IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “What do you think?”

  “Don’t you know her better than I do?”

  “What do you need her for?”

  “If I tell you, do you promise not to think I’m crazy?”

  “Do you think I’m capable of that?”

  “Even if it’s a really big deal?”

  The inspector got bored with the game. Mimì hadn’t even noticed how absurd the dialogue had become.

  “Listen, Mimì, Ingrid’s discretion I can vouch for. As for thinking you’re crazy, I’ve done that so many times already that it won’t make much difference if it happens one more time.”

  “Well, I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

  Beba was coming on strong!

  “Why not?”

  “There was this letter, one of the ones Nenè Sanfilippo wrote to his lover. You have no idea, Salvo, how hard I’ve been studying them! I practically know them by heart.”

  You’re such an asshole, Salvo! Montalbano reproached himself. All you ever do is think ill of Mimi, and here the poor guy’s working through the night!

  Having duly rebuked himself, the inspector deftly overcame that brief moment of self-criticism.

  “Okay, okay. What was in the letter?”

  Mimi waited a moment before deciding to answer.

  “Well, he gets very angry, at first, because she shaves off her body hair.”

  “What’s there to get angry about? All women shave their armpits nowadays.”

  “It wasn’t her armpits.”

  “Ah,” said Montalbano.

  “All her hair, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, in the letters that follow, he starts to get into the novelty of it.”

  “Okay, but how’s this of any importance to us?”

  “It’s important, believe me! Because I think, after losing sleep and my eyesight to boot, I’ve figured out who Nenè Sanfilippo’s lover is. Some of the descriptions he gives, the little details, are better than a photograph. As you know, I really like to look at women.”

  “Not just look at them.”

  “Okay. And I’ve become convinced that I recognize this woman. Because I’m sure I’ve met her. It would take very little to make a positive identification.”

  “Very little! Mimi, what on earth are you thinking! You want me to go to this lady and say: ‘I’m Inspector Montalbano, ma’am. Er, would you please drop your panties for a moment?‘ Why, she’d have me put away, at the very least!”

  “That’s why I thought of Ingrid. If it’s the woman I think it is, I actually saw her a few times with Ingrid in Montelusa. They must be friends ...”

  Montalbano twisted his mouth.

  “You’re not convinced?” asked Mimi.

  “Oh, I’m convinced all right. But the whole idea has one major problem.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think Ingrid would be capable of betraying a friend.”

  “Who ever said anything about betrayal? We just need to find a way, any way at all, to create a situation where she might blurt something out—”

  “How, for example?”

  “Bah, I don’t know, you could invite Ingrid out for dinner, then bring her to your place, give her something to drink, a little of that red wine of ours that the girls are so crazy about, and—”

  “—And then start talking about body hair? She’s likely to have a fit if I mention certain things with her! She doesn’t expect it from me.”

  Mimi’s jaw dropped in surprise.

  “She doesn’t expect it? Do you mean to tell me that, between you and Ingrid ... Never?”

  “What are you thinking?” said Montalbano, irritated. “I’m not like you, Mimi!”

  Augello looked at him for a moment, then joined his hands in prayer, eyes raised to the heavens.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to write a letter to His Holiness,” Mimi replied coyly.

  “Saying what?”

  “That you should be canonized while still alive.”

  “Spare me the bonehead humor,” the inspector said gruffly.

  Mimi quickly turned serious again. With certain subjects, when dealing with Montalbano, one had to tread lightly.

  “Anyway, as for Ingrid, give me a little time to think about it.”

  “Okay, but don’t take too long, Salvo. You know, it’s one thing to kill someone over a question of infidelity, and it’s something else—”

  “I am well aware of the difference, Mimi. And you’re not exactly the person to be teaching me about it. Compared to me, you’re still wrapping your ass in diapers.”

  Augello took this in without reacting. He’d pushed the wrong button, talking about Ingrid. He had to try to dispel the inspector’s bad mood.

  “Salvo, there’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about. Yesterday, after we ate, Beba invited me over to her place.”

  Montalbano’s gloom immediately lifted. He held his breath. Had what was supposed to happen between Mimi and Beatrice already happened, just like that? If Beatrice slept with Mimi too quickly, the affair might soon be over, and Mimi would inevitably go back to his Rebecca.

  “No, Salvo, we didn’t do what you’re thinking,” said Augello, as if he could read Montalbano’s mind. “Beba’s a nice girl. And very serious.”

  How did Shakespeare put it? Oh, yes: “These words content me much.” If Mimi spoke this way, there was hope.

  “At a certain point she went to change her clothes. Left to myself, I picked up a magazine that was on the coffee table. When I opened it, a photo that had been inserted between the pages fell out. It showed the inside of a bus, with the passengers in their seats. In the background, you could see Beba from behind, with a frying pan in her hand.”

  “When she came back out, did you ask her when—”

  “No, it would have seemed, well, indiscreet. I put the photo back, and that was that.”

  “So why are you telling me about it?”

