The Safety Net Page 22

  “In the end they wrote back saying they would help me, but you’ve got to believe me, they never said anything about what they were planning to do.

  “And so I started feeling less alone, and would go to school feeling more confident. I could face the abuse better now, knowing that it would all be over soon. But I never suspected . . . The day they burst into our classroom with those masks . . . I recognized the Anonymous masks right away and felt terrified. My blood ran cold. And then they fired their guns . . . And they fired again, and again, when Salvuzzo’s dad . . . Inspector, do you really think they needed to fire their guns to protect me? . . .

  “When it was all over I went home . . . I don’t really know how I managed . . . I vomited out everything inside me and went to bed with a fever. Mamma thought it was from the scare I’d had. Then we heard on TV that Anonymous denied any involvement, which got me really worried. So who were those people? What did they want? Why did they do it? I didn’t have the courage to turn on the computer, and when I did, it made things even worse, if that was possible. I found a message from a certain Montarella, who I don’t know, who told me that they’d discovered that I was the one behind the attack on the class and that if I didn’t do what they asked, they would report me to the police. I’m sure it was the same people, and they were going to do everything possible to blackmail me and get money out of my dad. After thinking things over for a very long time I realized that the only possible course of action was to turn myself in, to come to you and tell you the whole truth. So this morning I didn’t go to school, because I wanted to enjoy a bit of freedom. That was why you found me out there on the rocks. I wanted to breathe some of that air, because soon I wouldn’t be able to anymore. And when I was out there, I kept telling myself: ‘Just five more minutes. Stay just five more minutes.’ And then you showed up . . . So, what’s gonna happen now? I know I made a mistake, and I’m ready to pay for it. Just do me one favor: Please help me to protect my mother. She’ll die when she hears I’m going to jail. You have to help me.”

  He stopped talking, his voice breaking up, and was about to start crying but managed to control himself. So Montalbano got up, went into the kitchen, and came back out to the veranda with a pitcher of water and a glass, but when he got there Luigino had gone down to the beach and was heading towards the water’s edge. The inspector stood there watching him, and at that moment an icy dagger pierced his heart. He felt as if he were rolling backwards in time, sucked back into the past. And he saw himself on the same veranda watching a boy running and hopping over the breaking waves . . . François! François, now gone. His inability to protect the youth and somehow prevent his horrible death weighed heavily on him now. At that moment he swore to himself that he would do everything in his power, whatever the cost, to keep Luigino out of the present case. He drank the water he’d intended for the boy, jumped down onto the beach, and caught up to him, and when he was beside him, he put an arm around his shoulders. Then he decided to speak.

  “Luigi, about that blackmail email. I wrote it myself.”

  Luigino broke away from his embrace, took two steps backwards, and looked at him wide-eyed.

  “You? The police? And why would you do such a horrible thing to me?”

  “Because I realized you were behind the whole thing, and I wanted to make you come out in the open.”

  Luigino said nothing, turned his back, and started walking towards the house. Montalbano followed him. During the thirty-two steps it took him to reach the veranda, his brain very quickly mapped out the path he would have to take to get Luigino out of trouble.

  “Wait for me here,” he said, refilling the glass for the boy.

  He went into his bedroom, grabbed his jacket, took out his cell phone, and called the Postal Police officer, Laura Infantino.

  “Inspector, I still haven’t been able to—”

  “Luigino’s with me, at my house,” said Montalbano, cutting her off. “Do you think you could come and join us right away? I’ll explain how to get here.”

  18

  Montalbano went back out on the veranda, but Luigino barely even noticed, so absorbed was he in reading something on his computer. He took advantage of the situation to go and get the whisky bottle and cigarettes. Then he returned and sat down beside the boy.

  Some twenty minutes went by. The doorbell rang. Montalbano went to the door. It was Officer Infantino.

  How could this woman go about trailing a red sunset behind her at all hours of the day?

