A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

  Thus, with Arturo in jail (with she herself having helped to send him there with her insinuations against him, even in their second meeting) and with no form of will any longer in existence, Giovanna becomes the sole heir to the estate. Not a bad plan. Congratulations. And he, Inspector Montalbano, noted for his acumen and lightning intuitions, had actually lent her a hand! Heartfelt compliments to him as well. He deserved not just one slap in the face, but a hundred thousand!

  He felt so enraged that he went and got a bottle of whisky and a glass, brought them out to the veranda, and started drinking. He would go back to Giovanna’s in the morning and scare the living daylights out of her.

  *

  Despite having knocked back half the bottle, he couldn’t fall asleep. The hours passed without his even noticing. He tormented himself, stewed in his juices, cursed himself, thought Pasquano was right to repeat the constant refrain that he was getting too old for his job. The image of the puppet he’d become in Giovanna’s hands burned in his mind like fire. At the same time, he realized that she could quite easily defend herself from the accusation. It was simply a hypothesis with no evidence to support it. He had no proof of anything. How was he ever going to catch her?

  As for having no proof of anything, he also had nothing that might help to identify the real killer, the woman who poisoned Barletta. Maybe he should start all over again and look at everything from another perspective. Never mind who the killer is; let’s ask ourselves how she was able to get her hands on a poison found only in hospitals . . .

  Among all of Barletta’s many girlfriends, was there one who was the daughter of a doctor, pharmacist, or nurse?

  Wait, Montalbà, wait! Wasn’t there a moment in which someone had said something about a pharmacy or something similar?

  Yes, he was sure of it. But when? And who’d said it?

  Without realizing what he was doing, he got up, went into the other room, picked the phone, and called Fazio. He had to wait a long time before somebody answered.

  ‘Chief, what is it?’

  ‘Were you asleep?’

  ‘Chief, it’s five o’clock in the morning!’

  He looked at his watch. It was true! But since he’d already woken him up, he might as well not make him lose sleep for no reason.

  ‘I apologize, but . . . listen, in connection with the Barletta case, do you remember anyone saying something about a pharmacist or pharmacy?’

  ‘No, I really don’t.’

  Was it possible he’d dreamt it?

  ‘Anything about doctors, hospitals, accident and emergency departments . . .?’

  ‘No, Chief. The only person having anything to do with medicine is Santo Fallace, who owns a small pharmaceutical company in Montelusa . . .’

  The flash that went off in Montalbano’s head seemed to light up the whole room. Well, what a coincidence! The very name Giovanna didn’t mention when listing her father’s friends! She’d left it out on purpose! Because he was also one of her lovers!

  Montalbano’s legs started to give out. He grabbed a chair and sat down.

  ‘You still there, Chief?’

  He had trouble opening his mouth.

  ‘Yeah, I’m still here. Listen, in three hours, at eight o’clock, I want Fallace in my office.’

  *

  No, Montalbà, fight it with all your might, close off every passage in your mind to the horrific thought trying to force its way past every barrier you put up. Don’t leave open the slightest nook, crack, or fissure, or you’ll plunge into a hellish abyss.

  Numb yourself, finish the whisky left in the bottle, get drunk, or else go down to the beach and bury your head in the sand so as not to see or hear anything, the way ostriches do . . .

  *

  But he could not avoid falling into the abyss.

  As he was dashing to the shower, having suddenly felt as greasy as if a can of engine oil had spilled all over him, he heard, very close by, a bird singing. A bird singing fanciful variations on the theme of ‘Il cielo in una stanza’. He stopped short. What was this nonsense? He’d heard that melody before. Was it in the dream about Yadwigha’s forest? But he was awake now! No, that couldn’t be it. Then he suddenly realized it was Mario, the tramp, who was whistling. He ran out to the veranda.

  ‘Good morning. I saw you were awake, and so . . . I came to say hello. And to tell you something. I’m leaving.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll understand after I tell you what I came here to tell you . . .’

  ‘Listen, come with me into the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.’

  The tramp followed him. Montalbano sat him down and went and bustled about with the coffeepot.

  ‘So, tell me.’

  ‘Years ago, I used to sleep in a hayloft from which you could see Barletta’s house below. It was on a hilltop, behind the road . . . and only about a hundred yards from the house.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘One morning, the sixth of July, to be precise – another date of my life I’ll never forget – at around ten o’clock or so, I was heading down towards the road when I heard a terrible, heart-rending, desperate scream. A moment later Mrs Barletta – whom I knew well – came running out of the house, towards the sea, screaming as she ran, and as she screamed she took off her dressing gown and nightdress and threw them down on the sand . . . And she ran into the sea, still screaming. I stood there, not moving, not knowing what to do, not understanding what was happening . . . And then I saw Giovanna come out of the house, half-naked, and then, a moment later, her father appeared in a swimming costume . . . They stood there for a few seconds, frozen like statues, and then Barletta grabbed his daughter by the arm and pulled her back into the house. By this point the woman’s screams had become almost inaudible, and she was little more than a far-away dot in the water . . . Only then was I able to race down the hillside, cross the road, run onto the beach, dive into the water . . . I’m . . . I used to be a good swimmer. But when I got there . . . I couldn’t see her. And so I went down, underwater, and looked around, and at last I spotted her . . . I realized at once that I’d got there too late. I am, or I used to be, a surgeon. Anyway I managed to drag her to the shore and try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on her, but it was all for naught. I left her there and ran quickly away. That same day I went to live somewhere else.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to . . . be able to identify me. The paper said it was a terrible accident. That’s not true, Inspector. It was a suicide. Which those two could have prevented, but didn’t.’

