A Voice in the Night (2 page)

Nowadays there was no more respect for the elderly. They were roundly scorned and insulted, as if those who scorned and insulted them weren’t themselves going to grow old one day.

But why was he thinking such things, anyway? Maybe because he felt that he now belonged to the category of the elderly?

His mood darkened.

*

After he’d been cruising a while on the provincial road at his usual speed, a car behind him started honking its horn to pass.

At that point the road surface narrowed because there was work in progress. In any case, he was going fifty kilometres an hour, which was the speed limit, since they were still within the
Vigàta city boundary.

Therefore he didn’t move an inch.

The car behind him started honking wildly; then, with a sort of roar, it pulled up beside him, practically side-swiping his car. What was this idiot trying to do, run him off the road?

The driver, who looked about thirty, leaned towards Montalbano’s side and yelled:

‘Get yourself to a nursing home, granddad!’

And, not satisfied with this, he grabbed a big monkey wrench and brandished it at the inspector, saying:

‘I’m going to beat your brains out with this, you walking corpse!’

Montalbano couldn’t react in any way; he was too busy trying to keep his car on the road.

A second later the young man’s car, a powerful BMW, leapt forward and vanished in an instant, recklessly passing the entire queue ahead of him.

Montalbano wished him a happy flight into the nearest ravine. And for good measure, he wished him a nice little fire when his car hit the bottom.

But what had happened to people in this country? In the last few years they seemed to have regressed centuries. Maybe if you took their clothes off, underneath you would find the sheepskins that
primitive man used to wear.

Why so much mutual intolerance? Why was it that nobody could any longer stand his neighbour, his co-worker, or even his schoolmate?

*

Past the last houses at the edge of town, there was a rather large petrol station. The inspector noticed the BMW stopped there, filling up. He decided to keep on going; he
didn’t need refuelling yet. But then he changed his mind. Resentment got the better of him, and the desire to make the guy pay for his actions.

He accelerated, pulled into the station, and came to a halt with the nose of his car almost resting on that of the BMW. The young man paid and then started his car. But he couldn’t move,
because Montalbano’s car was blocking him. Nor could he reverse, because in the meantime another car had come in behind him and was awaiting its turn at the pump.

The young man honked his horn and gestured to Montalbano to move.

The inspector pretended that his car wouldn’t start.

‘Tell him I have to get out!’ the young man yelled to the station attendant.

But the attendant had recognized the inspector, who among other things was a regular customer, and so he pretended he hadn’t heard, took the pump, and went to serve the other motorist.

Wild with rage and foaming at the mouth, the young man got out and came towards Montalbano with the monkey wrench in his hand. He raised it in the air and then brought it down with all his
might.

‘I told you I was going to get you!’

But instead of Montalbano’s brains, what he broke was the glass on the driver’s side of his car. The young guy raised his arm again and then froze.

Inside the car, the inspector was sitting in the driver’s seat, calmly pointing his gun at him.

*

Officer Gallo, having been summoned by the station attendant, arrived some ten minutes later. He handcuffed the young man and made him sit in the patrol car.

‘Put him in a holding cell. And make him do a breathalyser and the other tests,’ said the inspector.

Gallo was off like a rocket. He enjoyed driving fast.

*

When Montalbano got to headquarters, Catarella, as always happened on that day of the year, rushed up to him with his hand outstretched and in an emotional state.

‘My virry best wishes wit’ all my ’eart for a rilly rilly long life an’ alla ’appiness an’ ’ealtiness inna world, Chief!’

Montalbano first shook his hand and then, out of a sudden impulse, hugged him to his chest. Catarella started crying.

Three minutes later he was sitting in his office when Fazio came in.

‘My very best wishes to you, Chief, and on behalf of the whole department,’ he said.

‘Thanks. Have a seat.’

‘I can’t, Chief. I have to go join Inspector Augello, who also told me to give you his best wishes. He’s in Piano Lanterna.’

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘A supermarket was burgled there last night.’

‘What’d they steal, a few boxes of detergent?’

‘No, Chief. They stole the day’s revenues, a pretty good amount.’

