Game of Mirrors

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Nah, I’m doing it for free.”

  What, did everyone want to waste his time that morning?

  “When I got there,” Fazio continued, “I saw Tallarita serving a customer on the ground floor, and then I saw Signora Lombardo on the second floor. There are at least ten salespersons, male and female. Then I noticed a suit I liked. And a salesman showed me into one of the dressing rooms to try it on. It was the second to the last.”

  Montalbano huffed.

  “Just be patient for a minute. These dressing rooms are all in a row and have only sliding curtains of fabric between them. At the back they each have a large mirror. I’d just taken my trousers off when I heard two people come into the cubicle next to mine, which was the last in the row. I put on the new trousers and looked at myself in the mirror.”

  “How’d they look?”

  Fazio gave him a look as if wondering whether the inspector was making fun of him, but he said nothing and continued his story.

  “Apparently the dividing curtain between the cubicles hadn’t been closed all the way, because my mirror was reflecting the image from the mirror in the next cubicle, and—”

  “Wait a second. If the mirrors in the cubicles are all one beside the other—that is, all facing the same direction—then your mirror couldn’t have reflected the image from—”

  “No, it could, in fact, because the mirror in the last cubicle wasn’t situated at the back, facing the entrance, as in all the others, but was on the right side. Understand?”

  “Perfectly. And what did you see?”

  “I saw Arturo and Signora Lombardo kissing. They were completely out of control.”

  The blow was brutal.

  Another game of mirrors. This time not even metaphorical. But it had served to reveal a truth.

  Montalbano reacted to this flustering news as only he could.

  “So did you buy the suit in the end?” he asked.

  He went to the trattoria and ate listlessly, no doubt because of what Fazio had told him. Enzo noticed.

  “What’s wrong, Inspector?”

  “Worries.”

  Enzo repeated a saying he liked very much.

  “The cock and the belly want no worries.”

  The problem was that you had to carry your worries with you whether you liked it or not. They weren’t like an umbrella you could leave at the entrance.

  During his walk along the jetty, and when he sat down on the flat rock, all he could think of was Liliana and Arturo kissing on the sly in the dressing room.

  It was clear that the girl hadn’t sung even half the Mass to him, as he’d believed.

  Maybe barely a quarter of the Mass.

  And who knew whether, in this labyrinth of lies, it was even true that it was Arturo who had damaged her car?

  Or had Fazio perhaps witnessed a sudden, violent rekindling of the flame, something which in general is rather dangerous?

  In the current state of affairs, the inspector found himself faced with a series of occurrences without any apparent reason behind any of them.

  To recapitulate:

  When, how, and why did somebody shoot at his car?

  Why were they putting bombs in front of empty warehouses?

  Why had Liliana gone and told him a string of whoppers?

  And why had she wanted people to think that she was a close friend of his or maybe more?

  Dense fog.

  Maybe ten years ago—he thought bitterly—he would at least have been able to outline the beginning of an answer to these questions.

  Now, instead, he proceeded in slow motion on everything, one foot up, the other foot down. Like . . .

  Like an old man, truth be told.

  He could no longer make the sudden sidestep, the one that allows you to advance, that—

  Let’s not start again with this pain-in-the-ass stuff about old age setting in! Montalbano Two butted in. You’re just fabricating a convenient excuse! And you’re also a hypocrite because you are well aware of this. So if you need your own shoulder to cry on, to let yourself go, then go right ahead, be my guest, but only for five minutes, because otherwise you’re just busting your own balls and everyone else’s!

  At that very moment a possible answer to one of the many questions besieging him popped into the inspector’s head.

  Thanks for your help, I really appreciate it, said Montalbano One to Montalbano Two.

  And he dashed off to the station.

  In the parking lot, before getting out of the car, he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down the license plate number of the green Volvo. If he simply told Catarella the number, the guy was liable to make such a muddle of things that nobody would understand anything anymore.

  “Cat, I want to know who this car belongs to. Call up the ACI, the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, God in heaven if you like, but I want an answer within fifteen minutes, max.”

  Catarella was as punctual as a Swiss watch. He rang the inspector just as time was running out.

  “Chief, the atomobile in quession is the propriety o’ Signor Addonato Miccichè, who’s from ’ere, meanin’ to say ’e lives an’ resides in Vigàta.”

  “Did you get the address?”

  “Yessir, Via Pissaviacane, nummer twenny-six.”

  Montalbano leapt out of his chair. That place again?

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Abou’ wha’?”

  “About the address.”

  “Sure as death, Chief.”

  Montalbano remained undecided for a moment. Should he call this Miccichè up on the phone or go and meet him in person? He decided on the latter option. People not notified in advance have no time to invent a convenient story.

