IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “No, it was a simple observation. Listen, I had a look outside and I think we can eat on the veranda.”

  “Good idea. I’ll prepare everything myself. Go.”

  If the pasta ’ncasciata, when they had finished it off, was greatly missed, the melanzane alla parmigiana, when it reached its end, deserved some sort of long funeral lament. Meeting an hon orable death along with the pasta was also a bottle of tender, beguiling white wine, while to the melanzane they sacrificed half a bottle of another white, which under a veneer of utter meekness concealed a treacherous soul.

  “We must finish that bottle,” said Ingrid.

  Montalbano went and fetched the olives and tumazzo.

  Afterwards, Ingrid cleared the table and Montalbano heard her starting to wash the dishes.

  “You can leave them,” he said. “Adelina’s coming tomorrow.”

  “Sorry, Salvo, but I can’t help myself.”

  The inspector got up, grabbed a brand-new bottle of whisky and two glasses, and went back out on the veranda.

  A little while later, Ingrid sat down beside him. Montalbano filled her glass half full. They drank.

  “Now we can talk,” said Ingrid.

  While stuffing themselves they hadn’t spoken except to comment on what they were stuffing themselves with. During the frequent silences, the smell and sound of the sea splashing against the piles supporting the veranda became an extra seasoning and backdrop as unexpected as it was welcome.

  “How’s your husband doing?”

  “Fine, I think.”

  “What do you mean, ‘I think’?”

  “Ever since he was elected to Parliament, he’s been living in Rome, where he bought himself an apartment. He comes to Montelusa once a month but spends more time with his constituents than with me. Anyway, it’s been years since we’ve had sexual relations.”

  “I see. Any lovers?”

  “Just so I can feel alive. B-grade. They come and go.”

  They sat in silence a bit, listening to the sounds of the sea.

  “Salvo, what’s wrong?”

  “With me? Nothing? What could be wrong?”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re talking to me but you’re thinking of something else.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got an important case on my hands and from time to time I get distracted thinking about it. It involves a girl who was—”

  “I’m not going to take the bait.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Salvo, you want to change the subject and so you’re trying to arouse my curiosity. But I’m not going to take the bait. Mostly, you’re incapable of lying; I’ve known you too long for that to work. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  This time Ingrid filled the glasses. They drank.

  “How’s Livia?”

  She’d gone directly on the attack.

  “Fine, I think.”

  “I see. Do you feel like talking to me about it?”

  “Maybe in a little while.”

  The air was so briny that it burned the skin and expanded the lungs.

  “Do you feel cold?” the inspector asked.

  “I feel perfectly fine.”

  She slipped her arm under his, squeezed it, and laid her head on his shoulder.

  “. . . in short, not until late August did she finally deign to answer the phone when I called. Believe me, I must have called her every day for almost a month. I was starting to get seriously worried. Livia said she herself had also tried to call me several times from Massimiliano’s boat, but there was no reception, given that they were out on the open sea. I didn’t believe her.”

  “Why not?”

  “What were they doing? Sailing around the world without ever going ashore? Is it possible they never entered a port equipped with a telephone? Come on! So, when we did finally get a chance to see each other, the shit hit the fan. When I think back on it now, I believe I was a little aggressive.”

  “Knowing you, I’d say it was a bit more than ‘a little.’”

  “All right, but it helped. She said there had been something between her and—”

  “Her little cousin Massimiliano? No, you don’t say!”

  “That’s what I feared, too. No, it was with some guy named Gianni, a friend of Massimiliano’s who was with them on the boat. That was all she would tell me. Listen, Ingrid, in your opinion, what does that mean, that there was ‘something’?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “When a woman says there’s been something with a man, it means there’s been everything.”

  “Ah.”

  He downed his glass, refilled it. Ingrid did likewise.

  “Salvo, don’t tell me that you’re so naïve you didn’t arrive at the same conclusion.”

  “No, I came to that conclusion at once. I just wanted you to confirm it for me. And so I threw down my ace.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told her I didn’t exactly spend the summer twiddling my thumbs, either.”

  Ingrid gave a start.

  “Is that true?”

  “It’s true.”

  “You?!”

  “Me, unfortunately.”

  “So what did you do when you weren’t twiddling your thumbs?”

  “I met a girl much younger than me. Twenty-two years old. I really don’t know how it could have happened.”

  “Did you do her?”

  Montalbano felt a little put off by her manner of speech.

  “It was a pretty serious thing for me. And I really suffered because of it.”

  “Okay, but between all the tears and regrets, you made love to her. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Ingrid embraced him, stood up slightly, then kissed him on the lips.

  “Welcome to the sinners’ club, asshole.”

  “Why do you call me an asshole?”

  “For telling Livia about your senile escapade.”

  “It wasn’t an escapade; it was a lot more than—”

  “So much the worse.”

