The phone call from Livia was really the last thing he needed. Sighing sadly, he picked up the bottle on the ground outside the door, put it down on the table on the veranda, went and washed his face, and finally sat down outside.
What was it he was supposed to think about?
Ah, yes, the reason why he felt only rage, instead of regret or sadness.
But is it really so necessary to tackle this question right now? When your head is in such a state of confusion? Couldn’t you postpone it?
No, I really think this is the right moment. And I don’t want to hear any childish excuses. So, buck up, and proceed. In what circumstances does a person feel rage? Answer me.
Well, there could be any number of reasons for-
No, no, stop beating around the bush, stop equivocating, as the commissioner might say. Stick to the subject at hand. The question couldn’t be clearer: Why did you become enraged when Laura refused to see you?
Well, because I really wanted to see her and-
Are you really so sure?
Of course.
No, you’re lying to yourself. You’re like the person who cheats when he plays solitaire.
Then why?
I’ll tell you why. Quite simply because you were unable to do what you wanted to do.
No, when you put it that way, you make it sound vulgar. As if I wanted only to-
Oh, yeah? Wasn’t that your intention?
Come on, cut the bullshit!
What bullshit? Listen, if you truly loved her, at this moment you would be sorrowful, forlorn, call it whatever you like, but not angry.
Explain what you mean.
If you’re angry, it means what you really feel for Laura is not love. Rage, in fact, means you consider Laura an object you want to grab, something that manages to elude your grasp at the last minute.
Are you saying I see her as an… a…
Let’s say a fish. Which you want to catch with a landing-net. You manage to get the fish to go into the net, but as you’re lifting it out of the water, the fish wiggles out, breaks free, and dives back into the water. And you’re left there like an idiot, with an empty net in your hand. And that’s why you feel enraged.
So what would you call what I feel for her?
Attraction. Desire. Vanity. Or else you see her as a kind of life raft you desperately want to grab hold of to avoid drowning in the seas of old age.
So it’s not love?
No. And you know what I say to you? That if you really were seriously in love with her, you would try and understand her motives and misgivings.
He went on this way for another two hours. When he’d finally emptied the bottle, he laid his head down on his folded arms on the table and fell into a sort of troubled half-sleep.
The cool dawn air woke him up.
He stood up, went into the house, took a nice hot shower, shaved, and drank his customary mugful of espresso.
There was only one question rattling around in his brain: Would he be able to stand never seeing Laura again? Would he have the strength?
He came to the conclusion that he would respect her feelings, would not force her, and would not take any initiatives himself.
But at that moment, he had to find a way to pass the hours until it was time to go to the office. He grabbed Petrarch’s Canzoniere and decided to read it in the early morning light.
He read for a long time, but at a certain point he came to a poem that said:
My ship sails brimful of oblivion
O’er harsh seas on a winter’s night
Between Scylla and Charybdis…
and he had to stop. He had a lump in his throat.
Wasn’t he, too, caught in a sort of sea storm between Scylla and Charybdis?
He closed the book, looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.
At that moment the doorbell rang. Who could it be, so early in the morning? For a split second he hoped it was Laura dropping by before going on duty. He went and opened the door. It was Mimì Augello.
Sleepy, wasted, and unshaven.
“How are you feeling, Mimì?”
“Ground to a pulp.”
His first question was:
“Could I have some coffee?”
The second question was:
“Could I take a shower?”
And the third, and last, was:
“Could I use your razor?”
Finally, clean and refreshed, and sitting down on the veranda, he began to tell his story.
“When you called me yesterday evening, I was already on board and had no excuse for leaving. Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Phone me.”
“To spare you from spending another night with her.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then why, in your opinion?”
“Because you felt guilty.”
“Guilty towards you? Ha ha ha! That’s a good one!”
“Not towards me, but towards Beba. I realized why, in fact, you called me. You felt guilty for sending me off to sleep with Liv-La Giovannini.”
As Mimì was talking, Montalbano realized that his assistant was right. In reality, he hadn’t explicitly thought of Beba, but had made the phone call on impluse, without really knowing why. He’d simply acted. Good for Mimì, then! He was right on the money. But the inspector didn’t feel like granting him the satisfaction of knowing this.
“I never actually told you to sleep with her,” he said.
“Oh, no? Well, you’re a fine hypocrite! She’s the kind of woman-and you knew this from the start-who doesn’t give a shit about moonlight strolls by the sea! You didn’t actually say it, but you implied it. But I think we’d better just drop it. Do you still want to know what happened?”
“Of course.”
“But the commissioner took you off the case!”
“Tell me just the same.”
“We had dinner on board.”
“Sorry to interrupt you, but did you two talk at all about Shaikiri?”
“Just a brief mention. La Giovannini told the captain-”
“Did he eat with you?”
“Yes, but if you interrupt me every-”
“Sorry.”
