Voice of the Violin Read online

  Naturally, Montalbano did not take it. He chose instead to cut across the island, and thus found himself, from the start, traveling roads along which the few surviving peasants interrupted their labors to gaze in amazement at the car passing recklessly by. They would talk about it at home in the evening with their children:

  “Know what? This mornin’ a car drove by!”

  This, however, was the Sicily the inspector liked best: harsh, spare in vegetation, on whose soil it seemed (and was) impossible to live, and where he could still run across, though more and more rarely, a man in gaiters and cap, rifle on shoulder, who would raise two fingers to his visor and salute him from the back of a mule.

  The sky was clear and bright and openly declared its determination to remain so until evening. It was almost hot. But the open windows did not prevent the interior of the car from becoming permeated with the delightful aromas filtering out of the packages large and small literally stuffed into the backseat. Before leaving, Montalbano had stopped by the Caffè Albanese, which made the best pastries in all of Vigàta, and bought twenty cannoli, fresh out of the oven, ten kilos’ worth of tetù, taralli, viscotti regina, and Palermitan mostaccioli—all long-lasting cookies—as well as some marzipan fruits, and, to crown it all, a colorful cassata that weighed five kilos all by itself.

  He arrived in the early afternoon and figured that the journey had taken him more than four hours. The big farmhouse looked empty to him; only the smoking chimney said that there was someone at home. He tooted his horn, and a moment later Franca, Mimì’s sister, appeared in the doorway. She was a blond Sicilian over forty, a strong, tall woman. She eyed the car, which she didn’t recognize, as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  “I’m Montalbano,” said the inspector, opening the car door and getting out.

  Franca ran up to him with a big smile on her face and embraced him.

  “Where’s Mimì?”

  “At the last minute he couldn’t come. He felt really bad about it.”

  Franca looked at him. Montalbano was unable to tell a lie to people he respected; he would stammer, blush, and look away.

  “I’m going to call Mimì,” Franca said decisively, walking back into the house. By some miracle Montalbano managed to load himself up with all the packages, big and small, and followed her inside a few minutes later.

  Franca was just hanging up.

  “He’s still got a headache.”

  “Reassured now? Believe me, it was nothing,” said the inspector, unloading the packages onto the table.

  “And what’s this?” said Franca. “Are you trying to turn this place into a pastry shop?”

  She put the sweets in the fridge.

  “How are you, Salvo?”

  “Fine. And how’s everybody here?”

  “We’re all fine, thank God. And you won’t believe François. He’s shot right up, getting taller by the day.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Out and about. But when I ring the bell for lunch, they’ll all come running. Are you staying the night with us? I prepared a room for you.”

  “Thanks, Franca, but you know I can’t. I have to leave by five at the latest. I can’t be like your brother and race along these roads like a madman.”

  “Go on and wash up, then.”

  He returned fifteen minutes later, refreshed. Franca was setting the table for ten people. The inspector decided this was perhaps the right moment.

  “Mimì said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Later, later,” Franca said brusquely. “Hungry?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Want a little wheat bread? I took it out of the oven less than an hour ago. Shall I prepare you some?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she cut two slices from a loaf, dressed them in olive oil, salt, and black pepper, adding a slice of pecorino cheese, put this all together to form a sandwich, and handed it to him.

  Montalbano went outside, sat down on a bench next to the door, and, at first bite, felt forty years younger. He was a little kid again. This was bread the way his grandmother used to make it for him.

  It was meant to be eaten in the sun, while thinking of nothing, only relishing being in harmony with one’s body, the earth, and the smell of the grass. A moment later he heard shouting and saw three children chasing after each other, pushing and trying to trip one another. They were Giuseppe, nine years old, his brother, Domenico, namesake of his uncle Mimì and the same age as François, and François himself.

  The inspector gazed at him, wonderstruck. He’d become the tallest of the lot, the most energetic and pugnacious. How the devil had he managed to undergo such a metamorphosis in the two short months since the inspector had last seen him?

  Montalbano ran over to him, arms open wide. François, recognizing him, stopped at once as his companions turned and headed towards the house. Montalbano squatted down, arms still open.

  “Hi, François.”

  The child broke into a sprint, swerving around him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  The inspector watched him disappear into the house. What was going on? Why had he read no joy in the little boy’s eyes? Montalbano tried to console himself; maybe it was some kind of childish resentment; François probably felt neglected by him.

  At the two ends of the table sat the inspector and Aldo Gagliardo, Franca’s husband, a man of few words who was as hale and hearty as his name. To Montalbano’s right sat Franca, followed by the three children. François was the farthest away, sitting next to Aldo. To his left were three youths around twenty years of age, Mario, Giacomo, and Ernst. The first two were university students who earned their daily bread working in the fields; the third was a German passing through who told Montalbano he hoped to stay another three months. The lunch, consisting of pasta with sausage sauce and a second course of grilled sausage, went rather quickly. Aldo and his three helpers were in a hurry to get back to work. They all pounced on the sweets the inspector had brought. Then, at a nod of the head from Aldo, they got up and went out.

