All at once they found themselves on a sort of dirt road in the middle of an ocean of snapdragons with immensely tall wind turbines rising up at regular intervals.
Livia was spellbound.
“You certainly have some striking landscapes down here . . .”
“Why, don’t you have any in Liguria?”
A polite exchange, showing that all was well between them. Otherwise the same landscape would have been “crawling with bandits.”
They arrived at Punta Raisi airport an hour early, just in time to find out that the flight would be leaving an hour late.
Since they’d skipped lunch, Livia took advantage of the situation to stuff herself with cannoli.
When her plane finally took off, Montalbano phoned the station from the airport, informing Catarella that he would not be coming by that afternoon. He also rang Adelina to tell her that the coast was clear and that she could come back the following morning.
To return to Vigàta, he went the long way, which passed through the town of Fiacca. He got there around eight-thirty and headed straight for a restaurant that served langouste.
He had a feast.
By eleven he was back home. He had barely set foot inside when the telephone rang.
It was Livia, who was very upset.
“Where on earth were you? I called four times! I thought you must have had an accident!”
He calmed her down, took a shower, and sat down on the veranda with cigarettes and whisky.
He didn’t want to think about anything, just watch the sea in the night.
After about an hour of this, he went inside, turned on the television, and sat down in an armchair.
He was tuned in to TeleVigàta, which meant that the screen soon filled with the chicken-assed face of Pippo Ragonese, their editor-in-chief, whose editorials followed one ironclad rule: they were always on the side of whoever was in power.
And the man had it in for Montalbano.
“We’ve been informed, through unofficial channels, that a highly specialized, very well organized band of thieves has been at work in Vigàta over the past few days. Apparently a number of burglaries have taken place using an unusual technique that would be too complicated to explain in detail here. And supposedly the band is not made up of foreigners, as is often the case, but of Sicilians. What is most surprising is the silence of the police on the matter.
“We do know, however, that the investigation is being handled by Chief Inspector Montalbano. In all honesty, we cannot say that it is in good hands, given the pre—”
Montalbano zapped the screen with the remote, telling the guy to fuck off.
One question lingered, however: How did Ragonese ever come to know about the burglaries? Surely nobody from the police department or the prosecutor’s office could have told him.
Want to bet it was the ring’s mastermind himself who informed the newsman through an anonymous letter?
Pretentious as he was, it was possible he didn’t like the fact that his deeds weren’t making headlines.
Montalbano felt a little tired. Driving wore him out. He decided to go to bed.
And he had a dream.
Without knowing why or wherefore, he found himself in the middle of an arena, all dressed up like a paladin in the puppet theatre, on horseback, with his lance in rest.
A great many ladies and knights were watching the joust, and they were all standing, looking at him, and shouting:
“Hurrah for Salvo! Hurrah for Christendom’s champion!”
Impeded in his movements by his armor, he couldn’t reply with a bow, and so he raised his arm, which weighed a ton, and waved his steel-gloved hand.
Then the trumpets sounded and a knight clad entirely in black armor entered the arena, a frightening giant of a man with his face hidden by his lowered visor.
Charlemagne himself stood up and said:
“Let the battle begin!”
And Montalbano immediately began to charge the black knight, who for his part remained as still as a statue.
Then, just like that, the black knight’s lance struck his shoulder, knocking him off his horse.
As he was falling, the black knight raised his visor.
He had no face. In its place was a sort of rubber ball.
Then Montalbano realized that the faceless knight was the mastermind of the burglary ring, and was about to kill him.
Jesus Christ! He was going to look so bad in front of all those people!
He woke up in a sweat, his heart chugging wildly.
The phone rang shortly after eight.
He cursed the saints.
His secret intention had been to stay in bed until nine, so Adelina could bring him coffee in bed.
“Hello?” he said rudely into the receiver.
“Matre santa, Chief! I canna help it, bu’ ’ere’s been anutter buggery! If you wan’, I c’n call back in a half a hour,” Catarella whined.
“What’s done is done, Cat. Tell me about it.”
“The signura Angelica Cosulicchio call juss now.”
Cosulicchio? Cosulich! Angelica Cosulich was number fourteen on the list.
QED.
“Where’s she live?”
“On Via Cavurro, nummer fitteen.”
But that was the same street as the Peritores!
“Have you told Fazio?”
“’E’s toined off.”
“All right, call the lady back and tell her I’m on my way.”
The building Signora Cosulich lived in was shaped like an ice-cream cone.
Including the little bits of hazelnut sprinkled on top.
“Cosulich?” he asked the doorman.
“Which?”
