A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

  ‘I can try.’

  He dictated the name to him, breaking it down syllable by syllable. And he concluded:

  ‘And now you can go and shove it up your—’

  The inspector hung up.

  The fact that the poison was used in hospitals wasn’t, after all, such bad news.

  *

  He’d just gone back outside and sat down on the veranda when he heard the front door open and close.

  He got up and went inside to greet Livia.

  The events that followed would probably be best appreciated if they were recounted as in a movie screenplay:

  Full shot. Livia and Salvo come together in the middle of the room. They are both smiling.

  Tight close-up of Livia’s face. Her smile suddenly vanishes.

  Tight close-up of Salvo, who stops smiling, surprised and wondering why Livia is no longer smiling.

  Full shot. Both standing there, not moving, staring at each other.

  Detail of Livia’s right arm being raised.

  Close-up of Salvo’s face receiving a violent slap. Livia’s voice off-camera: ‘Disgusting pig!’

  Full shot. Livia running out of the scene. Salvo brings a hand to the slapped cheek and stays like that.

  Tight close-up of Salvo, hand still on cheek, bewildered, confused, incredulous.

  But what had got into her? Had she lost her mind? This was the first time she’d ever dared to whack him like that! Why did she do it? He was as innocent as Christ!

  Burning with rage, he shook himself and went after her. She’d locked herself in the bathroom.

  ‘Open up, Livia!’

  No answer. He shook the doorknob violently. ‘Open the door!’

  Still nothing. Furious, he drove his shoulder hard into the door, which didn’t move one millimetre.

  He stepped back, got a running start, and put his shoulder again into the door. It hurt like hell, and on the other side of the door the whole bathroom shook; but, other than that, the result was nil.

  ‘If you don’t stop I’m going to call the police!’ Livia shouted.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the police!’

  ‘Then I’ll call the carabinieri!’

  He stopped in the middle of a second run towards the door.

  This was a serious threat. He mustn’t do anything stupid. If the carabinieri intervened, the whole thing was sure to end in farce.

  He gave the door a final kick, but without conviction, and abandoned his assault.

  He decided then and there to take the car and go and eat somewhere alone.

  Outside the bedroom there was a mirror. As he passed it, he instinctively looked at himself.

  And he realized why Livia had slapped him.

  Planted on his right cheek, in lipstick, were two female lips.

  They belonged to Giovanna, who’d kissed him as they were leaving Barletta’s house.

  That was why Fazio had given him such a strange look! But why hadn’t he felt the need to let him know?

  He went back and pressed against the bathroom door. ‘Livia, believe me, I can explain everything.’

  He had to dig in and be patient. Livia was capable of staying behind that locked door for hours.

  *

  When, forty-five minutes later, Livia saw fit to open the door, she took one look at him and locked herself back in.

  ‘Come on, Livia! Don’t start again!’

  ‘Get that disgusting lipstick off your face!’

  ‘But if you won’t let me into the bathroom, how can I—’

  ‘Go and wash it off in the kitchen!’

  He turned on the tap, washed his face, and dried it with a dishcloth that stank from reuse.

  Livia, meanwhile, had gone and sat down on the veranda. She was staring out at the sea.

  ‘Can I sit down?’

  She kept staring at the sea. Observing the rules of the silence game, Montalbano sat down in front of her.

  ‘You’re blocking my view.’

  Which meant he could sit down beside her. ‘Want to hear my explanation?’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but if you’re not interested, why did you slap me?’

  ‘Because you’re a pig.’

  ‘Do you want to hear the pig’s side of the story?’

  ‘So you admit you’re a pig.’

  ‘Just so you’ll listen to me.’

  She said nothing in reply, and he told her the whole story of Barletta’s murder. As he was speaking, Livia became more and more interested, until halfway through she stopped staring at the sea and started looking at him. She interrupted him only once, when he told her about the photographs that Barletta took of the girls.

  ‘Were they all consenting?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘And how did he do it with those who were against it?’

  ‘He photographed them secretly. Mimì, who’d searched the man’s two homes, explained to me that he had placed two remote-controlled cameras on top of the wardrobes in the bedrooms of the place in town and his beach house. More recently he’d started using his mobile phone as well.’

  ‘Go on.’

  In the end she said: ‘I’m sorry.’

  And she threw herself into his arms.

  Montalbano had neglected to tell her one utterly negligible detail: that when Giovanna had invited him to dinner, he’d immediately accepted.

  *

  Their reconciliation followed all the rules governing the reconciliation between a man and a woman who truly love each other. Thus when Montalbano got out of bed, it was ten-thirty, and he was ravenous. But before they could wash and get dressed, another hour would go by, and they wouldn’t find a single restaurant still open.

  He went into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he found large passuluna olives, cheese, curd cheese, and prosciutto, which Livia had apparently bought when she’d gone shopping.

  There was enough for a meal. But he’d better get it ready quick, before Livia got it into her head to make some pasta!

  When he’d finished laying the table on the veranda, he went and called her.

  ‘I went to see Mario this afternoon,’ she said as they were eating.

