The Sicilian Method

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Ouf!” said Antonia. “Always thinking about food . . . At this hour we’ll have to content ourselves with a few stale sandwiches in a bar . . .”

  “No,” said the inspector, cutting her off. “I have a better idea. What if we went and ate at my house?”

  “At home? What, are we going to start cooking now? We don’t have all this time, you know . . .”

  “Come on! There’s no need to cook anything! I’m lucky enough to have a housekeeper who’s a fabulous cook. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Antonia.

  * * *

  —

  When they got to Marinella and Antonia sat down on the veranda, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “What a fantastic place!” she said.

  Montalbano felt proud.

  “I’ll go and see what Adelina cooked up.”

  There was nothing in the refrigerator. To make up for it, however, in the oven . . . there was a dish he’d never seen before!

  Almost as if she’d foreseen that he would have an important guest to dinner that evening, Adelina had prepared a timballo di maccheroni in crosta.

  It was exactly like the one described in Lampedusa’s The Leopard: a timballo fit for a prince! And when Montalbano set it on a tray with two plates, two forks, two glasses, and a bottle of wine, and took it all out to the veranda, Antonia was thoroughly charmed. Neither of them had the heart to break the pastry crust, but when the knight in shining armor Montalbano raised his knife to do so, he released a head-spinning scent of sugar and cinnamon. Inside they found all manner of good things.

  Antonia and Salvo looked at each other with contentment, and, at the same time, started eating directly from the pan.

  For at least three minutes all they did was exchange smiles and mumbles of pleasure. Then Antonia asked: “But does Adelina always cook like this?”

  “No,” said Montalbano. “Maybe she sensed that tonight was going to be a special evening.”

  “I can’t eat another bite,” Antonia said at a certain moment, setting her fork down.

  Montalbano thought it wouldn’t be right to keep eating alone, even though he felt he could clean the pan. And so, to avoid giving in to temptation, he stood up and took the timballo into the kitchen. He returned to the veranda with two glasses and a bottle of whisky. They started sipping it slowly, without talking.

  Montalbano felt his heart slowly opening up, happy just to be beside this creature, who for him was like a gift that had fallen from the heavens at a time when he’d been sure that no such miracles could ever occur in his life anymore. It couldn’t be true. And so, just to be sure that the moment was real, he put an arm around Antonia’s shoulders and squeezed her. And she let herself go. His physical contact with her gave him the courage to speak.

  “You probably noticed that I was very upset by the phone call at the restaurant.”

  “Yes, but don’t worry about that. You’re under no obligation to tell me—”

  “But, the fact is, I really want to talk to you about it. The whole thing concerns you directly.”

  Antonia looked surprised.

  “Concerns me directly?” she said, pulling back.

  “Yes. The phone call was from Livia, my girlfriend. I’d mentioned to you, I think, that I wasn’t single.”

  “I remember perfectly well.”

  “I’ve been with her for a very long time. Livia lives in Liguria—”

  “There’s no better way to make a relationship last,” Antonia cut in, interrupting him.

  “No better way than what?”

  “Being together without being physically together. But please go on. I’m very curious to know how this phone call concerns me directly.”

  Montalbano had a moment of hesitation. He thought he heard a note of sarcasm in her last words. But, at any rate, he went on.

  “Livia is an extremely important person to me. She’s a wife, a companion, and we’ve been together for so long I can’t even tell you how long it’s been. It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s just what?”

  “It’s just that our relationship has changed. The distance, which at first acted as a spur for us to see each other as soon as we could, is now just distance. Our passion has become a fraternal love. We no longer feel the need to spend time together. In short, I think it’s over between me and Livia.”

  “And what, if I may ask, have I to do with any of it?”

  “You have a lot to do with it, Antonia, because meeting you was the real litmus test. With you, I feel alive again. I want to be near you at all times, I feel the physical need to have you beside me. I want to be with you. I feel happy with you.”

  Antonia looked at him as though shaken and confused.

  “But I’ll soon be leaving. I don’t . . .”

  “I’ll come with you, Antonia. I’ll request a transfer, or submit my resignation, but I don’t want to lose you. I want us to go somewhere and live together.”

  Antonia at this point stood up, went over to the balustrade of the veranda, then came back, took a gulp of whisky, and sat down again.

  “Just one question, Salvo.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “But have you, for even an instant, asked yourself what I might want? Have you asked yourself if I want to live with you? If I feel the same way about you? If I also want you by my side in the future?”

  She stopped, took another sip of whisky, and, with the anger in her voice mounting, continued.

  “Why? I’m wondering why you would think that a young, more or less pretty woman, with her career going reasonably well, should be so anxious to have a man by her side? Maybe you’re also thinking that I can’t wait to get married and have children so I can stop working? Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that if I’m single it might just be because I want to be single? That it’s not because I’m a misanthropist or a lesbian, or because my father raped me as a girl, or because I’m an old maid deep inside, and not even because men have let me down in life? That it’s simply because I like it this way? I’m just fine having no obligations to others, to a husband, to a child. I’m fine the way I am. Period.”

