14
The tirade did him good, to the point that five minutes later, as he was sitting out on the veranda, he suddenly felt hungry.
He went into the kitchen for the usual inspection. Every once in a while Adelina would decide to make him a sfincione with meat. And there it was. It gave off an aroma so pleasing it could have been used as cologne. He heated it up in the oven and then took it outside. Not bothering to set the table, he merely put down a bottle of wine and glass. And there was no need for cutlery.
Adelina, as usual, had been generous. The sfincione was big enough for four, and in fact the inspector felt terribly disappointed that he could only manage to eat half.
So he went and took a large sheet of wax paper, wrapped the remainder of the sfincione carefully in it, and put it in the refrigerator.
He was heading for his bedroom when he heard his cell phone ring.
It was Meriam.
“I’m sorry to call so late, Inspector, but I wanted to let you know I went to the hospital and they told me Lillo Scotto is out of danger and they think they can release him as early as tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you for that, Meriam,” said Montalbano. “I hope you can get a little rest now.”
“Thanks. You have a good night, too.”
He left the cell phone beside the television, headed for his bedroom, lay down with satisfaction, closed his eyes, and was taking a deep breath when he was interrupted halfway with the ring of his cell phone.
Cursing the saints, he got out of bed and answered. It was Fazio.
“Just on my way back from Montelusa, Chief . . . Lillo Scotto’s out of danger and—”
“Already knew that,” said Montalbano, feeling almost ashamed. He was exacting too much revenge on poor Fazio.
“Did you know that they want to discharge him tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yeah, I knew that, too.”
“Well, since you seem to know everything, I’ll let you sleep in peace, though there actually was something I wanted to ask you. Good night.”
“Wait!!!” the inspector yelled. “So you’re going to get pissed off at me at this hour of the night?”
“Sorry, Chief, you’re right. But when you keep saying you already know things, it starts to get on my nerves.”
“Well, imagine how I feel!” replied Montalbano. “Now speak. What did you want to ask me?”
“If the kid recovers, can I summon him for the day after tomorrow morning?”
“Have him come in at nine,” said Montalbano. “Thank you, and good night.”
He lay down and fell asleep at once, only to wake up again moments later, sitting up in bed with his eyes wide open.
A thought had flashed through his head like a kind of luminous, lightning-fast snake that he was unable to grab, not even by the tail. Damn it all! What was it? Nothing. Total darkness.
He lay back down and closed his eyes, and only then did it come back to him that the elusive thought had something to do with Elena’s phone calls and something he hadn’t done relating to them. What had he forgotten to do?
“Damn my fucking old age!” he cursed.
But he could do nothing about it. And so he lost another hour before he could fall back asleep.
And he didn’t open his eyes again until the morning light was already bright.
But he decided he could stay in bed for a bit, since he had nothing urgent to do at the station.
Then he changed his mind.
He got up, put the coffee on the burner, shaved, drank a mug of black espresso, and slipped into the shower.
Instead of getting dressed, however, he put on a bathing suit and headed off for a long walk along the water’s edge. This lightened his spirits and cleaned out his lungs.
When he drove off for Vigàta, it was nine o’clock.
As he entered the station, he stopped in front of Catarella’s closet and asked him:
“What’s new with Rinaldo?”
Catarella grimaced, as if in displeasure.
“Chief, ’e jess don’ like me. ’E’s continually cryin’ in continusity. ’E wants to run away alla time. Poor ting! ’E was useta bein’ witta woman an’ iss too bad I’m jess a man. When I c’n manatch t ’old ’im still an’ pet ’is head ’tween ’is ears, isstead of purrin’ ’e jess goes all hissy like ’e wants ta ’tack me. ’E won’ even lemme give ’im no Vissikassi.”
“You know what I say, Cat? I say that, since I’m going to have to see Meriam again sooner or later, I’ll tell her to take the cat.”
“But now I’m startin’ a get a tatch to the cat, Chief.”
“You can adopt another white cat off the street and do a good deed. Listen, do you still have the keys to Elena’s shop?”
“Yessir, Chief.”
“Gimme ’em.”
Catarella pulled open a drawer and handed him the keys.
“Now please go,” said Montalbano, “and get me a small plastic bag.”
“Fer goin’ shoppin’?”
“No, Cat, one of those little bags for evidence specimens.”
Catarella bent back down, opened another drawer, and handed him a transparent bag still unsealed.
Montalbano put the bag in his pocket.
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said.
He got back in the car and drove off in the direction of Via Garibaldi. Luckily there was a parking space right outside Elena’s front door.
He parked, unlocked the door, climbed the stairs, went quickly down the corridor and down again to the great room, set the little plastic bag on the table, picked up the scrap of blue cloth with two fingers, and slipped it into the bag.
