IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Merci.”

  He dialed Mimi’s home phone. He let it ring a long time, but got no answer. As a last resort, he looked up Beatrice’s number in the phone book. She picked up at once.

  “Montalbano here, Beatrice. Forgive me for intruding, but—”

  “You want to talk to Mimi?” the divine creature cut in. “I’ll put him on.”

  She wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. Mimi, on the other hand, was, and immediately began making excuses.

  “Salvo, I happened to be in the area, you see, when I realized I was just outside Beba’s door—”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Mimi, there’s no problem,” Montalbano conceded magnanimously. “Let me apologize, first of all, for disturbing you.”

  “But not at all! I wouldn’t dream of it! What can I do for you?”

  Could the Chinese have done any better in the way of ceremoniousness?

  “I wanted to ask you if we could meet at the office tomorrow morning, say around eight. I’ve made an important discovery.”

  “What?”

  “The connection between the Griffos and Sanfilippo.”

  He heard Mimi exhale the way one does when kicked in the stomach. Then Mimi stammered:

  “Wh-where are you? I’ll come meet you right away.”

  “I’m at my place. But Ingrid’s here.”

  “Oh. Let me tell you, Salvo, squeeze her anyway, even if, after what you just said, the infidelity theory doesn’t really hold up anymore.”

  “Listen, don’t tell anyone where I am. I’m going to disconnect the phone now.”

  “Of course, of course,” Mimi said insinuatingly.

  Montalbano went to lie down, limping all the way. It took him half an hour to find the right position. He closed his eyes and reopened them at once. Hadn’t he invited Ingrid to dinner? So how was he going to get dressed, stand up on his feet, and go out to a restaurant? The word “restaurant” immediately gave him a feeling of emptiness in the pit of his stomach. How long had it been since he’d eaten? He got up and went into the kitchen. Enthroned in the refrigerator was a serving dish full of red mullet all‘agrodolce. Reassured, he went back to bed. He was nodding off when he heard the front door open.

  “I’ll be right there,” Ingrid called from the dining room.

  She came in a few minutes later carrying a small bottle, an elastic bandage, and a roll of gauze.

  “I want to pay off my debt,” she said.

  “What debt?” asked Montalbano.

  “Don’t you remember? When we first met. I sprained an ankle and you brought me here and gave me a massage ...”

  Now he remembered, of course. She was lying half-naked on the bed when Anna, a policewoman from Montelusa who’d fallen in love with him, barged in. The girl got the wrong idea and made his life hell. Had Livia and Ingrid ever met? Maybe at the hospital, the time he was wounded ...

  Under Ingrid’s slow, continuous caresses he felt his eyelids begin to droop. He surrendered to a delicious somnolence.

  “Pull yourself up. I have to wrap you now ... Keep your arm raised ...Turn a little more towards me.”

  He obeyed, a satisfied smile on his lips.

  “I’m done,” said Ingrid. “In half an hour you’ll start feeling better.”

  “What about the big toe?” he asked, his mouth gluey.

  “What did you say?”

  Without speaking, the inspector pulled his foot out from under the sheet. Ingrid got back to work.

  He opened his eyes. From the dining room came the sound of a man’s voice, speaking softly. He looked at his watch: past eleven. He felt quite a bit better. Had Ingrid called a doctor? He got up and, just as he was—in his underwear, with his shoulder, chest, and big toe all wrapped up—he went to investigate. It wasn’t a doctor—actually, it was a doctor, but he was on television, talking about some miraculous weight-loss program. Ingrid was sitting in an armchair. Seeing him enter, she sprang to her feet.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “I got dinner ready, if you’re hungry.”

  The table had been set. The mullet, taken, out of the refrigerator, wanted nothing more than to be eaten. They sat down. As they were serving the fish, Montalbano asked:

  “Why didn’t you wait for me at the Marinella Bar?”

  “For more than an hour, Salvo?”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you come in your car?”

  “I haven’t got it at the moment. It’s at the mechanic’s. A friend gave me a ride to the bar. Then, when you didn’t show up, I decided to go for a walk and came here. I knew you’d come home sooner or later.”

  While they were eating, the inspector looked at Ingrid. She was becoming more and more beautiful. At the corners of her mouth she now had a little line that made her look more mature, more aware. What an extraordinary woman! It had never even occurred to her to ask him how he’d managed to injure his shoulder. She ate for the pleasure of eating; the mullet had been carefully apportioned, three each. And she drank with gusto: she was already on her third glass when Montalbano was still on his first.

  “What did you want from me?”

  The question baffled the inspector.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Salvo, you called me up to tell me—”

  The videocassette! It had completely slipped his mind.

  “I wanted to show you something. But let’s finish eating first. Want some fruit?”

  Then, sitting Ingrid down in the armchair, he picked up the cassette.

  “But I’ve already seen that film!” she protested.

