The Sicilian Method

by Andrea Camilleri

  The girl went to another display case and came back to him.

  She opened a box and unscrewed the cap on the bottle, which she then thrust under his nose.

  “Smell how nice.”

  Montalbano sniffed. The scent was indeed pleasant.

  “It’s the same brand as the shaving soap. But I would like you also to try something else.” The girl pulled a sparkly little tube out of a drawer and brought it to his nose. “What do you think?”

  “What is it?” the inspector asked, feeling as if he’d suddenly entered a Buddhist temple.

  “It’s a liquid soap made with Dead Sea salts and pure Yemeni incense.”

  The inspector merely wanted to get out of that place as quickly as possible. He told the salesgirl he liked the first one better.

  As the girl went to prepare his package, a very elegant lady entered the store. The other salesgirl, who’d been sitting behind the counter all the while, greeted her.

  “Buongiorno, Signora Geneviève.”

  Upon hearing her name the inspector turned to look her in the eye. The woman was doing the same. Feeling embarrassed at being caught in a perfume shop, Montalbano wished he could vanish from the face of the earth but gave in to his curiosity to see the woman who might be the one living a floor above Mimì’s cadaver. At this point the woman smiled at him and said:

  “You’re the famous Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you?”

  Now, more than vanishing, he wished he could drop dead.

  “Yes.”

  Then, rather bluntly: “I have the pleasure of knowing your second-in-command, Domenico Augello.”

  “Me, too,” said Montalbano, immediately biting his tongue for the stupidity of what he’d just said.

  Genoveffa—known to intimates as Geneviève—who apparently didn’t know a thing about discretion, then asked: “Are you here to buy something for your companion?”

  Montalbano didn’t answer. He just turned to the salesgirl and said: “I’m sorry, I’m running late and have to go.”

  “That’s all right, I’m all done,” the girl said. “Here’s your package. I also included some small samples of eye cream for men, which you’re sure to like. And let me know how you like the shaving soap and aftershave.”

  Montalbano did not look up but only gave a half bow to Genoveffa, aka Geneviève, went over to the cash register, and, without even looking at the bill, paid with a credit card and left.

  To shake off the embarrassment and the scent plaguing him, he headed for a café. Inside, he ordered, and as he was waiting at the bar, he opened the bag from the perfumery.

  He took out the receipt, glanced at it, and very nearly fell on the floor.

  He’d spent almost as much as for a dinner for two at the fanciest restaurant in Palermo. Then, thinking that when caressing his face Antonia might find soft skin instead of sandpaper, he decided it was worth it.

  He got in his car and started up the engine to go to the office, when a doubt occurred to him. He turned off the engine to think it over. Wouldn’t it be best, in fact, to resolve all his wardrobe problems that same morning? He’d come this far; he might as well go all the way.

  He started the car back up, drove off, and miraculously found a parking spot right in front of the most elegant men’s clothing shop in Vigàta.

  Here there were no salesgirls. The personnel was . . . What kind of personnel was this, anyway? They were certainly male, but by the way they moved they seemed almost more feminine than the girls in the perfumery.

  Montalbano told them he was looking for some shirts, and they sat him down in a red velvet armchair and then asked him what size collar he wore. He replied that he didn’t know. The salesman then asked him to stand back up and ran a measuring tape around his neck. At that exact moment he heard a woman’s voice cry out: “Oh, how wonderful, Inspector! It really must be fate! This must mean we’re destined to become friends!”

  It was Genoveffa, aka Geneviève.

  The inspector cursed in his mind but managed a half smile on the outside.

  The salesman returned, carrying a stack of shirts, which he then laid out on the counter. Displayed before Montalbano was a parade of colors reminiscent of a circus or a painted Sicilian cart: polka-dotted fabrics, shirts with pinstripes and fat stripes, with rainbows, with tiny giraffe prints or huge animals, with iridescent cuffs echoing the collar, with buttons each different from the other, or collarless, or with a seventies-style collar that came halfway down to your bellybutton. It was all too much for Montalbano, who was unable to say anything and just headed for the door.

  Genoveffa, aka Geneviève, stopped him in his tracks.

  “May I be of help?”

  The inspector grabbed onto her as onto a life preserver.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I think I’ve understood that you’re looking for a shirt?”

  “Yes, but not like those,” Montalbano said disconsolately, indicating the items on the counter.

  Genoveffa, aka Geneviève, said a few esoteric words to the salesman, who turned and left, and finally came back with a new stack of shirts. These looked wearable.

  Together they selected three: white, sky-blue, and another, also sky-blue but with very fine pinstripes.

  Now he’d spent the equivalent of almost four meals for two at the same fancy Palermo restaurant. He said good-bye to Genoveffa, aka Geneviève, thanking her again, then got in his car, put the shirts in the backseat, and headed for the office.

  One minute later, he screeched to a halt.

  What was the point of new shirts if his suits sucked?

  He absolutely had to buy himself at least two new ones.

