The Shape of Water

by Andrea Camilleri

“When they built the enclosure wall after shutting it down, they put in a tiny little door, so small you have to bend down to pass through it, an iron door.”

  “Who’s got the key?”

  “I don’t know. I can find out.”

  “Don’t just find out. I want it before noon.”

  He went back into his office and phoned Jacomuzzi, who let him wait a bit before deciding to answer.

  “What’s wrong, you got dysentery?”

  “Cut it, Montalbano. What do you want?”

  “What have you found on the necklace?”

  “What do you think? Nothing. Actually, fingerprints, but there are so many of them and they’re such a mess they’re indecipherable. What should I do?”

  “Send it back to me before the end of the day.

  Understood? Before the end of the day.”

  He heard Fazio’s irritated voice shout from the next room:

  “Jesus Christ! Is it possible nobody knows who this Sicilchim belonged to? It must have some sort of bankruptcy trustee, some official custodian!” And, as soon as he saw Montalbano enter, “It’d probably be easier to get the keys to St. Peter’s.”

  The inspector told him he was going out and wouldn’t be gone more than two hours. When he returned, he wanted to find that key on his desk.

  ~

  As soon as she saw him in the doorway, Montaperto’s wife turned pale and put her hand over her heart.

  “Oh my God! What is it? What happened?”

  “Nothing that you should worry about. Actually, I have good news for you, believe it or not. Is your husband home?”

  “Yes, he got off early today.”

  The young woman sat him in the kitchen and went to call Saro, who had lain down in the bedroom at the baby’s side, hoping to get him to close his eyes for just a little while.

  “Sit down,” the inspector said to Saro when he appeared, “and listen to me carefully. Where were you thinking of taking your son with the money you would have got from pawning the necklace?”

  “To Belgium,” Saro promptly replied. “My brother lives there, and he said we could stay at his house for a while.”

  “Have you got the money for the journey?”

  “Scrimping and saving here and there, we’ve managed to put a little aside,” said the woman, without repressing a hint of pride in her voice.

  “But it’s only enough for the trip.”

  “Excellent. Now I want you to go to the station, today, and buy the tickets. Actually, no, take the bus and go to Raccadali—is there a travel agency there?”

  “Yes. But why go all the way to Raccadali?”

  “I don’t want anyone here in Vigàta to know what you’re planning to do. While you’re doing that, your wife should be packing for the journey. You mustn’t tell anyone where you’re going, not even family. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, as far as that goes. But excuse me, Inspector, is there anything wrong in going to Belgium to have your son treated? You’re telling me to do all these things on the sly, as if we were doing something illegal.”

  “You’re not doing anything illegal, Saro, no need to worry about that. But there are a lot of things I want to be absolutely sure about, so you’ll have to trust me and do exactly as I say.”

  “All right, but maybe you forgot. What are we going to Belgium for if the money we’ve got is barely enough to get us there and back? To go sightseeing?”

  “You’ll get the money you need. Tomorrow morning one of my men will bring you a check for ten million lire.”

  “Ten million? What for?” asked Saro, breathless.

  “You’ve earned it. It’s the percentage you’re entitled to for turning in the necklace you found. You can spend the money openly, without worry. As soon as you get the check, cash it immediately and then leave.”

  “Who’s the check from?”

  “From Counselor Rizzo.”

  “Ah,” said Saro, turning pale.

  “You mustn’t be afraid. It’s all legitimate, and in my hands. Still, it’s best to be as careful as possible. I wouldn’t want Rizzo to change his mind, out of the blue, like some bastards. Ten million lire, after all, is still ten million lire.”

  ~

  Giallombardo told him the sergeant had gone to get the key to the old factory but wouldn’t be back for at least two hours; the custodian, who was not in good health, was staying with a son in Montedoro. The policeman also informed him that Judge Lo Bianco had phoned, looking for him, and wanted to be called back by ten o’clock.