  “Something occurred to me. If people are taking souvenir photos on these tours, it’s possible there are some in circulation from the excursion to Tindari, the one the Griffos went on. If we could find these photos, maybe they could tell us something, even if I don’t know what.”

  Well, there was no denying that Mimi had a very good idea. And he was obviously awaiting some words of praise. Which never came. Coldly, perfidiously, the inspector didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. On the contrary.

  “Did you read the novel, Mimi?”

  “What novel?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, along with the letters, I gave you some sort of novel that Sanfilippo—”

  “No, I haven’t read it yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean, why not? I’ve been racking my brains with those letters! And before I get to the novel, I want to find out if my hunch about Sanfilippo’s lover is correct.”

  He got up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have an engagement.”

  “Look, Mimi, this isn’t some kind of hotel where you can—”

  “But I promised Beba I’d take her to—”

  “All right, all right, just this once. You can go,” Montalbano conceded, magnanimously.

  “Hello, Malaspina Tours? Inspector Montalbano here. Is your driver Tortorici there?”

  “Just walked in. He’s right here beside me. I’ll put him on.”

  “Good evening, Inspector,” said Tortorici.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but I need some information.”

  “At your service.”

  “Tell me something, on your tours, do people usually take photos on the bus?”

  “Well, yes ... but ...”

  He seemed tongue-tied, hesitant.

  “Well, do they take them or not?”

  “I’m ... I’m sorry, Inspector. Could I call you back in five minutes, not a second longer?”

  He called back before the five minutes w
ere up.

  “I apologize again, Inspector, but I couldn’t talk in front of the accountant.”

  “Why not?”

  “You see, Inspector, the pay’s not so good here.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Well, I ... supplement my wages, Inspector.”

  “Explain yourself better, Tortorici.”

  “Almost all the passengers bring cameras. When we’re about to leave, I tell them they’re not allowed to take pictures inside the coach. They can take as many as they like when we get to our destination. The only person allowed to take pictures when we’re on the road is me. They always fall for it. Nobody complains.”

  “Excuse me, but if you’re driving, how can you take pictures?”

  “I ask the ticket man or one of the passengers to do it for me. Then I have them developed and sell them to anyone who wants a souvenir.”

  “Why didn’t you want the accountant to hear you?”

  “Because I never asked his permission to take pictures.”

  “All you’d have to do is ask, and there’d be no problem.”

  “Right. And with one hand he’d give me permission, and with the other he’d ask for a cut. My wages are peanuts, Inspector.”

  “Do you save the negatives?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could I have the ones from the last excursion to Tindari?”

  “I’ve already had all those developed! After the Griffos disappeared, I didn’t have the heart to sell them. But now that they’ve been murdered, I’m sure I could sell ‘em all, and at double the price!”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy the developed photos and you can keep the negatives. That way you can sell them however you like.”

  “When do you want them?”

  “As soon as you can get them to me.”

  “Right now I have to go to Montelusa on an errand. Is it all right if I drop them off at the station tonight around nine o‘clock?”

  One good turn deserved another. After her father-in-law’s death, Ingrid and her husband had moved into a new house. He looked for the number and dialed it. It was dinnertime, and the Swedish woman, when possible, liked to eat at home.

  “You token I lissin,” said the female voice that answered the phone.

  Ingrid may have changed houses, but she hadn’t changed her habit of hiring housekeepers that she went looking for in Tierra del Fuego, on Mount Kilimanjaro, or inside the Arctic Circle.

  “This is Montalbano.”

  “Watt say you?”

  She must have been an Australian Aborigine. A conversation between her and Catarella would have been memorable.

  “Montalbano. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

  “She mangia mangia.”

  “Could I speak to her?”

  Many minutes passed. If not for the voices in the background, the inspector would have thought he’d been cut off.

  “Hey, who is this?” Ingrid finally asked, suspicious.

  “Montalbano.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Salvo! The maid said there was some ‘Contrabando’ on the phone. How nice to hear your voice!”

  “I feel like a heel, Ingrid, but I need your help.”

  “So you only remember me when you need me for something?”

  “Come on, Ingrid. It’s a serious matter.”

  “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

  “Could we have dinner together tomorrow night?”

  “Sure. I’ll drop everything. Where shall we meet?”

  “At the Marinella Bar, as usual. At eight, if that’s not too early for you.”

  He hung up, feeling unhappy and embarrassed. Mimì had put him in an awkward position. What kind of expression, what words, would he use to ask the Swedish woman if she had a girlfriend with no body hair? He could already see himself, red-faced and sweaty, muttering incomprehensible questions to an increasingly amused Ingrid ... He suddenly froze. Maybe there was a way out. Since Nenè Sanfilippo had recorded his erotic correspondence on the computer, wasn’t it possible that ... ?

  He grabbed the keys to the Via Cavour apartment and dashed out.

  10

  As fast as he was racing out of the office, Fazio was rushing in. And inevitably, as in the finest slapstick movies, they collided. Since they were the same height and were walking with heads down, they nearly locked horns like stags in love.

  “Where you going? I need to talk to you,” said Fazio.

  “So let’s talk,” said Montalbano.