‘But aren’t each day’s proceeds taken to the bank in the evening?’

‘Yes, but not yesterday.’

‘OK, go, I’ll see you later.’

‘If you don’t have anything better to do, I’ll bring you some papers to sign.’

No, no signing! Not on his birthday!

‘Let’s do it another day.’

‘But, Chief, some of those papers go back a whole month!’

‘Has anyone made any noise about it?’

‘No.’

‘So what’s the hurry? One day more, one day less isn’t going to make any difference.’

‘Chief, if the Minister for Bureaucratic Reform ever finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.’

‘All the minister wants to do is to speed up the uselessness, the pointless merry-go-round of documents ninety per cent of which have no purpose whatsoever.’

‘Yes, but a functionary is not supposed to decide which documents are necessary and which aren’t. He’s just supposed to sign them.’

And what’s this functionary anyway, a robot? Doesn’t he also have a brain? Doesn’t he think? And when the functionary knows that those documents serve no purpose, why should he
deal with them at all?’

‘So what should be done, in your opinion?’

‘Uselessness should be abolished.’

‘Come on, Chief, that’s not possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because uselessness is an integral part of man.’

Montalbano looked at him in astonishment. He was discovering Fazio the philosopher.

Fazio continued:

‘Just take my advice, Chief. Don’t you think it’s better if you get rid of those documents little by little? I’ll bring you just twenty, to get started. Half an hour is
all it’ll take, and you’ll have them out of your hair.’

‘All right, but let’s make it ten.’

He’d just finished signing the papers when the telephone rang.

‘Chief, ’ere’s a lawyer by the name of Ne’er-Do-Well wantsa talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.’

‘Put him on.’

‘I can’t insomuch as it so ’appens the beforemintioned lawyer’s awreddy onna primisses, Chief.’

‘All right, then, send him in. Oh, but wait a second. Are you sure his name is Ne’er-Do-Well?’

‘’Ass rilly ’is name, Chief: Ne’er-Do-Well. Jess like I said. Y’can bet the ’ouse on it, Chief.’

‘No, you can bet your own house if you like.’

The man who came in must have been about the same age as him, but was tall, slender, well dressed, and discreet in manner. The only thing that clashed with the whole was that he must have poured
a good half-litre of a sickly sweet cologne over himself, which made the inspector feel like throwing up.

‘May I come in? My name is Nero Duello, I’m a lawyer.’ They shook hands. Good thing the lawyer hadn’t given him time to open his mouth, or he would have called him
Ne’er-Do-Well and the whole thing would surely have taken a bad turn.

‘Please sit down, and excuse me for just a moment.’

He got up and opened the window. Otherwise he would have had to hold his breath the whole time. He inhaled a mouthful of air poisoned with car exhaust, but it was still better than that cologne.
He went and sat back down.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m here on my client’s behalf.’

Montalbano paused.

‘And who’s your client?’

‘Giovanni Strangio.’

‘And who’s he?’

‘What do you mean, “Who’s he?” You arrested him yourself barely an hour ago!’

Now it was all clear. The lawyer’s client was the furious young man. But who informed the lawyer?

‘I’m sorry, but how did you find out that—’

‘Strangio called me himself.’

‘From where?’

‘From here! From the holding cell! With his mobile.’

Apparently Gallo hadn’t thought to take his phone away. He made a mental note to give him a tongue-lashing.

‘Listen, sir, I still haven’t questioned your client yet.’

He picked up the phone.

‘Catarella, send Gallo to me, would you?’ As soon as the officer arrived, the inspector asked him:

‘Did you have him do the breathifier?’

‘You mean the breathalyser?’

‘Whatever.’

For a second he felt like he was turning into Catarella. ‘Came out negative, Chief.’

‘And the other tests?’

‘A blood sample was taken. It’s being processed in Montelusa.’

‘License, insurance, inspection, all in order?’

‘Yes, sir, all in order.’

‘All right, you can go. Ah, wait a second. Did you take his mobile from him?’

Gallo slapped himself on the forehead.

‘Oh, damn!’

