The Age of Doubt

by Andrea Camilleri

  “So what’s your conclusion?”

  “Well, I just wanted to let you know that I’m rather inclined to let them leave whenever they like.”

  “I wouldn’t be so—”

  “Look, Montalbano, we have nothing on them to keep them here any longer. And why should we? I’m convinced that neither she nor any member of her crew had anything to do with the murder. If you disagree, you should tell me. But you have to give your reasons. And so?”

  Since Tommaseo knew nothing about the girl who called herself Vanna and the suspicions she had aroused in Montalbano’s mind concerning the yacht, his assumptions were unfailingly correct. But the inspector could hardly allow that yacht to get away.

  “Could you give me two more days?”

  “I’ll give you one more day. That’s the most I can possibly grant you. But you have to tell me why you need the time.”

  “Could I come by your office the day after tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  He would have to make do with a single day. After hanging up, he told Fazio to go and get Shaikiri.

  A single day. But if Mimì was clever enough, maybe he could detain Signora Giovannini for another week.

  Ahmed Shaikiri was twenty-eight years old, and it was hard to tell that he was North African, because he looked exactly like a Sicilian sailor. He seemed sharp and had intelligent eyes and a natural elegance about him.

  Montalbano immediately liked him.

  “Stick around and take a seat,” the inspector said to Fazio, who was getting ready to leave.

  “You, too, sit down, Shaikiri.”

  “Thank you,” the Arab said politely.

  Montalbano opened his mouth to begin speaking, but the man didn’t give him the time and began to speak first.

  “Before anything else, I really would like to excuse myself to this gentleman here for having punched him. Please accept my apologies,” he said, turning to Fazio. “Unfortunately, whenever I drink wine . . .”

  He spoke perfect Italian.

  “Sicilian wine,” Montalbano interrupted.

  Shaikiri gave him a confused look.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean it must be Sicilian, or maybe Greek wine that has this effect on you.”

  “No, look, I—”

  “Listen, Shaikiri, you’re not going to tell me that the wine you drink in . . . I dunno, let’s say Alexanderbaai, South Africa, just to name the first city that comes to mind, gets you so easily drunk.”

  Shaikiri looked dumbfounded.

  “But I . . .”

  “Let me put it more clearly. The wine you drink in Alexanderbaai doesn’t make you start punching the local police or carabinieri or whatever it is they have down there. Isn’t that right?”

  Montalbano’s words had a double effect. First, on Fazio, who immediately pricked up his ears, realizing that the inspector wasn’t just blathering at random but had a specific purpose in mind. And second, on Shaikiri, who visibly gave a start at first and then seemed to pretend he didn’t understand.

  “All right, you can go,” Montalbano cut things short.

  Shaikiri seemed more bewildered than ever.

  “You’re not going to charge me?”

  “No.”

  “But I provoked and started punching a—”

  “We’ll let it slide this time. You’ve already been charged by the carabinieri, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were interrogated yesterday at their base, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Montalbano now felt himself trembling inside. He’d reached the point where he had to say the decisive thing that would let him know whether he was right in his surmise or mistaken all down the line.

  “If you see her again, and I’m sure you will see her or at least hear from her again, please give her my best.”

  Shaikiri turned pale and squirmed in his chair.

  “Who am I supposed to—”

  “The young lady . . . I’m sorry, the person who, well, let’s say ‘interrogated’ you yesterday.”

  A few beads of sweat appeared on Shaikiri’s forehead.

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Good day.”

  Then, turning to Fazio:

  “Let him go.”

  Naturally, as soon as Shaikiri had left, Fazio raced back to Montalbano’s office.

  “Would you please tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

  “After talking to Lieutenant Sferlazza of the carabinieri, I became convinced that the person informing the so-called Vanna about what was happening aboard the yacht was Shaikiri. He had to be the one who told her that they had to change course because of the storm and head to Vigàta.”

  “And how would he have done that?”

  “I dunno. Maybe with a satellite phone. And so Vanna got moving so she could meet with him, but the dinghy with the corpse sent that rendezvous up in smoke. So Shaikiri got himself arrested by the carabinieri, revealed who he was, and they immediately put him in touch with Vanna. And yesterday she was finally able to talk to him.”

  “And why did he punch me out, too?”

  “Because he’s a smart young man. He wants his friends to think that the local wine always has the same effect on him. He gets in fights with all kinds of cops, whether carabinieri or not.”

  “So then who’s this Vanna?”

  “Sferlazza said something about the antiterrorism unit, but I think he was lying. There’s definitely something shady going on aboard that yacht. And Vanna is on their case. And you know something else?”

  “What?”

  “In my opinion the people on the Ace of Hearts are up to their necks in the business of the corpse in the dinghy.”

  Fazio sat down.

  “Tell me everything,” he said wearily.

  “How should we proceed?” Fazio asked after he’d heard the whole story.

  “Well, while we know plenty about the Vanna, we are totally in the dark as to the Ace of Hearts. So we need to start informing ourselves immediately.”

