Andrea Camilleri - The Dance of the Seagull

“What’s the holdup?”

“Listen, something crazy happened, a false alarm.”

“Are you sure it was false?”

“Absolutely. A car with two men inside passed the ambulance and then swerved and blocked the lane. It was the wet road surface. But we immediately thought it was an ambush and surrounded the vehicle. Can you imagine? The poor bastards saw eight guns pointed at them, some of them machine guns. They were forced out of the car with their hands up and searched, and then the older of the two, who’s got heart trouble, had a mild attack.”

“Who were they?”

“The bishop of Patti and his secretary.”

“Holy shit!”

“I don’t think that’s the last we’re gonna hear of this.”

17

Augello’s eighth and last call came in just before eight o’clock.

“The ambulance has just entered the infirmary. Nothing else happened. Smooth ride, except for the snafu with the bishop. I don’t think we were even followed. Listen, since we won’t be back in Vigàta till about ten, I’m just going to go home, and we can talk tomorrow.”

“All right.”

Now he could at last look at what Manzella had written.

He opened the drawer and took out the envelope, which wasn’t sealed. Inside were two sheets of paper covered with dense handwriting on both sides. He started reading.

Inspector Montalbano . . .

He gave a start in his chair, as if someone had unexpectedly called his name.

Why had Manzella addressed the letter directly to him? He continued reading.

When he had finished, he got up and started pacing slowly around the desk. After about ten laps, he took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He was all sweaty. What he had just read was not a letter, but a soap-covered rope to hang oneself, a loaded and cocked pistol, a lighted fuse.

“Hello, Mimì? Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you, but when you get to Vigàta, I want you to come straight to the office. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“But I’ve already told Beba to make—”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Thanks for being so understanding.”

“Hello, Angela? Montalbano here. Listen, I’m very sorry, but I won’t be able to see you tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Something’s come up. I have to stay here at the office all night. There’s a huge operation involving the whole province.”

“So when can we see each other?”

“I’ll ring you around four in the afternoon tomorrow and we can decide then. Ciao.”

Going to eat was out of the question. This whole damned story was looking as if it would end up the way it had started, that is, by taking away his appetite both morning and night.

He headed for the port. There wasn’t a soul on the eastern wharf, whereas in the distance, on the western jetty, where the trawlers docked and the big cold storage houses were, the powerful floodlights were already on, lighting up the whole area of unloading and reloading the evening’s haul.

It was by the light of those floods that Manzella had been able to see through his telescope—the porter’s wife had been able to see through that same telescope—and it had cost both of them their lives.

The glow of the floodlights whitened the western sky. It looked as if they were shooting a film.

If only it were a film! the inspector thought.

But it was a true story. The intermittent beam of the lighthouse at the end of the jetty allowed him to reach the flat rock without breaking his neck or falling into the sea. He sat down, cigarette already lit.

He had to make a decision, any decision whatsoever, before Mimì arrived. Because when he talked to him, he would need strong arguments to pull him over to his side. But there were only two possible decisions to make: either jump neck-deep into this affair and risk coming away defeated and subject to disciplinary action, controversy, and rebukes, or extract themselves and sit back and watch how the others wriggled out of it. Tertium non datur .

For example, he could say to himself:

“You’re fifty-seven years old, in the twilight of your career: why would you want to get entangled in an affair that could bring you to a bad end?”

Or he could say:

“You’re fifty-seven years old, in the twilight of your career, and therefore have nothing to lose. Give it all you’ve got.”

No, no, no, said Montalbano Two. He was right the first time. He’s no longer the right age to play the hero and start tilting at windmills.

What windmills? These are real monsters! Montalbano One rebelled.

Of course they’re real monsters, and fierce, too. And that’s exactly why he should step aside. He’s no longer strong enough to fight them. It’s not cowardice or anything like that. He must simply realize that he’s no longer able to pull it off.

But the letter was addressed to him! Manzella was asking him personally to intervene! He can’t back out!

Can we think rationally about this? Manzella didn’t even know Montalbano. He wrote to him because he thought he would be the person assigned the investigation. It’s not a personal request, can’t you get that through your head?

Then what, in your opinion, should he do?

He should go to the commissioner, tell him the whole story, and give him the letter.

And what, again in your opinion, will the commissioner do?

Almost certainly pass it on to the Secret Service.

Which would be the same as tossing it into the wastepaper basket. And flushing three dead bodies and an attempted murder down the drain.

In short, a fox in the henhouse and a wolf outside. And speaking of animals, what was that story about sheep he’d read in Don Quixote ?

Ah, yes. Sancho starts telling Don Quixote the story of a shepherd who has to get his three hundred sheep across a river. He ferries them over one at a time in a little boat, begging Sancho to keep track of the crossings and warning him that if he makes a mistake, the story will end. And indeed Sancho slips up and is no longer able to keep telling Don Quixote the story to the end. Little surprise that Montalbano couldn’t tell Camilleri how the story would end!

However, after another fifteen minutes of thinking and rethinking, mulling and remulling, he reached a decision. By his calculations, Augello wouldn’t be back for another forty minutes or so. So he had a little time. It took him ten minutes to get to the western wharf. The activity hadn’t yet reached its peak, and there were only four trawlers unloading their hauls. The bulk of the night’s catch would be arriving much later. Rizzica was standing in front of storehouse number three, talking with somebody. But as soon as he recognized the inspector, he came towards him.

“You lookin’ for me?”

“No. And we’ll be seeing each other tomorrow, if I’m not mistaken. I believe Inspector Augello asked you to come in.”

“Yessir, but since you’re here, I’d like to talk.”

“So let’s talk.”

Rizzica headed for that place of piss and turds whose stench had already once made Montalbano nearly faint.

“No, not there,” said the inspector. “Let’s go out to the end of the wharf.”