The Age of Doubt
Page 15
The commissioner looked at him, nonplussed.
“Are you mocking me?”
Montalbano assumed a demure expression.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Then cut the shit and answer!”
“May I make an observation?”
“No.”
Montalbano fell silent.
“Answer!”
“If you won’t let me make my observation . . .”
“All right, make your observation and then answer my question!”
“The observation is the following. I only wanted to point out, in all humility, that you forgot to ask your question.”
“Ah, yes. You see? You are the only person here with the ability to make me so furious that I get all—”
“Confused? Distracted? Disoriented? Muddled?”
“Stop it, for Christ’s sake! I don’t need your stupid suggestions! At any rate, why didn’t you deign to inform either the public prosecutor or myself of these investigations? Can you tell me?”
“And how did you find out?”
“Don’t ask idiotic questions! Just answer!”
With all his talking, the guy was making him miss his appointment with Laura. Montalbano decided to cut things short.
“I completely forgot.”
“You forgot?” the commissioner repeated, dumbfounded.
Montalbano threw his hands up.
Bonetti-Alderighi turned red as a beet and emitted first a sort of roar and then an elephantine trumpet blast. It sounded like they were at the zoo.
“But what . . . exactly . . . do you think you’re doing? Runn . . . running your own private inves . . . tigating firm?” the commissioner yelled, stammering in rage and standing up, index finger pointed at the inspector.
“No, but—”
“Silence!”
What? Was he going to restart, da capo, the ball-busting litany of silence, quiet, and shut up? They wouldn’t get out of there before dawn!
“And you listen to me, Montalbano,” the commissioner continued. “As of this moment you are removed!”
“From what?”
“From the investigations. Inspector Mazzamore will handle them.”
Never heard of him. Must be a new arrival. They changed every two weeks. Montelusa Central Police was a revolving door.
The only one who never left was pain in the ass Bonetti-Alderighi.
Montalbano was about to object when he realized that this new development would allow him more time to devote to Laura.
“All right, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll remove myself,” said Montalbano, anxious to leave.
Leaning on the broomstick, he stood up, groaning and twisting his mouth as though in great pain.
The commissioner was unmoved.
“Where are you going?”
“Home to lie down, so—”
“Ha ha ha!” the commissioner laughed, sounding just like Mephistopheles.
“Why are you laughing, may I ask?”
“You’re not going home!”
Montalbano turned pale. For a brief moment he was afraid that Bonetti-Alderighi would have him arrested. The man was capable of it. But the commissioner continued:
“Now you are going to go into Dr. Lattes’s office—he’s already waiting for you, in fact—and the two of you are going to reconstruct the list of the documents that were destroyed.”
And since Montalbano, annihilated, could no longer move, the commissioner prodded him.
“Go on! Out with you!”
While crossing the waiting room, still limping to keep up appearances, Montalbano managed to curse all the saints in heaven.
Upon seeing him, Dr. Lattes, without even noticing the Sardinian shepherd getup, immediately asked him:
“How’s the little one?”
“He’s dead,” Montalbano answered mournfully.
With his cojones already in a blinding spin, he’d be damned if he was going to keep the promise he’d made to Livia!
Lattes stood up, ran up to him, and embraced him.
“I’m so terribly sorry.”
Maybe there was a way out. Montalbano buried his face in Lattes’s shoulder and emitted a sobbing sound.
“And instead of being with my little boy . . . I have to be here and—”
“Good heavens, no!” said Lattes, hugging him even more tightly. “Go straight home! We’ll talk about it some other time!”
It was all the inspector could do not to kiss his hand.
When he left Lattes’s office it was already past ten. He dashed down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator, which was slow, and raced to the car.
“We’re going to Marinella, quick!”
“Shall I turn on the siren?” asked Gallo, pleased.
“Yes.”
Montalbano would have suffered less inside a race car on the track at Indianapolis. At a certain point it occurred to him that if he wasn’t going to be handling the case any longer, there was no need for Mimì to engage in another night of gymnastics with La Giovannini. He might as well spare himself the effort.
He dialed Augello’s cell phone number.
“Montalbano here. Can you talk?”
“Ah, Gianfilippo! How good to hear from you!” said Augello. “Where are you calling from? Tell me, what can I do for you?”
In other words, he couldn’t talk. Obviously La Giovannini was right beside him.
“I wanted to tell you that if you want to bail out, you can.”
“Why?”
“Because the boss has decided to take me off the case. So it’s not our concern anymore.”
“Listen, Gianfilippo, I don’t think you can back out at this point, you know what I mean? It’s too late. Once you’re out on the dance floor, you have to dance. I’m sorry, but that’s the way I see it. So you take care now, and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Which meant that his phone call had arrived past regulation playing time.