  To Montalbano these words had the same effect as a hundred knife-thrusts to the heart. Because he suddenly realized that his passion had so blinded him that he couldn’t see the reality of the person he had before him. He’d already considered her a thing of his own, and this was a terrible mistake, due, perhaps, to his advancing age. Or perhaps only to fear. How many years was he older than this girl, after all?

  He hadn’t realized that for Antonia theirs was only a passing encounter, whereas he had believed that their meeting might be the culmination of his existence, not bothering, for even a second, to ask himself what the whole thing might mean to her.

  In spite of everything, Montalbano not only still desired her, but he now held her in higher esteem than ever, having had occasion to appreciate her honesty and sincerity.

  He remained silent until Antonia said: “But are you really so sure it’s all over with Livia?”

  Montalbano smiled tensely and didn’t answer. Only after a pause did he speak.

  “Thank you for helping me to understand a great many things. I apologize. We can go now, if you want.”

  * * *

  —

  Montalbano used the time that it took to drive to Via La Marmora to tell Antonia what Anita Pastore had told him and the conclusions that he had drawn with the help of Fazio and Augello. Antonia remained silent all the while, just listening and not saying a word.

  They sat down on the usual little sofa. The twelve folders were still there, stacked on top of one another.

  “I’m more and more convinced,” said the inspector, “that the killer’s name is in one of these.”

  “I was thinking something else,” said Antoni
a.

  “And what’s that?”

  “If I’ve understood correctly from what you’ve told me, nobody, in theory, had access to the Via Biancamano apartment, because the owner had left the keys at the real estate agency. So I asked myself: Then how did they get in? How were they able to take the body away? Clearly there must be another set of keys somewhere, which somebody used to open the door. Can I make a suggestion?”

  “You can say whatever you like to me,” the inspector replied with a smile. Antonia gave him a little push and then continued.

  “I would go and have a little chat with this real estate agent if I were you,” she said.

  “You’re right,” said Montalbano. “So, shall we get to work on these folders?”

  “That’s what we’re here for. I thought of a way to save time, however.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The whole time I was working in my office in Montelusa, all I did was think about this case. I even downloaded and read the play. I’m very struck by the personality of this Carmelo Catalanotti. He seems like a man who really liked to play with fire.”

  “In what sense?”

  “In the sense that he would go looking for, and finding, men and women with either something to hide or huge personal problems. And he even succeeded in making them tell him their—”

  “More than that”—Montalbano cut her off—“he wasn’t satisfied merely with their stories: First he would make them confess and then, at the right time, reopen the old wounds with his scalpel and make them bleed again.”

  “You’re right,” Antonia resumed. “He had a very sharp sort of sixth sense, a kind of diviner’s skill for finding borderline personalities, people whose reactions weren’t always predictable. Reactions which he, of course, intentionally provoked himself. So, anyway, I have the impression, who knows why, that he was, well, the victim of what you might call an accident in the workplace . . .”

  Montalbano remained pensive for a moment.

  “So you’ve come to the same conclusion as me.”

  Antonia continued: “If Catalanotti’s model for the mise-en-scène was Signora Pastore’s chocolate business, clearly the information she gave him was both revealing but also limiting to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that while everyone at the Pastore business is convinced they’re looking at a suicide, in the play there’s a further twist: That is, they discover that Robert, the victim, was murdered, if you can call it that, by Olwen, who killed him while fighting off his attempted rape. The death was accidental. He’d threatened her with a revolver to make her give in to his desires and in the struggle she inadvertently made the gun go off, killing him.”

  “That’s exactly right,” said Montalbano.

  “So, if Catalanotti was following that plot every step of the way, clearly we should find the woman who killed him in one of the twelve folders we’ve set aside.”

  “Can you see that we’ve come to the same conclusion?”

  “Come on, let me finish. To save time, I would advise you to focus only on the women—on the possible Olwen.”

  As she was speaking, an idea began to surface in Montalbano’s head, and since he didn’t want to add more doubts to those he already had, he spoke openly.

  “Thank you, Antonia, you’ve made a detailed, intelligent argument. You’ve given me some very valuable tips, but there’s something I want to ask you, and I hope you’ll answer my question sincerely. Does what you’re saying mean you won’t be involved any further in the case?”

  “Yes, Salvo, my contribution ends here. I have one last task: to get you the results of the tests on the samples I took at Via Biancamano as quickly as possible.”

  What else could he say?

  Any other statement on his part would have aggravated the situation between them. All he could do was accept the reality. Damn the obviousness of that reality!

  How hard it was to swallow reality at that moment in his life. And yet he had no other choice. To close his eyes and swallow and swallow. Down to the dregs.

