A Beam of Light

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Then what happened?”

  “He asked me to name a price. I did some math and gave him a figure. I was expecting to have to bargain, but he didn’t bat an eyelash. But he said he was in a hurry. So I closed everything up and we went to the bank. He spoke with the manager, and they made some calls. I used some excuse to go out and went and had a cognac at a bar. I could barely stand up from the shock of it all. When I returned, the bank manager and Pedicini said I should come back at three.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I was incapable of doing anything. My mind was confused. It all seemed so incredible. I just waited here, in this armchair. I wasn’t hungry. Just very thirsty. Then at three I went back to the bank. Only Pedicini was there; his wife hadn’t come. The manager assured me that everything had been taken care of, and that I would have my money tomorrow, but I could consider it already in the bank. So we came back here, and I found three taxis stopped outside the gallery. Two sailors brought in some crates and packaged all the paintings under Pedicini’s direction. By six it was all done.”

  She got up and refilled their glasses, then sat back down and extended one of her legs towards Montalbano.

  “Pinch me.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can be sure I’m not dreaming.”

  Montalbano bent forward, reached out, and executed a sober, gentlemanly squeeze of her calf, but then jerked his hand back as if he’d received a shock. Marian was vibrating. The nerves beneath her skin were like so many little snakes. An uncontrollable energy emanated from her.

  “I owe everything to you,” she said.

  “To me?!”

  “Yes. You brought me good luck.”

  She stood up and came and sat on the arm of Montalbano’s easy chair, putting her arm around his shoulders.

  Her body gave off warmth and scent. The inspector immediately began to sweat.

  Perhaps it was best to go out and get a breath of air, to relieve the tension that with each passing moment became more dangerous.

  “Has your appetite returned?”

  “Yes. And how.”

  “Then tell me where you’d like to go, and—”

  “First let’s finish the bottle.”

  Apparently Marian had other things in mind.

  “Have you told your brother what happened?”

  “No.”

  The answer was immediate and blunt.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Enrico and my sister-in-law would have rushed right over here.”

  “So?”

  She said nothing.

  “You don’t want to see them?”

  “Not tonight.”

  You couldn’t get any clearer than that! Shouldn’t he perhaps nip this in the bud before things got more complicated?

  Meanwhile, it was utterly imperative that he not get drunk.

  “Listen, Marian, we can’t finish the bottle.”

  “What’s preventing us?”

  “We have to drive.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, frowning in disappointment. “Too bad. Excuse me for just a moment.”

  She got up, opened a little door, behind which Montalbano got a quick glimpse of a bathroom, then went inside and locked the door.

  The moment lasted half an hour. Then Marian came back out, newly made up and fresh as a rose.

  “What do you feel like eating?”

  “Whatever you do.”

  “I think it’s better if we go in separate cars. Mine is parked right here in front.”

  “So is mine. Oh, I wanted to tell you something. There’s a nonnegotiable condition to my coming out to dinner with you.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s on me. I have to celebrate.”

  “No, come on.”

  “Then no deal.”

  She was serious. And firm. Montalbano didn’t want this to drag on.

  “All right then.”

  They went out. The inspector helped Marian roll down the shutter. Then she pointed to a green Fiat Panda.

  “That’s my car.”

  “Okay, just follow me,” said Montalbano, heading for his car.

  He wanted to take her to that trattoria at the water’s edge where they served great quantities of antipasto, but he made two wrong turns. After a while he gave up, realizing he had no idea where he was or where he should go. He stopped the car. Marian pulled up beside him.

  “Can’t find the way?”

  “No.”

  “But where are we supposed to be going?”

  “There’s a restaurant that serves all kind of antipasti that—”

  “I know that place! Follow me.”

  How humiliating.

  Ten minutes later they were sitting down at a table.

  “Did your brother take you here?” Montalbano asked.

  “No. Someone else,” she replied, cutting him short. Then she said: “I want to know everything about you. How come you’re not married? Are you divorced? Engaged?”

  It was a good opportunity. He talked to her at length about Livia, and when he was done she made no comment.

  Montalbano was pleased to see that she ate with gusto and left nothing on her plate.

  She told him about a marriage gone wrong and the difficulties she had to overcome to get a divorce.

  “If you fell in love with another man, would you remarry?”

  “Never again,” she said decisively.

  Then she smiled.

  “You’re sharp. One can tell you’re a cop.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve started your questioning with a specific goal in mind.”

  “Really? And what would that be?”

  “To find out whether there’ve been any other men in my life since the divorce. Yes, there have been, but they were all brief affairs of no importance. Happy?”

  Montalbano didn’t answer.

