“Nobody, apparently.”
“So the ‘facility’ is out of commission?”
“On the contrary. Let’s just say there’s no residing head, just local representatives who are informed, in due course, of imminent arrivals. When there’s a big operation in the offing, then Jamil Zarzis, one of the three lieutenants, gets directly involved. He goes back and forth between Sicily and the Korba lagoon in Tunisia, where Gafsa has his headquarters.”
“You’ve given me a lot of Tunisian names, but not the name of the Italian murdered by Gafsa.”
“I don’t know what his name was. I haven’t been able to find out. I do know, however, what Gafsa’s men called him. An utterly meaningless nickname.”
“What was it?”
“The dead man. That’s what they called him, even when he was alive. Isn’t that absurd?”
Absurd? Without warning, Montalbano stood up, threw his head back, and whinnied. It was a rather loud whinny, in every way like the noise a horse makes when it gets pissed off. Except that the inspector was not pissed off; quite the contrary. Everything had become clear. The parallel lines in the end had converged. Meanwhile the bouquet of irises, terrified, had slid off his chair and was heading for the door. Montalbano ran after him and grabbed him.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to call someone, you’re obviously not well,” the irises stammered.
The inspector smiled broadly, to reassure him.
“No, please, it’s nothing. These are just minor ailments, like my pallor a few minutes ago . . . I’ve been suffering from them for a long time. It’s nothing serious.”
“Couldn’t we perhaps open the door? I need some air.”
It was an excuse. Obviously the journalist wanted to keep a path of escape open.
“Sure, fine, we can open it.”
Mildly reassured, Fonso Spalato went and sat back down. But he was clearly still nervous. He sat at the edge of the chair, ready to flee. He must have been wondering if he was indeed at Vigata Police headquarters or in the province’s remaining insane asylum. What disturbed him more than anything was the loving smile Montalbano beamed in his direction as he gazed at him. Indeed, at that moment the inspector was swept up in a wave of gratitude towards the man, who looked like a clown but was not. How could he ever repay him?
“Listen, Mr. Spalato. I haven’t quite understood the reasons for your various travels. Did you come to Vigata expressly to talk to me?”
“Yes. Unfortunately I have to go immediately back to Trieste. Mama is not well and she misses me. We’re . . . very close.”
“Think you could stay another two days, three at the most?”
“Why?”
“Because I think I could get you, firsthand, some very important information.”
Fonso Spalato thought about this a long time, his little eyes hidden behind closed lids. Then he decided to speak.
“At the start of our discussion, you told me you knew nothing about any of this.”
“It’s true.”
“But if you didn’t know anything, how can you say now that, in a very short space of time, you could get—” ”
“I didn’t lie to you, believe me. You told me some things I didn’t know before, but I now have the feeling those facts have put a current investigation of mine on the right track.”
“Well, I’m at the Regina in Montelusa. I think I could stay on another two days.”
“Excellent. Could you describe Gafsa’s lieutenant, the one who often comes here? What’s his name?”
“Jamil Zarzis. He’s about forty, short and stocky . . . Or so at least I’m told . . . Oh, yes, one more thing: he has hardly any teeth.”
“Well, if, in the meantime, he’s decided to see a dentist, we’re screwed,” the inspector commented.
Fonso Spalato threw his little hands in the air, as if to say that was all he knew about Jamil Zarzis.
“Listen, you told me Gafsa makes a point of eliminating his adversaries personally. Is that really true?”
“Yes.”
“A burst of Kalashnikov and goodnight, or—”
“No, he’s a sadist. He’s always finding new ways. I was told that he hung one man upside down until he died, and literally roasted another over hot coals; with yet another he bound his wrists and ankles with metal wire and slowly drowned him in the lagoon. Still another he—”
The inspector stood up. Worried, Fonso Spalato fell silent.
“What’s wrong?” he said, ready to jump out of his chair and start running.
“Do you mind if I whinny again?” the inspector politely asked.