“She told the captain to request that the body be returned so they could bury it and then leave. So, to continue. Your phone call came too late because, among other things, I’d already told Livia and Sperlì that I’d agreed to come and work with them.”
“Did they explain any better what the work would involve?”
“Only one thing seemed clear to me. Livia told me she’d given a lot of thought to how they could use me, and had decided that instead of having South Africa as my base, it was better if they sent me to Freetown.”
“Where’s that?”
“In Sierra Leone. I told her it didn’t make any difference to me, that what mattered most to me was to earn as much money as possible. And I made it quite clear that I was ready to close not one eye but both.”
“But did she tell you what her interests were in those parts of the world?”
“Yes, coffee and tobacco plantations, and a very large share in extractive concerns.”
“Extractive concerns? And what does that mean?”
“Mining, I think.”
“Find out anything else?”
“No. We’re going to meet again at five this evening to work out the terms of the contract. Maybe they’ll tell me more then. But what do you think? Should I go back on board or not? If the case is no longer ours…”
“Lemme think for a minute. And what happened during the night?”
“You want details about what Livia wanted me to do?”
“I told you not to call her Livia! No, I only want to know whether anything happened that-”
“Wait. Yes, something did happen. Around midnight the captain knocked on the cabin door. Luckily we were taking a break. Liv-Giovannini went to open the door, completely naked. They talked quietly for a minute, with him standing outside and her inside, and then she closed the door, went to the rather large safe she has in her cabin, opened it, took out a folder, put on her dressing gown, and went out. I immediately got up and took a quick look at what was inside the safe, but without touching anything.”
“And what was there?”
“A lot of money: euros, dollars, yen… And files and folders, all with titles. And five or six registers. And there was a big fat binder with the name Kimberley Process written on it.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Dunno. Listen, what tack should I take now?”
“Theoretically, you should bail out. Your back’s no longer covered. If you go back on board, it’ll be without authorization.”
“But it would be a shame to leave the whole thing hanging.”
“I agree. What do you want to do?”
“I’d like to go to the five o’clock meeting just the same. I’m certain they’re going to tell me something that’ll help us screw them.”
“And how will you extract yourself afterwards? You can’t just say, ‘Look I’ve changed my mind, I’ve decided not to come with you.’”
“Of course not! They’d kill me!”
“I’ve got it!” Montalbano said all at once.
“You’ve got what?”
“I know how to get you out of there. The Shaikiri method.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ll arrest you!”
“Come on! I think it’s a little early in the morning for you.”
“Mimì, believe me, it’s the only way. You’ll call me when you’re about to go aboard the Vanna. Fazio and Gallo will pretend to be on duty at the port. If you have any important news, you’ll blow your nose as you’re descending the gangway. A minute later you’ll be in handcuffs. You’ll react angrily, make a big row, so that everyone on the Vanna and the Ace of Hearts knows what’s going on, and that way, you’ll make your exit and tell me everything you’ve learned once you return to the station. If you don’t blow your nose, it’ll mean you have nothing new to tell us, and we won’t arrest you. Got that? You look doubtful. What’s wrong?”
“I hope I remember to bring a handkerchief. I always forget.”
Augello left and Montalbano went over to his bookcase and pulled out the calendar-atlas he’d already looked at. His ignorance of geography was disgraceful, to the point where he was capable of mistaking the locations of the five continents.
The first thing he did was to see what it said about South Africa.
And immediately he came across Kimberley, which was where the biggest diamond deposits were located. So big, in fact, that the place had become a sort of national monument. There were also platinum mines, not to mention iron, cobalt, and a great many other things that the inspector knew nothing whatsoever about.
And they produced tobacco but not coffee.
The coffee plantations, for their part, were in Sierra Leone, along with other tobacco farms. And there were enough diamonds, cobalt, and other minerals for everyone to have a merry old time. Enough, that is, for a merry old time to be had by the owners of the mines, which all belonged to foreign companies, whereas, according to the calendar-atlas, the life expectancy for the native populations was thirty-seven years for males, and thirty-nine years for females.
At any rate, what La Giovannini had told Augello matched up with this reality.
But in the inspector’s brain, an annoying sort of bell had started ringing.
Hoping to make it stop, he reread everything from the beginning.
But this only made the bell start ringing louder, so loud, in fact, that he began worrying that something might be happening to his brain.
Then he realized that it was the telephone.
At first he decided not to answer, but then he thought it might be Laura and started running.
“Chief, ya gotta ’scuse me fer ’sturbin’ yiz at home in yer own home.”
“What is it, Cat?”
“Dacter Micca called juss now.”
Never heard of him. The only Micca he knew of was the famous Pietro, the Piedmontese soldier he’d read about in history books.
“Did he tell you his first name?”
“Yessir, Chief. ’Is firss name’s Jerry.”
“You mean as in Jerry Lewis?”
“Yessir, ’ass azackly right, Chief.”
Jerry Micca. Geremicca!
“And what did he say?”