He then retraced his steps and was on his way out, but when he put his hand on the front door handle to open it, he froze. There was something troubling him. It was that luminous snake of the night before again, the one that had made him sit up in bed. Once again he had that distinct feeling he was neglecting to do something he absolutely needed to do.
But what?
He stood there for several moments without moving a muscle, but nothing came to mind.
And so he opened the door, got back in his car, and returned to the station.
“Is Fazio here?” he asked Catarella.
“Yessir, Chief.”
“Send him to me.”
He went into his office, and Fazio appeared at once.
“Hello, Chief.”
“Have a seat and let’s talk a little. What do you make of Lillo Scotto’s suicide attempt?”
“What can I say, Chief? I talked it over a little with Augello as well, but he totally rules out any chance it might be an admission of guilt. He’s stuck on the idea that Trupia’s the killer, and he won’t budge.”
“But what do you think?”
“I did gather some information on the kid. And there wasn’t anyone, not one person, who considered Scotto capable of killing so much as an ant. In my opinion Lillo tried to commit suicide for no other reason than because he lost Signora Elena.”
“Well, aren’t we just brilliant!” Montalbano said bitterly. “We’ve got two potential killers in our grasp: one’s in jail, the other’s in the hospital, and yet, deep down, we’re convinced that neither of them had anything to do with it.”
“Maybe because we don’t know the whole story yet,” said Fazio.
“Explain what you mean.”
“Chief, what I’m saying is that maybe we won’t get any ideas until after we’ve questioned the kid. You became convinced that Trupia didn’t do it after you talked to him. It’s possible that after you interrogate Scotto, you’ll think the opposite.”
“Okay. We’ll leave the question hanging and set it aside for the moment.”
“Are you going to Signora Elena’s funeral?” asked Fazio.
“Yes.”
“You want me to come, too?”
“No.”
Fazio realized that the inspector’s monosyllabic replies of “yes” and “no” meant that their conversation had ended.
“I guess I’ll get back to work,” he said, getting up and going out.
Montalbano wondered how he was going to spend the hour remaining before it was time to go to the church.
He remembered his fictional colleague, that Inspector Schiavone, who’d been assigned to Aosta and whose first act in the morning, before going to the office, was to smoke a joint.
No, no, this was no time, so late in life, to start smoking weed!
He reached out melancholically with one arm, grabbed the sheet of paper sitting at the top of the pile, and gloomily started signing . . .
The Chiesa Matrice was packed. Elena’s death had brought out half the town.
The coffin was lying on the floor in front of the main altar.
Meriam was sitting in the front pew on the left, with her arms around Teresa, who was dressed all in black. Behind the two women was Stefano, trying to keep the two ten-year-old children beside him quiet.
In the pew on the right sat a rather unusual couple: old Nicola, who was bent forward with his head in his hands, clearly weeping, and beside him, calm, erect, impassive, and more elegant than ever, Dr. Osman.
Among those present Montalbano recognized Enzo the restaurateur, the barman from the Castiglione, Augello, the greengrocer, and the tobacconist.
In short, everyone who lived on Via Garibaldi or nearby was there.
The inspector listened to the whole Mass in silence, and after the final benediction was given, Dr. Osman stood up and approached the coffin.
Three other pallbearers joined him and, together, they stooped down and raised the casket. The doctor rested it on his right shoulder as he lightly caressed the wood with his left hand.
Montalbano waited for everyone to leave, then slipped behind the last mourners. But at once he felt someone grab him by the arm. She was a woman of about fifty, shabby and disheveled and weeping.
“My son is innocent!” she said.
She must be Lillo Scotto’s mother.
“You have to believe me, Inspector, he’s innocent! I’m his mother and I can tell you! I can feel it deep down in my heart!” Still crying and sobbing, she continued: “My own flesh and blood would never be capable of doing a thing like that! My own flesh and blood would rather kill himself than kill somebody else.”
“Please calm down, signora. You should go to the hospital. Lillo needs you there. Don’t worry. You’ll see: Very soon we’ll clear everything up with your son.”
He delicately removed the woman’s hand, which was still clutching his arm, and headed out of the church.
The hearse was already pulling away, with three or four other cars following behind.
Montalbano walked towards his car, intending to head back to the station, but the moment he put his hands on the steering wheel, he instinctively pulled up at the back of the funeral procession.
When they reached the cemetery, he realized that the burial was going to take some time, and so he fired up a cigarette and started walking down the little lanes, always keeping the ceremony in the corner of his eye.
After his fourth cigarette, he decided the moment for condolences had come.
He embraced Osman, who’d come over to greet him, and got in line behind everyone else.