Good God, he couldn’t bear to have another spat with a doorman. He felt like turning on his heel and leaving, but he overcame the impulse.
“Cosulich.”
“I got that the first time; I’m not deaf. But there are two Cosuliches here. Angelica and Tripolina.”
He wanted to say Tripolina, just so he could meet a woman with such a strange name.
“Angelica.”
“Top floor.”
The elevator was superfast, practically punching him in the stomach as he soared up to the penthouse—that is, to the level of the whipped cream that usually crowns the ice cream cone.
There was only one door on the entire, enormous, crescent-shaped landing, and the inspector rang the doorbell.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked moments later from inside the door.
“Inspector Montalbano.”
The door opened, and three things happened to the inspector, in the following order:
First, his vision clouded over slightly; second, his legs began to give out; and third, he was suddenly quite out of breath.
Because not only was Signora Cosulich a stunningly natural beauty of about thirty, without a hint of makeup, a rarity in this day of face-painted savages, but also . . .
Was it real, or was it all just his imagination?
Signora Cosulich looked exactly like, was the spitting image of, the figure of Angelica in Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, or at least the way he’d imagined her and pined for her, in the flesh, when, at age sixteen, he looked in secret at the illustrations by Gustave Doré, which his aunt had forbidden him to see.
It was inconceivable, a true miracle.
This knight, who now approached, at first glance
Had recognized, though from afar, the one
Who with angelic beauty unsurpassed
In amorous enchantment held him fast.
Angelica, oh Angelica!
He had fallen wildly in love with her, and lost a great deal of sleep almost every night, imagining that he was doing lewd things with her that he would
never have had the courage to mention even to his closest friend.
Ah, how often he had imagined himself as Medoro, the shepherd Angelica had fallen in love with, driving poor Orlando so furiously mad!
He would picture to himself, sighing and trembling, the scene in the cave, where she lay naked on the straw, with a fire burning, as it rained outside and the sheep called in the distance, saying baaa baaaa . . .
More than a month that happy pair content
Remained and of their joy gave every proof.
No further than his face her glances went.
For his love she could not have enough.
Unceasingly she hung upon his side,
Yet her desire was never satisfied.
“Please come in,” said Angelica Cosulich.
The light fog clouding his eyes lifted, and only then did Montalbano notice that she was wearing a formfitting white blouse.
Like milky curds but freshly heaped within
Their plaited moulds, her rounded breasts . . .
Actually, those breasts were not Angelica’s, but still . . .
6
“Please come in,” the young woman said again, starting to smile at Montalbano’s obvious bewilderment.
Her smile was like a 100-watt lightbulb suddenly coming on in a dark room.
It took a great effort of will for Montalbano to go from sixteen years of age to his current, miserable fifty-eight.
“Sorry, I was just thinking of something.”
He went in.
Already from the entrance he got a sense of the damage the burglars had done in that apartment.
Which was enormous, furnished in the latest styles, and made you feel as though you were inside a spaceship. It must also have had a terrace without end. And circular, naturally.
“Listen,” said Angelica, “the only room that’s sort of livable right now is the kitchen. Do you mind if we go in there?”
I’d follow you even into a cold-storage room, Montalbano thought to himself.
But he said:
“Not at all.”
She was wearing a pair of skintight black slacks, and watching her walk from behind was a gift from God. And made him feel simultaneously stronger and weaker.
She pulled out a chair for him.
“Please sit down. Shall I make you some coffee?”
“Yes, thanks. But first I’d like a glass of water.”
“Are you feeling all right, Inspector?”
“I feel ex . . . excellent.”
The water revived him.
The exact same thing had happened at the Peritores’ place. Except that there was no other man present now.
Actually, it seemed as if there was no trace of any man whatsoever in that apartment.
She poured the coffee, a cup for him and another for her, and then sat down facing the inspector.
They drank in silence.
This was fine for Montalbano. In fact, they could sit there drinking coffee until the following morning as far as he was concerned. Or, better yet, until they declared him a missing person at the police station.
Then she said:
“If you feel like smoking, go right ahead. In fact, why don’t you offer me one while you’re at it?”
She got up, went and grabbed an ashtray, and sat back down.
Taking her first puff, she said in a soft voice:
“To make a long story short, it was a carbon copy of the burglary of my friends the Peritores.”
Her voice was a celestial harmony, and it charmed him as the snake charmer’s flute charms a python.
But he had to get down to work, dammit, even though he didn’t at all feel like it. He cleared his throat, which was dry in spite of the water he had just drunk.
“Did you also spend the night in another house of yours out of town?”
She had very long blond hair which hung halfway down her back.
Before answering, she turned her face away.
