5
They agreed that Meriam would take the girl to the hospital in the morning.
By the time Montalbano and Fazio made it back to the station, it was past four a.m.
Catarella was dead to the world, head resting on his table. Montalbano let him sleep and went into his office after telling Fazio to ring the processing center to inform Leena’s parents that the girl was being taken to the hospital for tests but that in any case she wouldn’t be held up for very long.
But while Fazio was making the call, a problem occurred to Montalbano: If none of the five men detained spoke a word of Italian, how was he going to interrogate them? Summoning Dr. Osman was out of the question. The only solution was to trouble poor Meriam again. By now she was probably in bed. He looked for the piece of paper with her number on it, found it, and dialed. She answered on the first ring.
“I’m sorry, Meriam, this is Montalbano again. I feel mortified to ask, but I need you again. Could you come to the station and act as interpreter?”
“Of course. The girls are both sleeping soundly in the double bed. Just give me time to make a pot of coffee and a bit of porridge for my husband, and I’ll be on my way.”
The mere thought of it gave Montalbano a nasty twist in the pit of his stomach. Porridge and coffee? At seven in the morning?
Fazio returned.
“All taken care of,” he said, sitting down. “So, what do we do now?”
“We wait for Meriam to get here.”
Fazio did a double take.
“What? Did you call her up?”
“Of course! I happen not to speak Arabic. Did you by any chance study it at school?”
“No way, Chief. I studied English, though it’s starting to look like Arabic would have been more useful.”
“I had an idea,” said Montalbano. “You’ve seen the state these poor wretches are in when they arrive. Even if they’re young, they’re exhausted, at the end of their rope. They wait on the shore for days and days, without eating or sleeping, until it’s their turn to leave. And so I asked myself: How could anyone feel like raping a young girl? . . . And, even if such a thought does cross your mind, where do you find the strength to do it, when you’re barely strong enough to breathe? So, it’s possible these two lowlifes are none other than the boatmen themselves. Remember when Sileci told us that the motorboat had picked them up from a barge that was sinking? Apparently the two boatmen hadn’t managed in time to jump to safety and are now in the holding cell with the migrants.”
“You’re right!” said Fazio.
“Do something for me, would you? Go and peek through the spy hole to see what’s going on in there, and then tell me if one of them is wearing a down jacket.”
Fazio returned a few minutes later.
“Chief, three of them are sleeping on the floor, and the two others are sitting on the straw mattress and chattering intensely. One of them is in fact wearing a red down jacket.”
They sat there looking at each other, and then Fazio asked:
“Shall we make some coffee?”
“Excellent idea,” said the inspector.
As they were going into a small room with the camping stove, he saw Pasanisi and Pagliarello, the two uniformed beat cops, sleeping deeply in the two armchairs in the waiting room.
The coffee lifted his spirits.
The moment they returned to Montalbano’s office, the telephone rang.
Catarella’s voice was ragged with sleep.
“Hello! Hello!” he yelled. “Hello!”
“Cat, what’s got into you?”
“I was tryin’ a see fer soitan ’at you was youse ann’at you was onna premisses! ’Cuz, seein’ as how I din’t see ya walk past—”
“Okay, okay. What is it?”
“’Ere’s some lady calls ’erself Signura Marianna Ucrìa sayin’ you called ’er.”
How nice! thought the inspector. Catarella’s becoming interested in literature!
“Show her into my office.”
“Hello again. I got here as soon as I could,” said Meriam, coming in.
“Thank you, and again, my apologies, but your presence here is absolutely indispensable.”
“I understand,” the woman said.
Fazio sat her down opposite the desk, leaving the other chair empty.
“I’m under the impression,” Montalbano began, “that the sixteen-year-old boy I drove here was more frightened than he should have been about what was going on. I think he must have seen something he wasn’t supposed to see, and he’s not talking because the guys who raped Leena are the two boatmen.”
“What do you mean, the two boatmen?” Meriam asked in surprise. “Usually the minute they spot the motor patrol boat, they throw the migrants into the sea and are the first to flee to safety.”
“You’re right, but this time they seem not to have had the time to do that, because the barge was sinking.”
Montalbano then turned to Fazio.
“Wake up Pagliarello and tell him to go and get the youngest of the group, the sixteen-year-old who was in the car with me, and bring him here to me. And you come right back.”
Fazio left and then returned.
“Are you armed?” the inspector asked.
“Yes,” said Fazio, surprised by the question.
“Give me your weapon.”