  He got in his car, drove to Via Pisacane, parked, and got out.

  Donato Miccichè’s apartment was on the same floor as the Tallarita flat, just across the landing.

  The inspector knocked, and the door was opened by a man of about sixty in a wheelchair, unshaven, wearing an old pajama top and holding a plaid blanket over his legs.

  “Inspector Montalbano, police. Are you Donato Miccichè?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Come in.”

  The man showed him into the usual living-dining room with a sofa and two armchairs in a corner.

  The atmosphere was one of dignified poverty.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you own a green Volvo with the license plate number XZ 452 BG?”

  “Yes.” Then, a moment later, “Did somethin’ happen?” he asked apprehensively.

  “No, it’s just a routine check.”

  Miccichè seemed relieved.

  “My insurance is all in order.”

  “That’s not what I’m here for.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “Where do you keep the car?”

  “I rent a space in a garage just down the street.”

  “Please give me the address.”

  “Via Pisacane eleven.”

  Wouldn’t you know it?

  “Who usually drives it?”

  “Until about six months ago, I always drove it, but then, unfortunately, I couldn’t anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got run over by a car while crossin’ the street in Montelusa. Broke both of my legs.”

  “So does one of your family members use the car?”

  “My wife don’t drive and my two sons don’t live here; one works in Rome, the other in Benevento.”

  “So am I to conclude that your car has been sitting in a garage for six months?”


  Miccichè’s unease was plain to see. He made as if to say something, then changed his mind and remained silent.

  8

  Montalbano thought that a bit of encouragement at this point might be a good thing.

  “Signor Miccichè, it’s not a crime, you know, if you lend it to someone every now and then. Even I sometimes lend my car to my wife or my brother.”

  He figured it would seem reassuring for him to come off as a cop, yes, but with a family. A person like everyone else.

  Miccichè thought it over for a minute before speaking.

  “Yeah, I know iss not a crime.”

  So a bit of encouragement wasn’t enough? Should he resort to threats to extract the information from him?

  Montalbano assumed a serious expression.

  “I ought to remind you that I am a public official, and you are duty-bound to answer my questions.”

  Miccichè sighed.

  “Iss not that I don’ wanna answer . . . Iss that iss a very private matter . . . I wouldn’t wanna cause no harm to anyone . . .”

  “I formally guarantee you that nothing you say to me will leave this room.”

  Miccichè finally made up his mind.

  “The other apartment on this floor, just across the landing, belongs to the Tallarita family . . . When I had my accident, they really helped me a lot . . . An’ I was very grateful for it. One day Arturo, who’s their son, came to me an’ ast me secretly if he could borrow my car . . . He begged me not to say nothin’ to no one, not even his mother . . . He’s mixed up with some married woman who lives ousside of town . . . Anyway, since I couldn’t use the car anymore an’ wanted to sell it, he talked me into keepin’ it . . . He would pay for the rent on the garage, the taxes, an’ the insurance . . . An’ so I said I would sell it to him, but he could take his time payin’ me for it. He said no, he didn’t want anyone to know that he owned a car . . . And anyway, I liked still havin’ the car an’ thinkin’ maybe one day I might drive it again . . . So, to make a long story short, I gave ’im the keys to the garage, since he uses the car only at night . . .”

  Another piece of the puzzle had found its place.

  The hypothesis the inspector had formulated on the jetty had proved correct.

  Liliana had only one lover: Arturo.

  So why was she doing everything in her power to make it seem as if their relationship were over?

  If her husband couldn’t care less about what she did, and she didn’t have another man, what need was there to hide the fact that they were lovers?

  On top of that, Arturo, too, was keen on maintaining secrecy. He didn’t want anyone else to know.

  As far as Arturo was concerned, however, there might be an explanation. In all probability he had a girlfriend in Vigàta, and if his affair with Liliana ever came out, there would be hell to pay with his girlfriend.

  While the inspector was driving with his thoughts elsewhere, he realized he hadn’t respected the stop sign as he turned onto the Corso. A powerful car coming on at high speed very nearly crashed into him, managing to stop barely an inch away from the broad side of his car. And Montalbano, too, instinctively stopped. At the wheel of the sporty two-seater was a man who just sat there without moving. Montalbano didn’t know if the guy was letting him go first, so, just to be safe, he didn’t move either.

  Then the sports car backed up a little, screeched its tires, took off like a rocket, and vanished in the direction of Montelusa.

  The inspector didn’t have the time to read the license plate number, but he was fairly convinced he’d just had a glimpse of Signor Lombardo, Liliana’s husband.

  Was he coming from home?

  The moment he was back at his desk at the station, he got an internal call from Catarella.

