A Nest of Vipers
Page 14
‘That won’t be easy.’
‘Well, in the meantime find out what kind of car he has, the year, and the licence plate number. And where he normally keeps it. In a garage? Outside his apartment building?’
‘Salvo, don’t forget it was a Sunday.’
‘So what?’
‘It means the shops were all closed and so there’ll be a lot fewer potential witnesses.’
‘We’ll take what we can get, Mimì. I can only wish you luck.’
*
. . . and fused in a sort of vibrant inevitability, the same that has overwhelmed us for so many years.
But, perhaps because of all that time too long apart, the last meeting was wonderfully more intense.
I came out of your embrace with a wholly new sensation, which at that moment I was unable to explain to myself.
It was a combination of happiness and fear.
Now, at two months’ distance, I’ve found the reason for the fear.
I am pregnant.
I have proof of this, having taken a test. I am carrying your baby inside me.
You should know in fact that I am no longer sleeping with him. I don’t think I could stand it.
But the fear has vanished. It has changed into an extraordinary, growing happiness.
You should know that I am unwilling to give up this child of ours. Not for all the money in the world.
I can already anticipate your objections.
With him, however, I know how to act. As naturally as possible. Tonight I will clench my teeth and give in to his insistent demands.
Nobody will suspect that the child is ours, neither him nor those around us.
You will carry on your life of love affairs with those young girls I’m so jealous of, a life I am forced to accept because I can do nothing to prevent it.
I will continue to play the part of the faithful companion. There was a time in our lives when we met almost daily, despite the extreme risks. Then we had to slow things down for a variety of reasons I needn’t go into here.
You know them as well as I do.
Well, I wanted to tell you I no longer wish for those days when it was easier for us to meet.
I don’t wish for them because now you are inside me every hour of the day and night, through the being that is growing inside me.
Perhaps only another woman could understand me. See you soon, I hope.
*
He picked up a pen and underlined a few words he wanted to discuss with Augello.
At that moment Fazio appeared.
‘She’s here with me. Shall I ask her to come in?’
‘Where was she?’
‘At home.’
‘Was her husband around?’
‘No, he was out.’
‘Bring her in.’
Michela, too, as a woman, was no joke. But compared to Giovanna, who was truly elegant, she, though wearing what must have been rather expensive clothing, was only striking and a little coarse. She, too, was blonde. How many blondes were there in Vigàta anyway?
She seemed to be in a combative mood, and indeed she immediately went on the attack.
‘What is this? How dare you! A woman can’t sit at home minding her own business without having a policeman come in and tell her she has to come with him? Where are we anyway? Africa?’
‘Please sit down, signora.’
‘No! I’ll remain standing because in five minutes I’m leaving! And I warn you: I’m going to talk to my lawyer about this!’
‘Signora, if you’ll just answer a few questions I’ll let you go right away, and nobody, not even your husband, will know you’ve been here. Otherwise I’ll be forced to summon you officially, with all the publicity that usually accompanies cases like this. Is that clear? So, the less time we waste, the better it is for all of us. Please sit down.’
Michela, still furious, sat down at the edge of the chair.
Montalbano decided to use the rapid-fire questions strategy with her. That would tame her pretty quickly.
‘I don’t understand why you made me come here. I don’t know anything about anything—’
‘I don’t doubt that.’
‘Then why—’
‘Do you have any children?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
For the first time, Michela seemed a little confused. ‘Well, when we first got married I wasn’t . . . then we . . .’
‘I’m sorry, inappropriate question. Do you work?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever had a job?’
‘Yes. When I was eighteen I—’
‘Never mind. What level of school did you complete?’
‘Junior high.’
‘Give me one of your teachers’ names.’
‘Genuardi.’
‘What did he teach?’
‘Italian.’
‘Good, good. Just one minute.’
Montalbano randomly grabbed a sheet of paper off the top of his desk, read it very slowly, twisting his mouth up variously with concentration and self-satisfaction. Michela took an embroidered handkerchief out of her purse and held it in both hands. The inspector put the sheet of paper down, looked at it pensively, then resumed.
‘Does your father work?’
‘He’s retired.’
‘What did he do for a living?’
‘Nightwatchman.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘She doesn’t work eith—’
‘What did she do before?’
‘She . . . cleaned apartments.’
Michela was embarrassed to say her mother had been a cleaning lady.
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
A brother who—’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Giaco—’
‘Do you have a car?’
‘Yes, a Fiat Pa—’
‘What about your husband?’
‘What?’
‘Your husband. Does he have a car?’
‘Yes, a—’
‘How many cars do you have in the family?’
‘T-two—’
‘And before?’
‘Before what?’
‘Before marrying Arturo Barletta?’