  We made a lightning decision that terrible day. Do you remember?

  Without saying a word, without exchanging a glance, we acted in unison and let things take their course . . .

  To climb out of the abyss, where he couldn’t breathe . . . To rise up wildly, desperately, pretending not to have heard what Mario had told him, and then to pour the coffee and ask:

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘One, please,’ said Mario, looking at him with incomprehension, since there seemed to be no reason for the inspector’s lack of reaction.

  While he, politely, as though sitting at a cafe table: ‘Forgive me for asking,’ he said, ‘but why did you decide . . . if you were a . . .’

  Mario understood at once.

  ‘I made a tragic mistake. I killed a small child in the operating theatre. I was acquitted in court, but I knew I was guilty. Because I was distracted. I’d been thinking about my wife, who was cheating on me . . . I was no longer able to . . . I let myself go. You see?’

  He smiled wanly. ‘You’re already starting.’

  ‘Starting what?’

  ‘To ask questions. That’s why I’m leaving.’

  He stood up and held out his hand to the inspector. ‘Anyway, as you’ll understand, given my personal situation, I’m in no position to testify. Please give my fond regards to Signora Livia. Take good care of her.’

  He gave a sort of half bow, turned his back, and went out
.

  *

  And now that you’re alone, Montalbà, you have no choice but to descend once again into the abyss. You cannot refuse. It’s your job as a policeman. Your curse.

  Try, however, to do it without experiencing the vertigo one feels when peering all the way to the bottom. Make your way down there carefully, with eyes closed, one step at a time . . .

  ‘I am carrying your baby inside me.’

  So how would one describe this baby that was both the child and grandchild of the same man? Child and sibling of the same woman? Even Barletta had sensed the horror of it, but not her. Not her.

  ‘I have decided to pay you back in kind. Your affairs are driving me insane with jealousy . . .’

  And she’d kept her promise, taking on all her father’s friends as lovers! One after another, with cold calculation. And maybe she’d even told him, to make him jealous in turn . . .

  ‘We made a lightning decision . . .’

  To let their respective wife and mother commit suicide, probably after she’d caught them together . . . It was bound to happen sooner or later. Giovanna herself had said that their meetings were extremely risky . . .

  ‘I remember when I was a little girl and you took me to the circus . . .’

  But when did the two of them become lovers? Three years later? When the girl was seven? Or eight? Or ten?

  He must have made a false step, because Montalbano’s fall into an endless void of darkness and terror was sudden and precipitous.

  Trembling, he laid his forehead down on the wooden desktop and stayed that way for a long time, still falling.

  ‘Bring him in,’ he said to Fazio.

  Also present was Augello, who, upon seeing him walk into headquarters, asked him:

  ‘What’s wrong, have you got a fever?’

  ‘No.’

  Santo Fallace was a man of about sixty who was keen to stay in shape and dress well. He looked worried.

  ‘Mr Fallace, do you own a pharmaceutical firm?’

  ‘Yes. In Montelusa.’

  ‘Did you know that your friend Cosimo Barletta was killed with a paralysing poison that is used only in hospitals?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does your firm produce this substance?’

  ‘Yes. In small quantities.’

  ‘Do you know Giovanna Barletta?’

  Fallace showed his first signs of uneasiness. ‘I was a friend of her father’s.’

  ‘My question was of a different nature. Have you had intimate relations with the woman?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, they’ve been . . . sporadic.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘A little over a month ago.’

  ‘Did she ever happen to visit your establishment?’

  ‘Yes, she’s been there at least three times.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘Exactly a month ago.’

  ‘And did she make any particular requests on that occasion?’

  ‘I don’t . . . I don’t understand.’

  ‘Did the woman ask you for any medicine without a normal prescription?’

  Fallace’s unease and concern condensed into a few drops of sweat on his brow.

  ‘Yes. Since her son Cosimo . . .’

  She’d given him the same name!

  ‘. . . suffers from epilepsy . . . she asked me to give her . . .’

  ‘. . . a phial of the same poison that . . .’

  ‘. . . but I told her that if used incorrectly it was a deadly poison!’ Fallace burst out. ‘That you had to dilute it with . . . and she assured me that . . .’

  ‘All right, you can go.’

  More surprised than Fallace himself at Montalbano’s words were Augello and Fazio.

  ‘Thank you. Have a good day,’ said Fallace, standing up and running away.

  ‘So you let him go, just like that?’ asked a puzzled Augello.

  ‘So it was Giovanna!’ an astonished Fazio said instead.

