10
As the inspector’s car was crossing the Corso, Fazio said:
“Pull over for a second so I can get out.”
“Okay, I’ll wait for you. Did you forget something?”
“No, I just want to check something. You go on ahead, I’ll join you in a minute.”
Montalbano continued on to the restaurant, parked, went inside, and said to Enzo:
“Set a table for two.”
“Who is it? A man or a woman?” Enzo asked.
“It’s just Fazio.”
Enzo walked away a little disappointed, but after taking three steps he turned around and came back to Montalbano.
“Forgive me for asking, Inspector, but what can you tell me about the murder of poor Elena?”
“Did you know her?”
“I did, Inspector. If only there were more women like her!”
“In what sense?”
“First of all, she was so cheerful and open, and always smiling. And so friendly. And what an appetite! You know, Inspector, nowadays women don’t eat anymore. A little salad here, a bit of chicory with oil and lemon there. But not Signora Elena. She would sit down and order antipasto, first course, second course, dessert, and you have no idea how much coffee. All of it nicely sprinkled with good wine. And since she would sometimes come alone but didn’t like to eat alone, she would ask me to sit down with her and we would chat. And you know what? Often, when she would come late in the evening and all the other customers had left and I was starting to close up, we would play tressette when she was done eating. And if she won, she didn’t have to pay.”
“What can I say?” said Montalbano. “Unfortunately, we’re still at the initial stages. But I’ll keep you informed.”
At that moment Fazio came in and sat down.
“What do you want to eat?” the inspector asked him.
“You know what? I feel like some pasta with bottarga.”
Just hearing the word stirred a fervent desire for bottarga in Montalbano.
At their request Enzo said that wouldn’t be a problem, and he would add a little grated lemon rind from his own tree.
During the entire meal, which included, aside from the bottarga, some fried mullet with onions, Fazio kept his word and never once opened his mouth except to express appreciation and wonderment at the excellence of the dishes. Only after drinking his coffee did he pull a folded magazine out of his jacket pocket.
He set it down on the table and then covered it with one hand so that the inspector couldn’t see the cover.
He had a sly, smug little smile on his face, which immediately got on Montalbano’s nerves.
Determined not to give him any satisfaction, the inspector got up without saying a word and went to the bathroom.
He managed in time to see the smile vanish from Fazio’s face.
When he returned, he remained standing and said hurriedly:
“Let’s go.”
Whereupon Fazio said:
“Excuse me, Chief, but would you just listen to me for a second? I have to show you something.”
“Well, then, let’s see it!” the inspector said rudely, sitting down in a huff.
“As we were passing by in the car, I spotted this magazine on display and thought I’d caught one of its headlines.”
Without a word, Montalbano reached out with one hand and pulled the magazine out from under Fazio’s hand to where he could read it.
On the cover was an image of a beautiful pair of female breasts, with, beneath it, the title: THE FEMALE BREAST IN ITALIAN POETRY.
“That’s where Dr. Pasquano got all his knowledge of poetry!”
“The son of a bitch!” the inspector exclaimed.
He felt so reassured, however, that he said to Fazio:
“Thank you. Because it’s very likely that I would never have been able to sleep tonight, thinking about all of Pasquano’s quotations. I’ll drive you back to the station.”
“There’s no need,” said Fazio. “I’m happy to go on foot if you feel like taking your usual walk along the jetty.”
He’d just started walking along the jetty on his way to the flat rock when his cell phone rang. Since at that very moment he’d been thinking of how to get back at Pasquano for tricking him, he had confirmation that not only was it enough to speak of the devil for him to appear, one only had to think of him.
For it was none other than the doctor calling.
“Montalbano, I’m so sorry to wake you during your postprandial siesta.”
“Who says I’m sleeping? You’re the one who needs to sleep, not me. I feel just fine and am enjoying the sea air. So, tell me instead, what winds are blowing at the morgue?”
“Well, that’s just it. Inside the morgue, and in my room, the usual fetid air is putrescent, but out in the hallway it’s even worse.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because for the last two hours there’s been a gentleman sitting on the floor out there, without any shoes on his feet, wailing, crying, singing, praying, and saying he wants to see the victim’s corpse.”
“And what’s that got to do with me?”
“The man says he’s a friend of yours. And if you don’t come and get him, I’m going to kill the guy and put him directly in bed with Signora Elena. That way he can see her all he wants.”
“What’s his name?”