  He sat her down in the dining room, sat himself down in front of her, and said:

  “Please listen to me carefully.”

  And he told her everything. When he’d finished, he asked her a precise question:

  “Do you think there’s any way that you, personally, could take the credit for having resolved the case, keeping me and, most important, Luigino out of the whole thing?”

  The young woman gave him a confused look.

  “I think I understand what you’re asking of me. But I’d like first to talk to the boy.”

  Montalbano stood up, and the woman followed him.

  Could it be that a red flash from the girl reflected off Luigino’s computer screen? Because, for the first time in almost an hour, the boy looked up and returned to the world of the living.

  “This is a friend of mine, Officer Infantino,” said Montalbano, introducing her. “And this young man is Luigino Sciarabba, also a friend of mine.”

  The young woman sat down and placed her computer beside Luigino’s.

  “Thank you, Salvo. And now the two of us need to talk.”

  The inspector went down onto the beach, determined to go for a very long walk.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, as he was returning home, he unexpectedly saw Fazio coming towards him on the beach.

  “Sorry to bother you, Chief, but I just couldn’t wait any longer. You said you’d call me, but . . . But what’s Laura Infantino doing here?”

  “I’ll explain everything later.”

  “She said they’re done and she wants to talk to you before she leaves.”

  They went back to the house.

  Before going inside, Montalbano said to Fazio:

  “You go into the dining room with Luigino now. Laura and I need to talk in private.”

  He stayed out on the veranda, and moments later, preceded by a bright red aura tending to orange, the young police officer arrived. They sat down, and Laura asked with her eyes if it was all right to take one of his cigarettes. Having earned his silent consent, she lit one, took two long drags, and began.

  “Inspector, from what I’ve learned from Luigi’s account, and from what I was able to verify on his computer, I think I can keep you and the boy out of this and track down the attackers on my own. They seem to be three hotheads, and I think they already have police records. But, before making up my mind, I’d like to speak first with Counterterrorism. I don’t think they’ll create any trouble for me, but first tell me something: Why? Why don’t you want to be involved? I realize that the boy’s a minor and all, but why don’t you want to be part of it? Why do you want to make it so that I get all the credit, which I don’t deserve?”

  “There’s a wonderful French play,” Montalbano replied, “in which Ulysses, speaking with Hector, tries to prevent the start of the Trojan War. And when Hector, in shock, asks him why, Ulysses replies, ‘Because Andromache, your wife, bats her eyelashes exactly the same way as Penelope.’”

  “And what does that mean?” the girl asked, bewildered.

  “I’m certain that if you read the play, you’ll understand,” said Montalbano.

  Laura Infantino took a few seconds to reply, then said:

  “All right. I’ll talk to Marchica. If you don’t mind, I’ll take Luigi home to his mother. That way I’ll be able to reassure her. He’s okay with it. We’re fr
iends now.”

  “Thank you,” said Montalbano.

  They both went back inside and found Fazio and Luigino playing a computer game of cops and robbers, and it was clear from the look on Fazio’s face and the curses he was muttering that he was losing. Then Laura said to Luigino:

  “Get your things ready and let’s go.”

  Luigino strapped his backpack onto his shoulders, grabbed his computer, and looked at the inspector, who held out his hand to him. Luigino shook it.

  “You were great,” said Montalbano.

  Luigino opened his arms and hugged the inspector. Then he turned his back and led the way to the door.

  * * *

  Telling the whole story of the morning in minute detail took up a good hour of the inspector’s and Fazio’s time.

  “What are you gonna do now, Chief? Come with me to the office? I can bring you back afterwards, if you like.”

  “No,” said the inspector. “I really don’t feel like it.”

  “Want me to tell Inspector Augello the whole story?”

  “Yes, but tell him that my orders are that he make no mention of it to his son, Salvuzzo.”

  “Okay,” said Fazio, waving good-bye. “See you in the morning.”

  * * *

  Left to himself, he sat down and heaved a long sigh of satisfaction.

