“Not at all! I just couldn’t leave things unfinished like that. Just think, Geneviève waited out on her balcony for two hours, getting more and more desperate, wondering what had happened to me. I had to go back and comfort her, at the very least.”
“And did you happen, at the very least, to tell her about your cadaver?”
“Come on, Salvo. No, I didn’t tell her. I only said that when I went into that apartment I sensed that something was amiss, and so I carefully inspected the place, and then went to the police station to do some research. At that point Geneviève confirmed that there wasn’t anyone living in the apartment, but that, come to think of it, she had in fact heard strange noises there, some stirring about and muffled voices . . .”
“And so?”
“And so nothing, Salvo. That was all she could tell me. But then I went back to comforting her.”
Fazio came in, looking crestfallen.
“The woman at the real estate agency couldn’t tell me anything,” he said.
“Why don’t you try calling the apartment’s owner again?”
“Already done. Aurisicchio assured me that nobody has any copies of the keys. Other than the head of the agency, of course.”
Seeing, then, that they were unable to reach any sort of conclusion whatsoever, the inspector decided that the only solution was to go and eat lunch.
* * *
—
As he got in the car, for whatever reason he no longer felt like going to Enzo’s. And so he headed for a restaurant called Catarinetta, about which he’d heard some good things and which was halfway between Vigàta and Montaperto.
He’d barely gone three miles when he saw the first sign, which told him to turn right onto an unpaved road.
He drove for another half an hour or so, turning first left, then right, in keeping with the signs, and ended up in the open countryside. All around him were vineyards, and in the distance, as far as the eye could see, were almond groves with a few peasant houses sprouting here and there among them. It was an enchanting landscape that soothed the heart and soul. And yet a dark thought entered the inspector’s mind. Who knew how many mafiosi on the lam were hiding out in houses just like those, so innocent in appearance? He remembered how, so many years before, a little boy named Giuseppe Di Matteo had been kidnapped and hidden in just such a house before meeting an atrocious end, the kind of fate that made one ashamed to be a human being. But he didn’t want to think about that. He pulled up outside the restaurant, got out of the car, and went inside.
The place consisted of a small entrance area that gave onto a large room with twenty or so tables, all of them full. Discouraged, he watched the people eating their fill, talking loudly and laughing, and turned his back to leave when a waiter came up to him.
“Were you looking for someone, or did you want to eat?”
“I wanted to eat, but . . .”
“If you’re patient enough to wait half an hour . . .”
Montalbano was about to say no when the bathroom door, which was right next to the entrance, opened and he saw, from behind, a woman come out. He stood there speechless for a moment, just looking at her, because he recognized that body from somewhere . . . Then suddenly he realized it was Antonia, the new chief of Forensics. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Meanwhile she, not having seen him, headed for a table. Following her with his eyes, Montalbano noticed she was alone.
His feet, of their own accord, took him in her direction. Raising her eyes, she looked at him, and Montalbano was convinced she was not happy to see him.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” Antonia said drily.
“Were you waiting for someone?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
Montalbano stammered.
“Well . . . it’s just that . . . the place is full . . . there aren’t any empty tables . . . If you would allow me . . . I’m pretty hungry.”
Antonia said nothing and simply gestured towards the chair opposite hers.
Montalbano sat down and looked at the menu on the table.
“Have you ordered?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you already know this place?”
“Yes.”
“Is the food good?”
“It’s decent enough.”
A silence as heavy as a boulder descended on them.
Montalbano ran through a hundred different subjects in his head at lightning speed but didn’t find a single one that seemed fitting, so he just grabbed the menu and started looking at it. At first glance he became certain there wasn’t so much as a single scale of fish in that restaurant.
“What are you going to have?” he asked Antonia.
“Pasta with ricotta. It’s very good here. How about you?”
Montalbano remained silent for some thirty seconds or so, then made up his mind.
“Me, too.”
They sat there in silence until the waiter came round to take their orders.
For her second course Antonia ordered lamb chops with potatoes, and Montalbano, naturally, did likewise.
In the silence that followed, Montalbano wondered why he felt so awkward in front of the young woman.
Was it that very unsociable reserve of hers which made him feel so ill at ease, or did his unease stem instead from the fact that Antonia had the same effect on him as a magnet?
6
His gaze fell on her beautiful hands. She wore no rings.
He never knew from what depths came the question his lips fired at her across the barrier of silence separating them.
“Are you single?”
The woman’s irritation was clearly visible, etched across her face.
“Why do you ask?”
Montalbano sank back into the depths, which this time provided no answer to her question.
The barrier of silence turned into an iron curtain.
A few moments passed before he was able to say: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry . . .”