  Going back into the same store as before was out of the question. He would find that big pain in the ass Genoveffa, aka Geneviève, still there. It occurred to him that at the far end of the corso was a clothing store with ready-to-wear suits.

  He started up the car, but then shut it off again. The traffic had become more intense, he realized. He might not find another parking spot. So he got out of the car and headed off on foot.

  Halfway down the corso, he noticed the sign for a barber shop. Looking in, he saw a free chair, so he went in and sat down.

  He asked the barber to do a little trim on his hair and mustache. During the entire procedure he kept his eyes closed. Behind his eyelids, in fact, an image sequence was playing that ran from Antonia’s left shoulder blade down to her right hip, then back again. The barber asked him if he wanted “the works”—that is, shampoo, pomade, and cream for the face and eyes . . . The inspector consented.

  When he opened his eyes again and looked at himself in the mirror, he got a big surprise. He barely recognized himself. But the bit of himself he did recognize met with his approval.

  Now he’d spent almost as much as a full fish dinner at the same Palermo restaurant. He went out and headed for the clothing store.

  He wasted the rest of the morning there.

  After seeing a great many suits and choosing two, he went and tried them on. But the sleeves of the first one were too long, and the trousers of the second one were too tight around the waist. A salesman came, took his exact measurements, and said he would have the suits ready for him the following afternoon. Tomorrow? But he needed them in less than two hours! And so, in addition to the ones he’d selected, he picked out two more items, a separate jacket and pair of trousers, which both fit.

  Now he’d spent nearly the equivalent of a baptism celebration at the same restaurant.

  Coming out of the store, he walked back up the corso, bought two packs of cigarettes and some breath mints, but then dropped the box. When he bent down to pick it up, he noticed that his shoes looked shabby.

  Suddenly terrified that all the stores were about to close for lunch, he had no choice but to race into the shop of Umberto Amato, know
n for highway robbery, where he’d sworn he would never set foot.

  Umberto Amato’s fame proved almost too tame for the reality.

  For a pair of English shoes, he made him pay almost as much as if he’d flown to England in a private jet to buy them.

  Still, for whatever reason, he came out of the store all smiles, and headed in the direction of his car. At a certain point he saw a shop window featuring wonderful, elegant socks.

  They certainly would look nice under his new trousers.

  “Come on, man!” he said to himself with a note of masculine pride. “No socks! I’ll keep my own!”

  * * *

  —

  It was a little past one when he entered the police station.

  He was immediately assailed by a shouting Catarella.

  “Ahhh, Chief, Chief! Iss been all mornin’—”

  Montalbano turned around, glared at him imperiously, and put his forefinger over his lips.

  Catarella shut up at once.

  The inspector was heading for the bathroom when Fazio stopped him.

  “Where ya been, Chief? Your cell phone was turned off. I’ve been waiting for you all morning to go and see Nico Dilicata.”

  “How about that!” said Montalbano, smiling. “I’d completely forgotten about it. We can go tomorrow. What’s the hurry, anyway? And now, my friend, I’ve got work to do. See you later.”

  And he resumed walking, followed by the flummoxed eyes of Fazio and Catarella, to the bathroom, where he locked himself in with all his packages and shopping bags.

  It was twelve minutes to two when the bathroom door opened again.

  Montalbano came out looking like a fashion plate: dressed to the nines, scented, and sporting shiny shoes.

  The number of people in the corridor, meanwhile, had increased. Gallo and Galluzzo had joined Fazio and Catarella in their wait. They were all about to open their mouths to say something, but were left speechless at the sight of him.

  Never in their lives had they seen the inspector so gussied up.

  Montalbano had neither the time nor the desire to explain anything, and he communicated this fact to them by simply holding up the palm of his right hand to signal “stop.”

  He was like one of those star lawyers who, when confronted by journalists at the end of a crucial session, only answers their questions with a laconic “No comment.”

  It was ten minutes to two when he screeched to a halt outside of Enzo’s trattoria.

  He got out of the car and stood in the doorway of the restaurant, waiting for Antonia.

  And he stayed that way for a good fifteen minutes.

  There was no sign of Antonia.

  It was two twenty-five when he decided to wait for her inside.

  The moment he was in the restaurant, however, his eyes were drawn irresistibly to a scene that made him freeze: Antonia was sitting at a table with a man, and smiling at him!

  Montalbano felt his heart give out.

  Who was that man? He could see only his back. Then he recognized him. It was Enzo. And they were having a blast.

  Smoldering with jealousy, Montalbano would have liked to go up to the table, take a napkin, swat Enzo across the face with it, and say: “Consider yourself challenged.” But the joy of seeing Antonia again got the better of him.

  He approached, bent down, kissed her almost on the lips, and, without out even deigning to look at Enzo, said: “Finally.”

  “You certainly made me wait,” Antonia said frostily.

  Meanwhile Enzo had stood up and, ceding his place to Montalbano, asked: “What can I bring you?”

  Montalbano looked questioningly at Antonia, who said: “I’m so hungry I can barely see. You order for me.”