He immediately noticed that there was no sign of Laura’s car in front of the house. He bade Gallo a hasty goodbye, opened the door, and went inside.
Laura wasn’t on the veranda, either, like last time.
She hadn’t waited for him. Or, more likely, she had waited for him but then became convinced he wasn’t going to come any time soon and had left.
He went and stuck his head under the bathroom faucet to cool his anger, then plucked up his courage and dialed her number.
“Hi, Salvo here.”
“Yes?” she said cold as ice.
He had to stay calm and try to explain clearly what had happened.
“Forgive me, Laura, I’m truly sorry, but I got a call from the commissioner and—”
“I figured that something had come up.”
Then why was she so distant?
“Listen, I’ll tell you what we can do to set things right. Wait for me outside the front door of your building in fifteen minutes, and I’ll come by and pick you up.”
“No.”
She’d said it without hesitation. A “no” as crisp and clean as a gunshot to the chest.
“It’s not that late, you know,” he insisted. “Have you already had dinner?”
“I don’t feel hungry anymore.”
Her voice sounded strange, neither indifferent nor angry. It was like a smooth barrier against which all words slid off, leaving no trace.
“Come on, once you sit down, your hunger will return.”
“It’s too late.”
“All right, but I’ll come anyway.”
“No.”
“We could at least spend half an hour together, no?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong? Are you upset? You know, I did call you at the Harbor Office to tell you I was running late, then I tried your cell phone, but I—”
“I’m not upset.”
“All right, then. Shall we meet tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
There was no way any phone call from Bonetti-Alderighi could ever be providential. It would be against nature.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that it was fate. It was a very precise sign.”
Was she raving?
“Listen, explain yourself a little better.”
“It means there can never be and must never be anything between us.”
“Don’t tell me you believe that sort of rubbish!”
She didn’t reply, and Montalbano got further incensed.
“What, do you get up and read the horoscope in the paper first thing every morning?”
Laura hung up.
Montalbano redialed the number, but the phone rang and rang without reply.
His appetite, naturally, had gone south.
The only thing to do was to sit out on the veranda, armed with cigarettes and whisky, and wait for the rage to subside so he could go to bed.
Wait a second, Montalbà. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that the only emotion you’re feeling at this moment is rage? And not regret or sadness?
And if I feel only rage, does that mean something?
Yes, sir, it certainly does. Shall we postpone the discussion until after you’ve ascertained that you have enough cigarettes and whisky in the house?
He went out, ducked into the Marinella Bar, came back, and as he was about to unlock the door, he heard the telephone ringing. In his haste, he fumbled with the keys and had to set the bottle down to open the door.
Naturally, by the time he raised the receiver, he heard only a dial tone.
How was it possible he could never manage to pick up the phone in time?
It must certainly have been Laura trying to call.
So, what to do now? Call her himself? And what if it hadn’t been Laura? At that moment the phone started ringing again.
“Laura!”
At the other end, total silence. Want to bet it was that pigheaded commissioner again?
“Who is this?” the inspector asked.
“Livia.”
In an instant, he was bathed in sweat.
“And I want to know who this Laura is,” she added.
Not knowing in his despair what to say, he laughed.
“Ha ha!”
“You find my question funny?”
“So you’re jealous, eh?
“Of course I’m jealous. Answer me and stop acting like an imbecile.”
She’d said it in the exact same tone of voice as Bonetti-Alderighi.
“You’re not going to believe me, but when you called, I was trying to think of the name of Petrarch’s beloved, and it finally came to me as I was picking up the receiver . . .”
“And you think I’m so stupid as to swallow that explanation?”
By now Montalbano’s sweat was pouring into his eyes, blinding him, while the receiver was slipping out of his hand.
“I’m sorry, could I call you back in five minutes?”
“No,” said Livia, hanging up.
15
The phone call from Livia was really the last thing he needed. Sighing sadly, he picked up the bottle on the ground outside the door, put it down on the table on the veranda, went and washed his face, and finally sat down outside.
What was it he was supposed to think about?
Ah, yes, the reason why he felt only rage, instead of regret or sadness.
But is it really so necessary to tackle this question right now? When your head is in such a state of confusion? Couldn’t you postpone it?
No, I really think this is the right moment. And I don’t want to hear any childish excuses. So, buck up, and proceed. In what circumstances does a person feel rage? Answer me.
Well, there could be any number of reasons for—
No, no, stop beating around the bush, stop equivocating, as the commissioner might say. Stick to the subject at hand. The question couldn’t be clearer: Why did you become enraged when Laura refused to see you?
Well, because I really wanted to see her and—
Are you really so sure?
Of course.