“He’s got some kind of Turkish name: Ossiman, Osman, something like that . . . Hello? Hello! . . .”
But Montalbano had already hung up and was running towards his car.
While speeding along the road to Montelusa, he was unable to string together any thoughts with even the slightest logical connection between them.
It felt as if a vast forest of question marks had sprouted inside his brain, and he was trying blindly to wend his way through them, crashing into one after another, as though in a labyrinth with no way out.
All he could manage to formulate were a few fragments of questions.
Osman? What did he have to do with anything? What was he doing at the morgue? Why was he crying? Why was he barefoot? Had he heard right? Might it not be some Turk by the name of Osman? But the man had said he was a friend of his . . . and so . . .
And then, given the man that he, the inspector, knew, who was always so soft-spoken, reserved, and self-contained, how had Osman been reduced to such a state?
At last he pulled up in the lot of the Institute for Forensic Medicine, got out of the car, raced inside, and found the corridor completely deserted.
Halfway down the hall, however, was a sort of large ball of rolled-up rags that didn’t even look human, and yet it was emitting a sort of melodious lament.
He drew near to it and stopped.
The doctor was scarcely recognizable, sitting as he was on the floor, shoulders against the wall, head buried between his legs, arms wrapped around his knees . . . But the inspector clearly heard, in the faint, stifled breath emitted by that human ball, the sound of the name “Elena.”
He knelt down in front of him, lowering himself to the point where his face was almost touching the doctor’s hair. He started calling to him in a low voice.
“Osman, Osman . . . It’s Montalbano here. Come on, Osman, buck up. I’m here for you.”
There was no reaction.
Montalbano kept repeating his name, almost in tune with the man’s lament.
And it worked. The wailing stopped.
Osman raised his head very slowly.
Upon seeing his face, Montalbano felt a cold shudder snaking up his spine. The expression in the doctor’s eyes seemed to belong to someone much older than him. Osman’s features looked transformed.
He muttered something the inspector didn’t understand.
“What?” Montalbano asked.
“I want to see Elena.”
“I’ll do everything within my power, I promise. Meanwhile, let me help you up.”
With the inspector’s support, Osman managed first to get on his knees, and then, with some effort, he was able to slide his back up against the wall until he was standing.
“Think you can manage to stay on your feet?”
“Yes,” said Osman.
Montalbano went and picked up the pair of shoes lying a short distance down the hall, then came back and, kneeling down, put them on the doctor, one after the other, with all the patience of a mother.
He then led him to the nearest chair.
“Wait for me here. Don’t move for any reason.”
He rushed off towards Pasquano’s office, opened the door, and dashed in.
The doctor leapt up in his chair.
“What fucking way of entering is that?”
“I haven’t got any time to waste,” said Montalbano. “Just tell me one thing: Is it strictly forbidden for nonrelatives to see the body?”
“Absolutely. You would need a court order. Why, don’t you think that I would otherwise have let your friend in? He’s been busting my chops for the last two hours with his little song, which, if you ask me, is going to bring bad luck.”
“And what if I told you my friend is the victim’s brother?”
“I would reply that you’re lying through your teeth. But since you’re such a good liar, I’ll pretend to believe you. So you will take full responsibility for this?”
“Yes. You have my word.”
“All right, then, follow me.”
As they were walking down the hall towards Osman, Pasquano said under his breath:
“You two wait for me here. It’s better if I go in first. I’ll cover the poor woman up with a sheet and leave just the head exposed. Luckily, her face was unmarred.”
He moved towards the door, opened it, and went inside, leaving it open behind him.
Montalbano went over to Osman.
“Just another minute or two, and you’ll be able to see her.”
“Thank you,” Osman managed to say.
Moments later, Pasquano poked his head out.
“Come,” he said.
Osman stood up. Montalbano put his arm around his shoulders and guided him into the room. One of the freezer doors was open. Pasquano had wheeled out Elena’s stretcher and was standing beside it, holding one end of the sheet up.
At this point Osman came abruptly out from under Montalbano’s arm and said:
“I can manage on my own.”
Montalbano was certain the man would stagger as he walked, but in fact Dr. Osman took those five steps with assurance and precision.
When he reached Pasquano, he stopped and looked at the victim’s face.
Osman no longer wore any expression at all. His lips were moving, but no sound came out of his mouth. Then he slowly bent down until his lips were touching Elena’s forehead. He stayed that way for a few seconds, then stood back up and headed out of the room as though sleepwalking.
