“Why did you specify ‘until the day he died’?”
“Because three days before, he’d taken out a hundred thousand. And from what I’ve heard, if he hadn’t been shot, within three days he would have made another withdrawal.”
“What have you heard?”
“That he lost it all gambling, at Zizino’s den.”
“Can you tell me for how long he was a client of yours?”
“Less than six months.”
“Was he ever in the red?”
“Never. Anyway, for us at the bank it wasn’t a problem, no matter what happened.” “Explain.”
“When he opened the account, he came accompanied by MP Di Cristoforo. But now that’s enough, let’s talk a little about old times.”
Cumella did all the talking, reminiscing about episodes and people the inspector had no recollection of. But to make it look like he remembered everything, Montalbano had only to say, every now and then, “Right!” and, “How could I forget?”
At the end of their conversation, they said good-bye, embracing and promising to stay in touch by telephone.
On the way back, not only was the inspector unable to en-joy the discovery he’d made, but his mood turned darker and darker. The moment he got in the car and drove off, a question started buzzing about in his head like an annoying fly: How come Giogid Cumella could remember their grammar-school days and he couldn’t? From a few of the names Giogid had mentioned and a few of the events he’d recounted, elusive flashes of memory had come back to him in fits and starts, but like pieces of an unsolvable puzzle with no precise outline, and these inklings had led him to situate the time of his friendship with Cumella in their grammar-school days. Unfortunately, there could be only one answer to his question: He was beginning to lose his memory. An indisputable sign of old age. But didn’t they say that old age made you forget what you did the day before and remember things from when you were a little kid? Well, apparently that wasn’t always the case. Obviously there was old age and old age. What was the name of that disease where you forget that you’re even alive? The one President Reagan had? What was it called? There, see? He was even starting to forget things of the present.
To distract himself, he formulated a proposition. A philosophical proposition? Maybe, but tending towards “weak thought”—exhausted thought, in fact. He even gave this proposition a title: “The Civilization of Today and the Ceremony of Access.” What did it mean? It meant that, today, to enter any place whatsoever—an airport, a bank, a jeweler’s or watchmaker’s shop—you had to submit to a specific ceremony of control. Why ceremony? Because it served no concrete purpose. A thief, a hijacker, a terrorist—if they really want to enter—will find a way. The ceremony doesn’t even serve to protect the people on the other side of the entrance. So whom does it serve? It serves the very person about to enter, to make him think that, once inside, he can feel safe.
“Aahhh, Chief, Chief! I wannata tell you that Dacter Latte wit’ anscalled! He said as how the c’mishner couldn’t make it today.”
“Couldn’t make what?”
“He din’t tell me, Chief. But he said that he can make it tomorrow, at the same time of day.”
“Fine. Getting anywhere with the file?”
“I’m almost somewhere. Right at the tip o’ the tip! Ah, I almost forgot! Judge Gommaseo also called sayin’ you’s asposta call ‘im when you get in so you can call ‘im.”
He’d just sat down when Fazio came in.
“The phone company says that it’s not technically possible to retrace the phone calls you received when you were at Angelo Pardo’s place. They even told me why, but I didn’t understand a word of it.”
“The people who called didn’t know yet that Angelo’d been shot. One of them even hung up. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t have something to hide. We’ll deal with it.”
“Chief, I also wanted to mention that I don’t know anybody in Fanara.”
“It doesn’t matter. I figured it out myself.” “How did you do that?”
“I knew for certain that Angelo had an account at the Banca Popolare in Fanara. So I went there. The bank manager is an old schoolmate of mine, a dear friend, and so we reminisced about the good old days.”
Another lie. But its purpose was to make Fazio believe that he still possessed an ironclad memory.
“How much did he have in the account?”
“A billion and a half old lire. And he really gambled big time, as you told me yourself. Betting money he certainly didn’t earn as a pharmaceutical representative.”
“The funeral’s tomorrow morning. I’ve seen the announcements.”
“I want you to go.”
“Chief, it’s only in movies the killer goes to the funeral of the person he killed.”
“Don’t be a wise guy. You’re going anyway. And take a good look at the names on the ribbons on the wreaths and pillows.”
Fazio left, and the inspector phoned Tommaseo. “Montalbano! What are you doing? Did you disappear?” “I had things to do, Judge, I’m sorry.” “Listen, I want to fill you in on something I think is really serious.”
“I’m listening.”
“A few days ago, you sent Angelo Pardo’s sister, Michela, to see me, do you remember?” “Of course.”
“Well, I’ve interrogated her three times. The last time just this morning. A disturbing woman, don’t you think?”
