The Shape of Water

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Come on, I tell you we found your necklace, which is worth about a hundred million lire, and you don’t bat an eyelash?”

  Ingrid gave a subdued laugh, confined to her throat.

  “The fact is, I don’t like jewelry. See?”

  She showed him her hands.

  “I don’t wear rings, not even a wedding band.”

  “Where did you lose the necklace?”

  Ingrid didn’t answer at once.

  She’s reviewing her lesson, thought Montalbano.

  Then the woman began speaking, mechanically.

  Being a foreigner didn’t help her to lie.

  “I was curious about this place called the Pastor—”

  “Pasture,” Montalbano corrected.

  “I’d heard so much about it. I talked my husband into taking me there. Once there I got out, walked a little, and was almost attacked. I got scared and was afraid my husband would get in a fight. We left. Back at home I realized I no longer had the necklace on.”

  “How did you happen to put it on that evening, since you don’t like jewelry? It doesn’t really seem appropriate for going to the Pasture.”

  Ingrid hesitated.

  “I had it on because that afternoon I’d been with a friend who wanted to see it.”

  “Listen,” said Montalbano, “I should preface all this by saying that even though I am, of course, talking to you as a police inspector, I’m doing so in an unofficial capacity.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “What I mean is, anything you tell me will remain between you and me. How did your husband happen to choose Rizzo as his lawyer?”

  “Was he not supposed to?”

  “No, at least not logically. Rizzo was the right-hand man of Silvio Luparello, who was your father-inlaw’s biggest political adversary. By the way, did you know Luparello?”

  “I knew who he was. Rizzo’s always been Giacomo’s lawyer. And I don’t know a bloody thing about politics.”

  She stretched, arching her arms behind her head.

  “I’m getting bored. Too bad. I thought an encounter with a cop would be more exciting. Could you tell me where we’re going? Is there still far to go?”

  “We’re almost there.”

  ~

  After they passed the San Filippo bend, the woman grew nervous, looking at the inspector two or three times out of the corner of her eye. She muttered:

  “Look, there aren’t any bars or cafés around here.”

  “I know,” said Montalbano, and, slowing the car down, he reached for the leather purse that he had placed behind the seat Ingrid was in. “I want you to see something.”

  He put it on her lap. The woman looked at it and seemed truly surprised.

  “How did you get this?”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Of course it’s mine. It has my initials on it.”

  When she saw that the two letters of the alphabet were missing, she became even more confused.

  “They must have fallen off,” she said in a low voice, but she was unconvinced. She was losing her way in a labyrinth of questions without answer, and clearly something was beginning to trouble her now.

  “Your initials are still there, you just can’t see them because it’s dark. Somebody tore them off, but their imprints are there in the leather.”

  “But who tore them off ? And why?”

  Now a note of anxiety sounded in her voice. The inspector didn’t answer. He knew perfectly well why they had done it: to make it look as if Ingrid had wanted to make the purse anonymous. When they came to the little dirt road that led to Capo Massaria, Montalbano, who had accelerated as if intending to go straight, suddenly cut the wheel violently, turning onto the path. All at once, without a word, Ingrid threw open the car door, nimbly exited the moving vehicle, and started fleeing through the trees. Cursing, the inspector braked, jumped out, and gave chase.

  After a few seconds he realized he would never catch her and stopped, undecided. At that exact moment he saw her fall. When he was beside her, Ingrid, who had been unable to get back up, interrupted her Swedish monologue, incomprehensible but clearly expressing fear and rage.

  “Fuck off !” she said, and continued massaging her ankle.

  “Get up, and no more bullshit.”

  With effort, she obeyed and leaned against Montalbano, who remained motionless, not helping her.

  ~

  The gate opened easily; it was the front door that put up resistance.

  “Let me do it,” said Ingrid. She had followed him without making a move, as though resigned. But she had been preparing her plan of defense.

  “You won’t find anything inside, you know,” she said in the doorway, her tone defiant.

  She turned on the light, confident, but when she looked inside and saw the videocassettes and the perfectly furnished room, she reacted with visible surprise, a wrinkle creasing her brow.

  “They told me . . .”

  She checked herself at once and fell silent, shrugging her shoulders. She eyed Montalbano, awaiting his next move.

  “Into the bedroom,” said the inspector.

  Ingrid opened her mouth, about to make an easy quip, but lost heart. Turning her back, she limped into the other room, turned on the light, and this time showed no surprise; she expected it to be all in order.

  She sat down at the foot of the bed. Montalbano opened the left-hand door of the armoire.

  “Do you know whose clothes these are?”

  “They must belong to Silvio, to Mr. Luparello.”

  He opened the middle door.

  “Are these wigs yours?”

  “I’ve never worn a wig.”

  When he opened the right-hand door, Ingrid closed her eyes.

  “Look, that’s not going to solve anything. Are these yours?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But they weren’t supposed to be there anymore,”

  Montalbano finished her sentence.