  “Let me make you another coffee,” said Franca. Montalbano felt uneasy. He’d seen Aldo exchange a fleeting glance of understanding with his wife before leaving. Franca served the coffee and sat down in front of the inspector.

  “It’s a serious matter,” she began.

  At that exact moment François came back in with a resolute expression on his face, hands clenched in fists at his sides. He stopped in front of Montalbano, looked at him long and hard in the eye, and said in a quavering voice:

  “You’re not going to take me away from my brothers.”

  Then he turned and ran out. It was a heavy blow. Montalbano felt his mouth go dry. He said the first thing that came into his head, and unfortunately it was something stupid.

  “His Italian’s gotten so good!”

  “What I was going to say, well, the boy just said it,” said Franca. “And, mind you, both Aldo and I have done nothing but talk to him about Livia and you, and how eventually he’s going to live with the two of you, and how much you all love each other, and how much more you’ll all love each other one day. But there was nothing doing. The idea entered his head without warning one night about a month ago. I was sleeping, and then I felt something touch my arm. It was him.

  “‘You feel sick?’

  “‘No.’

  “‘Then what’s wrong?’

  “‘I’m afraid.’

  “‘Afraid of what?’

  “‘That Salvo’s going to come and take me away.’

  “And every now and then, when he’s playing, when he’s eating, the thought will pop into his head, and he’ll turn all gloomy and even start misbehaving.”

  Franca kept on talking, but Montalbano was no longer listening. He was lost in a memory from the time he was the same age as François, actually one year younger. His grandmother was dying, his mother had fallen gravely ill (though he didn’t realize these things until later), and his father, to take better care of them,
had taken him to the house of his sister Carmela, who was married to the owner of a chaotic bazaar, a kind, mild man named Pippo Sciortino. They didn’t have any children. Sometime later, his father came back to get him, wearing a black tie and, he remembered very clearly, a broad black band around his left arm. He refused to go.

  “I’m not coming. I’m staying with Carmela and Pippo. My name is Sciortino now.”

  He could still see the sorrowful look on his father’s face, and the embarrassed expressions of Pippo and Carmela.

  “. . . because children aren’t just packages that you can deposit here or there whenever you feel like it,” Franca concluded.

  On the way home he took the easier route and was already back in Vigàta by nine o’clock. He decided to drop in on Mimì Augello.

  “You look better.”

  “This afternoon I managed to get some sleep. So, you couldn’t pull the wool over Franca’s eyes, eh? She called me all worried.”

  “She’s a very, very intelligent woman.”

  “What did she want to talk to you about?”

  “François. There’s a problem.”

  “The kid’s grown attached to them?”

  “How did you know? Did your sister tell you?”

  “She hasn’t said a thing about it to me. But is it so hard to figure out? I kind of imagined it would turn out this way.”

  Montalbano made a dark face.

  “I can understand how you might feel hurt,” said Mimì, “but who’s to say it’s not actually a stroke of luck?”

  “For François?”

  “For François, too. But, above all, for you, Salvo. You’re not cut out to be a father, not even an adoptive father.”

  Just past the bridge, he noticed that the lights were on in Anna’s house. He pulled up and got out of the car.

  “Who is it?”

  “Salvo.”

  Anna opened the door and showed him into the dining room. She was watching a movie, but immediately turned off the television.

  “Want a little whisky?”

  “Sure. Neat.”

  “You down?”

  “A little.”

  “It’s not easy to stomach.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  He thought a moment about what Anna had just said to him: it’s not easy to stomach. How on earth did she know about François?

  “But, Anna, how did you find out?”

  “It was on TV, on the evening report.”

  What was she talking about?

  “What station?”

  “TeleVigàta. They said the commissioner had assigned the Licalzi murder case to the captain of the Flying Squad.”

  Montalbano started laughing.

  “You think I give a shit about that? I was talking about something else!”

  “Then tell me why you’re feeling down.”

  “I’ll tell you another time. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you ever meet with Michela’s husband?”

  “Yeah, yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did he tell you about his unconsummated marriage?”

  “You knew?”

  “Yes, Michela had told me about it. She was very fond of him, you know. But in those circumstances, taking a lover wasn’t really a betrayal. The doctor knew about it.”

  The phone rang in another room. Anna went and answered, then returned in an agitated state.

  “That was a friend. She heard that about half an hour ago, this captain of the Flying Squad went to the home of Engineer Di Blasi and brought him into Montelusa headquarters. What do they want from him?”

  “Simple. They want to know where Maurizio is.”

  “So they already suspect him!”

