Excursion to Tindari

15

At a certain point along the dirt road, on the left-hand side, the repeated comings and goings of a car had opened a kind of trail through the tall grass. It led straight up to the door of the former stable, a door recently remade in solid wood and fitted with two locks. In addition, a chain of the sort used to protect motorbikes from theft was looped through two screw eyes and secured by a big padlock. Beside the door was a tiny window, too small for even a five-year-old child to pass through, blocked by iron bars. Beyond the bars, one could see that the pane was painted black, either to prevent one from seeing in or to keep the light from filtering out at night.

Montalbano had two possible courses of action: either return to Vigàta and ask for reinforcements or set about breaking and entering, even though he was convinced this would be a long and arduous task. Naturally, he opted for the latter. Removing his jacket, he picked up the little hacksaw he’d been lucky enough to buy in Trapani and got down to work on the chain. After fifteen minutes, his arm began to ache. After half an hour, the pain had spread halfway across his chest. After an hour, the chain broke, with the help of the crowbar, which he used for leverage, and the pliers. Drenched in sweat, he removed his shirt and spread it out on the grass, hoping it would dry a little. He sat down in the car and rested. He didn’t even feel like smoking a cigarette. When he felt sufficiently rested, he attacked the first of the two locks with the set of picklocks he now carried with him at all times. He tinkered for about half an hour before deciding it was useless. He got nowhere with the second lock either. Then he had an idea that at first seemed ingenious to him. He opened up the glove compartment of the car, grabbed his pistol, loaded it, aimed, and fired at the higher of the two locks. The bullet hit its target, ricocheted off the metal, and lightly grazed his side, the same one he’d injured a few years before. The only result he achieved was to have deformed the keyhole. Cursing, he put the pistol back in its place. Why was it that the policemen in American movies always succeed in opening doors with this method? The fright brought on another round of sweating. He took off his undershirt and spread it out next to his shirt. Armed with hammer and chisel, he started working on the wood of the door, all around the lock he had shot at. After an hour or so, he thought he’d done enough digging. A good shoulder-thrust should definitely open the door now. He took three steps back, got a running start, and crashed his shoulder into the door. But the door didn’t budge. The pain shooting through his entire shoulder and chest was so great that tears came to his eyes. Why hadn’t the goddamn thing opened? Easy: he’d forgotten that, before putting his shoulder into the door, he had to reduce the second lock to the same state as the first. Now his trousers, damp with sweat, were bothering him. He took them off, too, laying them next to the shirt and undershirt. After yet another hour, the second lock also began to feel shaky. His shoulder had swollen and started throbbing. He worked with the hammer and crowbar. The door resisted, inexplicably. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable rage: like Donald Duck in certain cartoons, he began kicking and punching the door, screaming like a madman. Limping, he returned to the car. His left foot ached, he took off his shoes. And at that moment, he heard a noise: by itself, and exactly like in a cartoon, the door decided to give in, collapsing into the room. Montalbano ran back to the house. The former stable, plastered and whitewashed, was completely empty. Not a single piece of furniture, not even a piece of paper. Nothing whatsoever, as if it had never been used. Except, at the base of the walls, a number of electrical outlets and telephone jacks. The inspector stood there staring at that emptiness, unable to believe his eyes. Then, when it got dark, he made up his mind. He picked up the door, leaned it against the jamb, gathered up his undershirt, shirt, and trousers, tossing them into the backseat, put on only his jacket and, after turning the headlights on, headed home to Marinella, hoping that nobody would stop him along the way. Nuttata persa e figlia fìmmina.

He took a much longer route home, but it spared him the trouble of passing through Vigata. He had to drive slowly because of the shooting pains in his right shoulder, which was puffy as a loaf of bread fresh out of the oven. He pulled up in the parking area in front of his house, groaning as he gathered up his shirt, undershirt, trousers, and shoes, then turned off the headlights and got out of the car. The lamp outside the front door wasn’t on. He took two steps forward and froze. Right next to the door there was a shadow. Somebody was waiting for him.

“Who are you?” he asked angrily.

The shadow didn’t answer. The inspector took another two steps and recognized Ingrid. She was gawking at him, unable to speak.

“I’ll explain later,” Montalbano felt compelled to say as he searched for his keys in the trousers he was carrying on his arm. Ingrid, having slightly recovered, took the shoes from his hand. The door opened at last. In the light, Ingrid examined him with curiosity and asked:

“Have you been performing with the California Dream Men?”

“Who are they?”

“Male strippers.”