  Ingrid gave a start.

  “How did you know? Who told you?”

  “Nobody told me. I figured it out. I’m a cop, remember? Was the purse also in the armoire?”

  Ingrid nodded yes.

  “And the necklace you said you lost, where was that?”

  “Inside the purse. I had to wear it once, then I came here and left it here.”

  She paused a moment and looked the inspector long in the eye.

  “What does this all mean?” she asked.

  “Let’s go back in the other room.”

  ~

  Ingrid took a glass from the sideboard, filled it halfway with straight whiskey, drank almost all of it in a single draft, then refilled it.

  “You want any?”

  Montalbano said no. He had sat down on the couch and was looking out at the sea. The light was dim enough to allow him to see beyond the glass. Ingrid came and sat down beside him.

  “I’ve sat here looking at the sea in better times.”

  She slid a little closer on the sofa, rested her head on the inspector’s shoulder. He didn’t move; he immediately understood that her gesture was not an attempt at seduction.

  “Ingrid, remember what I told you in the car?

  That our conversation was an unofficial one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now answer me truthfully. Those clothes in the armoire, did you bring them here yourself or were they put there?”

  “I brought them myself. I thought I might need them.”

  “Were you Luparello’s mistress?”

  “No.”

  “No? You seem quite at home here.”

  “I slept with Luparello only once, six months after arriving in Montelusa. But never again. He brought me here. But we did become friends, true friends, like I had never done before with a man, not even in my country. I could tell him anything, anything at all. If I got into trouble, he would manage to get me out of it, without asking any questions
.”

  “Are you trying to make me believe that the one time you were here you brought all those dresses, jeans, and panties, not to mention the purse and the necklace?”

  Ingrid pulled away, irritated.

  “I’m not trying to make you believe anything. I’m just telling you. After a while I asked Silvio if I could use this house now and then, and he said yes. He asked me only one thing: to be very discreet and never tell anyone who it belonged to.”

  “And when you wanted to come, how did you know if the place was empty and available?”

  “We had agreed on a code of telephone rings. I kept my word with Silvio. I used to bring only one man here, always the same one.”

  She took a long sip, and sort of hunched her shoulders forward.

  “A man who forced his way into my life for two years. Because I—afterward, I didn’t want to anymore.”

  “After what?”

  “After the first time. I was afraid, of the whole situation. But he was . . . sort of blinded, sort of obsessed with me. Only physically, though. He would want to see me every day. Then, when I brought him here, he would jump all over me, turn violent, tear my clothes off. That was why I had those changes of clothes in the armoire.”

  “Did this man know whose house this was?”

  “I never told him, and he never asked. He’s not jealous, you see, he just wants me. He never gets tired of being inside me. He’s ready to take me at any moment.”

  “I see. And for his part did Luparello know who you were bringing here?”

  “Same thing—he didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.”

  Ingrid stood up.

  “Couldn’t we go somewhere else to talk? This place depresses me now. Are you married?”

  “No,” said Montalbano, surprised.

  “Let’s go to your place.” She smiled cheerlessly. “I told you it would end up this way, didn’t I?”

  13

  Neither of the two felt like talking, and fifteen minutes passed in silence. But once again the inspector surrendered to the cop in him. In fact, once they had reached the bridge that spanned the Canneto, he pulled up to the side, put on the brakes, and got out of the car, telling Ingrid to do the same. From the summit of the bridge Montalbano showed the woman the river’s dry bed, which one could make out in the moonlight.

  “See,” he said, “the riverbed leads straight to the beach. It’s on a steep incline and full of big rocks and stones. Think you could drive a car down there?”

  “I don’t know. It’d be different if it was daylight.

  But I could try, if you want me to.”

  She stared at the inspector and smiled, her eyes half shut.

  “You found out about me, eh? So what should I do?”

  “Do it.”

  “All right. You wait here.”

  She got in the car and drove off. It took only a few seconds for the headlights to disappear from view.

  “Well, that’s that. She took me for a sucker,” said Montalbano, resigning himself.

  As he was getting ready for the long walk back to Vigàta, he heard her return, motor roaring.

  “I think I can do it. Do you have a flashlight?”

  “In the glove compartment.”

  The woman knelt down, illuminated the car’s underside, then stood back up.

  “Got a handkerchief ?”

  Montalbano gave her one, and Ingrid used it to wrap her sore ankle tightly.

  “Get in.”

  Driving in reverse, she reached a dirt road that led from the provincial road to the area under the bridge.

  “I’m going to give it a try, Inspector. Bear in mind that one of my feet isn’t working. Fasten your seat belt. Should I drive fast?”

  “Yes, but it’s important that we get to the beach in one piece.”

  Ingrid put the car in gear and took off like a shot.

  It was ten minutes of continuous, ferocious jolts. At one point Montalbano felt as if his head were dying to detach itself from the rest of his body and fly out the window. Ingrid, however, was calm, determined, driving with her tongue sticking out between her lips.