“Thank you,” Montalbano said to Pasquano.
Osman was now making straight for the exit.
As soon as he was outside, he said:
“Thank you for everything.”
“But do you intend to drive back to Vigàta in your own car?”
“Yes,” said Osman.
“Get that idea out of your head. You can come and fetch your car another time. I’ll drive you home. But, come to think of it, would you like to come to my house in Marinella?”
“Yes,” the man repeated.
As they were getting in the car, Montalbano’s cell phone rang.
“Hello!”
“Inspector, I’m sorry. This is Meriam. I’m calling you because I’m very worried. I’ll explain. You don’t know . . . but Elena . . . I’m sorry, but . . . I haven’t been able to get in touch with Dr. Osman since this morning . . .”
Before replying, Montalbano got out of the car so that the doctor couldn’t hear.
“He’s here with me.”
“How is he?”
“He’s in a bad way.”
“Are you at the police station?”
“No. I thought I would take him back to my place to give him a little time to recover.”
“Wouldn’t it be better just to take him home?”
“I wouldn’t feel right leaving him alone.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m already at his place, just outside. I’ll wait for you.”
“All right,” said the inspector, getting back in the car.
He told the doctor he was taking him home. Osman was still so disoriented that he didn’t even bother to ask the reason for the change in plan.
As soon as Osman saw Meriam outside his front door, he opened the car door, got out, ran towards her, and embraced her.
Montalbano put the car in gear and drove off.
He wanted to head home to Marinella, but suddenly found himself, for no apparent reason, outside the police station.
By this point he was so tired that he could no longer think on his own, and so he let his car decide. He parked and went into the building.
“Ahh, Chief! F’rensix called jess now ’cuz ’ey wannit a know from yiz poissonally in poisson ’oo was asposta pay fer the Vissikassi.”
“And what the hell is a Vissikassi?”
“Wha’, Chief? Ya never hoid a Vissikassi? ’Ey show it alla time on TV.”
“And what do they show, Cat?”
“’Ey show cats all happy an’ smilin’ an’ stuff ’cuzza Vissikassi.”
“So this Vissikassi is something that makes cats happy and we’re supposed to pay to make Forensics happy?”
“’A’ss right, Chief. Assolutely right. Vissikassi’s a cat food ’at makes cats rilly ’appy.”
“I get it, Cat. But now explain to me why we should pay for this Vissikassi and, more important, who’s it for.”
“Iss fer the cat o’ the tailor lady. The witness cat, in utter woids.”
“Rinaldo!” Montalbano exclaimed. “Okay, tell Forensics that I’ll pay the bill myself but only if they bring me the cat here after it testifies. I’m afraid they’ll just let it starve to death, because they’ll end up eating the Vissikassi themselves.”
“Y’er right, Chief! Man, ya know so many tings! I’ll call ’em now straightaways!”
Montalbano went into his office and found Fazio sitting straight up in a chair, immobile, eyes popping out of his head. He was clearly daydreaming.
“Fazio!” the inspector yelled.
His assistant gave a start.
“Yessir!” he replied. He then managed to take a breath and said: “But what ever happened to you?”
“I’ll tell you later. You got any news?”
“Yeah, Chief,” said Fazio, immediately thrilled. “I learned something of tremendous importance.”
“So tell me.”
Fazio assumed a conspiratorial air.
“Apparently, I’m told—now pay attention—that Dr. Osman and Elena used to be . . . know what I mean?”
“No,” said Montalbano, who was starting to enjoy himself.
“Well, in short, apparently they were a little more than just friends.”
Montalbano almost felt touched. How could someone like Fazio, who’d seen so many nasty things in his life, still feel embarrassed to talk about love?
But the inspector’s emotion didn’t prevent him from twisting the knife just a wee bit in the wound.
“And so?” he persisted.
“And so I think it might be useful to find out whether this story is true or not.”
“It’s true. Already known,” said Montalbano, in the same tone that Fazio always used when he said “already taken care of.”
Fazio opened his eyes wide.
“How’d you know?”
“I just dropped Dr. Osman off five minutes ago outside his front door.”
And he told him everything that had happened after they’d parted ways at the trattoria.
“So you weren’t able to question him?” asked Fazio.
