The Terra-Cotta Dog (25 page)

“He's my mechanic,” the inspector said, bitterly thinking he was about to resume his journey through the old folks' memories.

A fiftyish man in filthy overalls, fat and surly, said nothing to the inspector and attacked Headmaster Burgio.

“Why are you wasting your time coming here? It's not ready yet. I told you the work would take a long time.”

“I didn't come for the car. Is your father here?”

“Of course he's here. Where else would he be? He's here busting my balls, telling me I don't know how to work, that the mechanical geniuses in his family are him and his grand-son.”

A twentyish lad, also in overalls, who'd been looking under a car hood, stood up and greeted the two men with a smile. Montalbano and Burgio walked across the garage, which must have originally been a warehouse, and came to a kind of partition made of wooden boards.

Inside, behind a desk, was Antonio Marin.

“I overheard everything,” he said. “And if arthritis hadn't messed me up, I could teach that one a thing or two.”

“We need some information.”

“What do you need to know, Inspector?”

“It's better if I let Headmaster Burgio tell you.”

“Do you remember how many crew members of the
Pacinotti
were killed or wounded or declared missing in combat?”

“We were lucky,” the old man said, growing animated. Apparently he liked talking about that heroic time; at home they probably told him to shut up whenever he started in on the subject. “We had one dead from bomb shrapnel, name was Arturo Rebellato; and one wounded, also from shrapnel, and his name was Silvio Destefano; and one missing, Mario Cunich. We were all very close, you know; most of us hailed from up north,Venice,Trieste . . .”

“Missing at sea?” asked the inspector.

“What sea? We were moored in the harbor the whole time. We practically became an extension of the wharf.”

“Then why was he declared missing?”

“Because the evening of July the seventh, 1943, he never returned to ship. The bombing had been heavy that afternoon, and he was out on a pass. Cunich was from Monfalcone, and he had a friend from the same town who was also my friend, Stefano Premuda. Well, the next morning Premuda forced the whole crew to go looking for Cunich. We spent the entire day going from house to house asking after him, to no avail. We went to the military hospital, the civilian hospital, we went to the place where they collected all the dead bodies found under the rubble . . . Nothing. Even the officers joined in the search, since some time before that they'd been given advance notice, a kind of warning, that in the coming days we were going to have to weigh anchor . . . We never did, though; the Americans arrived first.”

“Couldn't he have simply deserted?”

“Cunich? Never! He believed in the war. He was a Fascist. A good kid, but a Fascist. And he was smitten.”

“What do you mean?”

“Smitten, in love. With a girl from here. Like me, actually. He said that as soon as the war was over, he was going to get married.”

“And you never had any news of him again?”

“Well, when the Americans landed, they decided that a repair ship like ours, which was a jewel, suited them just fine. So they kept us in service, in Italian uniform, but they gave us an armband to wear on our sleeves to avoid any misunderstandings. So Cunich had all the time in the world to return to ship, but he never did. He just disappeared. I stayed in touch with Premuda afterward, and now and then I'd ask him if he'd heard from Cunich or had any news of him . . . Nothing, not a word.”

“You said you knew Cunich had a girlfriend here. Did you ever meet her?”

“Never.”

One more thing needed to be asked, but Montalbano stopped, and with a glance he let Burgio have the honor.

“Did he at least tell you her name?” the headmaster asked, accepting Montalbano's generous offer.

“Well, Cunich was very reserved. But he did tell me once that her name was Lisetta.”

What happened? Did an angel pass, did time stop? Montalbano and Burgio froze, and the inspector grabbed his side. He felt a violent pain, while the headmaster brought his hand to his heart and leaned against a car to keep from falling. Marin became terrified.

“What did I say? My God, what did I say?”

Immediately outside the garage, the headmaster started shouting cheerfully:

“We guessed right!”

And he traced a few dance steps. Two passersby, who knew him as a pensive, somber man, stopped in shock. Having got it out of his system, Burgio turned serious again.

“Don't forget we promised San Calogero fifty thousand lire a head.”

“I won't forget.”

“Do you know San Calogero?”

“I haven't missed the annual celebration since I moved to Vigàta.”

“That doesn't mean you know him. San Calogero is someone who—how shall I say?—who doesn't let things slide. I'm telling you this for your own good.”

“Are you joking?”

“Absolutely not. He's a vengeful saint, and it doesn't take much to get his dander up. If you make him a promise, you have to keep it. If you, for example, get in a car crash and narrowly escape with your life, and you make a promise to the saint which you don't keep, you can bet your last lira you're going to get in another accident and lose your legs at the very least. Get the idea?”

“Perfectly.”

“Let's go home now, so you can tell my wife the whole story.”

“So
I
can tell her?”

“Yes, because I don't want to give her the satisfaction of hearing me say she was right.”

 
 
“To summarize,” said Montalbano, “things may have gone as follows.”

He was enjoying this investigation in slippers, in a home from another age, over a cup of coffee.

“The sailor Mario Cunich, who became a kind of local boy around Vigàta, fell in love with Lisetta Moscato, who loved him too. How they managed to meet and talk to each other, God only knows.”

“I've given it a lot of thought,” said Signora Angelina. “There was a period—I think it was from '42 until March or April of '43—when her father had to go far away from Vigàta on business. They could have fallen in love then, and they would certainly have had plenty of opportunities to spend time together in secret.”

“They did fall in love, that much we know,” resumed Montalbano. “Then her father's return again prevented them from seeing each other. Soon the evacuation also came between them. So when news came of his imminent departure . . . Lisetta escaped, she came here, she met Cunich, but we don't know where. The sailor, so he could have as much time as possible with Lisetta, didn't return to ship. And at some point, they were murdered in their sleep. So far, everything clicks.”

“Clicks?” asked Angelina, taken aback.

