Game of Mirrors

by Andrea Camilleri

  She was fresh and well rested. And well scented.

  “Everything okay?” the inspector asked.

  He’d managed to ask the question without insinuation.

  “I slept like a baby,” Liliana said, smiling like a cat that had just eaten a can of its favorite food and was licking its chops.

  I don’t think babies sleep the way you do, Montalbano thought to himself.

  At that exact moment a car coming the other way decided to pass a truck at high speed.

  Collision would have been inevitable had Montalbano not swerved sharply to the right with a swiftness of reflex that surprised him more than anyone, taking advantage of a wide shoulder and getting quickly back onto the road. At once he felt the weight of Liliana’s body leaning against his, and a second later the woman’s inert head fell onto his legs.

  She’d fainted.

  Montalbano froze. He’d never been in so awkward a situation in his life.

  What was he to do?

  Cursing the saints, he saw a filling station just ahead with a café-bar in back.

  He pulled up, laid Liliana down on the seat a little better, dashed into the bar, bought a bottle of mineral water, and returned. Sitting back down in the car, he wet his handkerchief with the water, took her in his arms, and began to daub her face with the cold water. Moments later she opened her eyes and, remembering the danger they’d been in, she cried out and held him tight, her cheek up against his.

  “Come on, there’s a good girl. It’s over now.”

  He could feel her trembling. When he started gently stroking her back, she held him even tighter.

  Luckily there were no other cars around, or he would have felt embarrassed at what their occupants might be thinking.

  “Here, drink some water.”

  She obeyed. Then Montalbano drank some himself.

  “You’re all sweaty,” she said. “Were you scared, too?”

  “Yes.”

  A big lie. He hadn’t had time to get scared. If he was sweating and thirsty it was for a reason he couldn’t reveal to her, since she was the cause.

  The inspector was also angry with himself for the simple fact that holding a beautiful woman in his arms had put him in a state of agitation worse than a teenager’s in a similar situation. As if it were the first time. So perhaps aging was a kind of regression back into youth? No, what the hell? If anything it was a progression towards imbecility.

  After about ten minutes, they were fit to head off again.

  “Where shall I drop you off?”

  “You can leave me at the bus stop for Montelusa. I’m terribly late now.”

  When it came time to say good-bye, Liliana held his hand and squeezed it.

  “Listen,” she said. “You’ve been so kind to me . . . Could I invite you to dinner at my place tonight?”

  Was it perhaps her night off from the guy with the Volvo? But the real question—and a crucial one at that—was: If the lady didn’t know how to cook, what sort of ghastly slop would he be forced to ingest?

  Liliana seemed to read his mind.

  “Don’t worry, I’m a decent cook,” she said.

  “I’d be happy to come, thanks.”

  “Listen, Cat,” said the inspector, going into the switchboard operator’s closet. “Get Francischino’s garage on the line and put it through to my office, would you?”

  “Straightaways, Chief. Jeezis, ’ass some fancy perfume ya got on today!”

  Montalbano gawked.

  “Me?!”

  Catarella brought his nose up to the inspector’s jacket.

  “Yeah, ’iss you awright.”

  It must have been Liliana’s perfume.

  He headed for his office, muttering curses, then picked up the ringing phone.

  “Tell me something, Francischì. Did you tell Signora Lombardo that her car’s engine was intentionally damaged?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And do you think they made a lot of noise when damaging it that way?”

  “Absolutely, Inspector! They musta made one hell of a racket! Or else how would they a done it? They even used a hammer!”

  And therefore during the destruction of her car’s engine Liliana was either holed up inside her house in terror or . . . Yes, that was the more likely scenario. She could well have spent part of the night away, with the man with the Volvo, and when she returned in the morning she found the nice little present her former lover had left her . . .

  “May I?” said Fazio, poking his head inside the door.

  “Come in and sit down. Any news?”

  Fazio sniffed the air. “What’s that scent?”

  Jeez, what a pain!

  “You can plug your nose if you don’t want to smell it,” Montalbano said gruffly.

  Fazio realized he should let it drop.

  “Chief, you know who lives in that apartment building in Via Pisacane? Two ex-cons and Carlo Nicotra.”

  Montalbano gave him a confused look.

  “You mention Nicotra as if he’s the pope or something. Who is the guy?”

  “Carlo Nicotra got married to a niece of old man Sinagra six years ago and apparently the family gave him the job of overseeing all the drug dealers on the island.”

  “A kind of inspector general?”

  “Exactly.”

  All at once the inspector remembered. Why hadn’t it occurred to him sooner? Apparently, he thought bitterly, his age was starting to play nasty jokes on him.

  “But isn’t he the guy who was shot three years ago?”

  “He certainly is. Right in the chest. An inch and a half to the left and it would have burst his heart.”

  “Wait . . . wait . . . And isn’t he the same guy whose car was blown up last year?”

  “The very same.”