  ‘Yes, Giovanna did it,’ Montalbano confirmed.

  ‘So we can go immediately and—’ Fazio began.

  ‘No, not yet,’ the inspector said firmly.

  ‘But don’t you know what Fallace is doing at this very moment?’ Augello protested. ‘He’s calling Giovanna to warn her! We have no time to lose!’

  ‘Calm down, Mimì, she won’t run away. She has nowhere to go. I have to make a phone call first.’

  Fazio started glaring at him, while Mimì stormed out of the room, upset. Montalbano picked up the receiver.

  ‘Cat, get me Marco Falzone Jewellers on the line and put the call through to me, would you?’

  ‘Falzone Jewellers. How may I help you?’ He turned on the speakerphone.

  ‘This is Inspector Montalbano, police. I want to know who it was that bought a woman’s ring from you with a circle of diamonds in the middle.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Inspector, you must realize that with so little information . . .’

  ‘I understand. I could give you the name of a possible buyer.’

  ‘That would already be something.’

  ‘Cosimo Barletta.’

  ‘Please wait while I search the computer . . . Yes, here he is. He’s the very man who bought it. Eight months ago. I’m sorry, but isn’t Barletta the man who was . . .?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Montalbano, hanging up.

  ‘And now that you’ve stalled for as long as it was possible to stall,’ said Fazio, ‘can we go?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Shall I inform Inspector Augello?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  *

  ‘Is Mrs Giovanna Barletta at home?’ Montalbano asked the concierge.

  ‘She hasn’t gone out yet this morning.’

  They knocked and knocked at the door, but nobody came.

  ‘Go downstairs and see if the concierge has an extra key.’

  While waiting, he lit a cigarette. Now he was certain that Giovanna had made good use of the time he’d granted her. Fazio returned with the key. They unlocked the door and went in.

  Giovanna was lying on the bed, lifeless. In her hand was a small empty phial. She’d killed herself with the same poison.

  On her bedside table was a note written in a steady hand.

  Inspector Montalbano, after getting a call from Santo Fallace, I had no other choice. You worked it all out. I’m sorry, but I had to destroy the letters. I ask you please to do what’s best. I did what I did, it should be clear, to have the whole inheritance to myself. Thank you.

  He now realized that the whole affair had to be seen in a different light. Except that the word that defined it was very hard to pronounce.

  ‘You never saw this note,’ he said to Fazio as he put it in his pocket.

  *

  ‘. . . maybe she spends the night trying to persuade her father, but doesn’t succeed. So they go to bed, each in his or her own room. Giovanna gets up early. She has to head back to Montelusa by six at the latest. She has a shower, goes down into the kitchen to make coffee. Then Barletta, after splashing a little water on himself, also goes downstairs and sits down at the table. Giovanna pours him the poisoned coffee, then drinks her own and washes her cup. She leaves, locking the door behind her. She has achieved her goal. She has prevented her father from changing the will. Maybe she takes a different road home, so as not to cross paths with her brother’s car. By six-thirty she’s in Montelusa. She carefully opens her front door, gets undressed, and goes and wakes up the nanny. A little later she goes and wakes up the children as well. Arturo’s call telling her that their father’s been shot must have upset her, since it makes her plan to have the death appear to have been a natural one go up in smoke. And that’s the story.’

  ‘Good God, what a family!’ exclaimed Tommaseo. ‘A brother and sister who kill their parent over a sordid question of self-interest!’
r />   ‘Yeah,’ said Montalbano.

  *

  As Giovanna had indirectly implored him in her note, he would never tell the prosecutor the truth.

  ‘I ask you please to do what’s best.’

  Because, for her, at least, there was no question of self-interest. She didn’t give a damn about wills and testaments.

  And she had, in fact, gone back to the house to recover the ring, the last present given her by the man she loved.

  It was love.

  Could one really use the word? If you could overcome the disgust, the nausea, the horror, and get at the substance, then, maybe, yes. You could use the word, but only deep inside your own heart. Not with others.

  Desperate, unnatural, incestuous, horrific, inconceivable, repulsive, scandalous, degenerate . . . All the adjectives you want.

  But still a kind of love.

  No, it was pointless to tell Tommaseo what had really happened.

  ‘Love!’ the prosecutor would have fired back. ‘You call this . . . ignoble animality, you call that love?’

  But what else could you call it?

  Author’s Note

  The novel you have in your hands was written in 2008.

  At the time, its publication was postponed because the story was too similar to that of The Paper Moon, published in 2004, in which I didn’t have the courage to fully develop the theme of incest, always a difficult subject to treat.

  I do hope that nobody will claim to recognize him or herself in this story, which is entirely the fruit of my imagination.

  Notes

  The Dream . . . Yadwigha: Henri Rousseau’s The Dream is also known sometimes as Yadwigha’s Dream, as the woman represented in it is supposed to be Yadwigha, Rousseau’s first mistress.

  Mina: Mina (born Anna Maria Mazzini in 1940) is a major Italian pop music diva who has worked in many genres. ‘Il cielo in una stanza’ was one of her many hit songs; the title means ‘The Sky in a Room’.