The Dance of the Seagull Page 9

  “Then come to my office immediately after you go to see him.”

  “But the hospital’s in Fiacca!”

  “Wait a second! Fiacca is not in your territorial jurisdiction! Why did you take him there?”

  “Because we found Fazio not far from the outskirts of—”

  “Found? What do you mean you ‘found’ Fazio?”

  “Mr. Commissioner, sir, it’s a very complicated story.”

  “Then you can explain it all to me tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.”

  Jeez, what a pain in the ass! He had to come up with another lie, quick.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I can’t make it at nine.”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  Montalbano lowered his voice and assumed a conspiratorial tone.

  “It’s a very private matter, you see, and I wouldn’t want anyone—”

  “Postpone it!”

  “I can’t, sir, believe me, I really can’t! You see, Dr. Gruntz is coming all the way from Zurich.”

  “And who is this doctor?”

  “He’s the top specialist in the field.”

  “What field?”

  That, indeed, was the question. In what goddamned field might a Swiss named Gruntz be the top specialist? Better glide over it. Muddy the waters a little more. He didn’t answer the question directly.

  “He’s coming straight to my house at nine-thirty, to perform a double Scrockson on me, the effects of which—as I’m sure you know—can last from three up to five hours. And so I’ll have to lie still in bed for that time. But I could definitely come to see you in the afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry, but what did you say Dr. Gruntz is coming to do?” the commissioner asked, apparently impressed.

  “The double Scrockson.”

  “And what’s its purpose?”

  What indeed could be the purpose of something with such a highfalutin name? Montalbano blurted out the first whopper that came into his head.

  “What, you mean you don’t know? It’s a Western adaptation of a procedure practiced by Indian yogis. It involves inserting a plastic tube into the anus, which is then expertly, painstakingly maneuvered so that it comes out of—”

  “That’s quite enough, thank you! I’ll expect you tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock,” Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi interrupted him.

  When he got back home to Marinella, the only sun left was a reddish strip of sky on the horizon over the sea. The surf was panting softly. No sign of any birds. His conversation with the commissioner had whetted an appetite that hadn’t existed before he picked up the phone. Maybe it was the desire for a kind of compensation. He’d once read that in antiquity, after a plague epidemic had ended, people would eat and fuck like there was no tomorrow. But could he really liken Bonetti-Alderighi to a plague epidemic? Well, maybe not the plague, but cholera, yes, sort of.

  Opening the refrigerator, he felt as if he was looking at a great discovery, some sort of vast treasure buried by pirates. Adelina had gone overboard cooking for him. The works: eggplant parmesan, pasta and sausage, caponata, eggplant dumplings, caciocavallo di Ragusa, and passuluna olives. Apparently there wasn’t any fresh fish at the market. He set the table on the veranda, and as the eggplant parmesan and pasta were warming up, he drank two glasses of cold white wine to Fazio’s health. When he got up to phone Livia, a good three hours had passed since he’d first sat down.

  He slept badly.

  As he was about to leave for Fiacca at eight-thirty the following morning, it occurred to him that at his normal cruising speed, as Livia so irritatingly called it, by the time he got to the hospital, Fazio was liable to be already discharged. So he called the police station.

  “Ahh, what izzit, Chief? Ahh? Wha’ happened?” asked Catarella, immediately alarmed.

  “Nothing’s happened, Cat. Calm down. I just want you to tell Gallo to come and pick me up in Marinella and take me to Fiacca.”

  “Straightaways, Chief.”

  But the truth of the matter was that he just didn’t feel like driving. He was too agitated. His curiosity to know what Fazio had to tell him was eating him alive. It had come over him the moment he’d lain down in bed and hadn’t left him since. Indeed he’d spent practically the whole night forming hypotheses and conjectures, all without the slightest foundation.

  About ten minutes later he heard the siren of the squad car approaching at high speed. Imagine Gallo missing a chance to race around with the siren on!

  He always watched Gallo closely when sitting beside him during drives where they had to get somewhere fast. Gallo at the wheel seemed loose and relaxed; he was an excellent driver, and clearly it gave him a great deal of pleasure. At certain moments, perhaps without realizing it, he would start murmuring the words to a little children’s song: La beddra Betta / cu ’na quasetta . . . And so Montalbano realized that when at the wheel of a wildly speeding car, Gallo lost at least thirty years of age and became a little kid again.

  “Did you have your own little car with pedals when you were a kid?” the inspector asked him as they were leaving for Fiacca.

  Gallo gave him a confused look.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I dunno, just to make conversation.”

  “No, sir, I never did. I always wanted one, but my father couldn’t ever afford to buy me one.”

  Maybe that was why . . . But then he suddenly felt embarrassed at the thought that had come into his mind. Which was that Gallo’s passion for driving fast was a compensation for what he’d missed as a child. American movie stuff, like when they tell you that someone became a bank robber because his father had denied him a pizza when he was five.

