IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (26 page)

Montalbano looked down at one of the lists, which he’d held in his hand all the while. Spallitta worked at the Via Matteotti warehouse, and Fazio described him as a drug addict and occasional dealer.

Since he was already improvising his performance, he decided to keep it up.

“But there’s more. And I ask you to pay close attention. No ransom was ever demanded for the liberation of Mr. Picarella. So why was he kidnapped? The answer to this question is very simple: To keep him away from his workplace for a while. For what reason? Because during that time, at one of his warehouses, or both, something was supposed to happen, without his knowledge, something he might have noticed had he been present.”

“But . . . nothing happened here during that time!” said Crapanzano.

Montalbano prayed to the Blessed Baby Jesus in heaven that something, anything at all, had happened at the other warehouse. And he looked straight at Filippo Strano.

“Nothing at our warehouse, either. Apart from a large shipment of lumber . . . ”

“From where?”

“From the Ukraine.”

Montalbano chortled sardonically. He pulled it off well. “And you call that nothing?”

“But why, if I may ask?”

“I’m sure
I
know why.”

Ragioniere Strano fell silent, worried.

“Is the wood still in the warehouse?” the inspector continued.

“No. It was already reserved, so we—”

“Didn’t waste any time, eh?”

Strano looked over at Crapanzano as if asking for help.

“Care to tell us why this wood was so special?” Crapanzano asked gruffly.

“Because some of the boards were hollow and contained narcotics,” the inspector shot back.

Everyone present seemed to suffer a collective stroke simultaneously. Spallitta took it especially hard, turning pale as a corpse.

“This, mind you, is the assumption of the Narcotics unit. But they usually know what they’re talking about.”

The warehouse was quieter than a tomb.

“I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Starting tomorrow, you will be called in, one by one, for questioning. Our interrogations will be long and thorough. A few agents from Narcotics will also be present. However—and this is why I wanted to meet with you—if, in the meantime, any of you thinks of anything, you can reach me by telephone. Good-bye, and thank you.”

He stood up and went out, leaving them all in a daze.

At Enzo’s he ate as ravenously as if he hadn’t had a decent meal for years. Afterwards, seeing the kind of day it was, he took his usual stroll out to the lighthouse.

“What kind of weather we got coming?” he asked the angler.

“Good.”

He sat down on the flat rock. But he didn’t want to think about anything. He felt empty inside. He spent half an hour busting the balls of a crab that was trying to climb up a rock. Every time the creature progressed a couple of inches, he sent it back to its starting point with the flick of a twig.

Here you are again!
said Montalbano One
. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself ? Look what’s become of you! Toying with a crab!

Would you leave him alone?
intervened Montalbano Two
. What, is there some law against passing the time however one pleases? Did he do a good job this morning or not?

To punish himself—since, at bottom, Montalbano One was right—as soon as he got back to the office he started signing the mountain of papers piled up on his desk.

At a few minutes past six, the phone rang.

“Chief, that’d be a Mr. Mallitta.”

“Ask him what his name is.”

“Chief, I jess tol’ you what ’is name is.”

“Ask him anyway.”

The inspector heard some muttering in the background.

“I’s wrong, Chief. ’Is name is Spalitta.”

He was one
l
short, but the inspector was satisfied, perfection not being of this world.

“Put him on.”

“I can’t, seeing as how ’e’s ’ere onna premisses.”

“All right, then, send him in.”

He felt absolutely certain that he would be able to call Livia that same evening. He had kept his solemn promise.

Spallitta looked like he was suffering from an attack of malaria.

“Do you have something to tell me?”

“Yessir. Since I’ve had a couple a minor drug convictions, I’s scared o’ you gettin’ me mixed up in this.”

“Mixed up in what, excuse me?”

“This business of the wood with the drugs inside. I swear I din’t know nothin’ about this and I still don’t know nothin’!”

“Well, then, if your conscience is clear, what are you afraid of ?”

“The fact is, that . . .”

“. . . that your conscience isn’t exactly clear, right?”

Spallitta dropped his head and said nothing.

“How much did Picarella give you to help him stage the kidnapping?”

“Five hundred euros. But, I swear, he tol’ me it was all a joke! He needed to disappear for a week because he promised some whore he’d take her to Cuba. So why’d you feed us that bullshit about him gettin’ beat up ’n’ all? I always treated ’im just like he asked, I kep’ ’im hidden at my brother’s place in the country, every day I brought him food, cigarettes, newspapers . . . An’ now he wants to finish me off, the goddamn son of a bitch!”

There was a knock at the door, and Augello entered. Seeing that the inspector was busy, he made as if to leave.

“No, no, Mimì, come in. You dropped in at just the right moment. Have a seat. How’d the interrogation go?”

Augello had a moment of hesitation, given the stranger’s presence. He decided to answer without mentioning any names.