Michela was now clearly bewildered. Her combative stance was almost completely gone. She couldn’t work out where Montalbano was going with all this.
‘Could you . . . repeat the question?’
‘Did you have one?’
‘Did I have one what?’
‘Aren’t we talking about a car?’
‘Oh! Yes. I had a—’
‘How old?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘I mean you.’
‘Me? I was twenty.’
‘So it was a used car?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it worked well?’
‘Er . . . pretty well.’
‘Let’s talk about something else.’
He grabbed the sheet of paper again, cast a quick glance at it, hummed with his mouth closed, then set it down.
‘What time did you wake up on the morning your father-in-law was killed?’
‘At . . . let me think . . .’
‘What time do you usually wake up?’
‘At nine.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Find out what?’
‘That your father-in-law had been murdered.’
‘My sister-in-law Giovanna called me.’
‘Not your husband?’
‘No.’
‘What time was it?’
‘It might have been . . . it wasn’t yet eight o’clock.’
‘At what time did your husband go out?’
‘I don’t know, I was asleep.’
‘Even when you’re asleep you usually notice when the person beside you gets up or moves . . . You didn’t notice anything?’
‘The past two nights . . .’
‘The past two nights?’
‘He . . . had trouble sleeping. He’d get up, get back in bed . . . So I couldn’t really tell you if . . .’
‘Did you ask him why he was so agitated?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘We were going through a—’
‘Had you quarrelled?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you weren’t speaking?’
‘No.’
‘What did you quarrel about?’
‘Per-personal things.’
‘I see. Do you have any idea?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of why your husband was agitated.’
‘Well . . . the company he works for is . . . He has a lot of debts and . . .’
‘Why didn’t you go too?’
‘Go . . . where?’
‘To your father-in-law’s house, with your husband.’
‘Because I had . . . stuff to do at home.’
By this point the woman’s brain was smoking. Nevertheless, she bucked up and said:
‘Inspector, I really don’t understand why—’
‘You will. Any female friends?’
‘Who?’
‘You.’
‘A few.’
‘One in particular?’
‘My sister-in-law, Giovanna.’
‘Do you often go out together?’
‘Fairly often.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘Er . . . I don’t know, the movies . . . or to—’
‘Your first car, the one you got when you were twenty, was it a gift from the late Cosimo Barletta, who was your lover?’
She hadn’t been expecting this. Montalbano had led her very far afield.
She gave such a start in her chair that she practically fell off. She turned pale as a corpse and started panting as she spoke, as if out of breath.
‘He . . . he . . . was never . . . my . . . I . . . it was Arturo who . . . introduced me to him.’
‘We have photos.’
It was a whopping lie, but it achieved the desired effect. Michela’s eyes opened wide, and she got a sort of tic in her left eyelid.
‘What . . . what photos?’
‘Of you and Cosimo Barletta as you’re . . . know what I mean? Didn’t you know he had that nice little habit? Didn’t your friend Giovanna tell you? Fazio, show the lady a few pictures.’
It was a dangerous bluff. Fazio got up and went over to the filing cabinet.
At the same time Michela sprang to her feet, put her hands over her eyes, and cried:
‘I don’t want to see them!’
‘OK, fine. Sit down.’
She obeyed like a puppet.
‘How long were you his mistress?’
‘Four months.’
‘When did Arturo fall in love with you?’
‘From the start.’
‘Meaning?’
‘After I’d been with . . . for a week . . . he came to the house unannounced . . . I was on my way out and . . .’
‘Where would you and Arturo meet?’
‘When I worked as a secretary for the engineer Porzio, Arturo would wait for me outside when I got off work.’
‘Did Barletta make a fuss when Arturo told him he wanted to marry you?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he was already tired of me . . . I realized.’
FIFTEEN
At this point Michela was no longer in any condition to refuse to answer the inspector’s questions. The decisive round was beginning, but Montalbano intended to pull his punches a little.
‘And you?’
‘And me what?’
‘Had you grown tired of him too?’
‘For me there was nothing to get tired of or not to get tired of. I had no feelings for him. He wanted my body, I gave it to him, he would do what he wanted and then he would pay me. I felt a little ashamed, yes. Not in front of him, but sometimes, when I was by myself . . . He was . . . generous.’
‘Listen, what were the circumstances that time your father-in-law put his hands on you?’
Her handkerchief by now had become a dark little ball drenched in sweat. She looked surprised.
‘How did you fi—’
‘Please answer the question.’
‘One day . . . at the beach house.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘Is it really necess—’
‘Yes.’
She heaved a big sigh before starting.
