TERRACE WITH ROOM. Outside/inside shot, night.
Through the open door, from out on the terrace, the camera frames the interior of the former laundry room. Angelo is sitting on the arm of the armchair. A woman, standing in front of him and seen from behind, puts her purse on the table and, moving very slowly, removes first her blouse, then her bra. The camera zooms entirely inside.
(Sensual music)
With desire in his eyes, Angelo watches the woman unfasten her skirt, letting it drop to her feet. Angelo slides off the arm and into the chair, almost lying down.
The woman takes off her panties, but keeps them in her hand.
Angelo opens the zipper on his jeans and gets ready to have sex.
(Extremely sensual music)
The woman opens her purse and extracts something we can’t see. Then she straddles Angelo, who embraces her.
Long, passionate kiss. Angelo’s hands caress the woman’s back. She suddenly breaks free of his embrace and points the pistol she took out of her purse at Angelo’s face.
CLOSE-UPof Angelo, terrified.
ANGELO:What…what are you doing?WOMAN:Open your mouth.
Angelo automatically obeys. The woman sticks the panties in his mouth.
Angelo tries to scream but can’t.
WOMAN:Now I’m going to ask you a question. If you want to answer, just nod, and I’ll take them out of your mouth.
The camera follows her movements as she leans forward. She whispers something in his ear.
His eyes open wide as he starts desperately shaking his head no.
(Dramatic music)
WOMAN:I’ll repeat my question.
She leans forward again, brings her mouth to Angelo’s ear, her lips move.
CLOSE-UPof Angelo still refusing, in the throes of uncontrollable panic.
WOMAN:As you wish.
She gets up, takes a step back, and shoots Angelo in the face.
EXTREME CLOSE-UPof Angelo’s devastated head, a black, bloody hole where his eye used to be.
(Tragic music)
DETAILof Angelo’s half-open mouth. Two tapered fingers reach into the mouth and extract the panties. To put them on, the woman turns toward the camera, but the frame is shot from an angle that keeps her face hidden. The woman continues getting dressed, without any hurry. There’s no trace of nervousness in her gestures.
EXTREME CLOSE-UPof Angelo’s head, a horrendous sight.
SLOW FADE-OUT.
Granted, a dreadful script from a B movie of the erotic-crime genre. It might, however, have had decent success on television, given all the other crap that gets broadcast. You know, TV movies. The inspector consoled himself with the thought that if he had to leave the police force, he could try his hand at this new profession.
Leaving his private cinema to return to his office, he saw Fazio standing in front of his desk, staring at him inquisitively.
“What were you thinking, Chief?”
“Nothing, I was just watching a film. What do you want?”
“Chief, you’re the one who called me.”
“Ah, yes. Have a seat. Got any news for me?”
“You said you wanted to know everything I could find out about Emilio Sclafani and Angelo Pardo. As for the schoolteacher, I have to add a little detail to what I already told you.”
“What’s this little detail?”
“Remember how the schoolteacher sent his wife’s lover to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he, too, was sent to the hospital.”
“By whom?”
“A jealous husband.”
“That’s not possible. The guy can’t—”
“Chief, I assure you it’s true. It happened before his second marriage.”
“He was caught in bed with the man’s wife?”
Montalbano couldn’t accept that Elena had told him a lie, a lie so big that it cast everything into doubt.
“No, Chief. The bed’s got nothing to do with it. The teacher lived in a great big apartment building, and two of his windows gave onto the courtyard. You remember that movie …”
Another film? This wasn’t an investigation anymore, it was one of the countless film festivals!
“… the one about a photographer with a broken leg who spends his time looking out his window across the courtyard and finds out some lady’s been killed?”
“Yes.Rear Window,by Hitchcock.”
“Well, the schoolteacher bought himself a powerful set of binoculars, but he only watched the window across from his, where a young bride of about twenty lived, and since she didn’t know she was being watched, she walked around her apartment half naked. Then one day the husband got wise to the teacher’s tricks, went over to his place, and busted his head and his binoculars.”
Montalbano became almost certain that Mr. Sclafani demanded that his wife give him a detailed report of what she did at each of her encounters with her lover. Why hadn’t Elena told him this? Perhaps because this little detail (and what a detail!) cast the schoolteacher in a different light from that of the understanding, impotent husband and brought to the surface all the murk deep down in his soul?
“And what can you tell me about Angelo Pardo?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”
“Chief, nobody had the slightest thing to say against him. As far as the present was concerned, he earned a good living as a pharmaceutical representative, enjoyed life, and had no enemies.”
Montalbano knew Fazio too well to let slide what he’d just said—that is, “as far as the present was concerned.”
“And as far as the past is concerned?”
Fazio smiled at him, and the inspector smiled back. They understood each other at once.
“There were two things in his past. One of these you already know, and it involves that business about the abortion.”
“Skip it, I already know all about it.”
“The other thing goes even further back—to the death of Angelo’s sister’s boyfriend.”
Montalbano felt a kind of jolt run down his spine. He pricked his ears.
“The boyfriend was named Roberto Anzalone,” said Fazio. “An engineering student who liked to race motorcycles as a hobby. That’s why the accident that killed him seemed odd.”