  “But Livia in the end was honest with me! She admitted having had an affair! I couldn’t hide the fact that I, too—”

  “Oh, give me a break! And above all, don’t be such a hypocrite, you’re not even good at it! The reason you told Livia you’d fucked the girl was not out of any sense of honesty, but out of spite. And you know what I say to you? That maybe what really drove you to sleep with that girl was Livia’s silence, which made you jealous. So I confirm: You’re an asshole.”

  “Look, Ingrid, my affair with Adriana—that was her name—was a rather complex matter. Among other things, everything that happened, happened because she wanted it to, for a specific purpose of her own.”

  “Did you go to Mass last Sunday?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Because you’re talking just like a Catholic! For true Catholics, it’s always the woman who leads the man into temptation!”

  “What, are we going to have a war of religion here? Let’s drop it,” said Montalbano, angry.

  They sat a minute in silence, then Ingrid said in a low voice:

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For what I said about the girl. It was stupid and vulgar.”

  “No, it wasn’t, come on.”

  “Yes, it was. I saw that it hurt you to talk about it and so . . .”

  “And so?”

  “I had a jealous fit.”

  Montalbano felt at sea.

  “Jealous? You’re jealous of Livia?”

  Ingrid laughed.

  “No. Of Adriana.”

  “Adriana?!”

  “Poor Salvo, you’ll never understand women. So where do things stand now with Livia?”

  “We don’t know if it’s worth the trouble to put the pieces back together or not.”

  “Look at me,” said Ingrid.

  Montalbano tur
ned to look at her. She was very serious.

  “It-is-worth-the-trouble. Let me tell you myself. Don’t throw away all those years you’ve spent together. You think you don’t have children but in fact you do. You have one: the past you’ve shared. I don’t even have that.”

  Dazed, Montalbano saw two big tears fall from her eyes. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to embrace her, but he thought it would aggravate her moment of weakness. Ingrid stood up and went into the house.

  When she returned, she had washed her face.

  “Let’s finish that bottle.”

  They did.

  “Are you up to driving?”

  “No,” Ingrid replied in slurry voice. “You going to throw me out?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll drive you home.”

  “I wouldn’t get in a car with you even if you were sober, so I’m certainly not going to get in with you now. Got any more whisky?”

  “I should have another half bottle.”

  “Go get it.”

  They polished it off.

  “I suddenly feel sleepy,” said Ingrid.

  She stood up, staggering a little, bent over, and kissed Montalbano on the forehead.

  “Good night.”

  Montalbano went into the bathroom trying to make as little noise as possible, and when he got into bed, Ingrid, who had put on one of his shirts, was fast asleep.

  7

  He woke up later than usual, and with a bit of a headache.

  Ingrid was still dead to the world. She hadn’t moved all night from the position in which she had lain down. The scent of her skin ended up making Montalbano stay in bed a while longer, eyes closed and nostrils open. Then he got up gently and went to look out the window.

  It wasn’t raining, but it was hopeless. The sky was black and uniformly overcast.

  He went into the bathroom, got dressed, made coffee, drank two cups, one after the other, then brought one to Ingrid.

  “Good morning. I have to leave in a few minutes. If you want, you can stay in bed as long as you like.”

  “Wait for me. I’ll take a quick shower and be ready in a jiffy. And I’d like another coffee, but I want to drink it with you.”

  He went into the kitchen to prepare another pot for four.

  There was nothing in the house for breakfast, which he never ate. Sometimes there were little tubs of butter and jam in the refrigerator, but that was when Livia, who was in the habit of stealing them from hotels, would bring them with her during her stays at Marinella.

  Montalbano set the small table in the kitchen as best he could, with a couple of small paper napkins, two demitasses, and a sugar bowl.

  When Ingrid came in, the coffee had just finished bubbling up. They sat down and the inspector filled her cup.

  For once, Montalbano felt a little awkward with her.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have opened up so much to Ingrid the previous evening; maybe he shouldn’t have confided so much in her. She was Swedish, after all. Emotional reserve is a matter of religion for them. He probably made her feel embarrassed.

  And if he had overstepped some boundary by telling her what had happened with Adriana, what right did he have to tell her of Livia’s affair with Gianni? That was Livia’s business and, at most, his, and it should have remained between them. On the other hand, with whom else besides Ingrid could he have talked about the situation?

  You know why you happened to spill the beans with Ingrid? Because you’re old and you can’t handle mixing wine and whisky anymore, said Montalbano One.

  Wine, whisky, and old age have nothing to do with it, Montalbano Two butted in. How can you avoid bleeding from an open wound?

  Ingrid, however, didn’t bring the previous evening’s subject back up. It was clear she sensed Montalbano’s uneasiness.

  “What are you working on these days?”

  “The local TV stations haven’t been talking about anything else these last few days.”

  “I never watch the local TV stations. Or the national ones, for that matter.”