  “We’re not here to watch the film, but something that was taped over it.”

  He put the cassette in, turned it on, and sat down in the other armchair. Then, with the remote control, he fast-forwarded it until the shot of the empty bed appeared, with the cameraman trying to bring the picture into focus.

  “Looks like a promising start,” Ingrid said, smiling.

  Then came the darkened screen. The image reappeared, and now Nenè Sanfilippo’s mistress, in the pose of the Naked Maja, lay on the bed. A second later Ingrid was on her feet, surprised and troubled.

  “But that’s Vanya!” she nearly yelled.

  Montalbano had never seen Ingrid so upset, never, not even the time she was framed to look like, or almost like, the chief suspect in a crime.

  “‘Do you know her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “Pretty good friends.”

  Montalbano turned off the video.

  “How did you get that tape?”

  “Could we go talk in the other room? Some of the pain has come back.”

  He got into bed. Ingrid sat down on the edge.

  “I’m uncomfortable like this,” the inspector complained.

  Ingrid got up, pulled him up, and put the pillow behind his back so he could remain half-sitting. Montalbano was starting to enjoy having a nurse.

  “How did you get that cassette?” Ingrid asked again.

  “My second-in-command found it at Nenè Sanfilippo’s place.”

  “And who’s he?”

  “You don’t know? He’s that twenty-year-old who was murdered a few days ago.”

  “Right, I heard some mention of that. But why did he have that tape?”

  Ingrid was being utterly sincere. She seemed truly amazed by the whole business.

  “Because he was her lover.”

  “What? A kid like that?”

  “Yes. She never talked about it with you?”

  “Never. At least, she never mentioned his name. Vanya is very reserved.”

  “How did the two of you meet?”

  “Well, in Montelusa the only comfortably married foreign women are me, two English ladies, an American, two Germans, and Vanya, who is Romanian. We’ve formed a kind of club, just for fun. Do you know who Vanya’s husband is?”

  “Yes, Dr. Ingrò, the transplant su
rgeon.”

  “Well, from what I can gather, he’s not a very nice man. For a while, though she’s at least twenty years younger, Vanya was happy living with him. Then love faded, for him too. They began to see less and less of each other, and he was often traveling the world.”

  “Did she have lovers?”

  “Not that I know of. She remained very faithful, in spite of everything.”

  “What do you mean, in spite of everything?”

  “Well, they stopped sleeping with each other. And Vanya’s a woman who—”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Then, suddenly, about three months ago, she changed. She became sort of more cheerful and sadder at the same time. I realized she was in love. So I asked her, and she said yes. As far as I could tell, it was a great physical passion, mostly.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  “Who?”

  “What do you mean, who? Your friend, Vanya.”

  “But she left about two weeks ago!”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Of course. She’s in a village near Bucharest. I have her address and phone number. She wrote me a couple of lines. She says she had to go back to Romania because her father got sick after falling into disfavor and losing his ministerial post.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know Dr. Ingrò very well?”

  “I’ve probably met him three times at the most. Once was when he came to my house. He’s very elegant, but unpleasant. Apparently he owns an extraordinary collection of paintings. Vanya says it’s a kind of illness, his collection mania. He’s spent an incredible amount of money on it.”

  “Listen, I want you to think before answering: would he be capable of killing or having somebody kill Vanya’s lover, if he ever discovered her infidelity?”

  Ingrid laughed.

  “You must be kidding! He didn’t give a shit about Vanya anymore!”

  “But don’t you think her husband might have made her leave Vigata to separate her from her lover?”

  “Yes, that’s possible. But if he did it, it was only to avoid nasty rumors and gossip. He’s not the type of man to take things any further.”

  They looked at each other in silence. There was nothing else to say. Something then occurred to Montalbano.

  “If you don’t have your car, how are you going to get home?”

  “Call a cab?”

  “At this hour?”

  “Then I’ll sleep here.”

  Montalbano felt the sweat begin to bead on his forehead.

  “What about your husband?”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “Look, tell you what. Just take my car and go.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll have somebody come pick me up tomorrow morning.”

  Ingrid stared at him in silence.

  “Do you think of me as a bitch in heat?” she asked, dead serious, with a kind of sadness in her eyes.

  The inspector felt embarrassed.

  “I’m happy for you to stay,” he said sincerely.

  As if she’d always lived in that house, Ingrid opened a drawer in his dresser and took out a shirt.

  “Okay if I wear this?”

  In the middle of the night, Montalbano, drowsy with sleep, realized there was a woman’s body lying next to his. It could only be Livia. He reached out and put his hand on a smooth, solid buttock. All at once an electric shock ran through him. Christ, it wasn’t Livia. He pulled his hand abruptly away.

  “Put it back,” Ingrid said in a thick voice.

  “It’s six-thirty. Coffee’s ready,” said Ingrid, touching him delicately on his damaged shoulder.