  In his younger days, such thoughts would never even have grazed the surface of his mind. Apparently with age, even the brain slackens, like the muscles and skin . . . His eye fell on the speedometer: 170 kilometers per hour.

  “Don’t you think you’re going a little fast?”

  “Want me to slow down?”

  He was about to say yes, but he wanted to get there and talk to Fazio as soon as possible.

  “No, but be careful. I don’t want to end up in a body cast in the bed next to Fazio’s.”

  The inspector was in the habit of getting lost in hospitals. And to think that he did everything possible to avoid the problem. Not only would he get precise instructions upon entering as to which elevator to take, which floor to get off at, which ward to visit, but . . . It was hopeless. In the brief distance traveled between the information desk and the elevator area, he would completely forget everything he’d been told. And so, once inside elevator A instead of elevator B, he would inevitably end up in the neurosurgery ward when he was supposed to go to the accident ward. And then began a veritable via crucis to find the right ward. He would go down the wrong corridors, open doors exposing bare-assed patients, and have endless insults heaped upon him . . .

  This time, too, the tradition was maintained. In short, after he’d been wandering the hallways for about half an hour, lost and covered in sweat, a nurse of about thirty, tall and blond with blue-green eyes and long legs like one of those unreal nurses one sees in hospital dramas, crossed paths with him for the second time and, noticing he looked unhappier than ever, like an orphan from Burundi, took pity on him and asked:

  “Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there.”

  In his mind Montalbano prayed that the Good Lord, after granting her the title in the worldwide Miss Nurse contest, would throw open the pearly gates for her when she died. The young woman left him outside the door to Fazio’s room, which was closed.

  He knocked discreetly, but nobody answered. Already agitated, he broke out in a
cold sweat. Maybe they’d changed his room?

  So how was he going to figure out where they’d moved him to? Perhaps it was best to have a look first, and see if the room was actually empty. As he was reaching for the doorknob like a burglar trying not to make a sound, the door was suddenly opened from the inside, and Fazio’s wife appeared.

  “Let’s talk outside,” she whispered to him, closing the door behind her.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Montalbano, worried.

  The woman had two dark circles under her eyes, and the inspector thought he saw more white hair on her head than the last time he’d seen her.

  “I just wanted to let you know that my husband didn’t have a good sleep last night. He had nightmares. The doctor said he shouldn’t talk to you for more than five minutes. I’m so sorry, Inspector, but—”

  “That’s all right, signora, I understand. Don’t worry, I won’t tire him out, I promise.”

  At this point a dwarflike nurse materialized next to Fazio’s wife and, without saying hello, cast a malevolent glance at the inspector and then looked at her watch.

  “You have exactly five minutes, starting now.”

  What was this, a race against the clock?

  Signora Fazio opened the door for him, then slowly closed it behind him. She understood that the inspector wanted to be alone when talking to her husband. What a great woman!

  Fazio was either sleeping or keeping his eyes closed. The only part of his body not under the sheet was his head, which looked like that of a pilot from the early days of aviation, when they used to wear a kind of leather cap that covered the neck and ears as well, leaving only the face uncovered. The only difference was that Fazio’s head covering was made of gauze.

  To Montalbano it looked as if the visible part of his face between the cheekbones and mouth had changed, with the skin resting directly on the bone and no more flesh in between. Maybe it was the effect of the bandaging. Beside the head of the bed was a metal chair, which Montalbano quietly sat down in. What to do now? Wake him up or let him sleep? His curiosity was strong, but he overcame it out of affection for Fazio. Even if the investigation was held up for a day, no harm would be done. At that moment, Fazio opened his eyes, looked at him, and recognized him.

  “Chief . . .” he said in a weary, faraway voice that nevertheless had a note of happiness in it.

  “Hi,” said Montalbano, touched.

  And he took into his own the hand that Fazio had meanwhile pulled out from under the sheet. They remained that way for a few moments, not saying anything, each enjoying the other’s warmth. Then Fazio spoke.

  “I still don’t remember too good.”

  “You can tell me everything when it all comes back to you. There’s no hurry.”

  But Fazio wasn’t ready to give up.

  “Some guy I used to know started callin’ me on the phone . . . used to be a ballet dancer when he was young . . . We went to elementary school together . . .”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t remember . . .”

  A sort of flash went off in Montalbano’s head. He hesitated a moment, then blurted out a name at random.

  “Manzella?”

  The inspector clearly saw Fazio give a start in surprise.

  “Yes, sir! That’s him! Damn, are you good, Chief!”

  “And what did he want from you?”

  Fazio closed his eyes. It was like a signal, because at that moment the door opened and the dwarf came in.

  “Conversation’s over.”

  Not even in Sing-Sing could the prison guards be so severe and ball-busting.

  “Are you sure your watch is right?” the inspector asked.

  “Down to the split second. Out!”