  Then out of the blue she said:

  “Tomorrow, I’m sorry to say, I have to go away. But first I’m going to stop in at the bank to make sure everything’s in order. We won’t be able to see each other for at least a week.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Milan.”

  “To see your parents?”

  “I’ll certainly see them, yes. But I’m going because Pedicini told me something that interested me very much.”

  “Care to tell me what?”

  “Sure, it’s not a secret. He wants me to find him some seventeenth-century paintings of value. He and his wife will be back in Vigàta in a couple of weeks. He gave me the name of a gallerist friend of his in Milan who might be able to help me. Are you sorry?”

  “A little.”

  “Only a little?”

  Montalbano preferred to dodge the question.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t understand what?”

  “If Pedicini is a friend of this gallerist, why does he need you as a go-between?”

  “Pedicini told me he doesn’t want to get personally involved, not even with his friend.” Then, caressing the back of his hand: “I feel like getting drunk.”

  “You can’t. Don’t forget you have to drive.”

  “Ouf! Then I’m going to pay the bill right away and we can go. We’re finished, aren’t we? There’s no room left in my stomach, not even for a single clam.”

  Montalbano asked the waiter for the bill.

  “Do you want to go home?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “To your place. Got anything to drink?”

  “Whisky.”

  “Excellent. Anyway, I want to see your paintings.”

 
“I don’t own any paintings. Only engravings and drawings.”

  “That’s just as good.”

  The veranda sent her into ecstasy.

  “God, it’s so beautiful here!”

  She sat down on the stone bench and gestured impatiently for Montalbano to sit down beside her.

  “Didn’t you want to see my—”

  “Later. Come here.”

  Oh, well. The best he could do was play for time.

  “I’ll go and get the whisky.”

  He went and returned with a new bottle and two glasses.

  “Would you like some ice?”

  “No. Sit down.”

  He sat down. He reached for the bottle to unscrew the cap but was immediately prevented by Marian, who embraced him and kissed him. Long and hard.

  She then released him and laid her head on his shoulder. Montalbano poured half a glass and handed it to her.

  She didn’t take it.

  “I don’t feel like getting drunk anymore. I want to remain perfectly lucid.”

  Montalbano drank the half-glass in her place, downing it in two gulps, in hopes of recovering from the mental and physical disorientation her kiss had caused him.

  But he could tell that Marian was troubled. In fact she stood up.

  “Let me by.”

  Montalbano got to his feet, and as soon as she was in front of him, she grabbed his hand and led him away.

  They stepped down from the veranda. Marian took off her shoes.

  They walked down the beach to the water, hand in hand.

  Then she let go of him and started running along the water’s edge, laughing.

  Montalbano started running after her, but she was faster. He gave up.

  Marian disappeared into the darkness.

  The inspector turned around and started heading back.

  He didn’t hear her come up behind him.

  He just felt himself grabbed roughly by the waist and turned around, as she pressed her whole body up against him, panting, trembling, and whispered in his ear:

  “Please, please. I swear that afterward I won’t . . .”

  This time it was Montalbano who took her by the hand and started running towards the house.

  4

  He woke up with a start and looked at the clock in the light filtering through the slats in the shutters. Seven o’clock. He immediately remembered everything that had happened. And he felt deeply disturbed by it. In “day after” scenarios in the past, he had felt shame and remorse upon awakening. But not this time. This time was quite different. Over the course of the night, something unexpected had happened between the two of them. And the feeling frightened him.

  He sat up in bed. The place beside him was desolately empty, as nearly every morning. He shut his eyes again, lay back down, and sighed, unable to put in any kind of order the contradictory and confused feelings clogging his brain.

  At any rate, the fact was that Marian had got out of bed and gone into the bathroom, got dressed, and left, and he hadn’t heard a thing, dead to the world in a tomblike sleep.

  He’d been swept away by a cyclone, a veritable equatorial tempest that had gone on for a long time—a storm by which, just to be clear, he had been delighted to be carried away, and which in the end had left him utterly breathless and drained of strength, like a castaway who finally reaches the shore after swimming desperately without end.

  He felt a surge of pride. Good God! Considering all the years he was carrying around, when you came right down to it . . .

  But it was time for him to get up too.

  Quite unexpectedly, the wonderful smell of fresh-brewed coffee reached his nostrils.

  Had Adelina come early?

  “Adelì!”

  No answer. He heard footsteps approaching.

  Then Marian appeared, all dressed and ready to go out, with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  He remained spellbound as he watched her draw near. And the feeling that so frightened him returned, powerful and unstoppable.

  Marian set the cup down on the bedside table, smiled a happy smile, then bent down and kissed him.

  “Good morning, Inspector. It’s so strange. I can make my way around your house as if I’ve always known it.”