‘Everyone had gone down to the beach, and I was alone in the house, in the kitchen, making salad . . . I didn’t hear him come in . . . He pushed me face-down on the table with one hand and held me there – he was a very strong man – and with the other hand he pulled up my skirt . . . I got so angry . . . But I couldn’t yell because the others might hear. I’d thought that affair was over and done with, but instead . . . at that point . . .’
‘Your husband intervened.’
‘Him?!’
‘It wasn’t Arturo who intervened?’
‘It was, but not . . . Is that what he told you?’
‘Don’t ask any questions.’
‘I noticed there was a knife on the table . . . I grabbed it and . . . I don’t know how I managed to turn around . . . I jabbed at him with the knife but he blocked it with his left hand . . . and at that moment Arturo came in and disarmed me . . . His father slapped me twice so hard it nearly knocked my head off, and then ran out . . .’
‘What did your husband say to you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘OK, but what happened afterwards?’
She blushed.
‘Afterwards . . . Arturo took me into our bedroom and wanted . . . he was very aroused. I’m positive he . . . In fact he later confessed to me that he’d been watching us for a few minutes, there in the kitchen. I don’t think . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t think he would have intervened if I hadn’t resisted . . . He would have let it all happen.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he would never oppose his father.’
‘But does Arturo love you?’
She thought about this for a moment before answering. ‘I don’t know . . . I think so. He still . . . desires me, that’s true, as in the days . . . but in front of his father . . .’
‘So it was you who no longer wanted to see Cosimo Barletta?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What did you and your husband quarrel about?’
‘I would rather . . .’
At this point all that was left to do was to deliver the knockout punch.
‘Signora, before we go any further, it is my duty to tell you that you’re suspected of murder.’
‘I am?!’
‘Three strands of blonde hair were found in Barletta’s bed. We’ve been told they may be yours. Afterwards you’ll have to give us a hair sample for testing.’
Michela made a sincerely astonished face. ‘But that hair can’t be mine!’
‘Let me finish. For your own good, tell me the truth: How long ago did you resume your affair with your father-in-law?’
Michela’s face transformed and she leapt to her feet like a Fury. She was shaking all over with rage. All her ladylike composure was gone.
‘Who fed you that crap, eh? Who? I hadn’t seen Barletta for years! For years! Ever since that time at the house! Not even at Christmas! He was as good as dead to me! And then my damn cuckold of a husband suddenly wanted me . . . to go back with his father at least once! He wanted me to start fucking him again!’
‘He wanted you to resume your relationship with his father?’
‘Yes!’
‘And that was why you quarrelled?’
‘Yes!’
‘When did he ask you to do this?’
‘Three days before the pig was murdered! He was insistent! “What’s it to you?” he would say. “When it’s done we’ll be better off. Don’t you see? If you go along with it
, my father will change the will, which is now all in Giovanna’s favour.” But I refused! By now it makes me sick just to think of the goddamned pig! I’m not some kind of whore, after all!’
She started crying.
‘OK, that’s enough. Take the lady home,’ Montalbano said to Fazio.
Then, turning to Michela:
‘I beg you please to forgive me.’
‘Will you wait for me? I’ll be right back,’ said Fazio.
‘No. We can talk this afternoon.’
*
At Enzo’s he ate very little. What Michela had just recounted had killed his appetite, though he took his customary stroll along the jetty just the same.
Sitting down on the flat rock, he started extracting the gist from the words he’d heard. And the gist was that Michela’s entire deposition had been an involuntary indictment of her husband.
True, she hadn’t been able to say at what time Arturo got up that morning, but she’d revealed something of great importance: that her husband had become a desperate man.
Probably the loan sharks he’d resorted to had threatened to kill him if he didn’t pay up.
It’s possible they believed that Arturo could turn to his father for help. But that wasn’t the case. Barletta didn’t give a flying fuck about his son’s troubles.
Unless . . .
In fact the idea of bringing Michela to him, ready to jump into bed, wasn’t a bad one. Had she agreed to it, Arturo would have been in a position to ask his father for the money he needed. She was the only commodity of exchange he had available.
Wait a second, Montalbà.
Wasn’t there a huge contradiction in Arturo’s behaviour? If he was buried in debt, it seemed primarily because his wife had him spending all kinds of money and he was afraid that if he didn’t give in, she might take on a rich lover the way her friend Giovanna had done.
But if he loved Michela that much, then how could he stand the fact that another man . . .
No, wrong. Michela was quite clear on this point when she talked about Arturo having a genuine physical infatuation with her.
The word love was not applicable.
OK, but if someone desires another’s body to that degree, how can he surrender that body to someone else?
Use your brain, Montalbà! This ‘someone else’ is not just some stranger, but the man’s father!
And his master! Didn’t Michela herself say, in all sincerity, that Arturo would have been capable of watching the rape happen without intervening because it involved his father?