  “Ah, Inspector, excellent, I was just on my way out, I have to go to the cathedral for the funeral. And I know I will be assaulted, literally assaulted, by influential people all asking me the same question. Do you know what question that is?”

  “ ‘Why hasn’t the Luparello case been closed yet?’ ”

  “You guessed it, Inspector, and it’s no joke. I don’t want to use harsh words, and I don’t want to be misunderstood in any way . . . but, in short, if you’ve got something concrete in hand, then out with it. Otherwise close the case. And let me say I simply don’t understand: what do you think you’re going to discover?

  Mr. Luparello died of natural causes. And you, I have the impression, are digging your heels in only because he happened to die in the Pasture. I’m curious. If Luparello had been discovered at the side of the road, would you have found anything wrong with that? Answer me.”

  “No.”

  “So where do you want to go with this? The case must be closed by tomorrow. Understood?”

  “Don’t get angry, Judge.”

  “Well, I am indeed angry, but only at myself.

  You’re making me use a word, the word ‘case,’ that really should not properly be used in this case. By tomorrow, understood?”

  “Could we make it Saturday?”

  “What are we doing? Bartering at the market? All right. But if you are so much as an hour late, your superiors will hear about this.”

  ~

  Zito kept his word, and the Free Channel office secretary handed him the fax from Palermo. Montalbano read it as he headed off to the Pasture.

  Young Mr. Giacomo is a classic example of the spoiled rich kid, very true to the model, from which he hasn’t the imagination to deviate. His father is notoriously honorable, except for one peccadillo (more of which below), the opposite of the late lamented Luparello.

  Giacomino lives with his second wife, Ingrid Sjostrom, whose qualities I have already personally described to you, on the second floor of his father’s villa. I shall now enumerate his exploits, at least those I can remember.

  An ignorant dolt, he never wanted to study or apply himself to anything other than the precocious analysis of pussy, but nevertheless he always passed with flying colors, thanks to the intervention of the Eternal Father (or more simply, his father). He never attended any university courses, though enrolled in the medical school ( just as well for the public health). At age sixteen, driving his father’s powerful car without a license, he ran over and killed an eight-year-old boy. Giacomino, for all practical purposes, never paid for this, but the father did, and handsomely at that, compensating the child’s family. As an adult he set up a business in services.

  Two years later the business failed, Cardamone lost not a penny, and his business partner nearly shot himself.

  A revenue officer trying to get to the bottom of things found himself suddenly transferred to Bolzano. He is currently in pharmaceuticals (imagine that! Daddy’s the brains behind it, of course) and throws around a lot more money than he probably takes in.

  An enthusiast for race cars and horses, he has founded a polo club (in Montelusa!) where not a single game of that noble sport has ever been played, but there is plenty of snorting to make up for this lack.

  If I had to express my sincere opinion of the man, I would say that he represents a splendid specimen of the nincompoop, of the sort that flourish wherever there is a rich and powerful father.At age twenty-two
he contracted matrimony (isn’t that how you say it?) with one Albamarina (Baba, to friends) Collatino, from a wealthy Palermo business family.Two years later Baba went to the Rota with a request for annulment, on the grounds of manifest impotentia generandi on the part of her spouse. I forgot to mention that at age eighteen, that is, four years before the marriage, Giacomino got one of the maids’ daughters pregnant, and the regrettable incident was, as usual, hushed up by the Almighty.Thus there are two possibilities: either Baba was lying or the maid’s daughter was lying. In the uncensurable opinion of the holy Roman prelates, it was the maid who had lied (how could it be otherwise?), and Giacomo was incapable of procreating (and for this we should thank the Lord in heaven). Granted her annulment, Baba got engaged to a cousin with whom she’d already had relations, while Giacomino headed toward the foggy lands of the North to forget.