  “I can look into that myself.”

  “Fine, but you have to start somewhere. Tell you what. Go to the Harbor Office and talk to Lieutenant Belladonna, who is a woman. Have her fill you in on everything they know about the Ace of Hearts. Go there right now, in fact. The less time we waste, the better.”

  He didn’t feel like going there personally in person. He couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Laura, especially after she’d surely spent the night with Mimì.

  “And what if she asks me why I need all this information?”

  “I think you can speak freely with her. Tell her we have strong suspicions the killing occurred aboard the cruiser.”

  It was half past twelve when the outside line rang. It was Mimì Augello.

  “She’s taken the bait.”

  “In what sense?”

  “In the way that we wanted. Laura took me aboard and then left immediately. I told the lie about the fuel and had them fill a jerry can with a sampling. La Giovannini didn’t leave me alone for a minute. Among other things, she convinced me she really knows her engines.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “From the wharf. I came off the boat to put the jerry can in my car. But I have to go aboard again because I’ve been kindly invited to stay for lunch. The lady has set her sights on me and won’t let up.”

  “What do you think you’ll do next?”

  “The captain will also be there at lunch, but I’m hoping to find a moment where I can ask her out to dinner, alone, tonight. I think she’ll accept. I get the impression the lady wants to eat me alive.”

  “Bear in mind, Mimì, that La Giovannini has gone and protested to Tommaseo that the yacht is being detained illegally. Tommaseo wanted to give her permission to leave right away, but I got him to give me one more day. So time is running out. Got that?”

  “Got it.”


  It was a beautiful day. The sky looked as if it had received a new coat of paint during the night, and yet the moment he got in his car to go eat at Enzo’s, a sudden bout of melancholy descended on him with such force that everything—sky, buildings, people—turned grey all at once, as on the darkest of winter days.

  Even his appetite, already skimpy, suddenly deserted him. No, there was no point in going to the trattoria; the only thing to do was to go home, unplug the telephone, undress, get in bed, and pull the sheets up over his head and blot out the whole world. But what if, for example, Fazio had something important to tell him?

  He got back out of the car and went to see Catarella.

  “If anyone asks for me, I’m at home. I’ll be back at work around four.”

  He got back in the car and drove off.

  Naturally, though covered so thoroughly by the bedsheets he looked like a mummy, he couldn’t fall asleep.

  There was no wonder as to the cause of this bout of melancholy. He knew it perfectly well. It even had a name: Laura. Perhaps the moment had come to consider the whole matter in the most dispassionate manner possible, provided, of course, that he could manage to be dispassionate.

  He had liked Laura a great deal at first sight. He’d felt something emotional, something deep, almost moving, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the days of his youth.

  But this probably wasn’t something that happened only to him. No doubt it happened to a great many men well past the age of fifty. But what was it? Nothing more than a desperate, and useless, attempt to feel young again, as if the feeling alone could wipe out the years.

  And this was precisely what was muddying the waters, because he could no longer tell whether this feeling was real and genuine or false and artificial, since it arose in fact from the illusion of being able to turn the clock back. Hadn’t the same thing happened to him with the equestrienne? With Laura, however, he hadn’t had a chance to put his thoughts in order. He was letting himself be carried away by the current he himself had created when the unforeseeable had happened.

  That is, when Laura had told him she felt the same attraction to him. And how had he reacted?

  He’d felt simultaneously scared and happy.

  Happy because the girl loved him? Or because he’d succeeded, despite his age, in making a young woman fall in love with him?

  There was a pretty big difference between the two.

  And didn’t fearing the consequences actually mean that the intensity of his feeling was weak enough to allow him still to consider it rationally?

  In matters of love, reason either resigns or sits back and waits. If it’s still present and functioning, and forces you to consider the negative aspects of the relationship, it means it’s not true love.

  Or maybe that wasn’t quite the way things were.

  Maybe the fear had arisen in him from the very feeling he’d had when hearing Laura’s words. The sense, that is, that he wasn’t up to the task. That he no longer had the strength to bear the violence of a genuine emotion.

  This last consideration—perhaps the most accurate so far—gave rise to a suspicion in him.

  When he’d thought of using Laura to put Mimì in contact with the owner of the yacht, did he not, perhaps, have another, inadmissible, intention?

  Feel like saying it out loud, Montalbà?

  Didn’t you know that by introducing Laura to Mimì, the whole thing risked taking a different turn? Had you not factored this in? Or—and here, please try to be sincere—had you factored it in to perfection? Didn’t you have a secret wish that Laura would end up in Mimì’s bed? Didn’t you practically pass him off to her with your own two hands?

  For this last question he had no answer.

  He lay in bed for another half hour or so, then got up.

  But he’d achieved a fine result. His melancholy, instead of dissipating, had increased and turned into a black mood. “Black mood at sunset,” as Vittorio Alfieri once put it.

