The Terra-Cotta Dog (23 page)

“That does seem plausible, frankly,” said Montalbano.

“What did I tell you?” the headmaster cut in triumphantly.

“But you see, Inspector, the whole thing was strange just the same, even without counting what happened later. It's strange because, first of all, if Lisetta had fallen in love with an American soldier, she would have let me know in any way possible. And second, because in the letters she sent me from Serradifalco—that was the name of the village where they'd taken refuge—she kept harping on the same theme: the torment she suffered being separated from a mysterious young man with whom she was terribly in love, whose name she would never tell me.”

“Are you sure this mysterious lover really existed? Might he not have been some girlish fantasy?”

“Lisetta wasn't the type to indulge in fantasies.”

“You know,” said Montalbano, “at age seventeen, and even later, you can never swear by matters of the heart.”

“Put that in your pipe and smoke it,” said the headmaster.

Without saying a word, the signora extracted another photo from the envelope. It showed a young woman in bridal dress, giving her arm to a good-looking boy in a U.S. Army uniform.

“This came to me from New York in early 1947, according to the postmark.”

“And this, in my opinion, dispels all doubt,” the headmaster concluded.

“Not at all. If anything, it raises doubt.”

“In what sense, signora?”

“Because it was the only thing that came in the envelope—only this photograph of Lisetta and the soldier, nothing else, no note, nothing. Not even any writing on the back of the photo; you can see for yourself. So, can you explain to me why a true, intimate friend would send me only a photograph without writing a single word?”

“Did you recognize your friend's handwriting on the envelope?”

“The address was typed.”

“Ah,” said Montalbano.

“And one last thing: Elisa Moscato and Lillo Rizzitano were first cousins. And Lillo really loved her, like a little sister.”

Montalbano looked at the headmaster.

“He adored her,” Burgio admitted.

19

The more he mulled it over, circled round it, snuck up beside it, the more convinced he became that he was on the right track. He hadn't even needed his customary meditative walk to the end of the jetty. Upon leaving the Burgio house with the wedding photo in his pocket, he'd raced off directly to Montelusa.

“Is the doctor in?”

“Yes, but he's busy. I'll let him know you're here,” said the custodian.

Pasquano and his two assistants were standing around the marble table, on top of which lay a naked corpse with eyes agape. And the dead man had good reason to look so wide-eyed, as if in surprise, since the three were drinking a toast with paper cups. The doctor had a bottle of spumante in his hand.

“Come on in, we're celebrating.”

Montalbano thanked the assistant, who handed him a cup, and Pasquano poured him a finger or two of the sparkling wine.

“To whose health?” asked the inspector.

“To mine. With this guy here, I've just performed my thousandth autopsy.”

Montalbano drank up, called the doctor aside, and showed him the photograph.

“Do you think the dead girl from the Crasticeddru could have had a face like this one?”

“Would you please go fuck yourself?” Pasquano gently asked.

“Sorry,” said the inspector.

He turned on his heels and left. He was the asshole, not the doctor. He'd let himself get carried away by his enthusiasm and had gone and asked Pasquano the most idiotic question imaginable.

He had no better luck at the crime lab.

“Is Jacomuzzi in?”

“No, he's at the commissioner's office.”

“Who's in charge of the photography lab?”

“De Francesco, in the basement.”

De Francesco eyed the photo as if he hadn't yet learned that one could reproduce images on light-sensitive film.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Tell me if you think it's a photomontage.”

“Ah, that's not my game. I only know about taking pictures and developing them. The more difficult stuff we send to Palermo.”

Then the wheel turned in the right direction, and things started falling into place. Montalbano phoned the photographer of the magazine that had published the review of Maraventano's book, whose name he remembered.

“Sorry to trouble you. Is this Mr. Contino?”

“Yes, it is. Who's speaking?”

“This is Inspector Montalbano. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. You can come right now, if you like.”

The photographer lived in the old part of Montelusa, in one of the few houses to survive a landslide that had done away with an entire quarter, one that bore an Arab name.

“Actually, I'm not a photographer by profession. I teach history at the lyceum, and I love it. How can I be of help to you?”

“Do you think you could tell me if this photograph is a montage?”

“I could try,” said Contino, examining the photo. “When was it taken, do you know?”

“Around 1946, I'm told.”

“Come by again tomorrow.”

Montalbano hung his head and said nothing.

“Is it very urgent? I'll tell you what: I can give you a preliminary answer in, say, two hours, but I'll need more time to confirm it.”

“It's a deal.”

The inspector spent the two hours in an art gallery that was featuring a show by a seventy-year-old Sicilian painter still caught up in a sort of populist rhetoric, but felicitous in his intense and lively use of color. Yet he lent only a distracted eye to the paintings, as he was impatient for Contino's answer. Every five minutes he looked at his watch.

“So, what did you find?”

“I've just finished. In my opinion, it is definitely a photomontage. Rather well done.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The background shadows. The girl's head has been mounted in place of the real bride's head.”

