"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 interview, which was aired in its entirety, but another interview which Montalbano hadn't expected with the manager of the Publi-2000 agency of Palermo, which Zito had tracked down easily, since it was the only advertising agency in western Sicily that had an airplane available for publicity.
The manager, still visibly excited, recounted that a beautiful young woman Jesus, what a woman! She looked unreal, she really did, like a model in a magazine. Jesus, was she beautiful! an obvious foreigner because she spoke bad Italian. Did I say bad? I'm wrong, actually, on her lips our words were like honey, no, he couldn't be sure as to her nationality, maybe German or English, had come to the agency four days earlier. God! An apparition! and had asked about the plane. She'd explained in great detail what she wanted written on the banner and the strips of paper. Yes, the rose petals were also her doing. And, oh yes, as for the place, was she ever particular! Very precise. Then the pilot, on his own, the manager explained, had a brilliant idea: instead of releasing the pieces of paper at random along the coastal road, he thought it would be better to drop them on a large crowd that had gathered to watch a race. The lady, For the love of God, let's stop talking about her or my wife will kill me! paid in advance, cash, and had the invoice made out to a certain Rosemarie Antwerpen at a Brussel's address. He had asked nothing more of the lovely stranger. God! but then, why should he have? She certainly wasn't asking them to drop a bomb! And she was so beautiful! And refined! And polite! And what a smile! A dream.
Montalbano relished it all. He had advised Ingrid: You must make yourself even more beautiful than usual. That way, when they see you, they won't know what's what anymore.
TeleVig went wild with the story of the mysterious beauty, calling her Nefertiti resurrected and cooking up a fanciful story intertwining the pyramids with the Crasticeddru; but it was clear they were following the lead set by Nicolto's story on their competitors news program. Even the regional RAI news gave the matter extensive coverage.
Montalbano was getting the uproar, the commotion, the resonance he had sought. His idea had turned out to be right.
...
"Montalbano? It's the commissioner. I just heard about the airplane. Congratulations. A stroke of genius."
"The credit goes to you. It was you who told me to carry on, remember? I'm trying to flush our man out. If he doesn't turn up reasonably soon, it means hes no longer among us."
"Good luck. Keep me posted. Oh, it was you, of course, who paid for the plane?"
"Of course. I'm counting on my promised bonus."
...
"Inspector? This is Headmaster Burgio. My wife and I are speechless with admiration. What an idea."
"Let's hope for the best."
"Don't forget, Inspector: if Lillo should turn up, please let us know."
...
On the midnight edition of the news, Nicolto devoted more time to the story and showed photos of the two corpses in the Crasticeddru, zooming in on the images in detail.
Provided courtesy of the ever-eager Jacomuzzi, thought Montalbano.
Zito isolated the body of the young man, whom he called Mario, then that of the young woman, whom he called Lisetta. Then he showed the airplane dropping rose petals and gave a close-up of the words on the strips of paper. From here he went on to weave a tale that was part mystery, part tearjerker, and decidedly not in the Free Channel style, but rather more like TeleVig fare. Why were the two young lovers killed? What sad fate led them to that end? Who was it that took pity on them and set them up in the cave? Had the beautiful woman who showed up at the advertising agency perhaps returned from the past to demand revenge on the victims behalf ? And what connection was there between this beauty and the two kids from fifty years ago? How were we to understand the word reawakened? And how did Inspector Montalbano happen to know even the name of the terra- cotta dog? How much did he know about this mystery?
"Salvo? Hi, it's Ingrid. I hope you didn't think I ran off with your money."
"Come on! Why, was there some left?"
"Yes. The whole thing cost less than half the amount you gave me. I've got the rest with me. I'll give it back to you as soon as I return to Montelusa."
"Where are you calling from?"
"Taormina. I met someone. I'll be back in four or five days. Did I do a good job? Did it go they way you wanted?"
"You did a fantastic job. Have fun."
"Montalbano? It's Nicolto, did you like the reports? I think I deserve some thanks, no?"
"For what?"
"For doing exactly what you wanted."
"But I didn't ask you to do anything."
"That's true, not directly, at least. Except that I'm not stupid, and so I gathered that you wanted the story to get as much publicity as possible and to be presented in a way that would touch peoples hearts. I said things I will never live down for the rest of my life."
"Well, thanks, even though, I repeat, I still don't know why you want me to thank you."
"You know, our switchboard has been overwhelmed with phone calls. The RAI, Fininvest, Ansa, and all the national newspapers have asked for a videotape of the report. You've made quite a splash. Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"How much did the airplane cost you?"
...
He slept splendidly, as gods pleased with their handiwork are said to sleep. He'd done everything possible, and even something impossible. Now there was nothing to do but wait for an answer. The message had been sent out, in such a way as to allow somebody to decipher the code, as Alcide Maraventano would say. The first phone call came in at seven in the morning. It was Luciano Acquasanta of Il Mezzogiorno, who wanted to corroborate one of his opinions.
"Was it not possible the two young people were sacrificed in the course of some Satanic rite?"
"Why not?" said Montalbano, polite and open to anything.
The second call came fifteen minutes later. It was Stefania Quattrini, from the magazine Essere Donna. Her theory was that Mario was caught making love to Lisetta by another, jealous woman, we know what sailors are like, who did away with both of them. She probably then skipped the country, but on her deathbed confided in her daughter, who in turn told her own daughter of the grandmother's crime. This girl, to make good in some way, had gone to Palermo, she spoke with a foreign accent, didn't she? and arranged the whole business with the airplane.
"Why not?" said Montalbano, polite and open to anything.
Cosimo Zappal of the weekly magazine Vivere! communicated his hypothesis to Montalbano at 7:25. Lisetta and Mario, drunk on love and youth, were in the habit of strolling through the countryside hand in hand, naked as Adam and Eve. Surprised one unlucky day by a contingent of retreating German soldiers, also drunk, but on fear and ferocity, they were raped and murdered. On his deathbed, one of the Germans...And here this version linked up curiously with Stefania Quattrinis.