  “So this bomb in Via Pisacane would seem to have had a precise address, wouldn’t it?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “But you’re not convinced.”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither. Tell me why.”

  “Well, first they shot Nicotra, then he was supposed to have been blown up with his car the moment he turned the key in the ignition, except that he’d sent his assistant to go and get his car, and the guy got killed in the process . . . What I mean is that Carlo Nicotra is not the kind of man they send warnings to. They just try to kill him, period.”

  “I totally agree. At any rate, I’d still keep an eye on him. And who are the two ex-cons?”

  Fazio thrust a hand in his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. Montalbano frowned.

  “If you start reciting the names of the father and mother and the date and place of birth of these convicts, I’m going to make you eat that piece of paper.”

  Fazio turned red and said nothing.

  “You would have been happier working as a clerk at the records office for a living,” said the inspector.

  Fazio began putting the piece of paper slowly back in his pocket. He was acting like a man dying of thirst who had just been refused a glass of water. Young Eagle Scout Salvo Montalbano decided to do his good deed for the day.

  “Oh, okay, go ahead and read it.”

  Fazio’s face lit up like a lightbulb. He unfolded the piece of paper and held it in front of him.

  “The first one is Vincenzo Giannino, son of Giuseppe Giannino and Michela Tabita, born in Barrafranca on March 7, 1970. He’s done a total of ten years in prison for armed robbery, breaking and entering, and assaulting a public official. The second one is Stefano Tallarita, son of Salvatore Tallarita and Giovanna Tosto, born in Vigàta on August 22, 1958. He’s currently in Montelusa Prison, serving a term for narcotics trafficking. He’d already been in once for four years, also for dealing.”

  He folded up the paper and put it back
in his pocket.

  3

  “Excuse me,” said Montalbano, “but if Tallarita’s in jail, who’s living at his place in Via Pisacane?”

  Fazio again pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket. He looked at his boss as though asking permission to read. The inspector shrugged and threw his hands up. With a beatific expression on his face, Fazio, now in seventh heaven, began to read.

  “Wife Francesca, née Calcedonio, forty-five years old, born in Montereale; son Arturo, twenty-three years old, and daughter Stella, twenty years old.”

  “What does Arturo do?”

  “I know he works in Montelusa. I think he’s a salesman in a clothing store for men and women.”

  “And the daughter?”

  “A student at the University of Palermo.”

  “Do they seem like bomb targets to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So it was intended for either Arnone or, despite our opinions, Nicotra.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Keep working on those two.”

  Fazio made as if to leave, but the inspector stopped him with a gesture. Fazio sat back down and waited for Montalbano to ask him something, but his boss remained silent. The fact was that the inspector didn’t know where to begin. Then he made up his mind.

  “Do you remember when you asked me about my neighbors a little while ago?”

  “The Lombardos? Yes.”

  What a superb cop’s memory Fazio had!

  “Do you know the husband?”

  “The first time I saw him was when he came in to the station to report the theft of a suitcase he’d left on the backseat of his car.”

  “Did the thieves force the door open?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was in the suitcase?”

  “Personal effects, according to him. He was heading out on a tour of the island. I believe he’s the representative of a computer company. And truth be told, he didn’t seem that keen on reporting the crime.”

  Then it must be some kind of family vice, this not wanting to file reports.

  “Explain.”

  “Before leaving Vigàta, he’d stopped at the Bar Castiglione for a cup of coffee. And while he was inside, some guy on a motorcycle smashed the car window, opened the door, and grabbed the suitcase. A municipal patrolman then showed up, and it was this cop who made Lombardo file a report; otherwise the guy would have taken off without doing anything, not even about his broken car window.”

  “And have you ever seen his wife?”

  “Just once. And I certainly haven’t forgotten her.”

  Montalbano knew what he meant. And so he decided to tell him the whole story, from the moment he first saw Liliana looking under her car’s hood to the previous night and the ride he’d given her this morning.

  “So what do you think?” he asked in conclusion.

  “Chief, it could be revenge on the part of a jilted lover, as you say, or it could be just about anything else. With a woman like that, anything is possible. And it’s clear she knows who did it but has no intention whatsoever of reporting him.”

  He did not ask why Montalbano had become interested in the matter in the first place. But he had a puzzled look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, Chief, but there’s something that doesn’t . . .”

  He trailed off, seeming confused.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or not?”

  “What time do you think it was when you heard Signora Lombardo making love?”

  Montalbano thought about this for a minute.

  “Definitely between eleven and a quarter past. Why?”

  “I’m sure I’m mistaken,” said Fazio.

  “Well, tell me just the same.”

  “Remember how I just now said ‘the first time I saw Lombardo’? I said the ‘first time’ because there was a second time, too.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Yesterday evening we went to dinner at my sister-in-law’s place at eight, and we left at ten thirty. Since we live nearby, we walked. Well, on our way back, there was a drunk in the middle of the road, and a car had to slow down. It was a big sports car, and at the wheel was none other than Lombardo, or so I thought.”