  “All right,” he said, springing to his feet. “We can go, if you like.”

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  The inspector grabbed the folders, stuck them under his arm, and ten minutes later they were in the car.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “Of course. How else did you think I would get there?”

  * * *

  —

  Montalbano felt torn. On the one hand he wished he could drop Antonia off at her hotel as quickly as possible so he could go and flagellate himself in solitude; on the other he was tempted to drive as slow as a snail just so he could be with her a few minutes longer. He couldn’t resist, and ended up going at such a crawl that at one point she asked: “Everything all right?”

  “It’s just the engine . . .” he muttered.

  It took forever. Before getting out of the car, Antonia leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “We’ll talk later,” she said.

  She got out. Montalbano followed her with his eyes, watching her until the hotel door closed behind her.

  Some ten minutes passed with him sitting there motionless, feeling that something odd was happening in his veins. It was as though someone had injected ice into them. Yes, that was it: He felt like an ice cube. Frozen, lifeless. He was unable to move the amount it would have taken to start up the car. Finally he managed, and then the car shot off like a rocket to get him to his lair in Marinella as quickly as possible, as if fleeing to a safe, inviolable refuge in which to hide.

  Going to bed was out of the question. He opened the French door and sat down on the veranda, but after just a few minutes he got up. The night felt too cold. He took the folders he’d put on the table and placed them next to the armchair, in front of the television. He sat down. Grabbing the first folder, he set it on his lap and opened it. One second later, he closed it. He hadn’t the slightest desire to work on the case. A great many thoughts were swirling about in his head, but they were all entangled like snakes. He fired up a cigarette and sat there smoking it, looking at the blank television screen. Then the phone gave the briefest of rings and immediately broke off. Montalbano’s heart stopped beating for a second. The only person calling him at that hour would have to be Livia . . . or else Antonia. But there were no other rings. It had to have been a momentary contact. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to call Livia. He got up, put his hand on the receiver . . . and stopped. He shook his head. And sat back down.

  And he asked himself: Why had he felt the need to call Livia? What would he or could he have possibly said to her? What would or could Livia have possibly said to him, after what she’d already clearly told him over the telephone?

  She’d shouted to him that she didn’t want to wait anymore.

  All I ever do is wait . . . and wait . . . I’ve been waiting all my life, suspended between your work and what is supposed to happen at some future date that never arrives.

  Future? But did he want to have a future with Livia?

  For years he’d lived their life as a couple as though it were suspended in time and space. His work had always taken precedence over their relationship. Their plans were always made on the fly. Whenever a chance to “take responsibility,” so to speak, for their relationship presented itself—as with François—he’d always erected barriers of defense. He’d never really asked Livia to marry him or to live with him. Every time they would begin to discuss it he’d let the subject drop into that frozen bubble of space and time. As if his relationship with Livia were too ironclad to be affected by space and time . . . Considered a sure thing . . . taken for granted . . . Also taken for granted were the phone calls making small talk, the evenings spent together on the sofa saying hardly anything to each other, or lying in bed in each other’s arms without kissing.


  Was that somehow love?

  He had no doubt: Yes, it was love. Old and threadbare like a worn-out suit, with a few holes here and there, patched up as best one could, tired, but still love.

  But then, hearing the word in his head, his heart gave a tug, and another name surfaced: Antonia. With Antonia, on the other hand, he’d immediately made plans for the future: He’d confided to her, without embarrassment, that he wanted to stay with her forever, that he would retire for her, that he would follow her to the ends of the earth. And yet, with Antonia, nothing was certain. Their conversations were not taken for granted, nor was their lovemaking, nor was the time and place of their next encounter. Their whole relationship was uncertain. It was at the mercy of space and time.

  And was this somehow love?

  Once again, he had no doubt: Yes, it was love.

  The only solution was to set to the bottle of whisky. Which he did.

  When at last he lay down, he plunged into a black abyss, and for this reason he didn’t know how or what time it was when he finally made up his mind to undress and get into bed without bothering to shower.

  Some time later the insistent ringing of the telephone forced him to make the effort to open his eyes. He immediately closed them again, wounded by the first light of dawn.

  This, he thought as he was getting up to answer the phone, is surely going to be that pain in the ass Catarella, needing to inform me of the latest murder.

  His mouth was still all gluey with whisky, and his “Hello” came out as a kind of grunt. The voice that replied brought him immediately to his senses: lucid and perfectly alert.

  “What were you doing, sleeping?” asked Antonia.

  And while his mind had clearly woken up, his voice betrayed him.

  “Nzzz ngrt.”

  “Tell you what,” the girl said, thinking practically. “Go and take a shower, and I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

  17

  Montalbano got down to business with such speed that he moved like Larry Semon in a silent film. Before the phone started ringing again, he’d managed to shower, comb his hair, shave, douse his face in sandalwood-scented aftershave, and put the coffeepot on the burner.