The inspector said nothing and took off his jacket. Upon seeing his swollen shoulder, Ingrid didn’t scream or ask for any explanation. She merely said:

“Have you got any liniment in the house?”

“No.”

“Give me the keys to your car and get in bed.”

“Where are you going?”

“There must be an open pharmacy somewhere, don’t you think?” said Ingrid, picking up the house keys as well.

Montalbano undressed—he needed only to remove his socks and underpants—and got into the shower. The big toe on his left foot was now as big as a medium-sized pear. Once out of the shower, he went and looked at his watch, which he’d put on his bedside table. It was already nine-thirty; he’d had no idea. He dialed the number of headquarters, and as soon as he heard Catarella, he transformed his voice.

“Allô? Zis is Monsieur Hulot. Je cherche Monsieur Augelleau.”

“Are you Frinch, sir? From Frince?”

“Oui. Je cherche Monsieur Augelleau, or, as you say, Augello.”

“He ain’t here, Mr. Frinch.”

“Merci.”

He dialed Mimi’s home phone. He let it ring a long time, but got no answer. As a last resort, he looked up Beatrice’s number in the phone book. She picked up at once.

“Montalbano here, Beatrice. Forgive me for intruding, but—”

“You want to talk to Mimi?” the divine creature cut in. “I’ll put him on.”

She wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. Mimi, on the other hand, was, and immediately began making excuses.

“Salvo, I happened to be in the area, you see, when I realized I was just outside Beba’s door—”

“For Heaven’s sake, Mimi, there’s no problem,” Montalbano conceded magnanimously. “Let me apologize, first of all, for disturbing you.”

“But not at all! I wouldn’t dream of it! What can I do for you?”

Could the Chinese have done any better in the way of ceremoniousness?

“I wanted to ask you if we could meet at the office tomorrow morning, say around eight. I’ve made an important discovery.”

“What?”

“The connection between the Griffos and Sanfilippo.”

He heard Mimi exhale the way one does when kicked in the stomach. Then Mimi stammered:

“Wh-where are you? I’ll come meet you right away.”

“I’m at my place. But Ingrid’s here.”

“Oh. Let me tell you, Salvo, squeeze her anyway, even if, after what you just said, the infidelity theory doesn’t really hold up anymore.”

“Listen, don’t tell anyone where I am. I’m going to disconnect the phone now.”

“Of course, of course,” Mimi said insinuatingly.

Montalbano went to lie down, limping all the way. It took him half an hour to find the right position. He closed his eyes and reopened them at once. Hadn’t he invited Ingrid to dinner? So how was he going to get dressed, stand up on his feet, and go out to a restaurant? The word “restaurant” immediately gave him a feeling of emptiness in the pit of his stomach. How long had it been since he’d eaten? He got up and went into the kitchen. Enthroned in the refrigerator was a serving dish full of red mullet all‘agrodolce. Reassured, he went back to bed. He was nodding off when he heard the front door open.

“I’ll be right there,” Ingrid called from the dining room.

She came in a few minutes later carrying a small bottle, an elastic bandage, and a roll of gauze.

“I want to pay off my debt,” she said.

“What debt?” asked Montalbano.

“Don’t you remember? When we first met. I sprained an ankle and you brought me here and gave me a massage ...”

Now he remembered, of course. She was lying half-naked on the bed when Anna, a policewoman from Montelusa who’d fallen in love with him, barged in. The girl got the wrong idea and made his life hell. Had Livia and Ingrid ever met? Maybe at the hospital, the time he was wounded ...

Under Ingrid’s slow, continuous caresses he felt his eyelids begin to droop. He surrendered to a delicious somnolence.

“Pull yourself up. I have to wrap you now ... Keep your arm raised ...Turn a little more towards me.”

He obeyed, a satisfied smile on his lips.

“I’m done,” said Ingrid. “In half an hour you’ll start feeling better.”

“What about the big toe?” he asked, his mouth gluey.

“What did you say?”

Without speaking, the inspector pulled his foot out from under the sheet. Ingrid got back to work.

He opened his eyes. From the dining room came the sound of a man’s voice, speaking softly. He looked at his watch: past eleven. He felt quite a bit better. Had Ingrid called a doctor? He got up and, just as he was—in his underwear, with his shoulder, chest, and big toe all wrapped up—he went to investigate. It wasn’t a doctor—actually, it was a doctor, but he was on television, talking about some miraculous weight-loss program. Ingrid was sitting in an armchair. Seeing him enter, she sprang to her feet.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“I got dinner ready, if you’re hungry.”