“No. In an hour or so I want you to call him at home and tell him I’ll be waiting for him at the station tomorrow morning around nine-thirty. And I want you there, too, of course. But now I have to tell you that I’m dead tired and need to go home and get some rest. Have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”
When passing by Catarella, he said:
“Cat, I’m going home and don’t want to be disturbed by anyone, even if Hizzoner the minister of justice calls.”
“Yessir, Chief! I wannit a tell yiz ’at F’rensix axed me t’ax yiz if y’er also gonna pay for the cat’s letter.”
“Letter? What letter?”
“Chief, I swear, I tried a ax ’em, but I din’t unnastand. ’Ey jess said sum’n ’at sounded like a ‘cat letter.’”
“Was it cat litter?”
“Yeah, ’a’ss it, Chief! ’A’ss azackly right!”
“Tell ’em not to get all bent out of shape over it. I’ll pay for it myself. And tell ’em I’ll pay for the sand, too.”
“Don’t botter ’bout ’at, Chief. I c’n go an’ shovel up some sand at the beach if we need any. ’Ere’s so much roun’ here, nobody’s gotta pay for it.”
When he got home it was almost six p.m. There was a gorgeous sunset. Montalbano felt his nervous tension let up the moment he sat down on the veranda.
He just stayed there motionless, breathing in the air, too weak even to stick his hand in his pocket and pull out the pack of cigarettes. He was sitting so still, in fact, that a dove came and perched on the railing of the veranda. It started pacing back and forth, and then stopped and looked at him.
“I don’t feel like talking,” said Montalbano, feeling his eyelids beginning to droop.
The dove flew away.
Montalbano closed his eyes.
When he reopened them, it was pitch-dark outside. He got scared. He flicked his lighter and looked at his watch. Nine p.m.
He went inside and turned on the lights.
Maybe it was the tremendous fatigue weighing down on him, or maybe it was the fact of having slept in the open air, but in any case he’d got a chill.
So he went into the bathroom, took off his clothes, and got into the shower.
He immediately felt much better, and with this improvement in his condition, a powerful hunger came over him.
Slipping on a pair of underpants, he raced into the kitchen. His hunger led him straight, and unfailingly, to the oven. He opened it.
Oh, wonder of wonders!
Timballo di riso! God only knew how long it had been since he’d eaten any.
Not bothering even to set the table, he simply spread a large napkin over the oilcloth, set a bottle of wine and a glass down on it, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and attacked the timballo without removing it from the pan.
And he managed to make a miracle happen. That is, he didn’t allow a single thought to enter his head. His brain had become a sort of blackboard on which appeared only expressions of praise for the flavor that began in his mouth and washed over his entire body all the way to the tips of his toes, from where it then resumed its journey back up to the top.
The rhythm of his eating began to slow down little by little as the contents of the pan diminished. The last two or three forkfuls were merely gatherings of the rice grains left in the pan.
When he’d finished eating he remained seated with his buttocks near the edge of the chair, intensely observing the design of the terra-cotta tiles of the kitchen floor.
Once the ecstasy had passed, he realized it was time to phone Livia.
He got up, went into the dining room, sat down, and dialed her number.
But then he immediately hung up, because he could still feel the rice in his esophagus. He absolutely needed to take a walk.
So he put on a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a jacket and went down to the beach barefoot.
He touched the water with one foot. Freezing.
But he liked the sensation, and so he rolled the bottoms of his pant legs up to his calves and started walking in the water, letting it come up to his ankles.
Feeling something touch his feet, he bent down to look. There was a strange phosphorescence in the water, and he saw a great many tiny silvery fish swimming around his feet as in some kind of underwater slalom.
Then, as if some sort of signal had sounded in his head, he suddenly remembered the whole business with Osman. Fazio had confirmed to him that the doctor and the seamstress had had a love affair.
And it must have been a serious matter if a man with as much self-control as Dr. Osman had let himself fall into such deep, disconsolate despair. It was completely different from the grief he’d seen in Trupia’s face. And, come to think of it, Osman and Elena must have made a very handsome couple, because their faces and manners were quite complementary: He was as reserved as she was bright and cheerful, as closed as she was open.
And physically, too, they must have made a fine sight.
And so, if that’s how it was, what obstacle had stood in the way of their relationship and broken it up?
Neither of them had a spouse, or any other kind of bond that might prevent them from being together.
Why had they left each other, or been forced to break up?
Why hadn’t they got married?
The mere thought of the word “married” called up a long, past history of his own, concerning himself and Livia.
He chased the idea from his head and started heading back to the house to call his longtime companion.