Excursion to Tindari

then, good-bye, it was nice knowing you.

“And what about me?” he asked. “What the hell am I doing?”

One of the reasons he so feared promotion and the inevitable transfer was the certainty that he would never again be able, anywhere else, to put together a team like the one he’d managed, miraculously, to assemble in Vigata. But even as he was thinking this, he knew that it wasn’t the real reason for what he felt at that moment, the truth behind his suffering—There, goddamn it, you’ve finally managed to say the word! What, were you ashamed? Go on, repeat it: suffering. He was very fond of Mimi. He considered him more than a friend, rather like a kid brother, and this was why his pre-announced abandonment had hit him right in the chest with the force of a gunshot. The word “betrayal” had flitted through his brain for a moment. And Mimi’d had the gall to confide in Livia, utterly certain that she would never—Christ!—say a word to him, her man. And he’d even mentioned his possible transfer to her, and even this she withheld from him, complicitous in every respect with her friend Mimi! What a pair!

He realized that his suffering was turning into senseless, stupid rage. He felt ashamed. What he was thinking at that moment wasn’t really him.

Filippo Tortorici showed up at three-forty-five, a bit out of breath. He was a scrawny little man somewhere in his fifties, with a little crest of hair in the middle of his head and bald everywhere else. He looked exactly like a bird Montalbano had once seen in a documentary on the Amazon rain forest.

“What did you want to talk to me about? My boss, Mr. Malaspina, ordered me to come here right away but didn’t give me no explanation.”

“Were you the driver for the Vigata- Tindari excursion last Sunday?”

“Yessir, I was. When the company organizes these tours, they always turn to me. The customers ask for me personally They want me for their driver. They trust me. I’m calm and patient.You have to understand them; they’re all old and have a lot of needs.”

“Do you do these tours often?”

“In the warm season, at least once every couple of weeks. Sometimes we go to Tindari, sometimes to Erice, sometimes to Siracusa, sometimes—”

“Is it always the same passengers?”

“There’s about ten who’re always there. The rest are different.”

“As far as you know, were Alfonso and Margherita Griffo on Sunday’s excursion?”

“Sure they were! I’ve got a good memory! Why do you ask?”

“Don’t you know? They’ve disappeared.”

“O Madunnuzza santa! What you mean, disappeared?”

“They haven’t been seen since they went on the tour. It was even mentioned on television. They said the son was desperate.”

“I didn’t know, I really didn’t.”

“Listen, did you know the Griffos before the excursion?”

“No, never seen ‘em before.”

“So how do you know the Griffos were on the bus?”

“Because before we leave, the boss always gives me the list of passengers. And before we leave, I call roll.”

“And do you do it again for the return trip?”

“Of course! And the Griffos were there.”

“Tell me what happens on these excursions.”

“Normally we set out at seven in the morning. It depends on how long it will take to get to where we’re going. The passengers are all getting on in years, retired, that kind of people. They go on the tour not so they can see, say, the Black Madonna of Tindari, but so they can spend a day in the company of other people.You know what I mean? Their kids are grown up and far away, they don’t have any friends ... During the drive, there’s always somebody in the coach to entertain them, selling things, like, I dunno, household goods, blankets, that sort of thing. And we always arrive in time for the midday Mass. For lunch they go to a restaurant the boss has an arrangement with. The cost of the meal is included in the ticket. And you know what happens after they eat?”

“No, I don’t. Tell me.”

“They go back to the bus for a little nap. After they wake up, they take a stroll around town, buy little gifts and souvenirs. At six—in the evening, that is—I take roll call and we leave. At eight, by prior arrangement, we stop at a cafe at the halfway point, and they have coffee and cookies. That’s also included in the price of the ticket. Then we’re supposed to be back in Vigata around ten o‘clock.”

“Why did you say ‘supposed to be’?”

“‘Cause it always ends up being later.”

“Why’s that?”

“As I said, Inspector, the passengers are all old folks.”

“So?”

“If one of ‘em asks me to stop at the first cafe or service station because they need a lavatory, what’m I gonna say, no? So I stop.”

“I see. And do you remember if anyone on last Sunday’s return trip asked you to stop?”