The table had been set. The mullet, taken, out of the refrigerator, wanted nothing more than to be eaten. They sat down. As they were serving the fish, Montalbano asked:

“Why didn’t you wait for me at the Marinella Bar?”

“For more than an hour, Salvo?”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you come in your car?”

“I haven’t got it at the moment. It’s at the mechanic’s. A friend gave me a ride to the bar. Then, when you didn’t show up, I decided to go for a walk and came here. I knew you’d come home sooner or later.”

While they were eating, the inspector looked at Ingrid. She was becoming more and more beautiful. At the corners of her mouth she now had a little line that made her look more mature, more aware. What an extraordinary woman! It had never even occurred to her to ask him how he’d managed to injure his shoulder. She ate for the pleasure of eating; the mullet had been carefully apportioned, three each. And she drank with gusto: she was already on her third glass when Montalbano was still on his first.

“What did you want from me?”

The question baffled the inspector.

“I don’t understand.”

“Salvo, you called me up to tell me—”

The videocassette! It had completely slipped his mind.

“I wanted to show you something. But let’s finish eating first. Want some fruit?”

Then, sitting Ingrid down in the armchair, he picked up the cassette.

“But I’ve already seen that film!” she protested.

“We’re not here to watch the film, but something that was taped over it.”

He put the cassette in, turned it on, and sat down in the other armchair. Then, with the remote control, he fast-forwarded it until the shot of the empty bed appeared, with the cameraman trying to bring the picture into focus.

“Looks like a promising start,” Ingrid said, smiling.

Then came the darkened screen. The image reappeared, and now Nenè Sanfilippo’s mistress, in the pose of the Naked Maja, lay on the bed. A second later Ingrid was on her feet, surprised and troubled.

“But that’s Vanya!” she nearly yelled.

Montalbano had never seen Ingrid so upset, never, not even the time she was framed to look like, or almost like, the chief suspect in a crime.

“‘Do you know her?”

“Of course.”

“Are you friends?”

“Pretty good friends.”

Montalbano turned off the video.

“How did you get that tape?”

“Could we go talk in the other room? Some of the pain has come back.”

He got into bed. Ingrid sat down on the edge.

“I’m uncomfortable like this,” the inspector complained.

Ingrid got up, pulled him up, and put the pillow behind his back so he could remain half-sitting. Montalbano was starting to enjoy having a nurse.

“How did you get that cassette?” Ingrid asked again.

“My second-in-command found it at Nenè Sanfilippo’s place.”

“And who’s he?”

“You don’t know? He’s that twenty-year-old who was murdered a few days ago.”

“Right, I heard some mention of that. But why did he have that tape?”

Ingrid was being utterly sincere. She seemed truly amazed by the whole business.

“Because he was her lover.”

“What? A kid like that?”

“Yes. She never talked about it with you?”

“Never. At least, she never mentioned his name. Vanya is very reserved.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

“Well, in Montelusa the only comfortably married foreign women are me, two English ladies, an American, two Germans, and Vanya, who is Romanian. We’ve formed a kind of club, just for fun. Do you know who Vanya’s husband is?”

“Yes, Dr. Ingrò, the transplant surgeon.”

“Well, from what I can gather, he’s not a very nice man. For a while, though she’s at least twenty years younger, Vanya was happy living with him. Then love faded, for him too. They began to see less and less of each other, and he was often traveling the world.”

“Did she have lovers?”

“Not that I know of. She remained very faithful, in spite of everything.”

“What do you mean, in spite of everything?”

“Well, they stopped sleeping with each other. And Vanya’s a woman who—”

“I get the picture.”

“Then, suddenly, about three months ago, she changed. She became sort of more cheerful and sadder at the same time. I realized she was in love. So I asked her, and she said yes. As far as I could tell, it was a great physical passion, mostly.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean, who? Your friend, Vanya.”

“But she left about two weeks ago!”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Of course. She’s in a village near Bucharest. I have her address and phone number. She wrote me a couple of lines. She says she had to go back to Romania because her father got sick after falling into disfavor and losing his ministerial post.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“No.”

“Do you know Dr. Ingrò very well?”

“I’ve probably met him three times at the most. Once was when he came to my house. He’s very elegant, but unpleasant. Apparently he owns an extraordinary collection of paintings. Vanya says it’s a kind of illness, his collection mania. He’s spent an incredible amount of money on it.”

