But how had Catalanotti imagined them?
What kinds of auditions had he been planning for his actors?
Or perhaps even carried out?
Montalbano tried to remember the first lines in the play, the ones about reality and illusion.
He’d already read them somewhere before. But where?
Surely the folders he was going to review with Antonia would come to his aid.
But it was anyone’s guess where, and with whom, Antonia was at that moment.
His cell phone rang. Hoping it was her, he tried to pull it out of his pocket, but as he was just about to succeed, the device slipped out of his hand and slid dangerously to the very edge of the rock. He leapt forward and grabbed it, getting all wet and slimy in the process.
“Hello! . . .”
It was Livia. His disappointment was profound. Why was she calling at that hour?
“What is it?” he asked rudely.
“I’m sorry, is this not a good time?”
“No, it’s not. I’m in a meeting.”
“Well, this won’t take long. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be on the first flight to Palermo tomorrow morning, landing at ten.”
“No!” Montalbano yelled.
“No, what? Is that too early? You can’t come and pick me up? No problem, I’ll just take the bus.”
“No. You can’t come.”
“Oh, my God. Why not?”
Montalbano didn’t know what to say.
He hung up. He would tell her they got cut off. Then, thinking she would try to reach him at the station, because he told her he was in a meeting, he steeled himself and dialed her number.
“I’m sorry, I just got out of the meeting. We can talk now.”
“But what on earth got into you? Why can’t I come?”
“Livia, I’ll try to explain it all to you more calmly this evening. All I can tell you now is that it’s really not a good idea for you to come. You wouldn’t be able to find me.”
It was, in fact, only half a lie, since it was true that if Livia did come, she would no longer find the Montalbano she used to know.
“All right, then. We’ll talk this evening,” she said.
When he returned to the office, he spent the first half hour simply dawdling about. Then he reread his summary of the play. He was about to fold the page in two when Fazio came in.
“Have a seat.”
Without saying another word, he handed him the sheet of paper with his synopsis of Dangerous Corner. Fazio read it, then asked him, as if in a daze: “And what is this gobbledygook?”
“It’s the plot of the play that Catalanotti was preparing for production and looking for actors for.”
Without saying anything, Fazio carefully reread the page and then looked at Montalbano inquisitively again.
“Do you remember that we’d conjectured that the killer might be someone who’d rebelled against the rather . . . er, cruel auditions Catalanotti put his actors through?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Well, this play seems to give him a chance to unleash his fantasies to their most extreme conclusions and take them as far as they’ll go.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Fazio, the play is about bourgeois, middle-class people, who have bourgeois jobs and lead bourgeois lives. They have no real problems, other than the fact that they live in a world of illusions. One evening, one of them, Robert, demands to know the truth about something apparently insignificant, and yet it’s enough to open the floodgates to the point that somebody even dies. Maybe even two people.”
“So that means you want to orient the investigation around the people Catalanotti was looking for to put in his play?”
“Exactly.”
“Chief, there’s also something else worth mentioning. It seems to me that in the play as well they talk about money that was stolen and not returned.”
“And so?”
“And so you mustn’t forget that Catalanotti was also a moneylender. So, in my opinion, the field of investigation remains rather broad just the same.”
Montalbano’s cell phone rang. He took it out. It was Antonia.
How his heart leapt in his chest!
“Oh, joy! How nice to hear from you!”
Fazio bolted out of his chair and out of the office, closing the door behind him.
“Ciao, Salvo, I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way back to Montelusa.”
“Excellent. What time can I come and pick you up?”
“I’m sorry, but to go where?”
“I don’t know, we could go and have dinner together somewhere, and then . . .”
“No, Salvo. I’ll see you in Via La Marmora, at nine-thirty.”
“All right,” said the inspector, disappointed. “See you then.”
Antonia didn’t return his good-bye. Apparently the roller coaster was starting up again. There was a discreet knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Fazio appeared.
“Come in, come in.”
“I just wanted to let you know that Margherita Lo Bello is here.”
“Bring her in.”
Fazio vanished and, one minute later, Margherita appeared in the doorway. Her face was ghostly white, her manner nervous, and the way she moved seemed to indicate that she was deeply worried.
“Please sit down,” said the inspector, and before he could say anything else, she began speaking.
“I think it was a mistake for me to come here. Nico told me about your conversation this morning.”
“So why do you think it was a mistake?”
“Because maybe I should have brought a lawyer with me.”
“Look, let me reassure you straightaway: This is an informal discussion, as was my talk with your boyfriend.”
“Okay.”
“There are certain details, in your story and in Nico’s, that don’t add up. Can I go on?”
The girl nodded.
“First of all, both you and Nico have claimed you didn’t hear the gunshot. But at six o’clock in the morning, the street was practically deserted. It’s almost impossible you couldn’t hear the shot.”