“’E axed yiz to go an’ see ’im.”
“Listen, Cat, since I have to go to Montelusa, you have to do me a favor.”
“Yessir, Chief!”
The inspector was certain that Catarella had stood at attention when saying this.
“I want you to do an Internet search for the name Kimberley Process.”
“No problem, Chief. Ya jess gotta tell me how iss writ.”
“I’ll try. The first letter is a K.”
A good three minutes passed without Catarella saying anything. Maybe he’d gone to look for a pen.
“Cat?”
“I’m here, Chief.”
“Did you write down the K?”
“Not yet, Chief.”
“Why not?”
“I’s wunnerin’ if iss a K witt or wittout the O.”
“Without, Cat.”
“So how you write a K wittout the O?”
At this rate, it was going to take them a week. Because once they got past the stumbling block of the K, there was still the Y at the end [12].
“Listen, Cat, tell you what. I’ll write it down on a piece of paper and drop it off at the station for you before going to Montelusa, okay?”
As he was on his way to Vigàta, the inspector realized that Geremicca’s call had come at absolutely the right moment. If he wanted to see Montalbano, then he must have received news from his French colleague, which meant that the investigation was about to be enriched with new elements, and the inspector could throw himself into it body and soul. He didn’t give a flying fuck that the commissioner had taken him off the case; he would carry on just the same. The investigation was more vital to him than bread itself, and for one simple reason: it would not allow him any time to think about Laura.
He pulled up in front of the station, didn’t bother to park, got out of the car, leaving the door wide open, went inside, gave the piece of paper with the name Kimberley Process written on it to Catarella, and said:
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Wait, Chief.”
“What is it?”
Catarella clearly felt awkward, as he kept looking at his shoe tops and opening and closing his hands in a fist.
“Well?” the inspector prodded him.
“Y’see, Chief, I gots somethin’ I oughter tell yiz but I ain’t ’ad the pleasure a tell yiz cuz I dunno whither I oughter tell yiz or no.”
“All right, then, when you decide what’s best, you can send me a telegram.”
“Chief, this in’t no jokin’ matter!”
“Then out with it, for Christ’s sake!”
“Please, Chief, le’ss go in yer office.”
If this was Catarella’s way of not wasting his time, well then… Catarella followed him down the hallway. The door to the inspector’s office was closed. Montalbano opened it and went inside.
Fazio was there, sitting in front of the desk with his back to them. Hearing someone come in, he turned around. At that moment the inspector noticed a mortuary pillow of white flowers in the middle of his desk, the kind that one lays down on coffins.
He turned pale, suddenly remembering the dream he’d had about his own funeral.
“What… what…”
He was unable to speak. He looked at Fazio, who was wearing a gloomy, worried expression.
“What else could it be, Chief? This is a classic Mafia warning.”
It was true. Montalbano went over to the filing cabinet atop which he always kept a bottle of water, and drank a glass of it as his brain whirred at high speed.
There was only one explanation possible for this threat. The Mafia must definitely be involved in the activities of the Vanna and the Ace of Hearts. That flower pillow was meant to tell him that if he didn’t back off, they would kill him. Never before had the Cuffaros or Sinagras gone to such lengths with him. Maybe the dream he’d had would even come true.
Montalbano said nothing. He batted the pillow with his hand in frustration, knocking it onto the floor.
“Catarella, grab that thing and throw it into the garbage.”
Catarella bent down, picked up the pillow, and was about to leave the room when Montalbano asked him:
“When did they deliver it?”
“Juss five minutes afore ya got here.”
“Did you see who brought it?”
“Yiss. Ciccino Pànzica, the floriss.”
“Fazio, I want this Pànzica here in front of me in five minutes.”
He had to admit it, he felt a bit scared. Normally he wouldn’t, if not for that damned dream he’d had.
Ciccino Pànzica was about sixty years old, with skin as pink as a pig’s.
“You must excuse me if I-”
“I’ll ask the questions around here.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Who ordered that pillow from you?”
“The person didn’t say who he was. They ordered it over the phone.”
Fazio intervened.
“How did you arrange for the payment?”
“They were going to send someone by.”
“And did this person come?”
“Yessir, yesterday evening.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“If I saw him, yes. He was in uniform.”
Montalbano and Fazio looked at each other, puzzled.
“What kind of uniform?” Fazio asked.
“Yours.”
A mafioso disguised as a policeman! This was becoming more and more troubling.
“Can I say something I wanted to say from the start?” the florist asked.
“Go ahead,” said Montalbano.
“The policeman also gave me a little card, which I forgot to deliver with the pillow.”
Normally, however, these kinds of threats never contained any written messages, Montalbano thought.
“Let’s see it.”
The florist handed it to him. It was a calling card in an envelope. Montalbano opened it. On the back of the card were the words: Sincerest condolences. Lattes.
<a l:href="#_ftnref12">[12]</a> The Italian language contains neither the letter K nor the letter Y.