Fazio and Montalbano stood speechless in the doorway, not knowing what to do.
Clearly they wouldn’t be able to conduct any questioning with all those people around. The situation was almost comical: On one side of the dinner table sat Nico, with his leg propped up on a chair; and on the other side were two older people, who introduced themselves as Nico’s parents. Then they were introduced to two male cousins of Nico’s; then two female second cousins, of Nico’s again; a distant uncle in the company of his wife; and, finally, Filippo, who was renting the extra room.
“Did you come to talk to me?” asked Nico.
“Not at all,” Montalbano said casually. “We were in the neighborhood and wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Thank you, Inspector, I’m feeling better. I still can’t stand up, but I can tell I’m recovering fast.”
“Good. My best to you all. Oh, and if I did need to talk to you alone, when do you think . . . ?”
“Tomorrow morning, maybe around ten.”
“All right,” said the inspector, taking leave of the whole company.
Then, as they were heading down the stairs, he muttered: “What a waste of time.”
“What are you going to do now, Chief? Go back to your office or go home?”
“I’m going home. How about you?”
“I’d like to go back to the office for a bit.”
“Then I’ll take you there and continue on home afterwards.”
* * *
—
Violent hunger pangs began to assail him when he was still about a mile from home. For him, having eaten a stuffed panino or a couple of sandwiches was like not having eaten at all. And so the first thing he did, once inside the house, was race into the kitchen, remove Livia’s sign of warning and recommendations, and open the refrigerator. At a glance, he saw that it was empty. Slamming it shut, he turned in haste to the oven. O blessed be the heavens and all their little cherubs!
Adelina—who, as it was clear by now, didn’t give a flying fuck about Livia’s guidelines—had prepared for him a sartù di riso that the inspector had to restrain himself from eating right then and there, still cold. He lit the oven, took Livia’s sheet of paper into the bedroom, put it on the bedside table, removed his jacket, turned on the television, opened the French door to the veranda, waited another five minutes, pacing back and forth, then finally took out the casserole, set it down on a plate, sat down at the kitchen table, and began eating.
After the first spoonful, he stopped and took a deep breath. The dish was truly excellent.
He heaved a big sigh, grateful to life for granting him moments like this. After the third spoonful, he realized he was keeping his eyes closed, the better to taste the food. Feeling satisfied, halfway through the sartù he got up and kept eating in front of the TV, sitting down to watch the evening news.
In Paris, pandemonium had broken out when an abandoned suitcase was believed to be full of explosives. Hungary and Poland were refusing to take in their quota of migrants; worse yet, they’d started building walls to keep them out. Meanwhile, pedophilia scandals were erupting within the refugee camps. In Italy, they’d been fortunate to shut down only seven factories. The danger suddenly became clear to Montalbano: He was beginning to lose his appetite. He changed the channel and found himself face-to-face with the beautiful dancer who looked just like Antonia.
This time he did not change channels, but continued to eat with renewed happiness.
When he was done, he got up to fill a small glass with whisky and then sat back down in front of the television. As he was sipping it one drop at a time, the TeleVigàta evening newscast began. The face of Pippo Ragonese, the news chief, appeared, and he opened with these words:
“And where does the investigation into the murder of Carmelo Catalanotti currently stand?”
Montalbano turned it off at once and felt gripped by a kind of remorse. With all the things he had to do, what the hell was he doing, sitting there watching a dancer?
No, he really had to get a move on.
He cleared the table unceremoniously, washed his face, put his jacket back on, checked his pockets to make sure he had the right keys, went out, got in the car, and drove off.
But he didn’t go all the way to Via La Marmora. He stopped and parked about four streets before, so he could get his digestive juices flowing with a little walk, having eaten too much.
The streets were deserted. There was a bar closing up shop. He thought a coffee might help clear his head. Then, thinking that he had a great deal of work ahead of him, he went into a bar and had them make four coffees and put them in a small bottle. On the counter he also noticed some little tubs of orange rind covered in chocolate. He got a box of these. Then he noticed a couple of half-full bottles of whisky and bought them, too. Now he had enough provisions for a long night.
He had them put it all in a plastic bag and then left. When he came to the right door, he took out the keys and opened it. Again, because of the heavy feeling in his stomach, he went up the two flights of stairs on foot. A bit winded when he reached the door, he opened it slowly, closed it behind him, and turned on the light in the entranceway. And he turned into a pillar of salt.
He remembered perfectly well that he’d turned the lights out before leaving. So how was it that the lights in the study were on? He froze, and even held his breath. Want to bet the killer always returns to the scene of the crime? Damn! Not only was he unarmed, but the bag he was holding in his hand would make all movement difficult. And so, tiptoeing ever so lightly, and without making any noise, he made his way into the kitchen and set the bag down on the table. Weighing his options, he removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, armed himself with the biggest knife he could find, and began to head for the study. Coming up beside the doorway, he flattened his back against the wall and was able to peer inside the room with one eye. And he didn’t believe what he saw. He jerked his head back and ran a hand over his eyes. Ah, that must be it. The image from the TV must have remained imprinted on his retinas. He went through the same motions as before, ever so slowly. The confirmation of what he’d seen took his breath away.