This time she was the one to speak.
“I’ve been living alone for the past ten years. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel attracted to men, but I still haven’t met one I’ve liked enough to want to have around every day. How about you?”
The inspector hadn’t anticipated her rejoinder.
“I live alone, but . . . but . . . I’m not single.”
He was expecting Antonia to ask him to explain, but the girl remained silent. And so he concluded that for her, there was nothing more to discuss on the matter.
The inspector, however, didn’t feel like dropping the subject and was about to open his mouth when he was overwhelmed by a loud yell from the table to the left of them.
Sitting next to a tiny, frail woman was a fat, sweaty man waving his ring-studded fingers as he vented his anger on a waiter standing stiffly in front of him.
“What? I come all the way from Fela, driving miles and miles because of all the good things I’ve been hearing about this goddamn restaurant and their pasta con quadumi, and now you tell me that the goddamn European Union says you’re not allowed to make it anymore?”
“Yessir, that’s right, but what can I say? These aren’t our rules; they’re dictated to us by others. We can’t do anything about it . . .”
The fat man got up, grabbed the frail little woman, and dragged her out of the restaurant, cursing.
“What’s this quadumi, anyway?” asked Antonia, as the waiter was setting down a dish of cavatelli with ricotta in front of her.
“Quadumi are cow innards. In Sicily we cook them many different ways.”
Antonia grimaced in disgust. They started eating without continuing the conversation. Then, violating his own rule about not talking while eating, Montalbano asked: “What did you find in Catalanotti’s car?”
“Nothing of a
ny importance. There weren’t any significant biological traces. We can say for certain that he wasn’t killed or transported anywhere in that car after his death.”
Rather than listen to what she was saying, Montalbano was spellbound by her movements. In her every gesture there was a grace, a lightness, and . . . what else? . . . yes! a harmony.
That was the right word. It was as if her rapport not only with her own body but also with the space around her—not just the small immediate space in which she found herself, but a vast, limitless space—were perfectly synchronized. The woman seemed, in short, to be in harmony with the world itself.
A question came spontaneously to his lips.
“But how do you spend your evenings, Antonia? Do you go out? Go to the movies? Watch TV?”
“I hardly ever go to the movies. I’d rather read.”
This piqued Montalbano’s curiosity.
“I really like to read, too. Who are some of your favorite authors?”
“There are so many. At the moment I’m reading a story by a Sicilian author I really like, whose name is Giosuè Calaciura. Do you know him?”
Montalbano didn’t know the writer, but he knew all about his publisher, a lady who had set up a publishing house in Palermo that put out the loveliest books, which were a real pleasure to look at and to read.
And so, talking about books, they discovered they had many things in common. Maybe even too many.
The first one to realize this was Antonia. And she immediately pulled back.
“But now I have to go. Your treat?”
Without waiting for an answer, she got up, shook his hand, and went out. Montalbano didn’t take his eyes off her until she was out the door.
* * *
—
As he was driving back to Vigàta, for no apparent reason the name Nico Dilicata resurfaced in his memory and he remembered where he’d seen it.
He had to check it out at once, and so, instead of heading for the station, some twenty minutes later he was pulling up outside Catalanotti’s place. The front door was closed. He took out the keys he had in his pocket, found the right one, then went to the third floor, removed the seals from the apartment door, unlocked it, and went in.
Once inside the apartment, he shot into the study, sat down, opened the right-hand drawer, and took out the register of loans. He’d remembered correctly: on the second page appeared the name of Nico Dilicata.
He continued examining the notebook carefully.
In the end he discovered that, aside from Nico, two other people had failed to return the borrowed money with interest: Luigi Sciacchitano, who had owed three thousand euros, and Saveria di Donato, who’d borrowed twenty thousand. He turned on the computer and got further confirmation that everything in it had been duly noted and put in order in Catalanotti’s registers.
He jotted the two names down on a scrap of paper and went out.
This time the front door of the building was open. Ammazzalorso was at his post and seemed surprised to see the inspector there.
“’Scuse me for asking, Inspector, but in the movies I always see the police spending hours and hours looking into every little nook and cranny in the house. How come the cops here come and go after just a few minutes?”
“We use different methods in our neck of the woods,” the inspector said with assurance.
Whatever those might be, he thought as he was saying it. But, in any case, the honor of the Sicilian police was safe.
* * *
—
By the time he got back to the station it was half past five. He sent immediately for Fazio, and then handed him the scrap of paper when he showed up.
“Try to find out as much as you can about those two people.”
“Why? Who are they?”
“They’re two of the people Catalanotti lent money to who were unable to pay it back.”
“Are you thinking Catalanotti was maybe killed by someone who couldn’t pay?”
