The Age of Doubt (12 page)

“Wha’? Adelina let you down tonight?” Enzo asked when he saw him come in.

“She wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t cook. What can you give me?”

“Whatever you like.”

He started with a seafood antipasto. Since the
nunnati
were crispy as can be, he ordered a second side dish of them. He continued with a generous helping of spaghetti in squid ink. And he ended with a double portion of mullet and striped bream.

When he came out, he became immediately convinced of the need for a nocturnal stroll to the lighthouse. This time he didn’t go out of his way to check on the cruiser and the yacht. The jetty was deserted. Two steamers were docked there, but they were completely in the dark. He took his walk slowly, one step at a time.

He felt at peace with himself that evening. The sea was breathing gently.

He sat down on the flat rock and fired up a cigarette.

And he concluded that as a cop, he was quite good, and as a man, he was half-assed.

Because as he was approaching the lighthouse, he’d done nothing but think about Laura and the way he’d reacted when he learned she hadn’t gone to Mimì’s place after all.

His happiness had suddenly evaporated when a thought had popped into his head—namely:
And just how do you see this girl, Montalbà? You were so certain that the same person who the day before hadn’t wanted to stay alone with you because she was scared by what she was beginning to feel, was ready, the very next day, to fall inexorably into Mimì’s arms! And you were despairing over it!

How could you be so certain? It surely wasn’t because of Laura’s honest, forthright behavior with you.

And so? Wasn’t this conviction of yours based solely, perhaps, on a prejudice concerning not only Laura but the very nature of all women?

Namely, that in the end it takes very little, or nothing at all, to persuade a woman to say yes? Wasn’t this what you were thinking inside? And isn’t this actually the dick-brained mistake of someone who simply doesn’t understand women? Need proof? Just tell Laura you thought she would end up in Mimì’s bed, and see how she reacts. Punches and slaps at the very least, and a demand that you apologize.

“Laura, I’m so sorry,” he said aloud.

And he promised himself he would call her in the morning.

After smoking another cigarette, he stood up and started walking back. Halfway down the jetty he heard the sound of a patrol boat crossing the harbor. He turned around to look.

A Coast Guard patrol was shining a floodlight on a barge lingering on the water.

He could see a dark mass inside the barge. There were about thirty illegal immigrants clinging to one another, frozen and hungry.

He also saw that two powerful searchlights had been lit on the western wharf, the one where the refugees usually disembark. His colleagues from the police force must already be there with buses, ambulances, cars, and a crowd of rubberneckers.

He’d once happened, by bad luck, to get caught right in the middle of a landing of the poor wretches and since then had decided never to be present for another. Luckily his own police department was not part of the force assigned to the problem; Montelusa dealt with it directly.

Seeing them, he could tolerate those eyes bulging in fear over what they had been through and what uncertainties awaited them; he could tolerate the sight of gaunt bodies that couldn’t stand up straight, of trembling hands and silent tears, of little children whose faces became wizened and old in an instant . . .

What he could not tolerate was the smell. But maybe there was no smell at all; maybe it was just his imagination. But, real or not, he smelled it just the same, and it made his knees buckle and pierced his heart.

It wasn’t the smell of filth. No, it was something completely different. It arose directly from their skin, an ancient yet present, strong smell of despair, of resignation, of misfortunes and violence suffered with heads bowed.

Yes, what that heartrending smell communicated was the sorrows of the injured world, as Elio Vittorini had put it in a book he’d once read.

And yet this time, too, his footsteps, disobeying his brain, headed towards the western wharf.

When he arrived, the patrol boat had just docked. He kept a distance, however, sitting down on a bollard.

It looked like a half-silent movie. By now the people in charge knew what they had to do; there was no need to give or receive orders. One heard only sounds: car doors slamming, footsteps, ambulance sirens, vehicles driving away.

And there were the usual TV cameramen, even though there was no point in refilming a scene already too familiar. They could have easily rebroadcast the material they’d shot a month before, since it was exactly the same, and nobody would have noticed.

