24
The Crasticeddru flats, which stretched out behind the rocky spur, weren't close to being flat, not even in dreams. But the vales, jags, and marshes made it an ideal place for a cross-country motorcycle race. The weather that day was a definite foretaste of summer, and people didn't wait for three oclock to go out to the flats. Actually, they began to gather in the morning, grandmothers, grandfathers, tots, and teens and everyone else determined not so much to watch a race, as to enjoy a day in the country.
That morning, Montalbano phoned Nicolto.
'Are you coming to the cross-country motorbike race this afternoon?'
'Me? Why should I? We've sent one of our sports reporters and a cameraman over there.'
'Actually, I was suggesting that we go together, the two of us, just for fun.'
They got to the flats around 3:30, but there was no sign the race would be starting any time soon. There already was, however, a deafening racket, produced mostly by fifty or so motorcycles being tested and revved up, and by loudspeakers blasting raucous music.
'Since when are you interested in sports?' Zito asked in amazement.
'Now and then I get the urge.'
Although they were outside, they had to shout to converse. As a result, when a little touring airplane trailing its publicity banner appeared high in the sky over the ridge of the Crasticeddru, few in the crowd noticed, since the noise of the plane, which is what usually makes people look up, couldn't reach their ears. The pilot must have noticed he would never get their attention in this fashion since, after flying three tight circles round the crest of the Crasticeddru, he headed straight for the flats and the crowd, going into an elegant dive and flying extremely low over everyone's head. He practically forced people to read his banner and then to follow it with their eyes as he pulled up slightly, flew over the ridge three more times, descended to the point of almost touching the ground in front of the caves gaping entrance, and then dropped a shower of rose petals from the aircraft. The crowd fell silent. They were all thinking of the two young lovers found dead in the Crasticeddru as the small plane turned round and came back, skimming the ground, this time dropping countless little strips of paper. It then headed westward toward the horizon and disappeared. And while the banner had aroused a lot of curiosity, since it wasn't advertising a soft drink or a furniture factory, but displayed only the two names Lisetta and Mario and the rain of rose-petals had given the crowd a kind of thrill, the words on the strips of paper, all identical, set them all guessing, sending them on a lively merry-go-round of speculation and conjecture. What indeed was the meaning of: Lisetta and Mario announce their reawakening? It couldn't be a wedding or christening announcement. So what was it? Amid the swirl of questions, only one thing seemed certain: that the plane, the petals, the pieces of paper, and the banner had something to do with the dead lovers found in the Crasticeddru.
Then the races began, and the people watched and amused themselves. Nicolto, upon seeing the rose petals fall from the plane, had told Montalbano not to move from where he stood and then had disappeared into the crowd.
He returned fifteen minutes later, followed by a Free Channel cameraman.
'Will you grant me an interview?'
'Of course.'
This unexpected compliance on Montalbano's part convinced the newsman in his suspicion, which was that the inspector was involved up to his neck in this business with the airplane.
'Just a few minutes ago, during the preliminaries for the cross-country motorcycle race currently taking place here in Vig, we were all witness to an extraordinary event. A small advertising airplane . . . And here he followed with a description of what had just occurred. Since, by a fortunate coincidence, we have Inspector Salvo Montalbano here with us among the crowd, we would like to ask him a few questions. In your opinion, Inspector, who are Lisetta and Mario?'
'I could dodge the question,' the inspector said bluntly, 'and say I don't know anything about this and that it might be the work of some newly-weds who wished to celebrate their marriage in an original way. But I would be contradicted by what is written on that piece of paper, which speaks not of marriage but of reawakening. I shall therefore answer honestly and say that Lisetta and Mario were the names of the two young people found murdered inside the cave of the Crasticeddru, that spur of rock right here in front of us.'
'But what does all this mean?'
'I can't really say. You'd have to ask whoever it was that organized the airplane stunt.'
'How were you able to identify the two?'
'By chance.'
'Could you tell us their last names?'
'No. I could, but I won't. I can disclose that she was a young woman from these parts, and he was a sailor from the North. I should add that the person who wanted, in such manifest fashion, to remind us of their rediscovery, which this person calls reawakening, forgot about the dog, which, poor thing, also had a name: he was called Kytmyr, and was an Arab dog.'
'But why would the murderer have wanted to stage such a scene?'
'Wait a second. Who ever said that the murderer and the person behind this spectacle are one and the same? I, for one, don't believe they are.'
'I've got to run and edit the report,' said Nicolto, giving Montalbano a strange look.
Soon the crews from TeleVig, the RAI regional news, and the other private stations arrived. Montalbano answered all their questions politely and with, for him, unnatural ease.
...
Prey to violent hunger pangs, he stuffed himself with seafood appetizers at the Trattoria San Calogero and then raced home, turned on the television, and tuned into the Free Channel. In his report on the mysterious airplane, Nicolto piled it on thick, pumping up the story in every way possible. What crowned it all, however, was not his own