  Then his body reacted in its usual fashion. Without warning, a wolflike hunger assailed him. He went into the kitchen and found a platter of sarde a beccafico in the oven. He set the table on the veranda, poured himself a glass of white wine, and ate so slowly that when he was done it was already dark outside.

  He cleared the table and went down to the beach to take a long walk, to lessen the effects of the dangerous sardines. But his walk itself proved dangerous, as his left foot suddenly got caught in something on the surface of the sand that nearly made him fall. He bent down and felt around, and finally pulled out a piece of plastic. What was this? He flicked on his lighter and saw a red-and-yellow net. Then he remembered. The net had been put there to protect the set when they were filming at Marinella, but the safety it provided was purely theoretical, since the people working on the shoot could easily have knocked it down. A symbolic protection, therefore.

  But how many different kinds of protection there were in this world! There was a widespread desire to feel safe from everything: from what is known, what is unknown, from what might be but is not necessarily certain to be, from those who arrive from the sea, from those who worship a different God, or from those who worship the same God but pray in a different way. And so it was always best to play it safe. And the forms of protection proliferated. Hadn’t he himself done everything possible to protect Luigino? And didn’t Luigino want to protect his mother? And yet he didn’t know whom to turn to protect himself. Hadn’t the kid said: “Inspector, do you really think they needed to fire their guns to protect me? . . .”

  In a flash, the thought of firing a gun brought back the image of the wall.

  The wall that had been filmed repeatedly for years.

  Maybe it was true that Emanuele had felt so worried about losing his brother’s protection that he had shot himself.

  He suddenly felt an overwhelming need to race home and call up Engineer Sabatello.

  “Hello, Montalbano here.”

  “What a delight to hear from you, Inspector. What is it?”

  “Could you come into the station tomorrow morning and bring those things you found?”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to leave for Palermo tomorrow and will be staying there for a few weeks.”

  Montalbano would never manage to wait that long.

  “I’m sorry, but . . . do you think I could come to your place right now?”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind driving out to Marinella. Shall I come to you?”

  “Perfect. I’ll be waiting.”

  * * *

  He’d just ended a long phone call with Livia, in which he’d told her the story of Luigino, when Sabatello arrived. Montalbano led him out onto the veranda. The engineer sat down, looked around, and heaved a long sigh.

  “You chose a nice place to live,” he said. “My compliments.”

  “Thank you,” said the inspector. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’d rather not. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  As he was saying this, he set down on the table a small bag of rough canvas that must once have been white but was now tending towards a dirty yellow.

  “This bag,” said Sabatello, “when I found it, was tied up with string wrapped several times around and knotted repeatedly at the ends, and finally sealed with a lead medallion. Apparently Papa didn’t want anyone to open it. Here’s what I found inside.”

  He stuck a hand in the sack and extracted a bullet shell, which he set down in front of Montalbano.

  “This must be the shell of the bullet with which Zio Emanuele killed himself.”

  “Sidoti told me it had never been found,” said the inspector. “How is he, by the way?”

  “The poor guy’s pretty far gone by now, I’m afraid. The doctors have given up hope. At any rate, I think Papa must have looked more carefully and finally found it . . . But it seems of no importance to me. It’s just part of his obsession with memory.”

  He then extracted a sort of large, yellowish-brown ball from the sack, made of cloth.

  “This is the kerchief with which, according to Sidoti, my father wiped away his brother’s blood. Over time the fabric has become extremely fragile, so I haven’t even tried to open it up. And the last thing is the weirdest of all.”

  He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Montalbano. On it was written: My Last Will. But the words were crossed out with a large X in blue pencil.

  The inspector extracted a small sheet of paper from the envelope and started reading:

  Vigàta, February 12, 1957

  Since the last diagnosis of my illness has turned out to be dire and I’ve been given very little time to live, I will write my final wishes in my own hand.