He waited until the spotlights suddenly went out and the darkness seemed to thicken. Then he stood up, turned his back on the three or four shadows that remained talking to each other, and headed towards his car.

All of a sudden he clearly heard some footsteps running up to him from behind.

He stopped and turned around.

It was Laura.

Without knowing how, they ended up in each other’s arms. She buried her face in his chest, and Montalbano could feel her trembling all over. They were unable to speak.

Then Laura broke free of his embrace, turned her back to him, and started running until she disappeared into the darkness.

12

The first thing he did when he got back home was to unplug the telephone. God forbid Livia should call. No way he could carry on a conversation with her. Every syllable of his would be a burning twist of the knife of remorse and shame for being forced to lie.

“What did you do today?”

“The usual things, Livia.”

“All right, but tell me anyway.”

And he would go from one whopper to the next, each one bigger than the last. And then the hesitations, the half-spoken words . . . No, at his age, it really wasn’t right.

He had to reflect calmly, and as lucidly as possible, on the miracle that had happened to him, and then make a decision that was clear and definitive. And if he decided to submit to the miracle, to a grace that both thrilled him and filled him with dread, he owed it to Livia to tell her at once, face-to-face.

But at that moment he wasn’t in any condition to think rationally. The excitement turned his thoughts into one big jumble. If, earlier, he’d heard bells and violins, now, after what had happened on the wharf, the music had disappeared, and all he heard was his blood coursing swift and limpid as an alpine stream, his heart beating fast and strong. He needed to release all this energy, which continued to build up almost unbearably with each minute that passed.

He took off his clothes, put on a bathing suit, went down to the beach as far as the line where the sand was dense and compacted with moisture, and started running.

When he got back home, his watch said twelve-thirty and some.

He’d run for two hours straight without stopping for even a minute, and his legs ached.

He slipped into the shower and stayed there a long time, then went to bed.

Exhausted from the run. And from happiness.

Which, when it is truly great, can cut your legs out from under you, just like severe pain.

He woke up with the impression that the shutter outside the bedroom window was banging as usual. Where had all this strong wind suddenly come from?

He opened his eyes, turned on the light, and saw that the shutter was closed.

So what was banging? Then he heard the doorbell ring. Somebody was ringing and kicking the door. He looked at his watch. Ten past three. He got up and went to the door.

It was Fazio who’d been making all the racket.

“Forgive me, Chief, but I tried to ring you and there was no answer. Your phone must be unplugged.”

“Has something happened?”

“Shaikiri was found dead.”

In a way, he’d been expecting something like this.

“Wait while I go and get dressed.”

He did it in the twinkling of an eye, and five minutes later he was sitting beside Fazio, who was at the wheel of a squad car.

“Tell me how he died.”

“Chief, I don’t know anything yet. It was Catarella who rang me. But the way he pronounced the name, Chaziki or something like that, it took me a good ten minutes to figure out that he was talking about the Arab with the
Vanna
. And so, after trying for a long time to phone you unsuccessfully, I decided to come and get you.”

“Do you know at least where we need to go?”

“Of course. To the pier, to the
Vanna
’s berth.”

On the wharf, right in front of the yacht’s gangway, stood Lieutenant Garrufo, a sailor from the Harbor Office, and Captain Sperlì. Montalbano and Fazio shook hands with the group.

“What happened?” Montalbano asked Garrufo.

“Perhaps it’s better to let the captain speak,” said Garrufo.

“I was in my cabin,” Sperlì began, “and about to get into bed, when I thought I heard a scream.”

“What time was it?”

“Quarter past two; I looked instinctively at my watch.”

“Where did it come from?”

“That’s just it. It seemed to me to come from the crew’s quarters. Which is on this side, the one closest to the pier.”

“You heard a scream and nothing else? No other sound?”

“That was all. And the scream was sort of cut off, as though suddenly interrupted.”

“And what did you do?”

“I left the cabin and went to the crew’s quarters. Alvarez, Ricca, and Digiulio were sleeping soundly, but Shaikiri’s bunk was empty.”