“Maybe the gunman used a silencer,” she said, interrupting him.
“But in that case we’re talking about a professional killer, who certainly wouldn’t have just shot Nico in the leg. On top of that, we have a witness who claims she heard the shot perfectly well.”
Margherita’s face grew chalkier by the second.
“If you’ll allow me to speak frankly, I must say I don’t understand why you feel the need to deny that you heard the gunshot. Unless . . .”
The inspector stopped.
“Unless . . . ?” Margherita said in a faint voice.
“Unless,” Montalbano resumed, “the fact of not having heard the shot is the only way that you, Margherita, can uphold your version of events.”
“I don’t understand,” said Margherita.
“I’ll try to explain more clearly. The first time we spoke at the hospital, you told me you were about to open the balcony to say good-bye to Nico when you heard the buzzer ring. Do you remember?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Now, if you’re in the process of opening the door to the balcony and you hear a gunshot, you know that your Nico is in the doorway of your building and so you would normally, instinctively, open the door and run onto the balcony to see what happened. But this isn’t what happened, in your version of things, because you didn’t hear the gunshot. You heard the buzzer. But, you see, between the gunshot and the ring of the buzzer, a fair amount of time would have to pass. Nico falls, tries to get back up, can’t manage, then he finally succeeds, reaches the buzzer and intercom, and calls for help. And what about you? Wh
at are you doing all this time? Standing in front of the closed window to the balcony, not opening it? Do you realize that your story doesn’t make sense?”
Margherita didn’t know what to say. She merely hung her head and remained silent.
“Shall I go on?” asked the inspector. He paused a moment, weighing his options—because this time he was staking everything on a lie as big as a house. If he got it right, he was home free.
Margherita wearily threw her hands up.
“I’m giving you every chance to tell me the truth. But since you don’t seem to want to take advantage of the opportunity, I have no choice but to tell you that next time you’re called in, you’ll have to bring your lawyer.”
“Why?”
The girl’s question was barely audible.
“Because my witness saw you on the balcony and heard you shout.”
Margherita burst into tears. He’d been right on the money.
“All right, I’m done,” said Montalbano. “You have twenty-four hours to think about it. Talk it over with your boyfriend. Fazio, please show the young lady out.”
Fazio returned and they both sat there for a moment looking at each other in silence.
“Still have doubts?”
“No.”
“It’s clear that both Nico and Margherita saw perfectly well who it was that shot him, but don’t want to reveal his name under any circumstances. Why not?”
“Because,” said Fazio, “that name is Tano Lo Bello, Margherita’s father.”
“Did you find a photo?”
“Yessir.”
“Is there anyone here who can draw an artist’s reconstruction?”
“Yessir, Chief. There’s Di Marzio.”
“Then give him the photo at once and tell him to make the likeness pretty close.”
* * *
—
He left the station, went to the store to pick up his new clothes, which were supposed to be ready by now, put them in the car without trying them on, and headed home. The moment he got inside, he opened the French door to the veranda and remained awestruck, looking out at the sunset, which was a thing of beauty.
The horizon line looked painted by Piero Guccione. Spellbound, Montalbano sat down. The red ball was sinking, ever so slowly, into the sea. Only when it was completely gone did his thoughts turn at once to Livia. Had their relationship also slowly declined and was it now setting once and for all, as the sun had just done? It had already happened once before, the time he fell in love with Marian and was on the verge of ending things with Livia when the tragic death of François changed the picture. But this time things were completely different. Antonia wasn’t a replacement for Livia’s setting sun; Antonia was the rising sun. Antonia gave him a chance to feel alive again. Or to feel reborn, perhaps for the last time in his life. So he couldn’t afford to miss it.
But how had he and Livia come to such a pass? The distance between them, which used to strengthen their bond, turning absence into a kind of perpetual presence, was now only distance, absence. And neither of them had made any effort, any real effort, to try and fill that absence. Livia remained in Genoa, living her life there, and had only needed to get a dog to feel less alone. He’d continued working at his job in Vigàta, thinking things were fine that way, leading a life destined for a slow decline. By the sea, perhaps, but a decline nonetheless. But life actually has more imagination than we do. And he wanted to remain inside this fantasy for as long as possible, maybe forever. Whatever the case, he owed Livia an explanation before breaking things off. It was a complex matter, and a few phone calls weren’t going to suffice. He absolutely had to find the courage to get on a plane and go to Boccadasse.
It was now dark outside. And, for whatever reason, all of a sudden the joy at the idea that he would soon be seeing Antonia began to be tinged with a subtle dose of melancholy.
He took immediate action. He got up, went inside, grabbed his new clothes, went into the bedroom, and began to get undressed. He put on the first suit and looked at himself in the mirror. He was ridiculous. Not that there was anything specificially wrong with the suit. It just didn’t hang quite right. The sleeves were too wide, the trousers too short.
