Andrea Camilleri: The Dance of the Seagull

“But you said all you have to do is sign some papers!”

“All right, but don’t forget that I’ve just made a round trip, Vigàta–Palermo, to go pick you up! I need to take a shower!”

“And haven’t I just come all the way from Genoa? Isn’t that a little farther? So I get to go first!”

So now she’s counting the miles?

He cursed the saints, looked for a bathing suit, put it on, and went down to the beach.

Although the sun was high in the sky by now, the sand under his feet was cool.

The instant he got in the water, the cold nearly gave him a heart attack. The only solution was to start swimming at once, and vigorously. After a good fifteen minutes of breaststrokes, he started floating on the surface.

In the sky there wasn’t a bird to be seen anywhere, not for all the money in the world. As he lay there with his mouth open, a few drops of seawater slid down his face and into his mouth, between his palate and tongue. It tasted strange.

He took a bit of water into his hand and brought it to his mouth. There was no doubt about it: the sea didn’t taste the way it used to. It seemed to lack salt, and tasted bitter and nasty, like stale mineral water. Maybe that was why the seagulls . . . But then why did the mullets he feasted on at the trattoria still have the same delightful fragrance they’d always had?

As he was swimming towards the beach, he saw Livia sitting on the veranda in her bathrobe, drinking coffee.

“How’s the water?”

“Stale.”

When he came out of the shower, he found Livia standing in front of him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Do you have to go to the station right away?”

“No.”

“Well, then . . .”

He understood. Hearing a sort of symphony orchestra strike up in his head, he squeezed her tight.

It was a beautiful way to make peace.

“Four o’clock, and I mean it!” she reminded him afterwards, accompanying him to the door.

“Get me Fazio right away,” he said to Catarella, passing in front of his post.

“He ain’t onna premisses, Chief.”

“Has he called?”

“Nossir, Chief.”

“As soon as he gets in, tell him to come to my office.”

There was a veritable mountain of papers teetering on his desk. He felt disheartened. He was tempted to blow it all off. What could they do to him if he didn’t sign them? The death penalty had been abolished, and even life sentences were on the way out. And so? Maybe with a good lawyer he could drag things out until his crime of refusal to apply his signature fell under the statute of limitations. There were even prime ministers who had benefited from this statute of limitations to dodge prosecution for much more serious crimes.

But then his sense of duty won out.

2

Augello came in without knocking or even saying hello. He looked downcast.

“What’s wrong, Mimì?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Mimì.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Come on, Mimì.”

“I spent the whole night quarreling with Beba.”

“Why?”

“She says I don’t earn enough money with my salary and so she wants to find a job. Actually, she’s already been offered a good one.”

“And you’re against it?”

“No. The problem is the kid.”

“I see. You mean, how can she work at a job with the kid?”

“For her there’s no problem. All taken care of. She wants to send him to day care.”

“So?”

“Well, I’m against it.”

“Why?”

“He’s too small. It’s true he’s old enough, but he’s too small and I feel bad for him.”

“You think he’ll be mistreated?”

“Of course not! He’d be treated just fine! But I feel bad for him anyway. I’m hardly ever at home. If Beba starts working, she’ll end up going out in the morning and not coming home till evening. And the little kid’ll think he’s been orphaned.”

“Cut the crap, Mimì. Being an orphan is something else altogether. I can tell you from experience, as you know.”

“Sorry. Let’s change the subject.”

“Any news?”

“Nah. Dead calm.”

“Do you know why Fazio hasn’t shown up yet?”

“No.”

“Listen, Mimì, have you ever seen a seagull die?”

“No.”

“This morning I watched one die right in front of the veranda.”

“Had it been shot?”

“I can’t say.”

Augello stared at him. Then he stuck two fingers into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out his glasses, and put them on.

“What do you mean?”

“No, first you have to tell me why you put on your glasses.”

“To hear you better.”

“Do they have a hearing device built in?”

“No, I can hear just fine.”

“So why did you put on your glasses?”

“To see you better.”

“Oh, no you don’t, Mimì, that’s cheating! You said you put them on to hear me better! Hear , not see !”

“It’s the same thing. If I can see you better, I can understand you better.”

“And what’s to understand?”

“What’re you getting at?”

“I’m not getting at anything, Mimì! I just asked you a simple question!”

“And since I know you well, I know where this simple question is going to lead.”

“And where’s that?”

“To us starting an investigation into who killed that seagull! You’d be perfectly capable of it!”

“Cut the shit, Mimì!”

“Oh, no? And what about the time you found that dead horse on the beach? You made trouble for everyone until you were able to—”

“You know what I say to you, Mimì? Get the hell out of here and go scratch your balls in your own office.”

He’d been signing papers upon papers for half an hour when the phone rang.

“Chief, ’at’d be a Signor Mizzica ’at wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

“On the phone?”

“Nossir, ’e’s onna premisses.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Says iss a quesshin o’ fishin’ boats, the kine witt motors.”

“Tell him I’m too busy and have him talk to Inspector Augello.”

Then the inspector changed his mind.

“Actually, no, I’ll talk to him first.”

If Signor Mizzica dealt in fishing boats, maybe he could tell him something about seagulls.

“Hello, Inspector, Adolfo Rizzica’s the name.”

As if Catarella would ever get a name right . . .

“Please sit down and tell me what I can do for you. But I should warn you that I’ve got barely five minutes to listen to you. Just give me a general sense, and you can tell the rest to my second-in-command, Inspector Augello.”

Rizzica was about sixty and well dressed, with a polite and respectful demeanor. He had a salt-eaten face typical of a man of the sea. Sitting at the edge of his chair, he was quite nervous. His forehead was beaded with sweat and he was clutching a handkerchief. He kept his eyes lowered and couldn’t make up his mind to begin talking.

“I’m waiting, Signor Rizzica.”

“I own five fishing trawlers.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And so?”

“I think I can talk straight with you, so I’ll get right to the point. One of these five boats seems suspicious to me.”

“Suspicious in what way?”

“Well, once or twice a week, this trawler comes in late.”

“I still don’t understand. Comes in later than the others?”

“Yessir.”

“So where’s the problem? Please try to be—”