  Naturally all my personal possessions and property shall go to my wife, who will know how best to dispose of them. But I want the apartment I own on Via Vittorio Emanuele III, number 38, in which I have my surveyor’s office, to go to my business partner, Gennaro Luparello, so that he may continue working.

  In witness whereof,

  FRANCESCO SABATELLO

  “What’s so weird about it?” asked Montalbano.

  “What’s weird is that he saved it together with the things connected to my uncle’s suicide. Even stranger is the fact that he didn’t destroy it, because he later wrote a second will that was then carried out. I brought that, too.”

  He took this out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Montalbano.

  It was exactly the same as the one he’d just read, but for two things. The first was the date: Vigàta, May 16, 1957; the second was the addition of a codicil:

  I leave, moreover, the five hectares of land belonging to me, located in the Vannutello district, to my faithful farm manager, Gaspare Sidoti, for the trust he has always inspired in me . . .

  “Please leave these things with me,” said Montalbano.

  Without a word, Sabatello put the four items back into the little sack. He then said:

  “I’ll just smoke a cigarette and then leave you in peace. If you happen to make some sense of these things, please . . .”

  “I’ll let you know immediately,” said the inspector.

  * * *

  Since a light wind had risen, he took the little sack and moved into the dining room. After emptying it out, the first thing he did was to take the two wills and line them up one beside the other. He studied them long and hard, but what struck him most was the fact that, even in the first testament, Francesco made no mention
of his brother, Emanuele. Which didn’t really make any sense. Why would a man so attached to his brother not take the trouble to set down in black and white any instructions to assure that this invalid would be able to continue living in a manner one could call dignified? How was it possible that he hadn’t bothered to name a caretaker or chosen an assisted residence where he would have been well looked after?

  It was as if Francesco had never had a brother. Whereas, at that time, Emanuele was still alive and sleeping in the room next to his brother’s.

  And so? What was the explanation?

  The answer occurred to him at once, but he pushed it away just as quickly as it had come into his head. No, that wasn’t possible. And yet . . . why not? Why not indeed? Perhaps the two brothers had even discussed it, and Emanuele, in all likelihood, had told Francesco he didn’t think he could carry on without him. And that was the logical solution.

  Montalbano’s attention was suddenly drawn to the kerchief, rolled into a ball that Sabatello didn’t have the courage to unravel. He touched it, running his fingers lightly over it. It was clear that the fabric, corroded by time and by the blood it had absorbed, would give way if one pulled on it. Holding the ball in his hands for a moment, however, Montalbano felt like a diviner. Maybe, just maybe, if he untangled that mass he would find the solution.

  He got up, went into the kitchen, lit a burner, grabbed a cooking pot, filled it halfway with water, then put a sieve over the pot and, finally, the ball of fabric into the sieve. Surely the steam, in dampening the ball, would allow him to open it up gently. He went out on the veranda, sat down, smoked three cigarettes in a row, and, after half an hour had passed, went back into the kitchen. The ball had softened and expanded slightly. This was going to take a while. Arming himself with a bottle of whisky and another pack of cigarettes, he sat back down on the veranda. The wind had dropped, and he distracted himself by watching the lights of the fishing lamps out at sea. After another half hour had gone by, he went back into the kitchen. There’d been some progress; the ball was almost twice its original size. He touched it, but realized that it still wasn’t time. He had to be patient. He added more water to the pot and exited the kitchen. Turning on the TV, he sat down in front of it and watched a film, which he liked a lot, through to the end. Who knew why the TV folks only ever broadcast the good movies late at night. He then headed back for the kitchen, convinced he could now get down to work. After turning off the burner, he grabbed the rolled-up kerchief, now as big as a soccer ball, and set it down on the table. It took him forever to open it up, spreading it out ever so slowly with his fingertips until the ball became a perfect square. The first thing that jumped out at him was the presence of three holes that could not have been made over time because they were all identical, concentrated in only one part of the kerchief, and all in a diagonal row.