  “What direction was he going in?”

  “Toward Marinella.”

  “Are you sure the car wasn’t a green Volvo?”

  “Come on, Chief, is that some kind of joke?”

  “But do you realize what you’re saying? No, it’s simply not possible that—”

  “Exactly. It was probably a mistake,” Fazio cut him off.

  “Chief, ’at’d be yer ’ousekipper Adilina onna line.”

  “Put her on. What is it, Adelì?”

  “Isspector, I gonna meck arancini tonite, an’ I wannata ask ya if ya do me the ’onor a comin’ a eat atta my place a tonite.”

  Montalbano felt a rush of happiness and unhappiness at once. Savoring Adelina’s arancini rice balls was a total experience, a pinnacle of existence. Once you’d tasted them, they remained forever etched in your memory like some sort of paradise lost. For this reason, the offer to return to the Garden of Eden for one evening was not something to be lightly dismissed.

  The inspector, however, had committed himself to going to Liliana’s for dinner and didn’t feel like canceling. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, since he didn’t have her cell phone number.

  “Adelì, thank you so much, but I can’t come.”

  “An’ why not? My boy Pasquali’s gonna come wit’ ’is wife anna my granson, Salvuzzo, cuz iss ’is birthday.”

  Montalbano was the godfather of Pasquale’s son, having held the child at his baptism.

  “Adelì, I can’t come because I’ve already been invited to dinner by my neighbor, the young woman who lives in the little house nearby . . .”

  “I know her! I talk a to her! Whatta goo’-lookin’ lady she is! Anna she’s nice anna polite too! Is ’er husban’ there too?”

  “No, he’s away on business.”

  “Then you bring ’er here! I tell ya f’ya own good! My arancini mecka miracles!” And she started laughing insinuatingly.

  Adelina couldn’t stand Livia, and the feeling was mutual. Whenever Livia came to stay with Montalbano for a few days, Adelina would disappear until the inspector was alone again. Therefore she would be delighted if he was unfaithful to her.

  “I don’t know how to reach her.”

  “Don’ mecka me laugh! Isspector Montalbano donna know how to fine a woman!”

  And indeed, at that moment he knew what to do.

  “Listen, I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

  He called up Francischino’s garage, asked him for Liliana’s number, then rang her.

  “Montalbano here.”

  “Don’t tell me you can’t come tonight!”

  He told her about Adelina’s invitation.

  “They’re rather simple people,” he added.

  He neglected to tell her that Pasquale was a habitual offender and that he’d had to send him to jail himself two or three times.

  “All right. But are her arancini like the ones they serve on the ferryboat?”

  Montalbano became indignant.

  “That’s blasphemy,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “What time will you come to pick me up?”

  “How’s eight thirty sound?”

  “Sounds good, but my invitation still stands.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You still owe me a dinner at my house.”

  He called Adelina back and told her he’d be bringing Signora Lombardo.

  His housekeeper was pleased.

  At Enzo’s, with the evening’s aran
cini to look forward to, the inspector ate lightly, skipping the antipasto and eating only one serving of the main course.

  But he took a stroll along the jetty anyway, not for digestive but for meditative purposes.

  He was feeling troubled by what Fazio had told him—that is, that he’d seen Liliana’s husband in Vigàta while she was in bed with her lover.

  True, Fazio had admitted that he might be mistaken, but he’d reached this conclusion by way of logic. Because if Lombardo had been in Vigàta, things could not have gone as smoothly as they had. Fazio’s first, instinctual reaction as a policeman, however, was to recognize Lombardo inside his sports car. And Montalbano had a lot of faith in Fazio’s instincts. He therefore had to take into consideration, at least theoretically, the hypothesis that Lombardo was returning home to Marinella that evening, after being away for a few days.

  Then how to explain that he hadn’t caught Liliana with another man? Had he purposely avoided doing so?

  First answer: Lombardo wasn’t going home, but to Montereale or Fiacca or Trapani or only he knew where, and in a hurry, and therefore hadn’t planned to stop at home, not even for a moment, to say hello to his wife.

  But this answer didn’t make sense, because going in that direction he would have had no choice but to pass by his house, and he couldn’t have failed to notice the Volvo parked outside the gate. At the very least, he should have been curious enough to stop.

  Second answer: Lombardo was in fact going home, but saw the Volvo, concluded that Liliana had company, and so drove past unseen. In this case, it was possible that he and his wife had an open marriage in which each did whatever he or she felt like doing.

  But the second answer didn’t make sense either. Because in that case he could very easily have waited nearby for Liliana’s encounter to be over, and then gone home. Whereas there was no trace whatsoever of him when Liliana was waiting to be picked up the following morning.

  Third answer: Lombardo called his wife to let her know that he would be stopping by in the evening, since he had to pass that way. And the call came in when he, Montalbano, was in their house. Liliana tells him he can’t come by because she’s busy. And they have an argument. But in the end the husband does what his wife asks.