Andrea Camilleri - The Dance of the Seagull

It was a chiarchiaro, as they called it in Sicilian, a hill of stone, a godforsaken place where you couldn’t grow anything and it was dangerous even to walk, since at any moment you could find yourself sinking into a hole that would widen into a great fissure plunging deep into the ground.

Montalbano knew that chiarchiari were cemeteries of nameless bones, the favorite burial sites of the Mafia. When they wanted to make someone disappear, they would take him to the edge of a hole, shoot him, and let him fall inside. Or else they would spare themselves the bullets, and just shove him into the chasm still alive, and the victim would die during the fall, crashing against the rocks, or if he reached the bottom, he could cry and yell all he wanted, and nobody would ever hear him. He would die slowly, of hunger and, above all, thirst.

To the right, about ten yards from the dirt road, was a tumbledown little one-room house, a white cube that looked merely like a rock a bit larger than the rest. Tumbledown, perhaps, but with the door closed. Maybe Nicolò was inside, talking with the fugitive.

Montalbano decided to stay in the car. He searched his pockets. There were only three cigarettes left in the pack. He lit one and rolled down the window. He didn’t hear any birds singing.

Then, when he’d nearly finished the cigarette, the door of the cube opened and Zito appeared, motioning to him to come out and approach.

“He’s ready to tell you everything, but there’s one problem.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t want you to see his face.”

“So what should we do?”

“I have to blindfold you.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. If you’re not blindfolded, he won’t talk.”

“I’ll make him talk.”

“Cut the crap, Salvo. You and I are unarmed, and he’s got a gun. Come on, don’t be an asshole.”

And Nicolò pulled an enormous handkerchief out of his pocket, red and green, like a peasant’s.

Despite the circumstances, Montalbano started laughing.

“Is that really your normal handkerchief?”

“Yes. I’ve been using this kind for a while. Sinusitis.”

The inspector let himself be blindfolded and led into the cottage.

“Good morning, Inspector Montalbano,” said a middle-aged voice, rather deep and well mannered.

“Good morning to you.”

“I’m sorry I’ve made you come all this way, and I’m sorry I’ve made you wear a blindfold, but it’s better if you don’t know who I am.”

“Let’s drop the politeness bullshit,” the inspector said. “And just tell me what you have to tell me.”

“A few mornings ago, probably around six o’clock, I was in the vicinity of Monte Scibetta. Do you know the area of the dry wells?”

“Yes.”

“I was in a car and was passing by the drinking trough, which used to have water in it. There were three people there, and one of them was sitting on the edge of the trough. The other two were on his right. The seated man had a bandage over his forehead, and his shirt was all stained with blood. Then one of the two punched him in the face, and he fell into the trough. But I’d already recognized him. Or at least I think I did. He looked to me like Signor Fazio.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite sure.”

“Then what?”

“I kept on driving, and in the mirror I saw them pulling him back out.”

“And what did you do after that?”

“I had to get away from Monte Scibetta, and fast, because I’d found out that the carabinieri were coming after me. So I figured the best place to hide was here. But before I got here, I called Signor Zito.”

“How do you know each other?”

“Never mind about that,” Nicolò’s voice said behind him.

“All right, go on.”

“First of all, I wanted confirmation that it was actually Fazio.”

“And when you knew for certain, why did you want Zito to tell me about your phone call?”

“Because once, with my son, Fazio showed he was an honorable man.”

“Why, in your opinion, did they take Fazio all the way out to Monte Scibetta?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know why or where they grabbed him.”

“They almost certainly wounded and captured him at the port of Vigàta.”

“Ah,” said the stranger.

But he didn’t speak.

“And so?” Montalbano asked, feeling agitated.

“Inspector, if they took him all the way out there, it was to throw him into one of those dry wells. They want to make him disappear. It would have taken them too long to bring him all the way out here to the chiarchiaro .”

It was the very answer he’d feared.

Now there was no more time to waste.

“Good luck, Signor Nicotra, and thanks,” said the inspector.

“But . . . how did you know it was me?”

“For one thing, I first heard your story a long time ago from Zito himself, who’s been your friend since your schooldays together. And then, when you said Fazio had treated your son honorably . . . well, I just put two and two together. Thanks again.”

5

Once outside the cube, he removed the handkerchief covering his eyes and started running towards the car, with Zito following behind.

“Come on, hurry up!”

“Where are we going?” the newsman asked.

“To Monte Scibetta. We haven’t got a minute to lose!”

“Stop and think for a second, Salvo. Many hours have passed since he saw him there—”

“Oh, I’m thinking all right, don’t you worry about that.”

“By now whatever they were going to do to Fazio, they’ve already done.”

“Yes, but he may still be alive. Maybe gravely wounded, but still alive. Do you know where the dry wells are?”

“Yes.”

“How far is it from here?”

“About two hours.”

“Let’s go, and in the meantime give me your cell phone.”

He called Augello, who was still asleep. But as soon as Montalbano told him what he’d found out, he woke up in a hurry.

“And you, Nicolò, should tell your friend Nicotra to turn himself in,” the inspector said to Zito when he’d finished.

“Do you know how many times I’ve told him that? It’s hopeless. The idea of ending up in jail drives him crazy. If there’s such a thing as incompatibility with prison life, he’s got it. And double murder is still double murder.”

“Okay, but he would have every extenuating circumstance in the book. For us, a cheating wife is the best extenuating circumstance there is. If you’re being cheated on, you can even commit a massacre if you want, and still get off easy. What? You mean you caught your wife in bed with your brother and you didn’t shoot ’em down on the spot? What kind of a fucking man are you? Don’t you know that with a jury made up of people with a sense of Honor, Family, Duty, and Womanly Virtue, Nicotra would surely be exonerated?”

They’d arranged to meet Mimì at the dried-up drinking trough. But when they got there, Augello and his men were nowhere to be seen.

“What the fuck are they doing?” Montalbano asked out loud, upset.

“Well,” Zito said, trying to calm him down, “it’s going to take a little time for him to do what you asked him to do.”

The inspector fired up a cigarette. Luckily he’d found a café with a tobacco license open in Rivera and had bought three packs, just to be safe.

The first to show up were four firemen with a great big truck equipped with a crane. Apparently Augello had clearly explained to them the work they would have to do, which was to go down into some wells that had long run dry but were very deep.

“We’re ready,” said the head fireman. “Shall we go in?”