  He got up and started walking ever so slowly on purpose, just to anger the nurse. When he was in front of her, he asked:

  “When can I come back?”

  “Visitors are allowed every afternoon from four to seven P.M.”

  “And how much time will you give me?

  “Another five minutes.”

  “Could we make that ten?”

  “Seven.”

  Oh, well, better than nothing.

  Signora Fazio was out in the hallway, leaning against the wall.

  “Couldn’t you ask them to give you a chair?”

  “It’s not allowed. But I’m going back in now. Did you manage to talk a little with him?”

  “Yes, but not much. He seemed very weak.”

  “The doctors say there’s nothing to worry about, that he’s getting better by the hour. When are you coming back?”

  “This afternoon at four.”

  When he reached the end of the corridor, he had a choice between going right or left. He stopped, doubtful. Which direction had he come from? He thought he remembered arriving from the left. So he went down that corridor, which not only was endless, but every single door on the ward was closed. Halfway down, he saw an elevator. Should he take it or not? He had no choice, since the architect who’d built the hospital had forgotten to put any staircases in it. The doors opened, he went in and immediately noticed that the panel of buttons was missing the letter T, which meant ground floor. There were only three numbers, in fact: 4, 5, and 6. It must have been a service elevator that went only to those three floors. Meanwhile the door had closed again, and so he pressed button 5. His heart sank at the thought that he would have to struggle again before he found the way out. The elevator stopped, the door opened, and before him stood the same nurse who had shown him the way to Fazio’s room. She must have understood right away that he was lost again, and Montalbano had to suppress the urge to embrace her.

  “Tell me frankly: are you my guardian angel?” he asked her, stepping out of the elevator.

  “Certainly not, but I’ll do my best to help anyway.”

  “Would you show me to the exit?”

  “The best I can do is to show you to the right elevator.”

  “Thank you. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, if I may?”

  “Angela.”

  “You see? I was right.”

  “And you?”

  “Salvo. Salvo Montalbano. I’m a police inspector.”

  “Oh, great!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A police inspector getting lost inside a hospital?”

  “It happens to me all the time. Listen, Angela, I have to come back this afternoon at four o’clock. Will you still be here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you do me a favor?”

  “That depends.”

  “Could you wait for me at the entrance?”

  “Is this a date?”

  “No, just a desperate cry for help.”

  Angela started laughing, and didn’t say yes or no.

  “How’s Fazio?” Gallo asked as the inspector was getting in the car.

  “He’s a little weak, but he’s actually fine. We’ll be coming back this afternoon at four, so I want you to be ready at the station by two-thirty. But for now, no speeding, I mean it.”

  “What do you mean? It was okay on the way here but not on the way back?”

  “No arguments, Gallo. Just do as I say. Actually, give Catarella a buzz and tell him to tell everyone that I went to see Fazio and that he’s doing well. That way, when we get back, nobody will come and bug me for information.”

  “Okay, Chief, here’s the situation,” said Galluzzo, sitting down and pulling a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Vigàta has two pedicurists and one corn-and-callus specialist, and—”

  “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “No, sir, they’re not. The Foot Boutique, which is one of the pedicure salons, has one sixty-year-old client
, whose name I wrote down right here, with the address. The other shop, called One Foot in Paradise, doesn’t have any male customers.”

  “And what about the corn-and-callus specialist?”

  “He’s got four clients around sixty, whose names and addresses I also took down.”

  “Have you been to Montelusa yet?”

  “Yesterday I wasted a good bit of time waiting for another callus specialist who was out plying his trade. I’m going back now.”

  “All right. Send me Inspector Augello, and leave that sheet of paper with me.”

  Montalbano showed Mimì the sheet as soon as he came in. Augello took it but didn’t look at it.

  “Did you talk to Fazio?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Hardly anything at all. He said that a guy by the name of Manzella, a former dancer he’s known since elementary school, had contacted him.”

  “Wha’d he want?”

  “He wasn’t able to tell me. Too weak. They broke up our meeting. I’m going back this afternoon at four.”

  Mimì decided to look at the sheet of paper.

  “Take my advice, go to the Boutique. I’ve been there a few times myself,” he said.

  “Mimì, I’m not asking you to recommend a pedicurist to me. See that name written next to The Foot Boutique, and the other four written beside the name of the callus specialist? I want you to look up those five clients and talk to them.”

  Augello balked.

  “Why?”

  “Because Pasquano said that the first body we found at the well had very well-manicured feet.”

  “Maybe he did his own pedicures at home.”

  “And maybe not. If all five of these men are still alive, so much the better for them, and so much the worse for me. But if one of them’s been missing for the past week, then we need to start investigating who he was and what he did. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “Best of luck.”

  Now came the hardest part. He reviewed in his mind what he intended to say. He even recited one sentence—the most important—aloud, to hear how it sounded. When he felt properly ready, he reached out, picked up the receiver, and dialed Mr. C’mishner’s number.