“Why?”
“My dear Inspector, does it seem normal to you that a skilled motorcyclist like that, after a two-mile straightaway, would ignore a curve and keep going, right off a three-hundred-foot cliff?”
“Mechanical failure?”
“The motorbike was so smashed up after the accident, the experts couldn’t make heads or tails of it.” “What about the autopsy?”
“That’s the best part. When he had the accident, Anzalone had just finished eating at a trattoria with a friend. The autopsy showed he’d probably overindulged in alcohol or something similar.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘something similar’? Either it was alcohol or it wasn’t.”
“Chief, the person who did the autopsy was unable to specify. He simply wrote that he found something similar to alcohol.”
“Bah. Go on.”
“The only problem is that the Anzalone family, when they found this out, said that Roberto didn’t drink, and they demanded a new autopsy. Most importantly, the waiter at the trattoria also stated that he hadn’t served wine or any other kind of alcohol at that table.”
“Did they get the second autopsy?”
“They did, but they had to wait three months to get it. And, actually, given all the authorizations that were needed for it, that was pretty fast. The fact is that this time the alcohol, or whatever it was, wasn’t there anymore. And so the case was closed.”
“Tell me something. Do you know who this friend was who ate with him?”
Fazio’s eyes started to sparkle. This happened whenever he knew that his words would have a dramatic effect. He was foretasting his pleasure.
“It was …
” he began.
But Montalbano, who could be a real bastard when he wanted to, decided to spoil the effect for him.
“That’s enough, I already know,” he said.
“How did you find out?” asked Fazio, between disappointment and wonder.
“Your eyes told me,” said the inspector. “It was his future brother-in-law, Angelo Pardo. Was he interrogated?”
“Of course. And he confirmed the waiter’s statement— that is, that they hadn’t drunk any wine or other alcoholic beverage at the table. In any case, for some reason or other, Angelo Pardo had his lawyer present every time he made his three depositions. And his lawyer was none other than Senator Nicotra.”
“Nicotra?!” marveled the inspector. “That’s way too big a fish for a testimony of so little importance.”
Fazio never found out whether, in uttering Nicotra’s name, he’d actually managed to get even for the disappointment of a moment before. But if anyone had asked Montalbano why he reacted so strongly to the news that Nicotra and Angelo had known one another for quite some time, the inspector would not have known what to answer.
“But where would Angelo have ever found the money to inconvenience a lawyer of Senator Nicotra’s stature?”
“It didn’t cost him a cent, Chief. Angelo’s father had been a campaigner for the senator, and they’d become friends. Their families spent time together. In fact, the senator also represented Angelo when he was accused of the abortion.”
“Anything else?”
“Yessir.”
“You going to tell me free of charge, or do I have to pay for it?” asked Montalbano when he saw that Fazio couldn’t make up his mind to go on.
“No, Chief, it’s all included in my salary.”
“Then out with it.”
“It’s something that was told me by only one person. I haven’t been able to confirm it.”
“Just tell me, for what it’s worth.”
“Apparently a year ago Angelo got into the bad habit of gambling and often lost.” “A lot?” “Lots and lots.” “Could you be more precise?” “Tens of millions of lire.” “Was he in debt?” “Apparently not.” “Where did he gamble?” “At some den in Fanara.” “You know anyone around there?” “In Fanara? No, Chief.” “Too bad.” “Why?”
“Because I would bet my family jewels that Angelo had another bank account than the one we already know about. Since it seems he didn’t have any debts, where was he getting the money he lost? Or to pay for the gifts to his girlfriend? After what you’ve just told me, I think this mysterious bank may very well be in Fanara. See what you can come up with there.”
“I’ll try.”
Fazio stood up. When he was at the door, Montalbano said in a soft voice: “Thanks.”
Fazio stopped, turned, and looked at him.
“For what? It’s all included in my salary, Chief.”
The inspector hurried back to Marinella. The salmon that Ingrid had sent to him was anxiously awaiting him.
14
It was pouring. With him getting drenched, cursing, blaspheming, the water running down his hair, into his collar, and then sliding down his back, triggering cold shudders, his sodden socks now filtering the water flowing into his shoes, but, nothing doing, the door to his house in Marinella wouldn’t open because the keys wouldn’t fit in the lock, and when they did, they wouldn’t turn. He tried four different keys, one after the other, but it was hopeless. How could he go on like this, getting soaked to the bone, unable to set foot in his own house?
He finally decided to have a look at the set of keys in his hand. To his shock, he realized they weren’t his keys. He must have mistakenly grabbed someone else’s. But where?
Then he remembered that the mistake might have happened in Boccadasse, at a bar where they made good coffee. But he was in
Boccadasse two weeks ago! How could he have been back in Vigata for two weeks without ever going into his house?
“Where are my keys?” he shouted.
It seemed as though no one could hear him, so loud was the rain drumming on the roof, on his head, on the ground, on the leaves in the trees. Then he thought he heard a woman’s voice far, far away, coming and going with the intensity of the downpour.
“Turn the corner! Turn the corner!” said the voice.