  By way of reply, Montalbano’s body acted on its own, without involving his brain in the least.

  He leapt out of bed and held her body tight in a mixture of renewed desire, tenderness, and gratitude.

  She returned his kisses vigorously, but at a certain point stepped away, firm and decisive.

  “Please stop.”

  Montalbano’s body obeyed.

  “You don’t know what I would give to be able to stay,” said Marian. “Believe me. But I really have to go. I also slept in, and I’m late. I’ll try to return to Vigàta as soon as I can . . .”

  She took a cell phone out of her pocket.

  “Give me all your numbers. I’ll call you tonight from Milan.”

  Montalbano walked her to the door.

  He still hadn’t been able to say a word. He was in the grips of an emotion that prevented him from speaking. She threw her arms around his neck, looked him straight in the eye, and said:

  “I didn’t know I . . .”

  Then she quickly turned around, opened the door, and went out.

  Montalbano, who was naked, just stood there, head poking out of the door, and watched her get in the car and drive off.

  As he was heading back to the bedroom, the house seemed much emptier than before.

  He immediately wished Marian was back. Then he threw himself onto the bed on the side where she had slept, burying his face in her pillow to get another whiff of her flesh.

  He’d been in the office for five minutes when the phone rang.

  “Chief, I got the son o’ yer ’ousekipper, meanin’ Adelina, natcherilly, onna line.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Mornin’, Inspector. Pasquale here. Mamma tol’ me you wannit a talk to me. Anything wrong?”

  “How’s my godson Salvo doing?”

  “Growin’ like a dream.”

  “I need some information.”

  “Always glad to help . . .”

  “Have you heard anything about a mugger who robbed a lady at gunpoint in Vicolo Crispi? He took her money but not her jewelry, then he kissed her—”

  “He kissed ’er?”

  “That’s right.”

  “An’ ’e din’t do nothin’ else?”

  “No.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “You haven’t heard any mention of it?”

  “No, I don’t know nothin’ about it. But if you want, I can ask around.”

  “You’d be doing me a big favor.”

  “I’ll ask around and get back to you, Inspector.”

  Mimì Augello and Fazio came in together.

  “Any news?” the inspector asked.

  “Yes,” said Augello. “Last night, not five minutes after you left, a certain Gaspare Intelisano came in to report a crime.”

  “What was the crime?”

  “Well, that’s just it. Normally a person comes in to report that someone broke into his house or something, whereas this time it was just the opposite.”

  “I haven’t understood a thing.”

  “That’s the point. It seemed like a delicate matter, and complicated, and so I asked him to come back the following morning, when you’d be here. It’s better if he talks with you. Anyway, he’s here now, waiting for you to arrive.”

  “But just tell me a little beforehand!”

  “Believe me, you’ll understand a lot more if he tells you himself.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Fazio went out and came back with Intelisano.

  He wa
s about fifty, tall and slender, with a little white beard that looked like a goat’s, and shabbily dressed in trousers, a threadbare green velvet jacket, and clodhopping peasant boots. He was visibly nervous.

  “Please sit down and tell me everything.”

  Intelisano sat down at the outermost edge of the chair, mopping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief as big as a bedsheet. Mimì pulled up in the chair in front of him, and Fazio went and sat at the little table with the computer.

  “Shall I put this on the record?”

  “Let Signor Intelisano start talking a little first,” Montalbano replied, looking at the visitor.

  Intelisano sighed, mopped his brow again, and asked:

  “Do I have to start by giving my name, date of birth, and—”

  “For the moment, no. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Mr. Inspector, let me start by sayin’ that I’m the sole owner of three large pieces of land my father left me, which are planted mostly with wheat and vines. I hang on to them just so as not to dishonor my late father, rest his soul, because it costs more than I earn. One of these properties is in the district of Spiritu Santo, and it’s a big pain in the ass.”

  “Why? It doesn’t produce?”

  “Half of it’s productive, and half is barren. The good half is planted with wheat and fava beans. But the pain in the ass is that the boundary between Vigàta’s territory and Montelusa’s runs right through it, and so it’s registered in two different towns, and every so often there’s a big confusion with municipal taxes and duties and so on. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “I hardly ever go to the barren part. What am I gonna do there? There’s a little house with the roof caved in and no door, a few bitter almond trees, and nothing else. Yesterday morning as I was on my way to the good part of the property, I suddenly needed to take a leak as I was passing by. So I decided to go into the house, but I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because someone had put a door on the house, made of strong wood, and locked it with a padlock.”

  “Without you knowing anything about it?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re telling me someone went there and put up a door where there wasn’t one before?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what did you do?”