“I'm sorry, I merely meant that thus far, our reconstruction makes sense. The person who killed them may have been a jilted lover, or even Lisetta's father, who may have caught them together and felt dishonored. We may never know.”

“What do you mean, we may never know?” said Angelina. “Aren't you interested in finding out who murdered those two poor kids?”

He didn't have the heart to tell her that he didn't care that much about the killer himself. What really intrigued him was why someone, perhaps even the killer, had taken it upon himself to move the bodies into the cave and set up that scene with the bowl, the jug, and the terra-cotta dog.

 
 
Before going back home he stopped at a grocery store and bought two hundred grams of peppered cheese and a loaf of durum wheat bread. He got these provisions because he was sure he wouldn't find Livia at the house. And indeed she wasn't there; everything was the same as when he'd left to see the Burgios.

He didn't have time to set the bag of groceries on the table when the phone rang. It was the commissioner.

“Montalbano, I thought I should tell you that Undersecretary Licalzi called me today, wanting to know why I hadn't yet put in a request for your promotion.”

“But what the hell does that man want from me, anyway?”

“I took the liberty of inventing a story of love, something mysterious, I said, left unstated, between the lines . . . He took the bait; apparently he's a passionate reader of pulp romances. But he did settle the matter. He told me to write to him and ask that you be given a substantial bonus. So I wrote the request and sent it. You want to hear it?”

“Spare me.”

“Too bad. I thought I'd written a little masterpiece.”

Montalbano set the table and cut a thick slice of bread before the telephone rang again. It wasn't Livia, as he had hoped, but Fazio.

“Chief, I've been working all bleeding day for you. This Stefano Moscato wasn't the kind of guy you'd want to sit down to dinner with.”

“A mafioso?”

“Really and truly mafioso, I don't think so. But he was certainly violent. Various convictions for brawling, violence, and assault. They don't seem like Mafia offenses to me; a mafioso doesn't get himself convicted for stupid shit.”

“What's the date of the last conviction?”

“Nineteen eighty-one, if I'm not mistaken. With one foot in the grave he still busted some guy's head with a chair.”

“Do you know if he did any time in jail in '42 and '43?”

“Sure did. Assault and battery. From March '42 to April '43 he was in Palermo, at Ucciardone prison.”

The news from Fazio greatly enhanced the flavor of the peppered cheese, which was already no joking matter all by itself.

21

Galluzzo's brother-in-law opened his news program with the story of a grisly bombing, clearly bearing the Mafia's signature, on the outskirts of Catania. A well-known and respected businessman from that city, Corrado Brancato, owner of a large warehouse that supplied supermarkets around the island, had decided to treat himself to an afternoon of rest in a small house he owned just outside of town. After turning the key in the lock, he had, for all intents and purposes, opened the door onto nothingness: a horrific explosion, triggered by an ingenious device linking the door to an explosive charge, literally pulverized the house, the businessman, and his wife, Giuseppa née Tagliafico. Investigations, the newsman added, were proving difficult, since Mr. Brancato had a clean record and did not appear to be in any way involved with the Mafia.

Montalbano turned off the television and started whistling Schubert's Eighth, the “Unfinished.” It came out splendidly, he didn't miss a note.

He dialed Mimì Augello's number. Surely his second-in-command would know more about this most recent development. There was no answer.

When he'd finally finished eating, Montalbano made every trace of the meal disappear, carefully washing even the glass from which he'd drunk three gulps of wine. He undressed and was about to get into bed when he heard a vehicle pull up, followed by some voices, a car door shutting, and the car driving away. Very quickly, he slipped under the covers, turned off the light, and pretended to be sleeping deeply. He heard the front door open and close, then Livia's footsteps, which came to a sudden halt. Montalbano realized she'd stopped in the bedroom doorway and was staring at him.

“Stop clowning around.”

Montalbano gave in and turned on the light.

“How did you know I was faking?”

“From your breathing. Do you know how you breathe when you're asleep? No. I do.”

“Where've you been?”

“To Eraclea Minoa and Selinunte.”

“By yourself?”

“Mr. Inspector, I'll tell you everything, I'll confess, just drop this third degree, for Christ's sake! I went with Mimì Augello.”

Montalbano's face turned ugly, and he pointed a threatening finger.

“I'm warning you, Livia: Augello already moved into my desk once. I don't want him moving into anything else of mine.”

Livia stiffened.

“I'm pretending I don't understand. It's better for both of us. But, in any case, I'm not some piece of property of yours, you asshole of a Sicilian.”

“All right, I'm sorry.”

They kept arguing a good while, even after Livia got undressed and came to bed. As for Mimì, however, Montalbano was determined not to let him get away with this. He got up.

“Now where are you going?”

“To give Mimì a ring.”

“Leave the guy in peace. He would never dream of doing anything that might offend you.”

“Hello, Mimì? Montalbano here. Oh, you just got in? Good. No, no, don't worry, Livia's just fine. She thanks you for the wonderful time she had with you today. And I, too, want to thank you. Oh, by the way, Mimì, did you know that Corrado Brancato was blown up today in Catania? No, I'm not kidding, they said so on TV. You haven't heard anything? What do you mean, you haven't heard anything? Oh, of course, you were out all day. And our colleagues in Catania were probably looking for you over land and sea. And no doubt the commissioner, too, was wondering what had become of you. Well, what can you do. Try to patch it up, I guess. Good night, Mimì. Sleep tight.”

“To say you're a real piece of shit is putting it mildly,” said Livia.

 
 
“All right,” said Montalbano. It was three o'clock in the morning. “I admit it's all my fault, that when I'm here I get all wrapped up in my thoughts and act as if you didn't exist. I'm too accustomed to being alone. Let's go away.”

“And where will you leave your head?” asked Livia.