He felt like a puppet forced to wear armor that wasn’t its own. He took the suit off in haste and tried on the second one. This time the armor actually looked like a sarcophagus. He threw everything on the floor and, since he’d started sweating, headed for the bathroom, but he made the mistake of looking at himself in the mirror. The only result of this was that he immediately started doing push-ups. When he could no longer bend his arms, he dragged himself into the shower.
When he’d finished, he decided to put on the suit he’d worn that day. He donned one of his newly bought shirts. Once he was dressed, he faced a dilemma: to eat or not to eat?
Maybe discovering what Adelina had made for him would help him to answer the question.
He opened the refrigerator: nothing.
He opened the oven: nothing.
On the table, however, was a pot with a dish over it.
When he tried to lift the dish, he was unable. It stuck so firmly it seemed glued. So before he could get all upset, he opened a drawer, took out a knife, slipped the blade between the dish and the pot, and . . . eureka! Caponata! The dilemma had been solved. Grabbing a fork, he was about to set to when a question occurred to him: Will Antonia have eaten or not?
Perhaps the only solution was to bring the caponata with him.
He sat down, felt happy, drank a glass of wine, then started to look for a container to carry the caponata in.
He opened the kitchen cupboard: nothing. A plastic container, but only a square lid. An aluminum pie pan, but no paper to cover it with. He found a wide-necked bottle, rinsed it out, stuck a funnel into the neck, and started pressing the caponata through with a spoon. Every so often the spoon would lose its way to the bottle and end up in his mouth.
Closing the bottle, he put it in a plastic bag. Before going out, he took a look at himself in the mirror and noticed that his new shirt was spotted with stains.
Amid a litany of curses, he went into the bathroom, washed himself, put on his last new shirt, and could finally leave the house.
In the car it occurred to him that they had nothing to drink. He would stop in at the bar again.
* * *
—
It was late at night. The street was rather broad, and the car advanced silently and ever so slowly, drifting past the other cars parked along the sidewalk. It seemed not to be rolling on wheels but sliding on butter.
All at once it stopped, lurched to the left, and went back up the same street in reverse.
It parked in front of a shop window full of colorful objects.
The driver’s-side door opened and a man got out, carefully closing the door behind him.
It was Mimì Augello.
* * *
—
“Salvo, what are you doing here?”
Inspector Montalbano, who was in the process of paying for a bottle of wine, recognized the voice and felt a chill run up his spine.
How the hell was he going to answer that question? Planting a half smile on his lips, he retorted: “And what are you doing here?”
“I was on my way to your place when I saw you in the window.”
“And why were you going to my place? Did you discover another corpse?”
Meanwhile they’d left the bar.
“Cut the shit, Salvo. Just the thought of our cadaver still makes me break out in a cold sweat.”
“That cadaver is all yours, Mimì. Now tell me why you were going to my house.”
“Because I know who the blonde is.”
“What blonde? Catalanotti’s?”
“You bet.”
“Congratulations,” the inspector said hasti
ly. “You can tell me the whole story tomorrow.”
“What are you saying, Salvo? This is big news. This is a bombshell. We need to talk about it immediately.”
As if he’d grown deaf, Montalbano opened his car door and was about to get in, but Mimì put a hand on his shoulder and held him back.
“Look at me,” said Mimì.
Montalbano turned around.
Mimì Augello looked deep into the inspector’s eyes.
“Tell me the truth: Where are you going right now?”
Montalbano realized that from that moment on, Mimì was not going to let go of the bone. Better calm him down by tossing him a little meat.
“Okay, Mimì, no problem. Let’s go inside, sit down, and you can tell me what you have to tell me.”
Once inside, the barman warned them: “Hey, guys, I was just closing up.”
“Give us five minutes and we’ll clear out,” said Mimì, still eyeing the inspector suspiciously. “You’re not convincing me, Salvo: the wine, the new shirt, all spruced up like that . . .”
Montalbano didn’t give him time for any more questions.
“So, are we gonna talk about this woman or not?” he said, turning around.
“Sure. Her name is Anita Pastore, and she’s the sole proprietor of a family chocolate factory.”
“And what else do you know?”
“Nothing. I’ve got her address and phone number and was coming to your place to ask how we should proceed.”
“Couldn’t we talk about this tomorrow morning? I was just on my way to Adelina’s place, because her son Pasquale . . .”
Mimì threw up his hands.
“As you wish, sir!” he replied, getting up.
As he was opening his car door to get in, something occurred to the inspector. What if Mimì decided to follow him to find out where he was actually going?
And so he decided to head out in the opposite direction, away from Via La Marmora. After some ten minutes, when he was certain Mimì wasn’t following him, he headed back in the right direction.
He found a parking spot near the front door. Getting out of the car, he looked at his watch. Between one thing and another, he’d lost forty-five minutes.
The Sicilian Method Page 16