  11

  “Ahh, Chief Chief! Dacter Pisquano phoned lookin’ f’yiz sayin’ as how as ’e’s lookin’ f’yiz a talk t’yiz poissonally in—”

  “Did he say whether he’d call back?”

  “—poisson. Nah, Chief. ’E said sumpin’ ellis.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “’E said as how y’oughter call ’im atta Isstitute a Lethal Midicine.”

  “It’s Legal Medicine, Cat, not lethal medicine.”

  “Iss whatever it is, Chief, ’slong as y’unnastand.”

  “Call the Institute and when you’ve got the doctor on the line, put him through to me.”

  About ten minutes later, the telephone rang.

  “What’s going on, Doctor?” the inspector asked.

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Of course. A phone call from you is so rare an occurrence, we’re liable to get an earthquake tomorrow!”

  “Well, aren’t you the wit! Listen, since the mountain didn’t come to Mohammed, Mohammed has gone to the mountain.”

  “But in this specific case, the mountain had no reason to go to Mohammed.”

  “That’s true. Which is why this time it was up to me to come and break your balls.”

  “Go right ahead. It’ll make up for all the times I’ve done the same to you.”

  “Not so fast, my friend! Don’t get smart with me! I’ve still got a lot of credit left! You can’t compare the incessant, humongous ball-bustings I’ve had to put up with, with this one—”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t keep me on tenterhooks.”

  “See what old age does? You used to hate clichés and now you’re using them! At any rate, I’m writing up the report on the unknown corpse found in the dinghy.”

  “While we’re on the subject, I should tell you that he’s no longer unknown. I found his passport, which says his name is Émile Lannec, French, born at—”

  “I couldn’t give a flying fuck.”

  “About what?”

  “About his name or the fact that he’s French . . . To me he’s just a corpse and nothing else. I wanted to tell you that I performed a second autopsy because there was something that had left me wondering.”

  “Namely?”

  “I’d noticed some scars, despite the fact that they’d smashed up his face . . . It looked like he’d had it remade.”

  “What?”

  “Is your question an expression of surprise or do you want to know what he’d had remade?”

  “Doctor, I understood perfectly well that he’d had his face remade.”

  “What a relief! You see, there are a few things you can still grasp.”

  “Are you sure he’d had such an operation?”

  “Absolutely certain. And it wasn’t just a snip here and a tuck there, mind you, but a major transformation.”

  “But why then—”

  “Listen, I’m not interested in your whys and wherefores. It’s not up to me to give you the answers. You have to find them yourself. Or, at your advanced age, are your brain cells so deteriorated that—”

  “You know what I say to you, Doctor?”

  “No need to tell me. I can intuit exactly what you want to say to me, and I return the compliment with all my heart.”

  When he carefully considered the information Pasquano had just given him, it wasn’t as if it changed the general picture much.

  What difference did it really make whether the Frenchman’s face was the one Mother Nature had given him or a fake, remade face?

  Whoever killed him wanted to make it so that the dead man’s face, whatever it was at that time, couldn’t be recognized. Why?

  He’d already dealt with this question, but maybe it was best to come back to it for a minute.

  Especially because, searching Lannec after he was dead, the killers realized he didn’t have his passport on him. And so they rightly concluded he’d left it at the hotel. Therefore, if the victim’s face appeared on television or in the newspapers, it would be easy for the hotel pe
ople to . . .

  Wait a second, Montalbà!

  He grabbed the phone book, looked up the number of the Bellavista Hotel, and dialed it.

  An unknown voice picked up. In must have been the day-shift porter.

  “Inspector Montalbano here.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Is Signor Toscano there?’

  “He called to say he wouldn’t be in today. You can reach him at the furniture factory.”

  “Could you please give me the number?”

  The man gave it to him, and the inspector dialed it.

  “Signor Toscano? Montalbano here.”

  “Good afternoon, Inspector.”

  “There’s something I need to ask you, something very important.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Pay close attention. The night that Lannec arrived, did anything strange happen at the hotel?”

  Toscano paused to think for a moment, then spoke.

  “Well, actually, yes, now that you mention it . . . But it was something that . . . which I don’t . . .”

  “Go on, tell me.”

  “You see, the hotel is sort of isolated. One night, in high season, three months after we’d opened for business, some burglars broke in and took the safe in which we keep our customers’ money and valuables.”

  “But wasn’t the night porter on duty?”

  “Of course he was. But it was three in the morning, and it’s always very quiet at that time of the night and so Scimè had lain down on a little bed in the room just behind the front desk . . . They must have drugged him, because he woke up two hours later with a terrible headache . . .”

  How come he’d never heard a thing about this?

  “Did you report the burglary?”

  “Of course. To the carabinieri.”

  “And what was their conclusion?”

  “Since there’d been no break-in, only the theft of the safe, the carabinieri concluded the burglars had an accomplice staying at the hotel as a customer, and that he must have drugged the porter with a gas canister and opened the door for his partners. But they didn’t take the investigation any further than that. It was a good thing we were insured!”