Game of Mirrors

by Andrea Camilleri

  Unavoidable conclusion: Lombardo in any case didn’t care how his wife behaved.

  But all this was predicated on the assumption that Fazio had not been mistaken in recognizing Lombardo.

  “Ahh Chief, ’ere’d be summon ’at calls ’isself Arrigone ’oo amoijently wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

  “On the phone or the premises?”

  “Onna premisses.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Nah, Chief.”

  “All right, show him in.”

  Catarella appeared in the doorway and then stood aside, saying:

  “Signor Arrigone.”

  “Arnone, Angelino Arnone,” the man said, correcting him and coming in.

  He was a short bald man of about sixty, and, despite the designer suit he was wearing and a pair of shoes that must have cost him a king’s ransom, it was immediately obvious that he was of peasant origins.

  “Wait,” the inspector said to Catarella, and then, turning to Arnone: “If I remember correctly, you, sir, would be the owner of the warehouse that—”

  “Precisely.”

  “Catarella, have Fazio and Inspector Augello come to my office.”

  “Straightaways, Chief.”

  “You can sit down in the meanwhile, Mr. Arnone.”

  The man sat down on the edge of a chair. He must have been nervous, because he mopped his sweaty brow with his handkerchief. Or maybe he was just suffering from the heat.

  Augello and Fazio came in.

  “You already know one another, correct?” the inspector asked.

  “Yes, yes,” the three said in unison.

  When they had all sat down, Montalbano looked inquisitively at Arnone. Who, before answering the inspector’s unspoken question, passed his handkerchief over his face and neck. No, he wasn’t hot; he was extremely nervous.

  “I . . . I didn’t think the bomb . . . I just . . . I didn’t think it had anything to do with me. And that’s what I told these gentlemen.”

  “Would you repeat it for me?” Montalbano asked.

  “Repeat what for you?”

  “The reason why you were convinced the bomb had nothing to do with you.”

  “Well . . .” Arnone began.

  And then he stopped.

  “‘Well’ isn’t quite enough for me,” said the inspector.

  “Well . . . first of all, I don’t have any enemies.”

  “Signor Arnone, considering that all you’re doing is insulting me, I would ask you please to leave this room at once.”

  Arnone started sweating rivers. His handkerchief by now was completely soaked.

  “I . . . insulting you, sir?”

  “You were indirectly treating me like an idiot by expecting me to believe that you have no enemies. So either you start telling us clearly why you came here, or you leave.”

  “I got an anonymous letter.”

  “When?”

  “With the last mail delivery.”

  “Have you got it with you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Arnone stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope, and set it down on the desk.

  Montalbano didn’t touch it.

  “How many lines?”

  Arnone looked at sea. He glanced at Fazio, then Augello, then looked back at the inspector.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m simply asking if you remember how many lines there were in the letter. Fazio, have you got anything to give the gentleman for his sweat?”

  Fazio handed him a Kleenex.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “But did you read the letter?”

  “Of course.”

  “How many times?”

  “Uhh . . . I dunno, four, five times.”

  “And you don’t remember how many lines there were? Strange.”

  Montalbano finally picked up the envelope.

  The address was written in block letters:

  ANGELINO ARNONE

  VIA ALLORO 122

  VIGÀTA

  He pulled out the folded half page that was inside and handed the envelope to Augello.

  This is to tell you the bomb was intended for your warehouse, and you know why

  “Barely a line and a half, Signor Arnone,” Montalbano commented.

  Arnone said nothing.

  “Do you believe it?” the inspector asked.

  “Believe what?”

  “The anonymous letter.”

  “They sent it to me, no . . . ?”

  “You change your mind too easily, if I may say so. First you think the bomb wasn’t intended for your warehouse, and then, after receiving an anonymous letter . . .”

  Arnone shook his head in distress.

  “You get me all confused if you do that,” the inspector continued. “Never mind. So you now admit that the bomb was intended for your warehouse?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “It’s not like if they send you another anonymous letter saying the opposite you’ll change your mind, is it?”

  Arnone was flummoxed. He shook his head “no.”

  “What do you want from us, Signor Arnone? Protection?”

  “I just came . . . to tell you . . . I made a mistake . . . Tha’ss all.”

  “So you admit you have some enemies?”

  Arnone threw his hands up.

  “Please answer me verbally.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why, if you have enemies, don’t you want to ask us for protection?”

  Fazio started feeling sorry for Arnone and handed him another tissue.

  “W . . . ell . . . if ya wanna . . . gimme . . . this protection . . .”

  “Then you’ll have to work with us.”

  “Wha’? How?”

  “By giving us the name of someone you think is your enemy.”

  The color of Arnone’s face was now verging on green.

  “But that means . . . I have to think about it a little.”