  He didn’t know any Marios. ‘And who’s that?’

  ‘What do you mean, “Who’s that?” He’s our friend in the cave.’

  He knew it! She’d gone and bothered him again! ‘Listen, Livia, I think it might be better if you didn’t . . . I think he would rather be left alone.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he talks to me. He clearly likes to talk. He’s glad I come to see him. You know what he said as soon as I came in? “I was expecting a visit from you.” Don’t you see?’

  ‘Has your curiosity been satisfied?’

  ‘No. He never says anything about his past life. And I’m not sure I was able to satisfy his.’

  ‘What was he curious about?’

  ‘You.’

  Montalbano was stumped.

  ‘Me? What did he want to know?’

  ‘He didn’t ask me directly, but I could tell he wanted to know about what kind of person you were, how you behaved in certain circumstances, if you were an understanding person, that kind of thing.’

  Montalbano felt puzzled by the tramp’s interest in him. Maybe he had committed a crime and wanted to take advantage of the situation to talk to him about it man to man?

  ‘He also told me something that I didn’t quite understand at the time, because I didn’t know anything yet about the murder of this Barletta guy.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he’d met him five years ago, when he lived near Barletta’s place in the country. Then he moved away and never ran into him again.’

  *

  They finished eating. Livia cleared the table; Montalbano helped, and then they went and sat down in front of the television, which Montalbano turned on.

  The purse-lipped face of Pippo
Ragonese, the chief newsman for TeleVigàta, materialized.

  ‘. . . and so, from the information that has leaked out, it would appear that Ragioniere Barletta was, paradoxically, killed twice, by two different killers. But in this tragedy there’s a comical element that we can’t help but point out: that of the two killers the brilliant Inspector Montalbano hasn’t been able to find even one! This may be due to the —’

  The inspector never did find out what this was due to because Livia suddenly got up and changed the channel.

  ‘Why do you just sit there listening to that imbecile?’

  ‘It amuses me.’

  ‘Amuses you! So you’re also a masochist!’

  ‘What do you mean by “also”? What am I besides a masochist?’

  ‘The list would be too long and I feel like watching a film.’

  *

  ‘I’m sleepy; I’m going to go to bed,’ Livia said when the film was over.

  Montalbano lingered a little while longer, watching the television. As soon as he heard her come out of the bathroom, he went in. When he was ready for bed and entered the bedroom, he saw Livia, naked, standing on a chair and feeling around on top of the wardrobe with her right hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I want to see if you’ve got cameras as well!’

  So, not only a masochist but also a voyeur or whatever it was called? He leapt forward, rugby-tackled her round the waist, and dropped her down on the bed.

  Later, Livia said:

  ‘Tomorrow’s my last day here, so we can laze around in bed all day.’

  ‘You can, but I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ she asked, disappointed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Montalbano.

  And he really was sorry.

  ‘But I have an appointment tomorrow morning.’

  ‘With that woman – what’s her name – Giovanna?’ asked Livia, sitting up, ready for a fight.

  ‘Calm down. And don’t start again. I’m seeing a man who wrote Barletta a threatening letter.’

  Livia looked doubtful. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  What a pain, this jealousy! ‘I swear it’s true!’

  ‘Give me a break!’

  What could he do to persuade her? He had an idea. ‘Listen, here’s a solution. I’m going to wake you up tomorrow morning and you can come to the office with me. That way you can see with your own eyes whether I’m telling the truth or not. Now give me a kiss.’

  *

  At eight o’clock the following morning he shook Livia gently, to wake her up.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Time to get up.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Remember we agreed you’d come to the station with me this morning.’

  ‘Bah!’ she said, turning onto her other side and going properly back to sleep.

  As I was saying, thought the inspector.

  *

  Giuseppe Pace was a run-down, shabbily dressed man of about sixty.

  At first glance the inspector was convinced he was quite incapable of killing anybody.

  ‘Mr Fazio explained why you wanted to see me. I swear to you, Inspector, I wrote that letter in a moment of . . .’

  His eyes began to fill with tears. He tried to finish his sentence but couldn’t.

  His chest suddenly heaved with sobs.

  What am I doing torturing this poor wretch? Montalbano wondered.

  He looked over at Fazio, who returned his glance. They’d spoken with their eyes, and Fazio had told him he was in agreement about the poor man. In fact Fazio said, in a neutral voice:

  ‘I found Mr Pace in church. He had a mass said for Barletta’s soul.’

  ‘No, sir, you’re wrong! I had it said for my own soul,’ Pace intervened. ‘For the wicked thoughts I had when I was wishing death on that unhappy man!’

  ‘You considered him unhappy?’

  ‘Not at first, no. But after I wrote that letter to him, I started thinking about what the man really was. And he was a poor, unhappy wretch! One who would never find peace! His life was hell on earth! The more he had, the more he wanted! Nothing was ever enough for him: money, women . . . Isn’t a man like that unhappy?’

  At the sound of these words, Montalbano felt something churning inside.

