'Went better in what sense, Mr. Burruano? It was still bombs they were dropping.'
Lost within some memory, Burruano had fallen silent, and so Headmaster Burgio spoke for him.
'The British, how shall I say, played more fairly. When they dropped their bombs they tried to hit only military targets, whereas the Americans dropped them helter-skelter, come what may.'
'Towards the end of 42,' Burruano resumed, 'the situation got even worse. We had nothing: no bread, no medicine, no water, no clothing. So for Christmas I decided to make a cre that we could all pray to. We had nothing else left. I wanted it to be a very special cre. That way, I thought, for a few days at least, I could take peoples minds off their worries, there were so many, and distract them from the terror of the bombings. There wasn't a single family that didn't have at least one man fighting far from home, in the ice of Russia or the hell of Africa. We'd all become edgy, ornery, quarrelsome, the slightest thing would set people off; our nerves were frayed. Between the antiaircraft machine guns, the exploding bombs, the roar of the low-flying planes, and the cannon-blasts from the ships at sea, we couldn't get a wink of sleep at night. And everyone would come to me or to the priest to ask one thing or another and I didn't know which way to turn. I didn't feel so young anymore. I felt then the way I feel now.'
He stopped to catch his breath. Neither Montalbano nor Burgio felt like filling that pause.
'Anyway, to make a long story short, I mentioned my idea to Ballassaro Chiarenza, who was a real artist with terra-cotta. He did it for pleasure, since he was a carter by trade. It was his idea to make the statues all life-size. Baby Jesus, the Virgin Mary, Saint Joseph, the ox, the donkey, the shepherd with the lamb over his shoulders, a sheep, a dog, and the other shepherd, the one who's always portrayed with his arms raised in a gesture of wonder. So he made the whole thing, and it came out really beautiful. We even decided not to put it in the church, but to set it up under the arch of a bombed-out house, so it would look like Jesus had been born amidst the suffering of our people.'
He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a photograph, which he passed to the inspector. The cre really was beautiful; Mr. Burruano was right. It seemed so ephemeral, so perishable, and at the same time conveyed a comforting warmth, a superhuman serenity.
It's astonishing, Montalbano complimented him, his emotions welling up. But only for an instant, as the cop in him got the upper hand and began carefully examining the dog. There was no doubt about it: that was the same dog he had found in the cave. Burruano put the photo back in his pocket.
'The cre performed a miracle, you know. For a few days we were considerate towards one another.'
'What became of the statues?'
This was where Montalbanos real interest lay. The old man smiled.
'I sold them at auction, all of them. I made enough to pay Chiarenza, who wanted only to be reimbursed for his expenses, and to give alms to those who needed them most. And there were many.'
'Who bought the statues?'
'Well, that's the problem. I don't remember. I had the receipts and all, but they were lost when city hall caught fire during the American invasion.'
'During the period you're talking about, had you heard any news about a young couple disappearing?'
Burruano smiled, but Headmaster Burgio actually laughed out loud.
'Was that a stupid question?'
'Im sorry, Inspector, but it really was,' remarked the headmaster.
'You see, in 1939, the population of Vig was fourteen thousand,' Burruano explained. 'I know my numbers. By 1942, we were down to eight thousand. The people who could leave, did, finding temporary refuge in the inland towns, the tiny little villages of no importance to the Americans. Then, between May and July of 43, our numbers dropped, give or take a few, to four thousand, without counting the Italian and German soldiers, and the sailors. Everyone else had scattered across the countryside, living in caves, in barns, in any hole they could find. How could we have known about one disappearance or another? Everybody disappeared!'
They laughed again. Montalbano thanked them for the information.
Good, at least he'd managed to find a few things out.
...
The moment the headmaster and accountant left, the surge of gratitude the inspector had felt towards them turned into an uncontrollable attack of generosity which he knew he would sooner or later regret. He called Mim Augello into his office, made a full apology for his misdeeds towards his friend and collaborator, put his arm around the young man's shoulders, walked around the room with him, expressed his unconditional faith in him, spoke at great length of the investigation he was conducting in weapons trafficking, told him about the murder of Misuraca, and informed him he'd requested a court order to tap Ingrassias telephone lines.
'So what do you want me to do?' asked Augello, overcome with enthusiasm.
'Nothing. You must only listen to me,' said Montalbano, suddenly himself again. 'Because if you do the slightest thing on your own initiative, I'll break your neck.'
The telephone rang. Picking up the receiver, Montalbano heard the voice of Catarella, who served as phone operator.
'Hullo, Chief ? There's what's he called? Chief Jacomuzzi to talk to you.'
'Put him on the line.'
'Talk with the chief, Chief, over the phone,' he heard Catarella say.
'Montalbano? Since I was passing by here on the way back from the Crasticeddru'
'But where are you?'
'What do you mean where am I? I'm in the room next to yours.'