‘Go and get it. We’ll talk about this later, just the two of us.’

Gallo went out.

‘You’ll see that toxicology test will also come out negative,’ said the lawyer.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I know my client. He doesn’t use drugs and never has.’

‘So he’s just high on life?’ the inspector asked.

The lawyer threw up his hands.

‘The fact, you see, is that these sorts of exploits are not new to my client.’

‘You mean he often works with a monkey wrench?’

The lawyer threw up his hands again.

‘He’s not all there in the head.’

It was hopeless. Despite the open window, the scent of cologne had started to permeate the room. It made Montalbano feel agitated. Maybe that was what led him to say something a little over the
top.

‘But do you realize that this Strangio is a potential murderer? A future hit-and-run driver who won’t stop to help someone he’s run over?’

‘Inspector, I think the language you’re using is a little strong.’

‘But it was you yourself, just now, who said he’s not all there!’

‘But that’s a long way from calling him a murderer! Let me tell you something quite frankly, Inspector. I don’t like one bit having someone like Giovanni Strangio as a
client.’

‘So why do you do it?’

‘Because I’m his father’s lawyer, and he begged me to—’

‘And who’s his father?’

‘His father is Michele Strangio, president of the province.’

A few things suddenly became clear to Montalbano.

The first was the reason why, even though he was off in the head, nobody had, at the very least, taken his driver’s licence away.

‘So I’m here,’ the lawyer resumed, ‘to ask you to bury the hatchet in this whole affair.’

‘If I bury any hatchet it’ll be in your client’s brain. Get my drift?’

But what the hell was he saying? Was it possible that particular brand of cologne somehow lowered his inhibitions?

‘Please just forget the whole thing,’ Nero Duello insisted, ‘and we, for our part, will forget about the provocation.’

‘What provocation?’

‘Yours. At the petrol station. It was you, by parking your car in front of his, who prevented him from leaving. Which made my client lose his temper and . . .’

This was true. What a brilliant idea it had been for him to decide to stir things up with the young hothead! His only choice now was to start piling on a great quantity of fabrications in
self-defence. But first he had to take a deep breath and calm down. He got up, went to the window, poisoned his lungs a little more, and sat back down.

‘Is that all he told you?’

‘Why, is there more?’

‘Hell yes, there’s more! And in any case there was no provocation on my part. At that moment I’d realized I had no more petrol in the tank and I botched the manoeuvre when I
pulled into the station. I wanted to pull out again, but the engine wouldn’t start. I have a very old car. That said, didn’t your client tell you that five minutes earlier he’d
tried to run me off the road?’

The lawyer grinned.

‘For what happened at the pump, there’s a witness. The station attendant.’

‘But all the attendant witnessed was that my car wouldn’t move! He certainly can’t say I did it on purpose! And I’ll have you know that there are two witnesses to the
fact that your client tried to run me off the road!’

‘Really?’

The lawyer’s question had a note of irony. So Montalbano decided to try a desperate bluff. Looking Nero Duello straight in the eye, he opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out two
sheets of paper at random, and starting reading one:

‘I, the undersigned, Antonio Passaloca, son of Carmelo Passaloca and Agata née Conigliaro, born in Vigàta on 12 September 1950 and residing there at Via Martiri di Belfiore
18, declare the following: at around nine o’clock this morning, as I was driving on the provincial road towards Vigàta—’

‘That’s quite enough,’ said the lawyer.

He’d swallowed it, had the good lawyer. Montalbano put the paper back into the drawer. He’d pulled it off!

Nero Duello heaved a sigh and took a different tack.

‘All right then. I take back what I said about provocation.’

He leaned his upper body towards the inspector and rested his arms on the desk. He bent forward, and that movement unleashed a blast of cologne straight into Montalbano’s nostrils and down
into the pit of his stomach, stirring up a wave of nausea that rose into his throat.

‘But I’m begging you, Inspector, to try and understand. Because if people like us, who’ve already reached a certain age, can’t be understanding, who—’

He’d said the very words he shouldn’t have. Between the allusion to old age and the retching reflex, Montalbano couldn’t hold back any longer.