  “’At’d be the Signura Lombardi onna line, Chief, wantin’ a talk t’yiz.”

  “Lombardi or Lombardo?”

  “Lombardi.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure she got a pluralistick name, Chief.”

  Montalbano was right to doubt him. Naturally, her name was not pluralistick, but singularistick, and the person on the line was indeed Liliana.

  Who immediately started talking as soon as she heard the click of the call being put through, so that the inspector barely got out so much as a syllable.

  “Hel—”

  “Ciao. Listen, Salvo, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I couldn’t help it.”

  “It’s no bother at all!”

  “I have a proposal for you.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  She giggled.

  “First you have to say yes.”

  “How can I say yes if I don’t know what it is?”

  “You have to trust me.”

  That was the last thing one should do with someone like Liliana. The lady had shown herself capable of leading him down the Corso and into a crowded establishment and behaving as if they had just gotten out of the same bed. And so? What was happening to him? So now he was starting to fear a woman’s ruse, and a rather ingenuous one at that? The problem was that he liked everything about this woman. Even her playacting.

  “All right, then. Yes.”

  “Since I can get off work an hour early today, this evening I can return your favor and invite you to dinner. Are you free?”

  She was offering him an excellent opportunity not to come. He could invent whatever excuse he liked . . .

  Yes or no?

  Make up your mind, Montalbà. Don’t forget all the bad that befalls the indecisive, from Buridan’s ass to Hamlet.

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ll come? Don’t forget you’ve already said yes to me, so if you say no now, you’ll be going back on your word.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

  And she sent him an audible kiss through the telephone cable.

  “Listen, Liliana, sorry, but I think I saw your husband just a little while ago.”

  Another giggle.

  “That’s possible.”

  “So will I meet him tonight?”

  “Of course not! He must have dropped by the house to pick up something he needed. Don’t worry, we’ll be alone, just the two of us.”

  It was quite likely that phone call was made in the presence of others.

  Liliana was speeding things up. What need was there for her to do that? What other lies would she tell him?

  Speaking of which, was her husband always just passing through? Didn’t he ever stay home for a few days?

  This question brought a number of others along with it, like cherries falling from a tree.

  Did this computer representative with exclusive rights for a given brand across the whole island have a sample collection?

  And did he have a stock of computers that he could leave with companies and prospective buyers to try out?

  And where would he keep such a stock?

  At his house in Marinella?

  And why had all these questions about Liliana’s husband suddenly come to mind?

  What was their purpose?

  And what should he bring to Liliana’s?

  Roses or cannoli?

  You know perfectly well that you’ve already opted for cannoli, interrupted that pain-in-the-ass, Montalbano Two.

  And wouldn’t it be better to be done with all these questions, which were giving him a headache?

  He rang Fazio and told him to come to his office.

  “What were you doing?” the inspector asked him.

  “Nothing. I was just asking myself why these people keep putting bombs in front of empty warehouses.”

  “You’re telling me! I’ve been racking my br
ains over that. Did you come to any conclusions?”

  “Nah.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Did you want something?”

  “Yes. I called you in to ask you whether you knew that Arturo has use of a car.”

  “No. I asked around. I even inquired at the ACI. He doesn’t seem to own a car.”

  “That’s because the car he uses isn’t his. He borrows it. The car he drives is a green Volvo.”

  Fazio goggled his eyes.

  The inspector told him everything.

  “So La Lombardo presumably has only one lover?” Fazio asked.

  “So it seems.”

  Fazio remained pensive.

  “Then I don’t understand why she told you she’d broken up with the kid.”

  “Maybe because she’s doing everything possible to hook up with me. And she would like to convince me that the whole pie is for me and that I don’t have to share it with anyone, not even her husband.”

  Fazio gave him a bewildered look.

  “But why would she do that?”

  Montalbano pretended to get upset.

  “What do you mean, ‘why would she do that?’ What about my manly charm? My good looks? My intelligence?”

  Fazio wasn’t buying it.

  “Chief, if it was only a matter of charm and stuff like that, you wouldn’t be telling me all this. You know perfectly well that the lady is acting this way because she has a specific purpose in mind, something other than sleeping with you.”

  He was sharp, no doubt about it.

  The telephone rang.

  “Chief, ’at’d be Signura Lombardi onna line again.”

  “Put her on.”

  He put on the speakerphone so Fazio could also hear.

  “Hello, Liliana, what is it?”

  “I forgot that I don’t have any food at all in the house. I have to go shopping.”

  “Shall we postpone it for another time?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. On the contrary, I wanted to ask you to lend me a hand.”

  “I’d be happy to. How?”

  “Well, I’ll be coming into town on the Montelusa bus in about fifteen minutes. If you could pick me up and come with me to do some shopping . . .”