  In Sweden he happened to attend a treacherous sort of rally race, the course of which ran around lakes, crags, and mountains.The winner was a tall, beautiful blonde, a mechanic by profession, whose name is, of course, Ingrid Sjostrom. How shall I put it, my friend, to avoid having it all sound like a soap opera? Coup de foudre, followed by marriage.They have now been living together for five years, and from time to time Ingrid goes back home and enters her little auto races. She cuckolds her husband with Swedish ease and simplicity.The other day at the polo club, five gentlemen (so to speak) played a party game. One of the questions asked was “Will anyone who has not made it with Ingrid please stand?” All five remained seated. They all had a good laugh, especially Giacomo, who was present, though he didn’t take part in the game.There is a rumor, totally unverifiable, that even the austere Dr.

  Cardamone père has wet his whistle with his daughter-in-law. And this is the peccadillo I alluded to at the start. Nothing else comes to mind. I hope I’ve been enough of a gossip for your purposes. Vale—

  nicola

  Montalbano arrived at the Pasture about two. There wasn’t a living soul around. The lock on the little iron door was encrusted with salt and rust. He had expected this and had expressly brought along the oil spray used to lubricate firearms. He went back to the car and turned on the radio, waiting for the oil to do its work.

  The funeral—as a local radio announcer recounted—had reached some very high peaks of emotion, so that at one point the widow had felt faint and had to be carried outside. The eulogies were given, in order, by the bishop, the national vice secretary of the party, the regional secretary, and, in a personal vein, by Minister Pellicano, who had long been a friend of the deceased. A crowd of at least two thousand people waited in front of the church for the casket to emerge, at which point they burst into warm, deeply touched applause.

  “Warm” is fine, but how can applause be “deeply touched”? Montalbano asked himself. He turned off the radio and went to try the key. It turned in the lock, but the door seemed anchored to the ground.

  Pushing it with his shoulder, he finally managed to open it a crack, just wide enough to squeeze through.

  The door was obstructed by plaster chips, metal scraps, and sand; obviously the custodian hadn’t been around for years. He noticed that there were actually two outer walls: the protective wall with the little entrance door and a crumbling old enclosure wall that had once surrounded the factory when it was running.

  Through the breaches in this second wall he could see rusted machinery, large tubes—some twisted, some straight—gigantic alembics, iron scaffolds with big holes, trestles hanging in absurd equilibrium, steel turrets soaring at illogical angles. And everywhere gashes in the flooring, great voids once covered with iron truss beams now broken and ready to fall below, where there was nothing anymore except a layer of dilapidated cement with yellowing spikes of grass shooting up from the cracks. Montalbano stood motionless in the gap between the two walls, taking it all in, spellbound. While he liked the view of the factory from the outside, he was thrilled by the inside and regretted not having brought a camera. Then a low, continuous sound distracted his attention, a kind of sonic vibration that seemed to be coming, in fact, from inside the factory.

  What machinery could be running in here? he asked himself, suspicious.

  He thought it best to exit, return to his car, and get his pistol from the glove compartment. He hardly ever carried a weapon; the weight bothered him, and the gun rumpled his trousers and jackets. Going back inside the factory, where the noise continued, he began to walk carefully toward the side farthest from where he had entered. The drawing Saro had made was extremely precise and served as his guide. The noise was like the humming that certain high-tension wires sometimes make in very humid conditions, except that here the sound was more varied and musical and broke off from time to time, only to resume almost at once with a different modulation. He advanced, tense, taking care not to trip over the rocks and debris that constituted the floor in the narrow corridor between the two walls, when out of the corner of his eye, through an opening, he saw a man moving parallel to him inside the factory. He drew back, sure the other had already seen him. There was no time to lose; the man must have accomplices.

  Montalbano leapt forward, weapon in hand, and shouted:

  “Stop! Police!”

  He realized in a fraction of a second that the other had anticipated this move and was already half bent forward, pistol in hand. Diving down, Montalbano pulled the trigger, and before he hit the ground, he managed to fire another two shots. But instead of hearing what he expected—a return shot, a cry, a shuffling of fleeing steps—he heard a deafening explosion and then a tinkling of glass breaking to pieces.