  “It’s the most obvious thing, Anna. And Captain Ernesto Panzacchi, chief of the Flying Squad, is an utterly obvious man. Well, thanks for the whisky. Good night.”

  “What, you’re going to leave just like that?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  A dense, heavy gloom had suddenly come over him.

  He opened the door to his home with a kick and ran to answer the telephone.

  “What the fuck, Salvo! Some friend!”

  He recognized the voice of Nicolò Zito, newsman for the Free Channel, with whom he had a genuine friendship.

  “Is it true you’re no longer on the case? I didn’t report it because I wanted to check it with you first. But if it’s true, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, Nicolò, it happened late last night, and I left the house early this morning. I went to see François.”

  “Want me to do anything on television?”

  “No, that’s all right, thanks. Oh, but here’s something you don’t already know that’ll make up for everything. Captain Panzacchi brought Aurelio Di Blasi, the construction engineer from Vigàta, into Montelusa headquarters for questioning.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “No, the real suspect is his son Maurizio, who disappeared the same night that Mrs. Licalzi was killed. He, the kid, was madly in love with her. Oh, and another thing. The victim’s husband is in Montelusa at the moment, at the Hotel Jolly.”

  “Salvo, if they kick you off the police force, I’ll hire you here. Watch the midnight news. And thanks. Really.”

  The gloom lifted as Montalbano set down the receiver.

  That would fix Captain Ernesto Panzacchi. At midnight all his moves would enter the public domain.

  He really didn’t feel like eating. He undressed, got into the shower, and stayed there a long time. Emerging, he put on a clean pair of briefs and undershirt. Now came the hard part.

  “Livia.”

  “Oh, Salvo, I’ve been waiting so long for your call! How is François?”

  “He’s great. He’s grown a lot.”

  “Did you notice the progress he’s made? Every week, when I call, his Italian gets better and better. He’s become so good at making himself understood, don’t you think?”

  “Even too good.”

  Livia paid no attention; she had another pressing question.

  “What did Franca want?”

  “She wanted to talk to me about François.”

  “Why, is he too energetic? Disobedient?”

  “Livia, that’s not the problem. Maybe we made a mistake keeping him so long with Franca and her husband. The boy has grown attached to them. He told me he doesn’t want to leave them.”

  “He told you himself?”

  “Yes, of his own free will.”

  “Of his own free will! You’re such an idiot!”

  “Why?”

  “Because they told him to say that to you! They want to take him away from us! They need free labor for their farm, the rascals!”

  “Livia, you’re talking nonsense.”

  “No, it’s true, I tell you! They want to keep him for themselves! And you’re happy to turn him over to them!”

  “Livia, try to be rational.”

  “Oh, I’m rational, all right, I’m very rational! And I’ll show you and those two kidnappers just how rational I am!”

  She hung up. Without putting on any additional clothing, the inspector went and sat out on the veranda, lit a cigarette, and finally gave free rein to his melancholy. François, by now, was a lost cause, despite the fact that Franca was leaving the decision up to Livia and him. The truth of the matter, plain and unvarnished, was what Mimì’s sister had said to him: children aren’t packages that you can deposit here or there whenever you feel like it. You can’t not take their feelings into account. Rapisardi, the lawyer who was following the adoption proceedings for the inspector, had told him it would take another six months at least. And that would give François all the time in the world to put down roots at the Gagliardo home. Livia was crazy if she thought Franca could ever put words in the child’s mouth. He, Montalbano, had got a good look at François’s expression when he ran up to embrace him. He remembered those eyes well now: there was fear in them, and childis
h hatred. Besides, he could understand how the kid felt. He’d already lost his mother and was afraid to lose his new family. In the end, he and Livia had spent very little time with the boy; their images hadn’t taken long to fade in his mind. Montalbano felt that he would never, ever have the courage to inflict another trauma on François. He had no right. Nor did Livia. The kid was lost to them forever. For his part, he would consent to the child’s remaining with Aldo and Franca, who were happy to adopt him. But now he felt cold, so he got up and went inside.

  “Were you sleeping, Chief? Fazio here. I wanted to inform you that we held a meeting this afternoon. And we wrote a letter of protest to the commissioner. Everybody signed it, starting with Inspector Augello. Let me read it to you: ‘We the undersigned, as members of Central Police Headquarters of Vigàta, deplore—’ ”

  “Wait. Did you send it?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “What a bunch of fucking idiots! You could at least have let me know before sending it!”

  “Why? Before or after, what’s the difference?”

  “I would have talked you out of making such a stupid move!”

  He cut off the connection, enraged.

  It took him a while to fall asleep. Then an hour later he woke up, turned on the light, and sat up in bed. Something like a flash had made him open his eyes. During his visit to the crime scene with Dr. Licalzi, something—a word, a sound—had seemed, well, dissonant. What was it? He lashed out at himself: “What the fuck do you care? The case isn’t yours anymore.”