  Fazio locked the office door and sat down, smiling with satisfaction.

  “It’s done, Chief.”

  “Done?” asked an astonished Montalbano. “In one go?”

  “Yessirree, in one go. Father Crucillà’s a clever man. He’s the kind of priest that’s likely to have a rearview mirror to look in when he’s saying Mass, so he can spy on his flock. Anyway, to make a long story short, when I got to Montereale I went straight to the church and sat down in the first row of pews. There wasn’t a soul around. After a little bit, Father Crucillà comes out of the sacristy dressed up in his vestments, followed by an altar boy. I think he was taking the holy oil to somebody’s deathbed. When he passed in front of me, seeing a new face, he looked at me. And I looked back at him. I stayed glued to that pew for practically two hours, and then he finally came back. We looked at each other again. He went into the sacristy for about ten minutes, then came back out with the altar boy still behind him. When he was right in front of me, he waved at me, spreading all five fingers, nice and clear. What do you think he meant?”

  “He wanted you to come back to the church at five.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. See how clever he is? If I was any old churchgoer, I‘d’ve thought he was just waving, but if I was the man sent by you, then he wasn’t just waving, he was giving me a five o’clock appointment.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went and had lunch.”

  “In Montereale?”

  “No, Chief, I’m not as dumb as you think. There’s two trattorias in Montereale and I know a lot of people there. I didn’t want to be seen about town. And since I had time, I went over Bibera way.”

  “So far?”

  “Yeah, but I thought it was worth it. I heard there was a place there where you eat like a god.”

  “What’s it called?” Montalbano asked at once with keen interest.

  “Peppuccio‘s, it’s called. But the cooking stinks. Maybe it wasn’t a good day, maybe the owner, who’s also the chef, was in a bad mood. If you’re ever out that way, be sure to avoid Peppuccio’s. Anyway, at ten to five I was back in the church. This time there were a few people there, two men and maybe seven, eight women. All old. At five o’clock sharp, Father Crucillà came out of the sacristy and looked over his parishioners. I had the impression he was looking for me. Then he went into the confessional and drew the curtain. A lady followed and stayed there at least fifteen minutes. What could she have to confess?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure,” said Montalbano. “They go confess just to talk to somebody. You know how it is for old folks, don’t you?”

  “So I got up and sat down in a pew near the confessional. After the first old lady came out, another old lady went in. This one took a good twenty minutes. When she finished, it was my turn. I knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said: ‘Don Crucillà, I’m the man sent by Inspector Montalbano.’ He didn’t say anything at first, then he asked me my name. I told him, and he said: ‘We can’t do it today. Tomorrow morning, before early Mass, come back here to confess.’ ‘I’m sorry, but what time is early Mass?’ I asked. He says: ‘At six. But you must come at quarter to six. And tell the inspector to be ready, because we’re definitely going to do it tomorrow, at nightfall.’ Then he said: ‘Now rise, make the sign of the cross, go back to where you were seated, and say five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers, make the sign of the cross again, and leave.’ ”

  “So what’d you do?”

&nbs
p; “What was I supposed to do? I said the five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers.”

  “So why didn’t you get back sooner, if you took care of all this so quickly?”

  “My car broke down and I lost some time. So how do we leave it?”

  “We’re going to do as the priest says. Tomorrow morning, at quarter to six, you’re going to hear what he has to tell you and then report back to me. If he said we can do it at nightfall, that probably means around six-thirty or seven. Our actions will depend on what he tells us. Four of us will go, and we’ll take one car, to keep a low profile. It’ll be me, you, Mimì, and Gallo. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Now I’ve got some things to do.”

  Fazio left, and Montalbano dialed Ingrid’s home phone number.

  “You token I lissin,” said the same voice as before.

  “Who’s tokens same man’s token before. Contrabando.”

  It worked like a charm. Ingrid came to the phone in thirty seconds.

  “Salvo, what is it?”

  “Change of plan, sorry. We can’t meet tomorrow evening.”

  “When can we, then?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “A big hug.”

  That was Ingrid. And that was why Montalbano so liked and admired her. She demanded no explanations, and wouldn’t have given any herself, for that matter. She merely registered the situation. Never had he met a woman so womanly as Ingrid, who at the same time wasn’t at all like a woman.

  At least according to the notions we little men have formed about our little women, Montalbano concluded in his mind.

  In front of the Trattoria San Calogero, walking briskly along, he came to a sudden halt, the way donkeys do when they decide, for mysterious reasons, to stop and not move another inch, whippings and kicks to the belly notwithstanding. He looked at his watch. Barely eight o‘clock. Too early to eat. But the work that awaited him in Via Cavour promised to be long and would certainly take all night. Maybe he could start now and take a break around ten ... But what if he started feeling hungry before then?

  “So, Inspector, you going to make up your mind or not?”

  It was Calogero, the owner of the trattoria, watching him from the doorway. That was all he needed.

  The room was totally empty. Eating at eight o‘clock in the evening was for the Milanese; Sicilians don’t start thinking about dinner until after nine.