  When in an instant he realized what had happened, he was overcome by laughter so violent that he couldn’t stand up. He had shot at himself, at the image that a large surviving pane of glass, tarnished and dirty, had cast back at him.

  I can’t tell anyone about this, he said to himself. They would ride me out of the force on a rail.

  The gun he was holding in his hand suddenly looked ridiculous to him, and he stuck it inside his belt. The shots, their long echo, the crash, and the shattering of the glass had completely covered up the sound, which presently resumed, more varied than before. Now he understood: it was the wind, which every day, even in summer, lashed that stretch of beach, then abated in the evening, as if not wanting to disturb Gegè’s business. Threading through the trestles’ metal cables—some broken, some taut—and through smokestacks pocked with holes like giant fifes, the wind played its plaintive melody inside the dead factory, and the inspector paused, entranced, to listen.

  It took him almost half an hour to reach the spot that Saro had indicated, having had, at various points, to climb over piles of debris. At last he figured he was exactly parallel to the spot where Saro had found the necklace on the other side of the wall, and he started looking calmly around. Magazines and scraps of paper yellowed by sun, weeds, Coca-Cola bottles (the cans being too light to be thrown over the high wall), wine bottles, a bottomless metal wheelbarrow, a few tires, some iron scraps, an unidentifiable object, a rotten wooden beam. And beside the beam a leather handbag with strap, stylish, brand-new, stamped with a designer name. It clashed visibly with the surrounding ruin.

  Montalbano opened it. Inside were two rather large stones, apparently inserted as ballast to allow the purse to achieve the proper trajectory from outside the wall to inside, and nothing else. He took a closer look at the purse. The owner’s metal initials had been torn off, but the leather still bore their impressions, an I and an S : Ingrid Sjostrom.

  They’re serving it up to me on a silver platter, thought Montalbano.

  10

  The thought of accepting the platter so kindly being offered him, along with everything that might be on it, came to mind as he was refortifying himself with a generous helping of the roast peppers that Adelina had left in the refrigerator. He looked for Giacomo Cardamone’s telephone number in the directory; his Swedish wife would probably be home at this hour.

  “Who dat speak
in’?”

  “It’s Giovanni. Is Ingrid there?”

  “I go see, you wait.”

  He tried to guess from what part of the world this housekeeper had landed in the Cardamone home, but he couldn’t figure it out.

  “Ciao, monster cock, how are you?”

  It was a deep, husky voice, which fit the description Zito had given him. Her words, however, had no erotic effect whatsoever on the inspector. Actually, they made him feel upset: of all the names in the world, he had to go and pick one belonging to a man Ingrid knew down to his anatomical proportions.

  “Are you still there? Did you fall asleep on your feet? Did you fuck a lot last night, you pig?”

  “Excuse me, signora . . .”

  Ingrid’s reaction was immediate, an acceptance without surprise or indignation.

  “You’re not Giovanni.”

  “No.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “I’m an inspector with the police force. My name is Montalbano.”

  He expected an expression of alarm but was promptly disappointed.

  “Ooh, how exciting! A cop! What do you want from me?”

  Her tone remained familiar, even after she knew she was speaking with someone she didn’t know.

  Montalbano maintained his formality.

  “I would like to have a few words with you.”

  “I can’t this afternoon, but I’m free this evening.”

  “All right then, this evening.”

  “Where? Shall I come to your office? Tell me where it is.”

  “Better not. I’d prefer somewhere more discreet.”

  Ingrid paused.

  “How about your bedroom?” The woman’s voice had grown irritated. Apparently she was beginning to think that the person on the line was some imbecile trying to make advances.

  “Listen, signora, I realize you’re suspicious, with good reason. Let’s do this: I’ll be back at headquarters in Vigàta in an hour. You can phone there and ask for me. All right?”