Fazio handed him his pistol, and the inspector set it down on the table, within reach.
At that moment Pagliarello came in, pushing the Arab boy from behind. The lad was visibly trembling in fear.
“Wait,” said Montalbano.
The two stopped just inside the door.
The inspector then stood up slowly, pistol in hand, drew near to them, and gestured with the gun for the boy to go and sit down in the chair facing Meriam.
When the boy was seated, the inspector said to Pagliarello:
“Handcuff him.”
The boy hung his head and started crying silently.
Montalbano sat back down.
“Please tell him,” Montalbano said to Meriam, “that he’s been identified by a little girl who was raped during the journey as one of the culprits. And that’s not all; the girl also told us he was one of the boatmen. He is therefore under arrest and tomorrow will be immediately repatriated and sent to prison.”
“Inspector, I think you’re going a little too far!” said Meriam, frightened by what she was seeing and hearing.
And so the inspector looked at her intently and spoke to her with his eyes, and the expression on Meriam’s face reassured him completely that she realized they were playacting. And indeed, she started translating, in a soft but firm voice, what Montalbano had just said.
Once she finished speaking, the boy slid off his chair, went down on his knees, brought his cuffed hands in front of his face, and began striking himself in the forehead and shouting. The tears ran in rivers down his face.
“What is he saying?” asked the inspector.
“He says he’s innocent, that he had nothing to do with it. He’s desperate, Inspector,” said Meriam.
“Then ask him if he witnessed the rape and who the rapists were.”
The boy’s answer was a literal torrent of words, and in the end he collapsed on the floor and curled up into a ball.
Montalbano looked at Meriam questioningly.
“He said they told him they would kill him if he talked,” the woman said. “And that if he goes to the processing center with his companions they will definitely kill him. He swears up and down that he’s innocent, but doesn’t feel up to risking his life yet again.”
“Fazio, go get him a little water and have him sit down,” said Montalbano. Then, turning to Meriam: “Ask him if he feels up to answering simply with a nod or by shaking his head. Also tell him that I will ask the same questions of all the other five men we’ve detained, and therefore they’ll never know who talked.”
Meriam did as asked. Then the inspector followed up with:
“The first question is this: Did he see who committed the rape?”
The boy nodded yes.
“The second question is: Was one of the two wearing a red down jacket?”
The boy nodded again.
“The third and last question is: Are the rapists the boatmen themselves?”
With one last nod, the boy started weeping desperately.
And so the inspector asked Pagliarello to remove the boy’s handcuffs, take him into Augello’s office, and stand guard over him. Then he asked Fazio to go and wake up Pasanisi and, with his help, bring him the man who was talking to the one in the red down jacket.
While waiting he informed Meriam that he would be changing tactics entirely, and that she should still translate everything he said, exactly as he said it.
As soon as the man appeared, flanked by Fazio and Pasanisi, Montalbano donned a broad, toothy smile. He stood up, went over to the man, and reached out and shook the man’s hand vigorously. The other couldn’t help but grimace in pain.
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”
Meriam translated at once, and the man replied.
“He says no. It’s just that he has a wound on that hand, which he got during the journey.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Let me see,” said Montalbano, grabbing the man’s hand again.
Between the thumb and forefinger, he could see the girl’s tooth marks.
“Please sit down,” said Montalbano, “and give me your personal particulars.”
As the man gave him this information, Fazio wrote it down.
Montalbano asked him only one question:
“During the navigation, did you notice anything strange happening on board the barge?”
The man shook his head no.
“Do you intend to ask for political asylum?”
The man shook his head again, and then added a few comments.
Meriam translated.
“Not me. I’m only here for work.”
For Montalbano, this answer meant that the man was fervently hoping to be sent back home as quickly as possible. It was the only way he could continue to ply his dirty trade.
“That’s enough for me,” said Montalbano. “I hope you’ll soon make it to the processing center. Pasanisi, please escort the gentleman back to the holding cell, then bring me all the others.”
When they came in, the inspector had them all stand facing his desk. The two that Fazio had seen sleeping were managing to remain upright only because they were leaning against each other. The man in the red down jacket, on the other hand, was pointing two intense eyes straight at the inspector and was so nervous that he couldn’t refrain from tapping his left foot continuously against the floor.
“I want everyone’s name and particulars.”
Meriam translated for them, and Fazio took it all down.
“I will ask you the same thing I asked the others,” the inspector went on. “During the journey, did any of you notice anything strange happening on board?”
The answer was a chorus of “no.”