  “I understand perfectly, sir. Think about it at your leisure, and then get in touch with Inspector Augello when you’re ready.”

  Montalbano stood up, and they all stood up.

  “I thank you for doing your duty as a citizen. Have a good day. Fazio, please see the gentleman out.”

  “I don’t understand why you treated him that way!” Augello exclaimed after the others had left.

  “Mimì, I think your engine is starting to misfire,” said Montalbano.

  Fazio returned.

  “What sons of bitches!” he said, sitting down.

  He’d understood everything, like Montalbano.

  “And who would these sons of bitches happen to be?” Augello asked.

  “Mimì,” said the inspector, “since you, from the very start, got it into your head to believe that the bomb was intended for Arnone, you saw the anonymous letter as confirmation of that.”

  “And is that somehow not the case?”

  “No, it’s not. The letter would have us believe that’s the case, but neither Fazio nor I am convinced of it.”

  “And why not?”

  “If the letter had been genuine, do you really think Arnone would have let us see it?”

  Augello didn’t answer. He looked doubtful.

  “No, he certainly would not have brought it to us,” the inspector continued. “And if he did, it‘s because he was forced to do so.”

  “By whom?”

  “By those who planted the bomb, who are probably the same people he pays protection money to. They probably called him up, told him they were sending him an anonymous letter, and ordered him to show it to us. And Arnone did as he was told.”
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br />   “So the bomb was intended for number twenty-six, not for twenty-eight,” Augello said, as if now convinced.

  “Exactly. Anyway, have you forgotten that you made the same hypothesis yourself?”

  Fazio looked at Montalbano but said nothing.

  “And Fazio, in fact, is investigating the tenants in number twenty-six,” Montalbano concluded.

  For the moment they had nothing more to say to each other.

  Five minutes later, the inspector left the office. It had occurred to him that he should buy a present for Salvuzzo, his godson.

  4

  When he got home at seven thirty, he dashed into the shower, changed clothes, and was all ready when the doorbell rang at eight thirty.

  He went to open the door, and there was Liliana. She wasn’t wearing one of her man-killing dresses, but slacks, blouse, and jacket.

  “You’re early,” said Montalbano.

  “I know. I decided to take advantage of the situation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wanted to see your house.”

  She started looking around respectfully, stopping in front of the paintings and the bookcase.

  “It certainly doesn’t seem like the home of a police inspector. And our house has one more room.”

  “Why doesn’t it seem like the home of a police inspector?”

  She smiled enchantingly, looked him in the eye, and didn’t answer. Then went out and sat down on the veranda.

  “I don’t have any aperitifs to offer you,” said Montalbano. “But I’ve got a nice, light white wine in the fridge . . .”

  “Some light white wine sounds good.”

  The inspector poured himself a finger’s worth, since he had to drive, but filled her glass up three-quarters of the way.

  “I found out you have a girlfriend,” Liliana said out of the blue, gazing at the sea as she said it.

  “Who told you?”

  She smiled.

  “I asked around. Feminine curiosity. How long have you been together?”

  “Forever.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Livia. She lives in Genoa.”

  “Does she come to see you often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like.”

  “Poor thing.”

  The comment made Montalbano bristle. He didn’t like to talk about his own private matters, and he didn’t like other people taking pity on him. On top of that, he thought he heard a note of irony in her voice. Was she making fun of him because he was forced to remain celibate for long periods of time? He looked at his watch visibly, so she would see. But Liliana continued to drink slowly.

  Then, all at once, in a single, brusque motion, as though suddenly in a hurry, she gulped down the rest of her wine and stood up.

  “We can go now.”

  When they were in the car, she said:

  “I don’t want to stay late. Afterwards I’d like to have a little time with you. I need to talk to you.”

  “You could save some time and start now.”

  “No, not in the car.”

  “Tell me what it’s about, at least.”

  “No. I’m sorry, but it’s sort of an unpleasant subject, and I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

  He didn’t insist.

  Before going to Adelina’s house, the inspector pulled up in front of the Caffè Castiglione and bought a tray of fifteen cannoli.

  Every arancino was as big as a large orange. For a normal person, two arancini would have constituted an already dangerous amount for dinner. Montalbano wolfed down four and a half; Liliana, two.

  Before the cannoli were served, the words exchanged in conversation were limited to the bare essentials.

  In fact, it was impossible to talk. The arancini tasted and smelled so good that each person ate in a cloud of ecstasy, eyes half closed, a blissful smile on his or her face.

  “These are fantastic! Pure joy! Absolutely incredible!” Liliana exclaimed when she was done.

  Adelina smiled at her.

  “Signura mia, I pu’ five o’ dem aside, so if you go to th’isspector’s house t’morrow, you can taste ’em again.”

  She would do anything to harm the hated Livia.