What did it mean? Whatever the case, lost as he was, he took four steps and turned the corner. He found himself in Michela’s bathroom. The woman was naked and dipped her hand in the bathwater to feel the temperature. In so doing she offered him a remarkably hilly panorama on which the eye willingly lingered.
“Come on, get in.”
He realized he was also naked, but this did not surprise him. He got in the tub and lay down. It was a good thing he was immediately covered by soap suds. He felt embarrassed that Michela might see the semi-erection he got upon contact with the warm water.
“I’ll go get your keys and the present,” said Michela.
She went out. What present was she talking about? Was it maybe his birthday? But when was he born? He couldn’t remember. He stopped asking himself questions, closed his eyes, and abandoned himself to the relief he was feeling. Later, when he heard her return, he opened his eyes to little slits. But they popped open at once, for in the bathroom doorway stood not Michela but Angelo, his face ravaged by the gunshot, blood still running down his shirt, the zipper of his jeans open and his thingy hanging out, a revolver in his hand, pointed at him.
“What do you want?” he asked, frightened.
The bathwater had suddenly turned ice cold. With his left hand, Angelo gestured for him to wait, then brought his hand to his mouth and pulled out a pair of panties. He took two steps forward.
“Open your mouth!” he ordered.
Clenching his teeth, Montalbano shook his head. Never in a million years would he let him stick those panties in his mouth. They were still wet with the spittle of that entity, who, being a corpse, had no right, logically speaking, to be threatening him with a gun. Or even to walk, if one really thought about it. Although, all things considered, he still looked pretty well preserved, given the fact that it had been many days since the murder. Whatever the case, it was clear that he now found himself in a trap laid by Michela to abet her brother in some shady affair of his.
“Are you going to open up or not?”
He shook his head again, and the other man fired. A deafening blast.
Montalbano jolted awake and sat up in bed, heart racing at a gallop, body covered in sweat. The shutter, blown by the wind, had slammed against the wall, and outside, in fact it was storming.
It was five o’clock in the morning. By nature the inspector didn’t believe in premonitions, forebodings, or anything to do with paranormal phenomena in general. Normality itself seemed already sufficiently abnormal to him. There was, however, one thing he was convinced of: that sometimes his dreams were nothing other than the paradoxical or fantastical elaborations of a line of reasoning he’d begun to follow in his head before falling asleep. And as for the interpretation of these dreams, he had more faith in the self-appointed interpreters of Lotto numbers than in Sigmund Freud.
So what did that muddle of a dream mean?
After half an hour of turning it over and over in his mind, he managed to isolate two elements that seemed important to him.
One concerned Angelo’s keys. The first set was still in his possession, after the crime lab had returned them to him. The other set, the one he’d had Michela give him, he’d given back to her. All this seemed normal, and yet something about those keys had set his brain going, something that didn’t add up and which he couldn’t bring into focus. He would have to give this more thought later.
The other element was a word, “present,” that Michela had said to him before leaving the bathroom. When Michela had actually spoken to him about presents, however, it had always been in reference to the expensive gifts Angelo gave to Elena …
Stop right there, Montalbano. You’re
getting warm, warmer, warmer, hot, hot! You’re there! Shit, you’re there!
He felt such immense satisfaction that he grabbed the alarm clock, pushed down the button that turned off the alarm, laid his head down on the pillow, and fell immediately asleep.
Elena opened the door. She was barefoot and wearing the dangerous half-length housecoat she’d had on the previous time, face still dotted with a few drops of water from the shower she’d just taken. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and she must have woken up not long before that. She smelled so strongly of young, fresh skin that it seemed un-bearable to the inspector. Upon seeing him she smiled, took his hand, and, still holding it, pulled him inside, closed the door, and led him into the living room. “Coffee’s ready,” she said.
Montalbano had barely sat down when she reappeared with the tray. They drank their coffee without speaking.
“You want to know something strange, Inspector?” asked Elena, setting down her empty demitasse.
“Tell me.”
“A little while ago, when you phoned to tell me you were coming by, I felt happy. I missed you.”
Montalbano’s heart did exactly what an airplane does when it hits an air pocket. But he said nothing, pretended to concentrate on his last sip of coffee, and set his demitasse down as well.
“Any news?” she asked.
“A little,” the inspector said cautiously.
“I, on the other hand, have none,” said Elena.
Montalbano made an inquisitive face. He didn’t understand the meaning of those words. Elena started laughing heartily.
“What a funny face you just made! I only meant that for the last two days Emilio hasn’t stopped asking me if there’s any news, and I keep saying, ‘No, there’s no news.’ “
Montalbano was not convinced. Elena’s explanation only confused matters; it didn’t clarify them.
“I didn’t know your husband was so interested in the case.”
Elena laughed even harder.
“He’s not interested in the case, he’s interested in me.” “I don’t understand.”
“Inspector, Emilio wants to know if I’ve already taken steps to replace Angelo, or if I’m intending to do so at any time soon.”
So that’s what this was all about! The old pig was apparently in crisis, with no more lewd stories being told to him by his wife. Montalbano decided to give her a little rope.
Paper Moon Page 14