Meriam was still beside Teresa, and it was she who introduced Montalbano to Elena’s sister-in-law. Without a word, the inspector shook the woman’s hand firmly, and was about to let go when she said to him:
“Thank you, Inspector. I know you are doing a great deal for Elena.”
“It’s my duty. When you feel up to it, I will need to talk to you.”
Teresa raised the little veil over her face. Montalbano was expecting to see two exhausted, sorrowful eyes red with tears, but the woman’s gaze was instead that of a ferocious beast, two black, pinpoint pupils emitting flashes.
“Even now would be fine with me,” she said. “I want to know who killed my Elena. Could you please wait for me for a minute?”
“Of course,” said Montalbano, stepping away.
Teresa went and spoke to her husband; then she kissed the children and exchanged a few words with Meriam.
Coming back towards Montalbano, she said:
“We can go now.”
“Where to?”
“Not far from here there’s our family vault, with a bench in front of it. If you want . . . I’m sorry, but I need some fresh air, and that way we can stay a little while longer near Elena.”
“All right,” said the inspector.
After a short walk they sat down and said nothing for a few moments. Perhaps because they felt uncomfortable with the deep silence weighing down on them from all sides.
There was a rarefied air in the cemetery that softened even the sounds made by the cars passing along the road outside the enclosure wall. Montalbano noticed there were no birds in the sky above the cemetery.
There was only one other living being, some thirty yards away from them. An old woman in front of a small waterspout, changing the water for some flowers.
From where he was sitting, Montalbano could see before him an earthen grave with a large iron cross on top. On the tombstone were two round photographs of two lads in uniform. Montalbano managed to read the metallic letters on the photos: They were brothers, Antonio and Carmelo, who had died on a mission in Afghanistan.
The inspector thought that in all likelihood that tomb and that writing had been the work of the parents of the two fallen soldiers.
They represented an inversion of the natural order of things.
It should be the children burying the dead, not the mothers and fathers.
His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Teresa, who apparently could no longer bear all that silence.
“Are you really so sure that Elena was killed by Diego Trupia?” the woman asked aggressively.
“And you’re not?”
“No. At least, not too sure.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know Trupia and I know the kind of relationship he had with Elena. They were lovers, yes, but they weren’t very intimate. I’m not quite sure how to put it, but they were both aware that their ties would never be more than they were. They were on good physical terms, and things remained on that level. Do you have any evidence, any clues, that led you to arrest him?”
“The only clue is that he has no alibi for that evening,” said the inspector, surprising himself with his sincerity.
“That doesn’t seem like much. I don’t have any alibi for that evening, either.”
“Aside from the fact that you don’t need one,” Montalbano retorted, “I must tell you that my colleagues and I have somewhat differing opinions on the matter.”
Teresa snatched this up like a mint.
“So do you have any idea who might have done it?”
“No, signora,” said the inspector. “None at all, to be honest with you. And that is why I’m sitting here with you. I need to know as much as possible about Elena.”
It was like opening a dike on a river in spate.
“You won’t believe it, but I was sitting right here, on this very bench, when I spoke to Elena for the first time about my brother’s death. And here I am today, on the same bench, talking to you about Elena’s death. I first met her when she came to Vigàta with Franco’s mortal remains, and this is where our friendship, a real friendship, was born. It wasn’t just a family tie. Elena and I were true sisters. And I think it was on that day, on this bench, that Elena, alone as she was, decided to come and live in Vigàta.”
“That was the first time you met her? Didn’t you ever see her during the time she was married to your brother?”
“Well, Inspector, I was still very young at the time, and my parents wouldn’t allow me to travel alone. I was never able to go up north and see them, and you have no idea how much I would have liked to, but my parents themselves hardly ever traveled very far. During his years with Elena, Franco came to see us only twice, both times alone. But we used to talk to him often over the telephone, and they would send me postcards, letters, photos . . . They were very busy trying to realize their dream, you know, and didn’t have time for much else.”
“What dream was that?”
“Franco and Elena wanted to become the biggest of all the Italian fashion designers. They met at a posh fashion school in Vicenza. Clothing had always been Franco’s passion. I remember him spending evenings knitting, sewing, and darning with my grandmother when he was a boy. He even made dresses for my dolls. He always had a clear sense of things; he wanted to become a tailor. And when he graduated from high school with the highest marks, he asked my parents to pay his way to the Accademia in the Veneto. That was where he met Elena. They immediately saw their true selves in each other. And they got married shortly thereafter, but without telling anyone. We found out from a photo they sent us. What brought them together was surely her talent and his mastery. They were such a perfect couple in terms of work, that it was inevitable—as Elena later told me—that their relationship would also become intimate. They balanced each other out perfectly; he in technique, she in production; he would get the ideas, and she would do the stylistic research. And the moment they graduated they found work. Elena in a prêt-à-porter company, while Franco began designing purses and handbags for a famous designer. But for them those were temporary jobs. Their dream was to strike out on their own. Elena told me they were living in a thirty-square-meter flat, doing everything possible to save the money they needed. And they would spend Sundays and holidays driving around visiting provincial towns, looking for the best place to set up their workshop. Elena, in the meanwhile, had become so good that she was appointed chief of a very important fashion line. And she was earning so much money that Franco was able to quit his job to devote more time to finding the right place and everything else they would need to set up their own company. In the end they decided on the town of Bellosguardo.”