  At around eleven o’clock Montalbano said he’d promised Signora Liliana they wouldn’t stay late.

  That was when Pasquale turned to him and said:

  “Could I talk to you in private for five minutes?”

  They went into Adelina’s bedroom. Pasquale locked the door behind him.

  “D’jou know I got outta jail three days ago?”

  “No. What were you in for?”

  “The Montelusa carabinieri caught me. Accomplice to breakin’ an’ ennerin’.”

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “There was a rumor goin’ round the jail ’at wasn’t really a rumor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Narcotics’s been workin’ on Tallarita, an’ Tallarita, at least till a few days ago, decided to cooperate with them.”

  The arancini and cannolo had slowed down the inspector’s entire cerebral system.

  “And who’s Tallarita?”

  “He’s a big-time dealer, Inspector. An’ I’m tellin’ you this ’cuz ’is family lives on Via Pisacane.”

  In a flash Montalbano’s brain kicked into high gear.

  “Thanks, Pasquà,” he said.

  “Still feel like talking to me?” Montalbano asked as they were getting in the car.

  “Yes. If it’s not too late for you . . .”

  “Not at all. My place or yours?”

  “Wherever you prefer.”

  “At my place we’ve got whisky to help us digest; at your place, vodka. The choice is yours.”

  “I finished the vodka and forgot to buy a new bottle.”

  “Then we have no choice.”

  Montalbano drove slowly, weighed down by the arancini. There was little traffic. Liliana sank into her seat, laid her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes, perhaps succumbing to sleep. She certainly had washed down her arancini with a lot of wine. To avoid waking her, he started going so slow that when he was about to turn left, onto the little road leading to their two houses, the engine stalled.

  He started it up again, but then did something wrong. He couldn’t figure out what, but the fact was that the car lurched forward through the air, coming a good three or four inches off the ground. And at that same moment, Montalbano heard a loud crack against the body of the car, but didn’t worry, imagining it was probably a stone.

  “Oh my God, what was that?” asked Liliana, sitting up and opening her eyes in fright.

  “It was nothing, don’t worry,” said the inspector, reassuring her.

  “Listen,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I suddenly felt so sleepy.”

  “Shall we make it another time?”

  “If you don’t mind . . . Anyway, Adelina’s already decided I have to come to your place to eat the rest of the arancini.”

  “Good for Adelina!”

  He dropped her off outside her gate.

  “Need a ride into town tomorrow?”

  “I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. We’re closed for mourning. The owner’s mother died. Thank you for a lovely evening. Good night.”

  While it’s true that good food is not hard to digest, if you eat a lot of it, you still need some time to digest.

  He grabbed a bottle of whisky, a glass, his cigarettes and lighter, and went out on the veranda, but then thought he should call Livia first.

  “I just got back,” she said.

  “Did you go to the movies?”

  “No, I went out to dinner with some friends. It was my coworker Marilu’s birthday. Remember her?”

>   He hadn’t the vaguest idea who she was. No doubt he’d met her a few times when he was in Boccadasse, but he didn’t remember anything about her.

  “Of course! How could I forget Marilu? So, was the food good?”

  “Certainly better than the awful slop your beloved Adelina makes for you!”

  How dare she? Apparently she was spoiling for a fight, but he was in no mood for squabbling. Anyway, if he got upset, it might ruin his digestion. So he decided to give her rope . . .

  “Well, I guess Adelina sometimes . . . Actually, tonight I couldn’t get anything she made past my lips.”

  “You see? I’m right. So you went hungry?”

  “Almost. I made do with some bread and salami.”

  “Poor thing!”

  Today was ladies’ commiseration day, apparently. After a little more conversation, they wished each other good night and hung up.

  What happened next took Montalbano so much by surprise that he couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming or it was really happening.

  He’d just finished his first glass of whisky when he noticed, by the dim light of a slender moon, a human figure walking slowly along the water’s edge. When opposite the veranda, the person raised a hand and waved.

  Then he recognized her. It was Liliana.

  Grabbing his cigarettes and lighter, he went down to the beach. She’d kept walking, but he caught up with her.

  “When I got home I didn’t feel sleepy anymore,” she said.

  They walked in silence for about half an hour. The only talking came from the lapping surf like a continuous musical refrain.

  Then she said:

  “Shall we go back?”

  As they were turning around, their bodies lightly touched.

  Liliana took his hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and did not let go of it until they were back at the veranda. Here Liliana stopped, grazed Montalbano’s lips with her own, and headed back towards her house.

  Montalbano stood there watching her until her silhouette vanished in the darkness.

  One thing he was sure of: if Liliana had decided not to talk to him that evening, it was not because she suddenly felt sleepy, but because what she had to tell him was not something easy to say, and she hadn’t had the courage to tell him.