“Not bad. I’d say in another couple of days, max, he’s gonna crack.”

“I’d say sooner. Oh, in case you haven’t already met, this is Mr. Spallitta. He’s the man who helped Picarella get kidnapped. You can continue talking here.”

He stood up.

“And where are you going?” asked Mimì, a little flustered.

“To Marinella. I have to make an important phone call. See you tomorrow.”

17

“How are you feeling?”

“A little better, thanks. And you?”

“Not bad, thanks.”

“How’s the weather there?”

“Good. How about up there?”

“Unstable.”

How can two people spend years and years together and still be reduced to talking to each other like strangers? Wouldn’t it be better to exchange a few obscenities and insults? And maybe even a few pushes and shoves, and a cuff to the head?

Montalbano felt a malignant rage against the situation in which he and Livia had come to find themselves. Whether it was his fault or Livia’s fault no longer mattered. What mattered was for them to talk to each other a long time, eye to eye, to clear everything up and extract themselves, in one way or another, from the quicksands in which they were slowly sinking.

“Still got the same thing in mind?”

“What thing?”

“To come down here if—”

“Of course.”

“Well, I wanted to let you know that I’ve managed to get myself three or four totally free days.”

“Fine.”

Was that it? Not
Oh how wonderful, I’m so happy
? What a shower of enthusiasm! Hadn’t he kept his word?
I’ll phone you as soon as I have a few free days
, he had promised her. He had raced home to Marinella to give her the good news, and this was her way of saying thanks?

“So, whenever you feel like it . . .”

“As far as I’m concerned, I could even come tomorrow morning,” she quickly replied.

Which meant that she had already packed her bag and been waiting at home as long as possible for his phone call. And it also meant that her behavior showed not a lack of enthusiasm, as he had thought, but that she was carefully weighing every word she said, afraid that she might in some way let the intensity of her emotions show.

“Excellent. I’ll come pick you up at Punta Raisi.”

“No need to bother.”

“Why not?”

“Because something might suddenly come up for you, and I don’t think I could stand waiting for you and not have you come. For my own peace of mind, I would rather take the bus.”

“But, Livia, I told you I’m totally free!”

“What does it cost you to let me—”

“But I told you there’s no problem whatsoever! Come on, what time do you think you’ll get in?”

“On the usual midday flight.”

“I’ll be there at noon.”

“Listen, don’t get mad, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I don’t want us to stay in Marinella.”

“You don’t want to spend your time here at my house?”

“No.”

He felt slightly offended. What had his house done to her to make her not want to stay there?

“Why, have you ever not felt right at my place?

“That’s just it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve always felt so good at your place. Maybe too good.”

“So what?”

“I feel as if the place would affect my decisions; it would end up influencing me.”

“What about me? Doesn’t it influence me?”

“Less so, relatively speaking, because it’s your home.”

“I get it. You want the game to be played on a neutral field.”

In Livia’s silence he could sense the effort she was making not to answer him the way he deserved.

“I’m sorry, that was stupid, what I just said,” he continued. “Let’s do this. When we meet at the airport, we’ll decide together where we should go, then we’ll go straight there, without coming back here first. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

He hung up but remained next to the telephone, thinking about what Livia had said.

So the house would influence her! What kind of bullshit was that? Four walls don’t influence anything! They’re just walls like any others, nothing more. Good and bad houses that determine the happiness or misfortune of the people living in them exist only in American movies. And, come to think of it, even furniture had no effect. That is, as long as one didn’t want it to.

In other words, unless one wanted expressly to be influenced by it. And in that case, anything at all, like, for example, the statue Livia had bought for him in Fiacca . . .

He picked it up.

About five inches tall, it represented a little boy with a cheerful, urchinlike face, carrying a basket of fish on his shoulder. It was no work of art, but it had a certain grace. Indeed Livia had bought it for the expression of the face: wise, open, intelligent. Then he suddenly remembered what she’d whispered to him as she was handing it to him:

“If we have a son one day, I would like one like this.”

How many years had passed since then? Ten? Fifteen? Feeling suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, he realized that Livia was right.

It wasn’t the house in itself, but all the memories, the griefs and joys, the hopes and disappointments, the tears and laughter, that influenced them, and how!

When he went to put the little statue back, it slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. He bent down to pick it up, cursing the saints.

The head alone had come off, a clean break at the neck. There was no other damage. He tried putting it back on: a perfect fit. Not even the tiniest chip had been lost.

So he started looking for the all-purpose glue, found it, sat down and, paying very careful attention, stuck the head back onto the body. He felt pleased with himself. The reattachment came out perfectly, even though he was not very good with his hands. He set the statuette down on the table and got up to go pack his suitcase.

He would be away for at least four days with Livia. But the moment he took the bag down from atop the armoire, he fell into the doldrums and no longer felt like packing.