Montalbano had not told him this. In no way had Contino been alerted to this fact or been led to this conclusion by the inspector.

“I'll say even more: the girl's face has been retouched.”

“In what way?”

“She's been, well, made to look a little older.”

“Could I have it back?”

“Sure, I don't have any more use for it. I thought it was going to be more difficult, but there's no need for any further confirmation.”

“You've been extremely helpful.”

“Listen, Inspector, the opinion I gave you is just between us, okay? It has no legal value whatsoever.”

The commissioner greeted him at once, with arms joyfully open.

“What a wonderful surprise! Do you have a little time? Come along with me, we'll go to my house. I'm expecting a phone call from my son. My wife will be so happy to see you.”

The commissioner's son, Massimo, was a doctor who belonged to a volunteer organization that defined itself as “without borders.” Its members went to work in war-torn countries, lending their skills as best they could.

“My son's a pediatrician, you know. He's in Rwanda at the moment. I'm very worried about him.”

“Is there still fighting?”

“I wasn't referring to the fighting. Every time he manages to call us, he sounds more and more overwhelmed by the horror and anguish.”

The commissioner fell silent. To distract him from his preoccupations, Montalbano told him the news.

“I'm ninety-nine percent certain I know the first and last name of the dead girl we found in the Crasticeddru.”

The commissioner said nothing, but only gaped at him.

“Her name was Elisa Moscato, aged seventeen.”

“How the devil did you find that out?”

Montalbano recounted the whole story.

The commissioner's wife took his hand as if he were a little boy, and had him sit down on the sofa. They spoke for a short while, and then the inspector stood up and said he had an engagement and had to go. It wasn't true, but he didn't want to be there when the call came. The commissioner and his wife should be allowed to enjoy their faraway son's voice in peace and by themselves, however full of sorrow and pain his words might be. As he was leaving the house, he heard the telephone ring.

 
 
“I've kept my word, as you can see. I brought you back the photograph.”

“Come in, come in.”

Signora Burgio stepped aside to let him in.

“Who is it?” her husband called loudly from the dining room.

“It's the inspector.”

“Well, invite him inside!” the headmaster roared as if his wife had somehow refused to let him in.

They were eating supper.

“Shall I set a place for you?” the signora asked pleasantly. And without waiting for an answer, she put a soup dish on the table for him. Montalbano sat down, and the signora served him some fish broth, reduced to a divine density and enlivened with parsley.

“Were you able to find anything out about the photo?” she asked, without noticing the disapproving look her husband was giving her for being, in his opinion, too forward.

“Unfortunately, yes, signora. I think it's a photomontage.”

“My God! So whoever sent it to me wanted me to believe something that wasn't true!”

“Yes, I do think that was the purpose. To try to put an end to your inquiries about Lisetta.”

“See? I was right!” the woman practically yelled at her husband, and then she started to weep.

“Come on, why are you crying?” Burgio asked.

“Because Lisetta is dead, and they wanted me to think she was alive and happily married!”

“Well, it might have been Lisetta herself who—”

“Don't be ridiculous!” said the signora, throwing her napkin on the table.

There was an awkward silence. Then Mrs. Burgio spoke again.

“She's dead, isn't she, Inspector?”

“I'm afraid she is.”

The headmaster's wife got up and left the dining room, covering her face with her hands. As soon as she was out of the room they heard her give in to a kind of plaintive whimpering.

“I'm sorry,” said the inspector.

“She got what she was looking for,” Burgio said without pity, keeping to the logic of his own side of the marital quarrel.

“Let me ask you one question. Are you sure that the feelings Lillo and Lisetta had for each other were only the kind that you and your wife mentioned?”

“What do you mean?”

Montalbano decided to speak plainly.

“Couldn't Lillo and Lisetta have been lovers?”

The headmaster started laughing, swatting the idea away with a swipe of the hand.

“Look, Lillo was madly in love with a Montelusa girl he'd stopped hearing from after July of '43. Besides, the corpse in the Crasticeddru couldn't be him, for the simple reason that the farmer who saw him bleeding and being loaded onto the truck by the soldiers, and then carried away who-knows-where, was a sensible, serious person.”

“Then,” said Montalbano, “this can mean only one thing: that it's not true that Lisetta ran away with an American soldier. Therefore Lisetta's father told your wife a big fat lie. Who was Lisetta's father, anyway?”

“I vaguely remember his name was Stefano.”

“Is he still alive?”

“No, he died at least five years ago.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“I think he dealt in timber. But Stefano Moscato was not someone we talked about in my house.”

“Why not?”

“Because he, too, wasn't our kind of person. He was in cahoots with his relatives, the Rizzitanos, need I say more? He'd had trouble with the law, I don't know exactly what sort. In those days, in good, respectable families, you simply didn't talk about people like that. It was like talking about shit, if you'll excuse my language.”

Signora Burgio came back, eyes red, an old letter in her hand.

“This is the last letter I received from Lisetta when I was staying in Acquapendente, where I'd moved with my family.”