Montalbano then turned to the man in the down jacket.
“How did the boatmen treat you all?”
Before answering, the man grew more visibly nervous than ever, tapping his foot even faster than before, and sort of shrugged his shoulders.
Meriam translated what he said, which was that the boatmen behaved as they always did in these situations.
“One last question,” said the inspector. “Do you intend to ask for political asylum?”
The answer of the two propping each other up was immediate, and in Italian:
“Yes!”
Apparently they knew what “political asylum” meant.
“And what about you?” Montalbano asked the man in the down jacket.
Meriam translated his answer.
“Not me. I’m only here for work.”
Apparently the two boatmen had agreed on the answer they would give.
Montalbano ordered Pasanisi to take them all back to the holding cell. He glanced at his watch. Between one thing and another, it was now almost seven.
“If you don’t need me anymore, I’d like to go back home and get ready to take Leena to the hospital.”
“Thank you, Meriam. You’ve been a tremendous help, and I’m sure you’ll be even more of a help to the girl. One last thing: Since you’ll be needing to sleep, I can inform the tailor’s that you won’t be coming in today, if you want.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll be able to go to work. Signora Elena is very understanding. I’m sure that when she finds out what happened, she’ll be the first to give Leena a brand-new dress as a present.”
“Okay, thanks again,” said Montalbano, standing up and shaking her hand.
Meriam went out.
“And now,” the inspector said to Fazio, “we start making some phone calls. You ring Sileci and explain the situation to him. The little girl is going to the hospital. Ask him to send a car to take the three migrants to the center. The other two will remain in detention here with us. And now I’m going to wake up the prosecutor and tell him the whole story.”
Two hours later, the two boatmen were picked up and taken to prison in Montelusa. The matter was now out of the inspector’s hands.
“Shall I set Pagliarello and Pasanisi free?” asked Fazio.
“Yes, and you, too, go and get a few hours of sleep.”
“Why don’t you do the same yourself?”
“Because I don’t think I’d be able to sleep,” said Montalbano.
“Suit yourself,” said Fazio, going out.
But the inspector couldn’t stand the thought of staying at the station any longer.
He felt the need to chase from his mind the scenes of the past few days: the drowned boy, the crucified flautist, the raped young girl, all those eyes staring at him from the motorboat . . .
His discipline as a cop allowed him to do what he had to do, but his soul as a man was having trouble bearing the weight of all this tragedy.
Going back to signing papers to distract himself just wouldn’t cut it anymore, and walking along the dock of the port, where by this point he saw ghosts, wouldn’t help him, either.
And so he did something he had never imagined he would do.
He left the station on foot and headed for the nearest church.
He went in.
It was completely empty.
He went and sat down on a bench and started looking at the statues of saints, which were all made of wood and had the faces of peasants and fishermen. The biggest of all was the statue of the black saint, San Calò. Who could say? It was possible that the saint, too, had arrived on these shores on a barge.
There was a sudden explosion of sound. Somebody had sat down at the organ.
He recognized the piece. It was the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, by Bach.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and breathed deeply, letting his chest and heart expand as the music carried him far, far away.
He waited for the organist to finish.
Then he left the same way he’d come in, and went to the Caffè Castiglione.
“A custard cream puff and a double espresso, please.”
Now he could go back to the office and sign papers.
At the office he found Augello fresh as a rose in early morning. Feeling envious, he secretly hoped that Mimì’s turn at the docks would be complicated and difficult.
He then told him in precise detail everything that had happened, and afterwards said he’d decided that, since he’d lost most of a night’s sleep, Mimì should take his place that evening. Augello then asked if he could call him during the night if need be.
“Absolutely!” said Montalbano, thinking in his mind that not only would he unplug the land line, he would also turn off his cell phone.
Reassured, Mimì went back to his office. The inspector passed the time till lunch break by signing no fewer than two hundred different documents, then headed off to Enzo’s trattoria. Despite the midmorning cream puff, he was even hungry.
“Inspector, would you like some migrants’ soup?”
“Enzo, please, no. Don’t talk to me about migrants. What’ve you got that’s good, really good?”
“If you don’t want fish as a first course, I’ve got a delicious cannicciola.”
“And what’s this cannicciola?”
“They’re little Trapanese macaroni with cabbage and potatoes. My wife invented the dish.”
“Well, I do always trust your wife’s cooking.”
The cannicciola was breathtaking.
He made up for his betrayal of the fish realm by ordering a dish of mullet cooked in salt for his second course. This, too, was excellent.