Lying on the sofa, with her shoes off and three pillows behind her shoulders, was Antonia, wearing earphones and bobbing her head to the rhythm of the music. Around her a few folders and loan registers lay scattered. It was hard for Montalbano to take his eyes off her legs, since in that position her skirt had slid halfway up her belly. He bent over and set the knife down on the floor, stood back up, ran his fingers quickly through his hair, and, still on tiptoe, went all the way up to the sofa. Engrossed as she was in reading an open folder and listening to the music, Antonia didn’t notice him there.
Montalbano raised one knee, rested it on the sofa, and then sat down beside her.
Antonia let out a muffled cry, shot to her feet, and turned to look at him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked angrily.
“I think the question is: What are you doing here?” was Montalbano’s reply.
Unexpectedly, Antonia’s face broke into a shy smile.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello to you,” Montalbano replied. “Want some coffee?” he asked, walking out of the study and making his way around the apartment as if he were at home.
In the kitchen he blithely opened drawers and cupboards, found a tray with a picture of two birds on a branch, which seemed to him appropriate for the situation, set down on it two demitasses, two glasses, a bottle of whisky, the bottle with the coffee—which was still fairly warm—and a box of cookies belonging to the late lamented Carmelo Catalanotti.
Despite the precarious balance of everything on the tray, he managed to carry it all into the study with the light touch and elegance of a first-class waiter.
Antonia had remained on the sofa, still lying on her back and leaning
on the pillows, with her legs extended, except that now she’d pulled her skirt back down and put on a pair of glasses that made her look even more beautiful to Montalbano.
The woman patted the cushion beside her twice with her left hand, inviting the inspector to sit down. With great haste he laid the tray on the desk and sat down. But he ended up much closer to her than he would have liked.
“Do you realize what I’ve discovered? I took these documents and . . . Catalanotti was a loan shark! He lent money illegally at interest!”
The inspector looked at her, spellbound. How is it possible? She puts on a pair of glasses and becomes more beautiful; then she starts ranting about Catalanotti, and this adds another, extra touch to her beauty?
He was a million miles away from the case, happy to have Antonia beside him. He said nothing. All he did was draw nearer to her.
“And, as if that wasn’t enough,” Antonia resumed, “he wrote down all the dialogues he had with his debtors. Look here: I got this folder from the bedroom. There’s a whole closet full of—”
“I know everything,” said Montalano, cutting her off.
“They tell of a man who took his own life, probably because of his debts, in the most detached manner imaginable, almost indifferently . . . How is that possible?”
Montalbano rolled his eyes to share the girl’s disdain, but in fact his body was inching closer to her all along without her realizing.
Soon they were pressed up against each other.
Antonia sat up, then bent over to pick up another folder, but when she tried to return to her previous position, she was unable, because her place was now entirely taken by the inspector.
She had no choice. Either sit on the arm of the sofa or in Montalbano’s lap.
11
Antonia said nothing but merely climbed over him and sat at the other end of the sofa, which was still vacant.
Montalbano, too, remained silent, as his body resumed, all on its own, its slow approach to the other side of the couch this time.
Antonia tried to move away but couldn’t, because she would have fallen.
She looked him in the eye.
Salvo looked back at her.
It is all so simple,
yes, all so simple,
and so clear to see
that I can barely believe it.
Such is the body’s purpose:
you either touch me or not,
embrace me or push me away.
The rest is for crazies.
They came out of the shower, all dripping wet.
They looked around but couldn’t find even a hint of a towel.
“But where could they be?” asked Antonia.
At last Montalbano discovered a bathrobe hanging behind the door and grabbed it, and they began drying themselves off while still in each other’s embrace. Then, all at once, they looked each other in the eye. They’d both had the same thought. They were using a dead man’s home as they pleased. But the attraction their bodies felt had been stronger than any such consideration.
With their shared sense of embarrassment, a heavy silence descended on them.
It was broken by Antonia, who, looking at herself in the mirror, started laughing and said: “Look at what you’ve done to me! My skin’s all red from your beard!”
“I’m sorry!” said Montalbano, not knowing what else to say.
They got dressed, still in silence.
It took them half an hour to finish the coffee, whisky, and cookies. They wolfed down even the crumbs. Then she stood up and, with an ever-so-serious face, said: “Inspector. We must get back to work.”
“Gladly,” said Montalbano. And he hopped to his feet, grabbing her and holding her tight, covering her with kisses.