No, you’re lying to yourself. You’re like the person who cheats when he plays solitaire.
Then why?
I’ll tell you why. Quite simply because you were unable to do what you wanted to do.
No, when you put it that way, you make it sound vulgar. As if I wanted only to—
Oh, yeah? Wasn’t that your intention?
Come on, cut the bullshit!
What bullshit? Listen, if you truly loved her, at this moment you would be sorrowful, forlorn, call it whatever you like, but not angry.
Explain what you mean.
If you’re angry, it means what you really feel for Laura is not love. Rage, in fact, means you consider Laura an object you want to grab, something that manages to elude your grasp at the last minute.
Are you saying I see her as an . . . a . . .
Let’s say a fish. Which you want to catch with a landing-net. You manage to get the fish to go into the net, but as you’re lifting it out of the water, the fish wiggles out, breaks free, and dives back into the water. And you’re left there like an idiot, with an empty net in your hand. And that’s why you feel enraged.
So what would you call what I feel for her?
Attraction. Desire. Vanity. Or else you see her as a kind of life raft you desperately want to grab hold of to avoid drowning in the seas of old age.
So it’s not love?
No. And you know what I say to you? That if you really were seriously in love with her, you would try and understand her motives and misgivings.
He went on this way for another two hours. When he’d finally emptied the bottle, he laid his head down on his folded arms on the table and fell into a sort of troubled half-sleep.
The cool dawn air woke him up.
He stood up, went into the house, took a nice hot shower, shaved, and drank his customary mugful of espresso.
There was only one question rattling around in his brain: Would he be able to stand never seeing Laura again? Would he have the strength?
He came to the conclusion that he would respect her feelings, would not force her, and would not take any initiatives himself.
But at that moment, he had to find a way to pass the hours until it was time to go to the office. He grabbed Petrarch’s Canzoniere and decided to read it in the early morning light.
He read for a long time, but at a certain point he came to a poem that said:
My ship sails brimful of oblivion
O’er harsh seas on a winter’s night
Between Scylla and Charybdis . . .
and he had to stop. He had a lump in his throat.
Wasn’t he, too, caught in a sort of sea storm between Scylla and Charybdis?
He closed the book, looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.
At that moment the doorbell rang. Who could it be, so early in the morning? For a split second he hoped it was Laura dropping by before going on duty. He went and opened the door. It was Mimì Augello.
Sleepy, wasted, and unshaven.
“How are you feeling, Mimì?”
“Ground to a pulp.”
His first question was:
“Could I have some coffee?”
The second question was:
“Could I take a shower?”
And the third, and last, was:
“Could I use your razor?”
Finally, clean and refreshed, and sitting down on the veranda, he began to tell his story.
“When you called me yesterday evening, I was already on board and had no excuse for leaving. Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Phone me.”
“To spare you from spending another night with her.”
“I don’t believe you.”
�
��Then why, in your opinion?”
“Because you felt guilty.”
“Guilty towards you? Ha ha ha! That’s a good one!”
“Not towards me, but towards Beba. I realized why, in fact, you called me. You felt guilty for sending me off to sleep with Liv—La Giovannini.”
As Mimì was talking, Montalbano realized that his assistant was right. In reality, he hadn’t explicitly thought of Beba, but had made the phone call on impluse, without really knowing why. He’d simply acted. Good for Mimì, then! He was right on the money. But the inspector didn’t feel like granting him the satisfaction of knowing this.
“I never actually told you to sleep with her,” he said.
“Oh, no? Well, you’re a fine hypocrite! She’s the kind of woman—and you knew this from the start—who doesn’t give a shit about moonlight strolls by the sea! You didn’t actually say it, but you implied it. But I think we’d better just drop it. Do you still want to know what happened?”
“Of course.”
“But the commissioner took you off the case!”
“Tell me just the same.”
“We had dinner on board.”
“Sorry to interrupt you, but did you two talk at all about Shaikiri?”
“Just a brief mention. La Giovannini told the captain—”
“Did he eat with you?”
“Yes, but if you interrupt me every—”
“Sorry.”
“She told the captain to request that the body be returned so they could bury it and then leave. So, to continue. Your phone call came too late because, among other things, I’d already told Livia and Sperlì that I’d agreed to come and work with them.”
“Did they explain any better what the work would involve?”
“Only one thing seemed clear to me. Livia told me she’d given a lot of thought to how they could use me, and had decided that instead of having South Africa as my base, it was better if they sent me to Freetown.”
“Where’s that?”
“In Sierra Leone. I told her it didn’t make any difference to me, that what mattered most to me was to earn as much money as possible. And I made it quite clear that I was ready to close not one eye but both.”
“But did she tell you what her interests were in those parts of the world?”