When leaving the restaurant he felt a little weighed down, thus necessitating a stroll along the jetty, despite what ghosts this might awaken.
Walking along at a slow pace, one lazy step at a time, he reached the lighthouse.
Sitting down beneath it, he fired up a cigarette and, looking around, he realized how much the port had changed.
Both the dock and the arm of the jetty he was on had been divided into so many sections marked by barriers. Seen from a distance, they looked like some kind of labyrinth. He quite logically thought that in any case, such temporary barriers were better than walls and barbed wire, as so many other European countries were contemplating.
“And what do you think of the European Union?” he asked a crab that was looking at him from the rock beside the one he was sitting on.
The crab did not reply.
“Would you rather not compromise yourself? All right, then, I will compromise myself instead. I think that after the great dream of this unified Europe got off the ground, we’ve done everything within our power to destroy its very foundations. We’ve blown off the lessons of history, politics, and basic economics. The only idea that seemed to remain intact was that of peace. Because after killing one another for centuries on end, we couldn’t stand it any longer. But now we’ve forgotten that, too, and so we’ve come up with this fine excuse of migrants for putting old and new borders of barbed wire back up. They tell us there are terrorists hiding among these migrants instead of telling us that these poor bastards are fleeing from terrorists.”
The crab, rather than state its opinion, slid into the water and disappeared.
When Montalbano returned to the station, Catarella informed him that Dr. Cosma had called. As soon as he sat down he gave him a ring.
“I just wanted to tell you,” Dr. Osman began, “that I’m feeling better and I’m available if you need me tonight.”
Fazio and Augello returned shortly thereafter.
Montalbano told Augello what Osman had just said.
“Dammit!” Mimì exclaimed.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Fazio told me how beautiful and clever this Meriam is!”
“What, Mimì? Are you already licking your chops over her?”
At that moment Sileci butted in with his usual phone call.
“Tonight, round about midnight, as usual, we’ve got more than three hundred people coming in. I’ve already informed everyone. The more men you can send, the better. We’ll all meet up at the port tonight.”
“What’s the greatest number of men we can muster?” Montalbano asked Fazio.
“What do you want me to say, Chief? If we squeeze really hard, we can come up with a dozen, half of whom, over the last week alone, have only managed to sleep every other night.”
“Never mind, Fazio. We’ll just grit our teeth and do our best.”
“Okay, then, we’ll leave it that if I need you, I’ll give you a call,” said Augello.
“I already told you that wouldn’t be a problem, Mimì. Meanwhile you should think about informing Osman.”
The meeting was adjourned.
As soon as he set foot in his house, Montalbano’s first thought was to call Livia.
Livia wanted him to tell her, in full detail, the whole story of the girl who was raped.
Montalbano would have liked to have been spared this, but he knew that his girlfriend would never let him off the hook if he failed to tell her.
When they’d finished talking, he unplugged the phone and turned off his cell. Then he went into the kitchen to see what Adelina had cooked up for him.
He opened the refrigerator: empty.
Full of hope, he ran to the oven, opened it, and felt his heart sink.
Empty.
Had Adelina lost her mind?
Had she forgotten to make him dinner?
What was he going to do now?
He had no desire whatsoever to go out of the house and back to Enzo’s. The only solution was to fry an egg and eat a little bread and tumazzo cheese.
It was only when he put a small frying pan with olive oil over the burner, frowning and cursing all the while, that he noticed a covered pot on the stove, giving off a pleasant aroma.
He froze, slowly reached out with one hand, seized the lid, and raised it a little.
The fragrance grew stronger.
A heartwarming scent of baccalà.
Removing the small skillet, he lifted the lid on the pot and looked inside.
Baccalà with passuluna olives.
He started to warm it on a low flame, then went and opened the French door to the veranda. Given the nice weather, he set the table outside.
Then, instead of putting the baccalà on a plate, he took the whole pot outside.
It took him quite a while to finish, because he savored every bite.
Then he cleared the table, went into the bathroom, then lay down in bed, closed his eyes, and immediately reopened them.
Something had occurred to him. He chased it from his thoughts at once and closed his eyes again.
But his eyelids seemed to have some kind of spring mechanism. They immediately came open again. And the worry of a moment before returned.
Changing position, he managed to close his eyes again.
One second later, they bugged open yet again, and he realized he would never be able to sleep until he did what he had to do.
Getting out of bed, he went into the dining room and plugged the phone back in.
Ten minutes later, he was in a deep sleep.