greatly enhanced the flavor of the peppered cheese, which was already no joking matter all by itself.

  21

  Galluzzos brother-in-law opened his news program with the story of a grisly bombing, clearly bearing the Mafias signature, on the outskirts of Catania. A well-known and respected businessman from that city, Corrado Brancato, owner of a large warehouse that supplied supermarkets around the island, had decided to treat himself to an afternoon of rest in a small house he owned just outside of town. After turning the key in the lock, he had, for all intents and purposes, opened the door onto nothingness: a horrific explosion, triggered by an ingenious device linking the door to an explosive charge, literally pulverized the house, the businessman, and his wife, Giuseppa nTagliafico. Investigations, the newsman added, were proving difficult, since Mr. Brancato had a clean record and did not appear to be in any way involved with the Mafia.

  Montalbano turned off the television and started whistling Schuberts Eighth, the Unfinished. It came out splendidly, he didnt miss a note.

  He dialed Mimugellos number. Surely his second-in- command would know more about this most recent development. There was no answer.

  When hed finally finished eating, Montalbano made every trace of the meal disappear, carefully washing even the glass from which hed drunk three gulps of wine. He undressed and was about to get into bed when he heard a vehicle pull up, followed by some voices, a car door shutting, and the car driving away. Very quickly, he slipped under the covers, turned off the light, and pretended to be sleeping deeply. He heard the front door open and close, then Livias footsteps, which came to a sudden halt. Montalbano realized shed stopped in the bedroom doorway and was staring at him.

  Stop clowning around.

  Montalbano gave in and turned on the light.

  How did you know I was faking?

  From your breathing. Do you know how you breathe when youre asleep? No. I do.

  Whereve you been?

  To Eraclea Minoa and Selinunte.

  By yourself ?

  Mr. Inspector, Ill tell you everything, Ill confess, just drop this third degree, for Christs sake! I went with Mim Augello.

  Montalbanos face turned ugly, and he pointed a threatening finger.

  Im warning you, Livia: Augello already moved into my desk once. I dont want him moving into anything else of mine.

  Livia stiffened.

  Im pretending I dont understand. Its better for both

  of us. But, in any case, Im not some piece of property of

  yours, you asshole of a Sicilian.

  All right, Im sorry.

  They kept arguing a good while, even after Livia got undressed and came to bed. As for Mimhowever, Montalbano was determined not to let him get away with this. He got up.

  Now where are you going?

  To give Mim ring.

  Leave the guy in peace. He would never dream of doing anything that might offend you.

  Hello, MimMontalbano here. Oh, you just got in? Good. No, no, dont worry, Livias just fine. She thanks you for the wonderful time she had with you today. And I, too, want to thank you. Oh, by the way, Mimdid you know that Corrado Brancato was blown up today in Catania? No, Im not kidding, they said so on TV. You havent heard anything? What do you mean, you havent heard anything? Oh, of course, you were out all day. And our colleagues in Catania were probably looking for you over land and sea. And no doubt the commissioner, too, was wondering what had become of you. Well, what can you do. Try to patch it up, I guess. Good night, MimSleep tight.

  To say youre a real piece of shit is putting it mildly, said Livia.

  All right, said Montalbano. It was three oclock in the morning. I admit its all my fault, that when Im here I get

  all wrapped up in my thoughts and act as if you didnt exist.

  Im too accustomed to being alone. Lets go away.

  And where will you leave your head? asked Livia.

  What does that mean?

  It means youre going to have to bring your head with you, along with everything inside it. And therefore, inevitably, youll keep thinking about your own concerns even if were a thousand miles away.

  I promise Ill empty my head out before we leave.

  And where will we go?

  Since Livia had clearly caught the archaeological- touristic bug, he thought it wise to play along.

  Youve never seen the island of Mozia, have you? Tell you what: this very morning, around eleven, well leave for Mazara del Vallo. Ive got a friend there, Assistant Commissioner Valente, whom I havent seen in a long time. From there well head on to Marsala and eventually to Mozia. Then, when we get back to Vig, w
ell plan another tour.

  They made peace.

  Giulia, Assistant Commissioner Valentes wife, was not only the same age as Livia, but also a native of the Genoa suburb of Sestri. The two women took an immediate liking to each other. Montalbano took a bit less of a liking to Giulia, owing to the shamefully overcooked pasta, a beef stew conceived by an obviously deranged mind, and dishwater coffee of a sort that even airline crews wouldnt foist on anyone. At

  the end of this so-called lunch, Giulia suggested to Livia that the two of them stay home and go out later; Montalbano accompanied his friend to the office. There, awaiting the assistant commissioner, was a fortyish man with long sideburns and a sun-baked Sicilian face.

  Every day, its something else! Im sorry, Mr. Commissioner, but I need to talk to you. Its very important.

  Inspector, let me introduce Farid Rahman, a friend of mine from Tunis, said Valente. Then, turning to Rahman: Will it take long?

  Fifteen minutes at the most.

  Ill go visit the Arab quarter, said Montalbano.

  If youll wait for me, Farid Rahman interjected, Id be delighted to be your guide.

  I have an idea, suggested Valente. I know my wife doesnt know how to make coffee. Piazza Mokarta is three blocks from here. Go and sit at the cafhere and have yourself a decent cup. Farid will come and pick you up.

  He didnt order the coffee immediately. First he went to work on a hefty, fragrant dish of pasta al forno that lifted him out of the gloom into which the culinary art of Signora Giulia had plunged him. By the time Rahman arrived, Montalbano had already done away with all trace of the pasta and had only an innocent, empty demitasse of coffee in front of him. They headed off to the Arab quarter.

  How many of you are there in Mazara?

  Were now more than a third of the local population.

  Have there been many incidents between the Arabs and the Mazarese?

  No, very few, practically nothing compared to other cities. I think were sort of a historical memory for the Mazarese, almost a genetic fact. Were family. Al-Imam al- Mazari, the founder of the Maghrebin juridical school, was born in Mazara, as was the philologist Ibn al-Birr, who was expelled from the city in 1068 because he liked wine too much. But the basic fact is that the Mazarese are seafaring people. And the man of the sea has a great deal of common sense; he understands what it means to have ones feet on the ground. And speaking of the sea: did you know that the motor trawlers around here have mixed crews, half Sicilian, half Tunisian?