She broke free.
“I meant, we must continue the investigation.”
Montalbano tried feebly to resist.
“We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“I said, we must get back to work,” Antonia asserted resolutely, releasing herself from his embrace.
But it wasn’t as if she herself was really so keen as she pretended. In fact, she immediately seemed to change her mind, and since the inspector had lain back down on the sofa, Antonia settled in beside him and embraced him. And, just like that, without realizing it, they both fell asleep.
Not until around five in the morning did Montalbano open his mouth and ask: “Could you now explain to me why you came here?”
“I was overcome with a kind of regret,” said Antonia. “We’d seen all the documents in the study, but hadn’t been able to open the closet in the bedroom. Then we forgot all about it. Then this afternoon I remembered, and since I have copies of the house keys, I came and found what I found . . .”
“Look,” said Montalbano, “we’re dealing with two separate things. These registers concern the Catalanotti we could call the moneylender, whereas the folders in the bedroom closet contain records of the auditions he used to make his actors perform.”
“What strange auditions . . .”
Montalbano proceeded to tell her about Catalanotti’s methods.
“Tell you what,” said Antonia. “I think it’s too late to start looking at these documents now. Let’s leave things as they are and go and get some sleep. We can come back here in the afternoon, around two.”
“No,” the inspector replied curtly.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll be eating at that hour. But if you wanted to come with me to Enzo’s . . .”
“Of course I want to come with you to Enzo’s.”
What do I care if I’m not pretty? My love is a painter, and will paint me as bright as the city.
And he whistled all the way home, to the point that he didn’t notice three potholes in the road that nearly totaled his car, so high above the ground was he driving.
And he sang all the way home, to the point that when he came to the turnoff to his house he kept right on going straight, and not until he saw the road sign to Montereale did he turn around, not cursing the saints as he might have done but with a doltish smile, and head back home to Marinella.
He felt not the slightest hunger, not the least bit sleepy.
Going into his bedroom, he undressed and then opened the armoire to take out some clean clothes.
The first shirt that came to hand had a slightly threadbare left cuff.
The second one had a collar that looked as if it had been through World War I.
The third one was a color that had gone out of fashion sometime before 1975.
How long had it been since he’d bought himself a new shirt? His eye fell on the clothes hanging in the armoire. The mere sight of them discouraged him. How could they all have that dusty, old, used-up look?
In a sudden fit of rage he emptied the armoire, throwing all the clothes with their hangers onto the bed. Then he sat down, feeling dejected. At this point it was inevitable that he caught sight of himself in the mirror: He had red eyes and a stubbly, prickly beard; from the arc of his eyebrows a few long white hairs were sprouting; and his spare tire was in the process of becoming a proper potbelly. He raised one arm, and the flesh quivered.
Matre santa! What was happening to him?
As if to dispel the image, he suddenly stood up and went into the bathroom to take a shower. He was about to turn on the water when he stopped and started sniffing the skin on his left arm.
Miracle!
There was still a little of Antonia’s scent on it.
Wouldn’t it be better, instead of taking a shower, to wash himself one body part at a time, without letting the water splash across his chest? That way, maybe a little of her scent would reach his nostrils during the morning hours.
While shaving, he remembered what Antonia had said. Indeed, it felt rather
like sandpaper! Of course, with that cheapo shaving cream he’d bought at the smoke shop, what could he expect?
Back in the bedroom, he selected a pair of trousers and a jacket that seemed the best he could do. Then, before putting them on, he lay on the floor, belly down. No less than forty push-ups.
* * *
—
He got in his car and sped off to the center of town, where there was a big, sparkly perfumery that he’d never set foot in before.
Since it was still early, he had no problem finding a parking place.
Entering the store, he was immediately assailed by the sickly sweet, almost nauseating combination of scents stagnating in the air. Behind the counter were two very sharply done-up girls. The younger of the two turned to him and with a luminous smile asked if she could be of help. Montalbano felt a little awkward in that environment, which for all its fanciness utterly lacked elegance.
“I’m looking for some good shaving cream.”
“Aerosol or brush?”
“Brush.”
“Just one minute, please,” said the girl.
She moved away from the counter and opened a small glass display case, returning with three different packages of shaving soap.
“This one here is the best. It’s French.”
Montalbano, head increasingly numb from all the scents, said only: “All right, I’ll take it.”
But the girl, instead of packing it up, merely kept looking at him.
What on earth did she want? the inspector wondered.
“May I?” the salesgirl suddenly asked.
And she reached out with one hand, but Montalbano pulled away and stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I only wanted to . . .”
“No, I apologize,” said the inspector, drawing near again.
The girl then ran her fingers delicately over his face, as if caressing it.
“Your skin is very dry. You need a good aftershave.”
Resigned, Montalbano threw up his hands.
The Sicilian Method Page 13