For the first time, she seemed a little ill at ease.
“Yes, but . . .”
“But?”
“It’s not a house.”
“Is it an apartment?”
“Not even.”
What, was she sleeping in a tent or a camper?
“What is it, then?”
She took a long drag, blew out the smoke, then looked the inspector in the eye.
“It’s a bedroom with a double bed and a bathroom. With a separate entrance. Know what I mean?”
A shot straight to the heart, direct, precise. Fired by an expert markswoman. It hurt, but
A flood of sorrow in his bosom stays,
And by its very impetus is checked . . .
“I see,” he said.
A pied-à-terre. Also called a love nest in common parlance. But it was the first time he’d ever met a woman who had one.
He felt a sudden pang of irrational jealousy, like Orlando when
He sees Angelica and Medoro
Intertwined a hundred times . . .
She explained:
“I have a boyfriend, but he works abroad and comes to Italy only once a year, and so, every now and then, I need . . . Please try and understand. It’s not a steady thing with anybody.”
Can I get on the waiting list? he wanted to ask, but said only:
“Tell me what happened.”
“Well, last night, after dinner—it must have been around nine-thirty—I got in my car and headed for Montelusa. Just outside of town, I picked up the . . . guy I had an appointment with and drove to the villa where I rent the room.”
“Excuse me for interrupting, but who owns the villa?”
“A cousin of mine who lives in Milan and comes only in summer, for a couple of weeks a year.”
“Excuse me for interrupting again . . .”
“It’s your job,” Angelica said, smiling.
Love nest or not, it was the sort of thing to be eaten slowly, in small bites, like a succulent fruit.
“Did the burglars rifle through your room as well?”
“Of course.”
“What about the villa itself?”
“Well, I had the same question, and so I went to look. I know where the keys are kept. No, they didn’t enter the villa.”
“Go on.”
“There’s not much more to say. We had a drink, talked as best we could, and then went to bed.”
And every time his heart in his chest
Leapt as though gripped by an icy hand.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to . . .”
“Not at all, go ahead.”
“You said you talked as best you could.”
“Yes, and so?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not as if the boys I go with have to be cultured or anything. I’m interested in other talents. The one yesterday was practically half illiterate.”
Montalbano gulped. It tasted bitter. How did that other poet put it?
a fisher of sponges
will win this rare pearl . . .
“Go on.”
“What else is there? I woke up at seven with the worst headache. Whereas he was still out like a light. When I reached over to the bedside table for my watch, which I’d left there, it was gone. I thought it must have fallen, so I got up, and only then did I realize I’d been robbed of everything.”
“Everything meaning what?”
“My watch, my necklace, my bracelet, cell phone, computer, wallet, purse, and the keys to this apartment. Then I went outside, and the car was also gone.”
“Why had you brought your computer with you?”
“Pertinent question,” she said, laughing. “To watch a few educational videos, know what I mean?”
/> Of all his hopes, Orlando, not to show
His grief, all signs of it attempts to check . . .
“Yes. How did you get home?”
“My cousin keeps a utility car in the villa’s garage for getting around when he’s here.”
“Did you have a lot of money in your wallet?”
“Three thousand euros.”
“Go on.”
“I raced home, knowing what I would find there.”
“Did they take a lot of stuff?”
“A lot. And very valuable stuff, unfortunately.”
“You’ll have to come to headquarters and file a report.”
“I’ll come by later this morning. I have to figure out exactly what they took.”
She paused.
“Could I have another cigarette?”
Montalbano lit it for her.
“So why aren’t you doing what you’re supposed to do?” she asked out of the blue.
Montalbano balked.
“Why? What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, pull out a magnifying glass, take some snapshots, call the forensics lab . . .”
“For fingerprints, you mean?”
“Well, yes.”
“Do you really think that burglars as skilled as these wouldn’t wear gloves? No, no, it would be a waste of time. Speaking of which, how did they get into your lo—your room?”
He’d very nearly said “love nest,” which would have been a terrible gaffe.
But why a gaffe, really? Angelica was a woman who didn’t mince words. She called a spade a spade.
“My room is located at the back of the villa, and you reach it by means of an external staircase. Next to the entrance there’s a window with a grating over it. It’s more or less the only ventilation, and so I left it open. Aside from the bed, there’s also a little table, of course, with two chairs. I always leave the keys to the room on this table. The thieves must have pumped the gas in through this window, which they then must have shut. Then, after the gas took effect, they opened it back up, and with a telescoping pole with a hook at the end, they pulled the table closer to themselves, so all they had to do was reach out and grab the keys.”
Angelica's Smile Page 6