“And so?”

“And so I said to myself that maybe the cry had come from the wharf. So I went out on deck with a flashlight. But from what I could see by the light of the lampposts, the quay was deserted. I leaned out over the railing—the one right there, above the gangway—and as I made that movement the flashlight pointed downwards. And that was when I saw him, completely by chance.”

“Show me.”

“You can see him from here, even without going aboard.”

He went to the edge of the wharf and lit up the very narrow space between the quay and the side of the yacht. Montalbano and Fazio bent down to look.

There was a human body wedged vertically, head down, under water up to the bottom of the rib cage. Only the hips and absurdly spread legs remained out of the water.

A question immediately came to the inspector’s mind.

“But with the body in that position, how could you tell it was Shaikiri?” he asked the captain.

Sperlì didn’t hesitate for a second.

“From the color of his jeans. He wore them often.”

The jeans were so yellow they appeared to glow in the dark.

“Have you informed Signora Giovannini?”

This time the captain was unable to hide an ever so brief moment of hesitation.

“N . . . no.”

“Isn’t she on board?”

“Yes, but . . . she’s asleep. I’d rather not bother her. Anyway, what use would she be?”

“And have you told the crew?”

“Well, when those guys get drunk, it takes a while to wear off. And last night they must have had a lot to drink. It would only create confusion.”

“Maybe you’re right. I doubt they could tell us much. And what do
you
think happened, Captain?”

“What else? Poor Ahmed, drunk as he certainly must have been, probably took a wrong step and fell into the water, getting stuck with his head down. He must have drowned.”

Montalbano made no comment.

“What should we do?” the lieutenant asked the inspector.

“If things went the way the captain says, then the case doesn’t fall into my jurisdiction, but yours, Lieutenant. It looks like an accident that occurred within the precincts of the port. Don’t you think?”

“I guess so,” the lieutenant said reluctantly.

This time it would be his turn to stay up all night. As for Signora Giovannini, she could forget about leaving any time soon.

As he was driving the inspector back to Marinella, Fazio asked him:

“Do you really think it was just an accident?”

Montalbano answered with another question.

“Can you explain to me why the captain felt the need to grab a flashlight to go out and see if there was anyone on the wharf? The wharf is lit up, isn’t it?”

“Of course. So why’d he grab it?”

“So he could feed us that bullshit about how he happened to find the corpse, that’s why. No flashlight, no way he notices the body.”

“So you don’t think it was an accident.”

“I’m convinced it wasn’t.”

Fazio was confused.

“Then why didn’t you—”

“Because it’s better this way, I tell you. We’ll let him believe we’ve swallowed his story. The body’s going to end up in Pasquano’s hands anyway. And tomorrow I’ll give the doctor a ring.”

When he got undressed again, it was almost five o’clock in the morning. But he no longer felt the least bit sleepy.

He prepared a pot of coffee, drank a mug of it, and sat down at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper and ballpoint pen.

He started wondering how the killers had managed to discover that the poor Arab was a sort of fifth column in their midst. Maybe the guy had done something stupid. Like getting himself arrested twice.

As he was thinking, his hand started tracing lines randomly on the paper.

When he looked down, he realized he’d tried to sketch a portrait of Laura.

But since he didn’t know how to draw, the portrait looked as if it had been done by an abysmal imitator of Picasso in a moment of total drunkenness.

At six o’clock, despite all the coffee he’d drunk, an irresistible need to sleep came over him. He went and lay down, slept three hours, and woke up to the sound of clatter in the kitchen.

“Adelina?”

“Ah, you’s aweck? I bring you coffee now.”

As he was drinking it, he asked her:

“How are you feeling? Is the headache gone?”

“Yes, iss much better.”

Thank God for Adelina’s headache! If not for the fact that his housekeeper hadn’t made him anything to eat for dinner, he wouldn’t have dined at Enzo’s, would not have gone for a walk along the jetty, and would not have run into Laura.