Bellosguardo! thought Montalbano, remembering a poem by Montale.
“And where is that?” he asked.
“In Udine province,” replied Teresa, before continuing. “Clearly Elena couldn’t move there right away. She had to serve out her contract and, most important, finish designing her personal line, and so, for the first few months, Franco settled there by himself.”
“How long was it before Elena joined him?” Montalbano asked.
Teresa looked at him as though taken aback, and didn’t answer right away.
Then she said very slowly:
“Why are you so keen to know about a story that’s fourteen years old?”
“I don’t understand your question,” Montalbano replied, looking at her inquisitively.
“You’re having me tell you a story that has nothing to do with Elena’s murder. Tell me the truth: Do none of you know what direction to take with this?”
“No, signora, that’s not true. I simply maintain that at the moment any information I can get on her could be extremely useful.”
Teresa seemed unconvinced, but continued telling her story.
“Elena went and joined him after six months, if I remember correctly. Franco had already found the space for their workshop and had moved into a lovely cottage not far away.”
“And what happened next?”
“What happened was that as clients began slowly to trickle in, and the workshop started doing well, their marriage began to show the first signs of stress. Elena told me that life in such a small town was a burden for her. She was unable to integrate with the local people and, given her personality, this made her suffer. On top of everything else, she’d also been made an excellent offer by the company she’d worked for earlier. Franco managed to persuade her to remain true to their dream, but Elena wasn’t happy anymore. And then . . .”
The woman trailed off. Moments later, she said:
“I feel terribly uneasy about this.”
“Why?” asked Montalbano.
“Because I’d promised myself never to tell anyone about any of this. Especially now that Elena and Franco are both dead. I feel as if I’m violating an intimacy that they are no longer able to protect.”
“Signora, I understand you perfectly. But bear in mind that I am not a journalist but a policeman. The purpose of my questions is only, and exclusively, to help solve the case.”
“What happened was that at a certain point Elena realized that Franco was treating her more like a business partner than his own wife. She also told me that he had changed ever since she’d moved to Bellosguardo. He was distant, engrossed in his work and not very involved in their marriage. She felt like she was losing him, and so she reacted in the most natural way for a woman to react: She told Franco she wanted a child. She said to me afterwards that the violence of his reaction almost frightened her. He claimed it would have been sheer folly to have a child at that moment, that it would greatly limit Elena’s work possibilities, that it would be a burden, and that therefore there was no point in even talking about it. He attacked her, she told me in tears; I remember that perfectly. And so the rift between them began to grow by the day. And that, I think, was the beginning of their crisis.”
“Forgive me,” said the inspector, “for touching on an area obviously very painful to you. Did Elena ever tell you why, in her opinion, Franco committed suicide?”
“Yes. It was after a particularly violent quarrel brought on when Elena gave him an ultimatum: either they had a child or she would quit the workshop. Franco went out of the house that evening, slamming the door behind him, and was found the following morning, with his hands tied, dead by drowning in the town river.”
“With his hands tied? How?” Montalbano asked in amazement.
“Franco was an excellent swimmer, and the police said he’d tied his own hands to prevent himself from giving in to the natural instinct for survival, and then threw himself into the river.”
For a moment the woman seemed to have lost her breath. Two tears slid silently down her cheeks.
Montalbano felt like putting his arm around her, but restrained himself.
“But . . .” said Teresa, immediately stopping short.
“But?” said Montalbano, coaxing her.
“But I want to be utterly sincere with you. To this day, I have never been entirely convinced that Elena was telling me the whole truth.”
“What reason would she have for not telling you?”
“I wouldn’t know. Maybe Franco had somehow offended her womanhood. Or perhaps Elena wanted to spare me further details, thinking they would reopen old wounds. That’s the feeling I’ve always had, that Elena was trying to protect me from something. I’d just lost my parents, and then Franco had to go in such an awful way. Maybe Elena was trying to avoid hurting me more.”
“Some witnesses have told me,” said the inspector, “that Elena would sometimes receive phone calls that left her very troubled and shaken. Did that ever happen in your presence?”
“No, never.”
She smiled bitterly.
“But to tell you the truth, I’m starting to remember a rather ‘bitter’ phone call Franco received the last time he came to visit us.”