  The inspector wanted to tell her not to do that—she might inadvertently bite it off.

  When they had reached the beach, Ingrid asked,

  “Did I pass the test?”

  Her eyes glistened in the darkness. She was excited and pleased.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s do it again, going uphill this time.”

  “You’re insane! That’s quite enough.”

  She was right to call it a test. Except that it was a test that didn’t solve anything. Ingrid was able to drive down that road easily, which was a point against her; on the other hand, when the inspector had asked her to do so, she had not seemed nervous, only surprised, and this was a point in her favor. But the fact that she hadn’t broken anything on the car, how was he to interpret that? Negatively or positively?

  “So, shall we do it again? Come on, this was the only time this evening I’ve had any fun.”

  “No, I already said no.”

  “All right, then you drive. I’m in too much pain.”

  The inspector drove along the shore, confirming in his mind that the car was in working order. Nothing broken.

  “You’re really good, you know.”

  “Well,” said Ingrid, assuming a serious, professional tone, “anyone could drive down that stretch.

  The skill is in bringing the car through it in the same condition it started out in. Because afterward you might find yourself on a paved road, not a beach like this, and you have to speed up to recover lost time. I don’t know if that’s clear.”

  “Perfectly clear. Somebody who, for example, after driving down there, comes to the beach with broken suspension is somebody who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  They arrived at the Pasture. Montalbano turned right.

  “See that large bush? That’s where Luparello was found.”

  Ingrid said nothing and didn’t even seem very curious. They drove down the path; not much was happening that evening. When they were beside the wall of the old factory, Montalbano said:

  “This is where the woman who was with Luparello lost her necklace and threw the leather purse over the wall.”

  “My purse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” Ingrid murmured, “and I swear I don’t understand a damned thing about any of this.”

  ~

  When they got to Montalbano’s house, Ingrid was unable to step out of the car, so the inspector had to wrap one arm around her waist while she leaned her weight against his shoulder. Once inside, the young woman dropped into the first chair that came within reach.

  “Christ! Now it really hurts.”

  “Go into the other room and take off your jeans so I can wrap it up for you.”

  Ingrid stood up with a whimper and limped along, steadying herself against the furniture and walls.

  Montalbano called headquarters. Fazio informed him that the gas-station attendant had remembered everything and precisely identified the man at the wheel, the one the assailants had tried to kill: Turi Gambardella, of the Cuffaro gang. QED.

  “So Galluzzo went to Gambardella’s house,”

  Fazio went on, “but his wife said she hadn’t seen him for two days.”

  “I would have won the bet,” said the inspector.

  “Why? You think I would have been stupid enough to make it?”

  He heard the water running in the bath. Ingrid apparently belonged to that category of women who cannot resist the sight of a bathtub. He dialed Gegè’s number, the one to his cell phone.

  “Are you alone? Can you talk?”

  “As for being alone, I’m alone. As for talking, that depends.”

  “I just need a name from you. There’s no risk to you in giving me this information, I promise. But I want a precise answer.”

  “Whose name?”

  Montalbano explained, and
Gegè had no trouble giving him the name, and for good measure he even threw in a nickname.

  ~

  Ingrid had lain down on the bed, wearing a large towel that covered very little of her.

  “Sorry, but I can’t stand up.”

  Montalbano took a small tube of salve and a roll of gauze from a shelf in the bathroom.

  “Give me your leg.”

  When she moved, her minuscule panties peeped out and so did one breast, which looked as if it had been painted by a painter who understood women.

  The nipple seemed to be looking around, curious about the unfamiliar surroundings. Once again Montalbano understood that Ingrid had no seductive intentions, and he was grateful to her for it.

  “You’ll see, in a little while it’ll feel better,” he said after spreading the salve around her ankle, which he then wrapped tightly in gauze. The whole time Ingrid did not take her eyes off him.

  “You got any whiskey? Let me have half a glass, no ice.”

  It was as though they had known each other all their lives. After bringing her the whiskey, Montalbano pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed.

  “You know something, Inspector?” said Ingrid, looking at him with green, sparkling eyes. “You’re the first real man I’ve met in five years around here.”

  “Better than Luparello?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks. Now listen to my questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  As Montalbano was about to open his mouth, the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone and went to answer the door in confusion. There in the doorway was Anna, in civilian clothing, smiling at him.

  “Surprise!”

  She walked around him and into the house.

  “Thanks for the enthusiasm,” she said. “Where’ve you been all evening? At headquarters they said you were here, so I came, but it was all dark. I phoned five more times, to no avail. Then I finally saw the lights on.”

  She eyed Montalbano, who hadn’t opened his mouth.

  “What’s with you? Have you lost your voice?

  Okay, listen—”

  She fell silent. Past the bedroom door, which had been left open, she had caught a glimpse of Ingrid, half naked, glass in hand. First she turned pale, then blushed violently.