Andrea Camilleri - The Dance of the Seagull

The papers chattered everywhere and always about every problem in existence, but always idly, without the chatter ever leading to any sort of understanding or concrete action . . .

Montalbano decided then and there that Article 1 of the Italian Constitution needed to be revised to the following: “Italy is a republic founded on drug dealing, systematic lateness, and useless chatter.”

Disgusted, he tossed the newspaper into a trash bin, stood up, went out of the airport, and fired up a cigarette. And he saw seagulls flying very near the shore. At once the seagull he’d seen dance and die came back to him.

Since there was still another half hour before the flight got in, he retraced the incoming path he’d taken with the car until he was a few yards from the rocks and the water. And he stood there, relishing the scent of algae and brine and watching the birds pursue one another.

Then he went back to the airport. Livia’s plane had just landed.

She appeared before him, beautiful and smiling. They hugged each other tight and kissed. They hadn’t seen each other for three months.

“Shall we go?”

“I have to get my suitcase.”

The luggage, naturally, arrived an hour late amidst yells, curses, and protests. But they were lucky it hadn’t been sent on to Bombay or Tanzania.

As they were driving back to Vigàta, Livia said:

“I reserved the hotel room in Ragusa for tonight, you know.”

The plan they’d made beforehand was to travel around for three days in the Val di Noto and visit the Sicilian Baroque towns there, which Livia had never seen before.

But it hadn’t been an easy decision.

“Listen, Salvo,” Livia had said over the phone a week earlier. “I’ve got four days off. What do you say I come down and we spend a little quiet time together?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“I was thinking we could even do a little tour of Sicily, maybe to an area I’m not familiar with.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea. Especially since there’s not much to do at the station these days. Do you know where you’d like to go?”

“Yes. To the Val di Noto. I’ve never been there before.”

Damn! How did she get it in her head to go there of all places?

“Well, it’s certainly a remarkable place, I’ll grant you that, but believe me, there are other places that—”

“No, I want to go to Noto, in particular. I’m told the cathedral is a pure marvel. Then we could push on to, I dunno, Modica, Ragusa, Scicli . . .”

“Nice itinerary, no doubt about it. But . . .”

“What, don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

“Well, in a general sense, sure, I think it’s a great idea, absolutely. But we should probably inform ourselves first.”

“Inform ourselves of what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want them to be shooting.”

“What are you talking about? Shooting what?”

“I wouldn’t want to run into a film crew shooting an episode of that television series right as we’re walking around there . . . They film them around there, you know.”

“What the hell do you care?”

“What do you mean, what the hell do I care? And what if I find myself face to face with the actor who plays me? . . . What’s his name—Zingarelli . . .”

“His name’s Zingaretti, stop pretending you don’t know. Zingarelli’s a dictionary. But I repeat: What do you care? How can you still have these childish complexes at your age?”

“What’s age got to do with it?”

“Anyway, he doesn’t look the least bit like you.”

“That’s true.”

“He’s a lot younger than you.”

Enough of this bullshit about age! Livia was obsessed!

Montalbano felt offended. What the hell did youth and age have to do with any of this?

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Anyway, as far as that goes, the guy’s totally bald, whereas I’ve got more hair than I know what to do with!”

“Come on, Salvo, let’s not fight.”

And so, to avoid a quarrel, he’d let himself be talked into it.

“I’m well aware that you reserved a room. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’ll have to come home from the office no later than four o’clock for us to make it there.”

“That’s not a problem. I’ve only got a few documents to sign.”

Livia laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Salvo. You say that as if this were the first time you—”

She broke off.

“Come on, finish your sentence. The first time I what?”

“Never mind. Have you packed a suitcase at least?”

“No.”

“Oh, great! It’s going to take you two hours to pack, and at your normal cruising speed we’ll be lucky to get to Ragusa before ten o’clock!”

“Ah, ‘my cruising speed’! Aren’t we witty today! How long does it take to pack a suitcase? I’ll do mine in half an hour!”

“Should I start packing it myself?”

“For heaven’s sake, no!”

The one time he’d let her pack his bags, he’d found himself on the island of Elba with one brown shoe and one black.

“What’s that ‘for heaven’s sake’ supposed to mean?” Livia asked, sounding irritated.

“Nothing,” he said, having no desire to quarrel.

After a few minutes of silence, Montalbano asked:

“Tell me something. Do seagulls die in Boccadasse?”

Livia, who’d been staring at the road in front of her as though still resentful over the business of the suitcase, turned towards him with a look of astonishment and said nothing.

“Why are you looking at me like that? I simply asked you if seagulls die in Boccadasse.”

Livia kept staring at him without saying anything.

“Would you please answer me? Do they or don’t they?”

“But don’t you think that’s a stupid question?”

“Can’t you just answer me without assigning an intelligence quotient to my question?”

“I think they probably die in Boccadasse like anywhere else.”

“And have you ever seen one die?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think so? It’s not a matter of faith, you know. You’ve either seen one or you haven’t! You can’t go wrong!”

“Don’t raise your voice. I’ve never seen one! Happy now? I’ve never seen one!”

“Now you’re the one who’s yelling!”

“But why do you ask me questions like that? You seem so strange this morning! Are you feeling all right?”

“I feel great! I feel like a god, goddammit! Jesus motherfucking Christ, do I feel good! I’ve never felt better in all my life!”

“Don’t use obscenities and don’t—”

“I’ll speak however I want, okay?”

Livia didn’t reply, and he fell silent. Neither of them said another word.

But how was it that they never failed to squabble over the slightest thing? And how was it that it never passed through either of their heads to draw the logical conclusion of the situation, which was to shake hands and break up once and for all?

They both remained silent for the rest of the drive back to Marinella.

Once home, instead of leaving at once for headquarters, Montalbano felt like taking a shower. Maybe it would wash away the agitation that had come over him after quarreling with Livia in the car. She, however, had locked herself in the bathroom upon arrival.

He took off all his clothes and tapped discreetly at the door.

“What do you want?”

“Hurry up, I want to take a shower.”

“Just wait. I’m going to take one first.”

“Come on, Livia, I have to go to the office!”