  “A dead girl was found in an illegal dump, murdered. We’re having a very hard time identifying her. She was naked, without clothes or documents. Just a small tattoo.”

  “What kind of tattoo?”

  “A moth.”

  “Where?” asked Ingrid, suddenly attentive.

  “Right near her left shoulder blade.”

  “Oh my God!” said Ingrid, turning pale.

  “What is it?”

  “Until about three months ago I had a Russian housekeeper who had a tattoo just like that . . . How old was the girl who was killed?”

  “Twenty-five, at the most.”

  “It fits. My girl was twenty-four. Oh my God!”

  “Not so fast. It might not be her. Listen, why didn’t you keep her as your housekeeper?”

  “She suddenly disappeared!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One morning I noticed she wasn’t about the house. I asked the cook, but she hadn’t seen her, either. So I went into her room, but she wasn’t there. She never came back. I ended up replacing her with a woman from Zambia.”

  Right, as if she would ever replace her with someone from Bologna or Messina. Every time the inspector called Ingrid’s house, the phone was answered by someone from Tananarive, Palikir, or Lilongwe . . .

  “But her disappearance seemed suspicious to me,” Ingrid continued.

  “Why?”

  “As you know, I’m hardly ever at home, but the few times I spoke to her—”

  “How long did she stay with you?” Montalbano interrupted.

  “A month and a few days. As I was saying, the few times I spoke with her she didn’t make a good impression on me.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was evasive, vague. She didn’t want to tell me anything about herself.”

  “And after you became suspicious, what did you do?”

  “I went to check the places where I kept my jewelry.”

  “You don’t have a safe?”

  “No. I keep them hidden in three different places. I never wear them, but once I did put some on, because I had to accompany my husband to an important dinner, and on that occasion, the girl must have figured out where I kept them.”

  “Did she steal them?”

  “The ones in that particular hiding place, yes.”

  “Were they insured?”

  “You must be kidding!”

  “How much were they worth?”

  “About three, four hundred thousand euros.”

  “Why didn’t you report her?”

  “My husband did report her!”

  “To Montelusa Central?”

  “No, the carabinieri.”

  So that was why he hadn’t heard anything about it. Imagine the carabinieri ever keeping them informed about anything! But didn’t the police, for their part, do the same with the carabinieri?

  “What was her name?”

  “She said it was Irina.”

  “But weren’t you ever able to see any sort of identification papers?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “Listen, how can you hire housekeepers, cooks, butlers . . . Your house is a revolving door.”

  “I’m not the one who hires them. The ragioniere Curcuraci does.”

  “And who’s he?”

  “He’s the accountant who used to manage my father-in-law’s estate, which is now my husband’s.”

  “Have you got his phone number?”

  “Yes, but it’s on my cell phone, which I left in the car. When we go out now, I’ll get it for you. Listen, if you want, I could . . . though I don’t really like the idea at all . . .”

  “You want to see the body?”

  “If it would help you to identify her . . .”

  “The shot that killed her practically took away her whole face. You wouldn’t be able to recognize her. Unless . . . Listen, this Irina, did she have any distinguishin
g features you may have noticed?”

  “In what sense?”

  “Moles, scars . . .”

  “On her face and hands, no. On other parts of her body, I couldn’t say. It’s not like I saw her naked or anything.”

  It was a stupid question.

  “Wait,” Ingrid continued . . . Would contact lenses be a distinguishing feature?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Irina wore them. One day, I remember, she lost one, but then we found it.”

  “Could you come with me to my office for five minutes? I want to show you a photograph.”

  “This is the second time,” said Ingrid, standing up.

  “For what?”

  “The second time we’re talking about an unknown person you’re investigating and who I—”

  “Right . . .” Montalbano said hesitantly.

  Ingrid was referring to the time she saw on his desk the photograph of a drowned man who had been her lover, a fact that had enabled the inspector to break up a child-trafficking ring.

  But Montalbano wasn’t fond of remembering that case. It had cost him an injury to his shoulder and, what weighed far more heavily on him, he had even been forced to kill a man.

  “I have no doubts. The tattoo is the same,” said Ingrid, handing the photograph back to the inspector, who set it down on the desk.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  Ingrid he could trust.

  “Well, that’s all. Thanks.”

  Ingrid gave him a big hug, which Montalbano returned. That moment of unease, when they were drinking their coffee in the kitchen, had entirely passed.

  Naturally, that was the moment when the door opened and Mimì Augello appeared.

  “Is this a bad moment?” he asked in a tone that made one want to pummel him.

  “Not at all,” said Ingrid. “I was just leaving.”

  “I’ll show you out,” said Montalbano.

  “No need to bother,” said Ingrid, stopping him with a light kiss on the lips. “And I mean it: Keep me informed.”

  She waved good-bye to Augello and went out.

  “Ingrid’s never liked me much,” said Mimì.

  “Did you ever give her a try?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Sorry, but not all woman are yearning to be held in your manly arms.”