  The inspector ordered a few hearty antipasti and then, after Enzo had left, put his hand on Antonia’s and smiled.

  Antonia withdrew hers and did not return his smile.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed.

  “Nothing. What should be wrong?” said the woman. Then, shooting a quick glance at him, she added: “I liked you better before.”

  “Before when?”

  “Before before. This haircut makes you look older, and, anyway, you’re all . . . well, shiny . . . You look like you fell into a tub of brilliantine. And you smell funny. And that jacket . . .”

  “What’s wrong with the jacket?”

  “It makes you look heavier.”

  What? He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t worked, he’d spent the morning shopping, he’d spent a small fortune, and all just to look older and fatter?

  He was about to get up in a rage when she put her hand on his, caressed it, and, smiling, said: “Come on, don’t take it so hard.”

  12

  Luckily the sarde a beccafico arrived, followed by fried artichokes, then a baby-octopus-in-vinegar salad. But Montalbano’s appetite had vanished.

  Or at least he thought it had vanished. Because when he saw with what relish and satisfaction Antonia was dispatching one antipasto after another, he tried having a listless little bite himself, followed by another, and then another, until he realized that not only had his appetite not vanished, it was returning even more imperious than before.

  And thus it all became one big exchange of smiles, and looks deep into each other’s eyes, and toasts to their mutual happiness.

  Under the table, Montalbano’s legs instinctively sought out Antonia’s, which curled around his like tree roots.

  Well, that’s a relief! Montalbano thought to himself. She’s over it.

  He’d barely finished formulating this thought when she extricated herself and said severely: “Let’s try to be serious, Salvo. Remember, we’re here to work on the case.”

  “Is that the only reason you’re here?”

  “Why else, if not?”

  Montalbano lowered his head and started eating his spaghetti alla carrettiera. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped, fork in midair, when her legs returned in search of his. He raised his eyes from his plate and looked at her. She had an amused look on her face. Montalbano felt like he’d gotten on board a roller coaster and couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t, get off.

  When it came time to pay the bill, Enzo said: “Already taken care of.”

  “Did you pay?” the inspector asked Antonia, ready to get angry.

  “No, not me.”

  “If I may say so, it’s on the house: an homage to beauty!” said Enzo, bowing to Antonia.

  As Montalbano was driving towards Via La Marmora, he spontaneously put his hand on Antonia’s left leg. Without a peep, she removed it and put it back on the steering wheel.

  Man, what a sourpuss! Montalbano thought, feeling all of the hopes he’d put in the coming afternoon being dashed.

  When he arrived at Catalanotti’s building, he parked the car.

  Antonia got out and, keys already in hand, headed for the front door. Montalbano had to lock the car in a hurry and ran to catch up to her. She’d already gone into the elevator, leaving the door open. Montalbano got in, pushed the button, and gave her a little smile. She, nothing.

  Antonia was at the far end of the elevator, back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. There was about four or five feet’s distance between them, but Antonia, in her present mind-set, was millions of miles away.

  When they arrived at the right floor, Montalbano stepped aside for her, and she went out and opened the door, entering the apartment. He followed behind her, turned around to shut the door, turned again, and ran straight into a rigid Antonia, who literally threw herself on him and forcefully pressed her lips against his.

  Let my hands go free,

  and my heart, let me go free!

  Let my fingers travel

  the roads of your body.

  [. . .] Fire! Fire!

  They
dried themselves off with the same bathrobe and got dressed again.

  Montalbano told her in brief everything they’d learned from the interrogations and the conclusions they’d drawn among themselves.

  Then he added: “I have an idea. Let’s now take these folders from the closet; there must be a good hundred of them. We’ll split the load and, using the auditions as a base, and Catalanotti’s comments especially, we’ll try to get a handle on the character profiles. We’re sure to find some more interesting than others. Those we’ll put aside and then reexamine them together. All right?”

  “All right,” said Antonia, putting her glasses back on.

  * * *

  —

  They got seriously down to work. In fact, when they finished, it was almost nine p.m.

  They put the folders back in their place, leaving out only about ten.

  They spoke a little about what they’d found and then Antonia asked: “And what will we do with these remaining folders: leave them here or take them to the station?”

  “I’d leave them here,” Montalbano said slyly. “In case we need to go over them together . . .”

  “Okay,” said Antonia.

  The inspector then looked at her and, smiling, asked: “Shall we go out to dinner, or do you want to come to my place?”

  “Neither,” Antonia said brusquely. “I have to go home. Could you give me a ride to my car?”

  Montalbano realized that the roller coaster had started up again. He nodded yes, and they gathered up their things and left Catalanotti’s apartment.

  * * *

  —

  As they were driving towards Enzo’s parking lot, the inspector, without nourishing any hope, tried to make another move on Antonia: He put his right hand on her left leg, and she promptly removed it again and put it back on the steering wheel.

  Q.E.D.

  “So, what’s the plan?” the inspector asked.

  “I’ll call you,” said Antonia, getting out of the car without deigning to give him so much as a little kiss.

  * * *