  Pace had gone beyond forgiveness. He’d come to discover, and understand, and pity, the profound, endless unhappiness there was in the soul of the man who had been tormenting him to death.

  Maybe those who church people call saints are like that, he thought.

  He couldn’t think of any words to say.

  Fazio was the one to speak up, after clearing his throat. ‘I also wanted to tell you that Mr Pace has an alibi. He spent the night between Saturday and Sunday, when Barletta was killed, at the hospital, because his wife had tried to kill herself. I didn’t verify it, but I can check from here whether . . .’

  ‘I sincerely apologize for having bothered you, sir,’ said Montalbano, springing to his feet. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. Fazio, please give the gentleman a lift wherever he has to go.’

  Even all the way to heaven, he wanted to add. ‘Will you need me afterwards?’ Fazio asked.

  ‘No. Have a good day.’

  *

  What now? If he went home too early, Livia was sure to start a row.

  ‘If it was a matter of only ten minutes, couldn’t you have postponed it?’

  ‘You see, Livia . . .’

  ‘No, you did it on purpose to spend the smallest amount of time possible with me!’

  On the other hand, he couldn’t just stay in his office twiddling his thumbs. Catarella wasn’t even there to help pass the time; it was his day off.

  All right, then, he would deal with Livia’s resentment. He might dispel her bad mood by suggesting they take the car and go out to Fiacca for lunch, since there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  He left. As he was about to take the bend before turning onto the small road that led to his house, he saw the tramp coming down from his cave. Pulling the car over to the side of the road, he braked and got out. The man was right there.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector.’

  He was wearing Montalbano’s suit, shoes, and one of Adelina’s shirts as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Apparently he was used to dressing well.

  ‘Good morning. I wanted to apologize to you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Well, Livia may not realize . . .’

  ‘No, not at all! She’s an exquisite person! I love her visits!’

  ‘She’ll be leaving tomorrow, and so . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Will you be leaving too?’

  ‘No. If you need anything, you know where to find me.’

  ‘Thank you. I may even take advantage of your kindness. Have a good day.’

  ‘And you.’

  The inspector got back in his car and started it up.

  Why, when he spoke to the man, did he always feel a little awkward?

  TEN

  He was sticking his key in the lock but Livia beat him to it and opened the door. She was all dressed up.

  ‘I heard your car arrive. So that was all you had to do at the station? You weren’t there very long!’

  Better change the subject immediately. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘To catch the bus to Vigàta. I called Beba – it was so long since we’d spoken – and since it’s so nice and sunny this morning, we decided to get together.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘I’m not coming back, because you’re going to join us . . .’

  What was this?

  ‘. . . for lunch at their place.’

  Already decided and etched in stone. Without deigning to ask his opinion.

  The prospect of eating with Mimì Augello and his wife Beba didn’t exactly thrill him. The truth of the matter was that he simply didn’t like having lunch at other people’s houses, with rare exceptions. As a cook, Beba was passa
bly decent, but the fact was that if you’re invited to lunch, you have to make conversation; you can’t just sit there in silence. But when he ate, he didn’t feel like talking.

  Mimì, moreover, to justify some of his nocturnal escapades, often blithely told his wife he had to go out on jobs assigned him by his boss. If Beba asked him about one of her husband’s night-time missions, he might very well get confused and say the wrong thing, and the whole gathering would take a nasty turn.

  ‘Listen, I’m so sorry, but I really won’t be able to make it to lunch at Beba’s,’ he said decisively.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I have to do something later and I have utterly no idea when I’ll finish. But, if you want, I can give you a lift there.’

  Livia got into the car.

  ‘You’ll be free this evening, at least?’

  What did that question mean? Want to bet she’d organized some other pain-in-the-arse activity for them? Better cover himself.

  ‘Listen, I won’t know until after I’ve done what I need to do. Anyway, I’ll call you on your mobile and let you know.’

  ‘Because Beba really wanted us all to go and see a film. She’s really keen on it.’

  He’d been right to cover himself. Beba had terrible taste in films.

  They found Beba outside her front door.

  ‘How’s Salvo?’ asked Montalbano.

  Salvo was Beba and Mimì’s son, who they’d named after the inspector.

  ‘I left him with my mother. She’s staying with us for a few days.’

  So Mimì’s mother-in-law was there, too. She was a good woman whose only defect was that she talked without interruption from morning till night. Mimì had told him she even talked in her sleep.

  Well, that was a close call! He would have had to eat against a background of constant chatter!

  ‘Salvo, unfortunately, won’t be able to join us for lunch,’ Livia said.

  ‘I was afraid of that!’ said Beba.

  ‘Why?’ Montalbano asked out of curiosity.

  ‘Well, since you summoned Mimì for a twelve-thirty meeting I thought that you, too . . .’ Beba replied.

  Montalbano immediately realized that Mimì had had the same idea as him! He’d told his wife a whopper to avoid coming to lunch!

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Mimì also wasn’t—’ Livia started to ask him.

  ‘It slipped my mind. But maybe it’s better this way. Now you and Beba can talk about girl stuff far from male ears!’