“Why, my dear Fazio, do you somehow think that never happens? And while we’re on the subject, I can tell you that Nico, too, is in the same situation.”
“And who’s Nico?”
“He’s the kid who was shot in the leg.”
“I’m sorry, Chief, but are you saying that Nico Dilicata could be a murderer who, after committing his crime, was shot in revenge by some accomplice of Catalanotti’s?”
“I don’t know, Fazio. But in any case I want to talk to the kid. Think they’ll let me into the hospital at this hour?”
“Why not, Chief? The bullet only grazed him. It’s nothing serious.”
“Let’s go.”
“There’s a problem,” Fazio said once they were in Montalbano’s car, heading to Montelusa.
“And what would that be?”
“Nico’s in a big room with eight other beds, all occupied. How are we going to talk to him without the others hearing?”
“We can ask the doctors to give us a private room, and you can bring him in.”
“Okay.”
* * *
—
Half an hour later Nico Dilicata was sitting in a wheelchair in front of the inspector. The head nurse had given them a tiny room full of hospital supplies and smelling so badly of medications that it nearly gave the inspector a heart attack. Nico was brought in by a nice-looking blond girl, who, before leaving, bent down and kissed him on the forehead.
“That’s Margherita, my girlfriend,” Nico explained after she left.
Montalbano introduced himself and immediately asked: “How are you feeling?”
“Well, I’m on painkillers at the moment, so I’m feeling better.”
“Can you tell me in some detail what happened?”
“There isn’t much to tell. I already told Signor Fazio everything.”
“And I’m asking you to repeat it to me.”
“Very early this morning, probably around six-thirty, I was on my way out the door to go to the port . . . I sometimes get work unloading crates of fish to earn a little money—”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” said the inspector, “do you always go out of the house at that hour of the morning?”
“Most of the time.”
“Go on.”
“As I was closing the door, with my back to the street, I felt a really sharp pain in my leg. I couldn’t stand anymore and so I slid down on one knee, bracing myself against the door. When I turned around, the street was deserted. And that’s about all I can say.”
“Who came to your aid?”
“After some time I managed to struggle to my feet by leaning against the wall, and I rang the buzzer. Margherita came right down with Filippo, and they drove me to the hospital.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t quite understand. Do Margherita and Filippo live with you?”
“Yes. When my parents moved to Catania, they left me their apartment. And so, just to earn a little money and to cover expenses, I rented a room to my friend Filippo, who’s lucky enough to have a job.”
“I see. Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
“No idea. No idea whatsoever.”
“Not even a hunch? Someone who might have something against you?”
“Certainly not to the point of shooting me.”
Montalbano decided to throw down his ace.
“Do you know a certain Carmelo Catalanotti?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He was murdered in his own apartment.”
Nico turned pale.
“No . . . I didn’t know . . .” he stammered. “When?”
“We found him yesterday morning.”
“I’m so sorry. He was a good person. I mean . . .” and he trailed off.
“Go on,” said Montalbano, prodding him.
Nico th
en said something the inspector would never have expected.
“I owed him some money. So what am I supposed to do now?”
“But was it a friendly debt, or was it—”
“We weren’t friends. He’d lent me some money at interest, but it wasn’t too high. He wasn’t a loan shark, and I wouldn’t call him a usurer, either.”
“It’s against the law, just the same.”
“Inspector, I’m sorry, but nowadays it’s really hard to say what’s against the law or within the law. Every day we read in the papers that the very people who are supposed to enforce the law are under investigation—”
Montalbano cut him off sharply.
“Sorry to say, but I myself don’t have any doubts. I know what’s legal and what’s not. And unauthorized lending is illegal.”
The youth said nothing. His admission of his debt might simply have been a very shrewd move, but it was also naïve. And so the inspector decided to continue the questioning, but then he didn’t have the time, because the door opened and Margherita came in, followed by a male nurse, who said: “I have to take the patient back to the ward.”
Nico was whisked away in a flash.
Margherita was about to follow behind him when Montalbano stopped her.
“Could you stay a little longer?”
“Sure,” said the girl.
Nico’s voice then called from the hallway.
“But come soon, Margherì.”
“Please have a seat,” said the inspector.
Margherita sat down.
“What is your name?”
“Margherita Lo Bello.”
“Are you from around here?”
“I was born in Messina, but my family moved to Vigàta when I was three.”
“Have you known Nico for a long time?”
The girl looked at him.
“May I ask why you want to know?”
“Quite simply because I didn’t have the time to ask him, so now I’m asking you. How long have you been together?”
“Two years,” she said.
“And for how long have you been living together?”
The Sicilian Method Page 7