“Listen, I want you to think before answering: would he be capable of killing or having somebody kill Vanya’s lover, if he ever discovered her infidelity?”

Ingrid laughed.

“You must be kidding! He didn’t give a shit about Vanya anymore!”

“But don’t you think her husband might have made her leave Vigata to separate her from her lover?”

“Yes, that’s possible. But if he did it, it was only to avoid nasty rumors and gossip. He’s not the type of man to take things any further.”

They looked at each other in silence. There was nothing else to say. Something then occurred to Montalbano.

“If you don’t have your car, how are you going to get home?”

“Call a cab?”

“At this hour?”

“Then I’ll sleep here.”

Montalbano felt the sweat begin to bead on his forehead.

“What about your husband?”

“Don’t worry about him.”

“Look, tell you what. Just take my car and go.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll have somebody come pick me up tomorrow morning.”

Ingrid stared at him in silence.

“Do you think of me as a bitch in heat?” she asked, dead serious, with a kind of sadness in her eyes.

The inspector felt embarrassed.

“I’m happy for you to stay,” he said sincerely.

As if she’d always lived in that house, Ingrid opened a drawer in his dresser and took out a shirt.

“Okay if I wear this?”

In the middle of the night, Montalbano, drowsy with sleep, realized there was a woman’s body lying next to his. It could only be Livia. He reached out and put his hand on a smooth, solid buttock. All at once an electric shock ran through him. Christ, it wasn’t Livia. He pulled his hand abruptly away.

“Put it back,” Ingrid said in a thick voice.

“It’s six-thirty. Coffee’s ready,” said Ingrid, touching him delicately on his damaged shoulder.

The inspector opened his eyes. Ingrid had only his shirt on.

“Sorry to wake you up so early. But you yourself said, before falling asleep, that you had to be at your office by eight.”

He got up. He felt less pain, but the tight bandaging made it hard to move. Ingrid removed it for him.

“I’ll wrap you up again after you wash.”

They drank their coffee. Montalbano had to use his left hand, as the right was still numb. How would he manage to wash himself? Ingrid seemed to read his mind.

“Leave it to me,” she said.

In the bathroom, she helped the inspector out of his briefs. She took off the shirt she was wearing. Montalbano carefully avoided looking at her. Ingrid, on the other hand, acted as if they’d been married ten years.

In the shower, she lathered him up. Montalbano had no reaction. He felt, to his delight, like he was a little boy again, when loving hands used to perform the same task on his body.

“I see apparent signs of awakening,” said Ingrid, laughing.

Montalbano looked down and blushed violently. The signs were more than apparent.

“Forgive me. I’m mortified.”

“About what?” Ingrid asked. “For being a man?”

“Turn on the cold water, it’s for the best,” said the inspector.

Then came the torment of being dried off. When he put on his briefs, he sighed in satisfaction, as if to signal that the danger was past. Before wrapping him back up, Ingrid got dressed. That way everything, for the inspector, could proceed more calmly. Before going out, they drank another cup of coffee. Ingrid climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Now, I want you to drop me off at the station, and you can continue on to Montelusa in my car,” said Montalbano.

“No,” said Ingrid. “I’ll drive you to the station and take a taxi from there. It’s easier than having to bring the car back to you later.”

For half of the drive they sat in silence. One thought kept stewing in the inspector’s brain, however, and at a certain point he mustered up the courage and asked:

What happened between us last night?“

Ingrid laughed.

“Don’t you remember?”

“No.”

“Is it important for you to remember?”

“I’d say so.”

“All right. You know what happened? Nothing, if that’s what your scruples want.”

“And what if I didn’t have any scruples?”

“Then everything happened. Whatever works best for you.

There was silence.

“Do you think that our relationship has changed since last night?” Ingrid asked.

“Absolutely not,” the inspector replied frankly.

“Then why all the questions?”

Her reasoning made sense. And Montalbano asked no more questions. As she pulled up in front of the station, she asked:

“Do you want Vanya’s telephone number?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll call you later this morning.”

As Ingrid, after opening the door, was helping Montalbano out of the car, Mimi Augello appeared in the police station’s doorway and came to a sudden stop, keenly interested in the scene. Ingrid dashed off after kissing the inspector lightly on the mouth. Mimi kept looking at her from behind until she was out of his sight. With great effort, the inspector hoisted himself up onto the sidewalk.

“I’m one big ache,” he said, walking past Augello.

“See what happens when you get out of shape?” said Mimi, smirking.

The inspector would have bashed in his teeth but was afraid he might seriously injure his arm.