  The inspector opened his eyes. Ingrid had only his shirt on.

  “Sorry to wake you up so early. But you yourself said, before falling asleep, that you had to be at your office by eight.”

  He got up. He felt less pain, but the tight bandaging made it hard to move. Ingrid removed it for him.

  “I’ll wrap you up again after you wash.”

  They drank their coffee. Montalbano had to use his left hand, as the right was still numb. How would he manage to wash himself? Ingrid seemed to read his mind.

  “Leave it to me,” she said.

  In the bathroom, she helped the inspector out of his briefs. She took off the shirt she was wearing. Montalbano carefully avoided looking at her. Ingrid, on the other hand, acted as if they’d been married ten years.

  In the shower, she lathered him up. Montalbano had no reaction. He felt, to his delight, like he was a little boy again, when loving hands used to perform the same task on his body.

  “I see apparent signs of awakening,” said Ingrid, laughing.

  Montalbano looked down and blushed violently. The signs were more than apparent.

  “Forgive me. I’m mortified.”

  “About what?” Ingrid asked. “For being a man?”

  “Turn on the cold water, it’s for the best,” said the inspector.

  Then came the torment of being dried off. When he put on his briefs, he sighed in satisfaction, as if to signal that the danger was past. Before wrapping him back up, Ingrid got dressed. That way everything, for the inspector, could proceed more calmly. Before going out, they drank another cup of coffee. Ingrid climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Now, I want you to drop me off at the station, and you can continue on to Montelusa in my car,” said Montalbano.

  “No,” said Ingrid. “I’ll drive you to the station and take a taxi from there. It’s easier than having to bring the car back to you later.”

  For half of the drive they sat in silence. One thought kept stewing in the inspector’s brain, however, and at a certain point he mustered up the courage and asked:

  What happened between us last night?“

  Ingrid laughed.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “Is it important for you to remember?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “All right. You know what happened? Nothing, if that’s what your scruples want.”

  “And what if I didn’t have any scruples?”

  “Then everything happened. Whatever works best for you.

  There was silence.

  “Do you think that our relationship has changed since last night?” Ingrid asked.

  “Absolutely not,” the inspector replied frankly.

  “Then why all the questions?”

  Her reasoning made sense. And Montalbano asked no more questions. As she pulled up in front of the station, she asked:

  “Do you want Vanya’s telephone number?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll call you later this morning.”

  As Ingrid, after opening the door, was helping Montalbano out of the car, Mimi Augello appeared in the police station’s doorway and came to a sudden stop, keenly interested in the scene. Ingrid dashed off after kissing the inspector lightly on the mouth. Mimi kept looking at her from behind until she was out of his sight. With great effort, the inspector hoisted himself up onto the sidewalk.

  “I’m one big ache,” he said, walking past Augello.

  “See what happens when you get out of shape?” said Mimi, smirking.

  The inspector would have bashed in his teeth but was afraid he might seriously injure his arm.

  16

  “All right, Mimi, listen carefully to what I say, but don’t let it distract you from your driving. I’ve got a bum shoulder and can’t afford any more damage. And, most important, don’t interrupt me with questions, or I’ll lose my train of thought. Save them all for the end, after I’ve finished. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t ask me how I found these things out.”

  “Okay.”

  “And no useless details, okay?”

  “Okay. Before you begin, can I ask you one question?”

  “Just one.”


  “In addition to your arm, did you also hurt your head?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re busting my balls with all this asking if things are okay! Are you obsessed or something? I’ll just say okay to everything you ask, even about things I don’t know. Okay? You can begin.”

  “Margherita Griffo had a brother and a sister, Giuliana, a schoolteacher, who lived in Trapani.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “You see? You see?” the inspector burst out. “You even promised! And still you come out with some dumb-ass question! Of course she’s dead, if I say she had and she lived!”

  Augello didn’t breathe.

  “Margherita hadn’t spoken to her sister since they were young. An inheritance squabble. One day, however, the two sisters get back in touch. When Margherita learns that Giuliana is dying, she goes with her husband to see her. They’re put up at Giuliana’s house. Also living with the dying woman, from time immemorial, is a friend of hers, Miss Baeri.The Griffos learn that Giuliana, in her will, has left her sister a former stable with a bit of land around it, in a district of Vigata called ‘The Moor.’ Which is where we’re now going. It’s only a token of affection, worth nothing. The day after the funeral, when the Griffos are still in Trapani, some guy calls up, saying he’s interested in the former stable. He doesn’t know that Giuliana is dead. Miss Baeri passes the phone to Alfonso Griffo. Which makes sense, since his wife now owns the property. The two men talk over the phone. As to the contents of their conversation, Alfonso seems evasive. All he tells his wife is that the guy who called lives in the same building as them.”

  “Christ! Nenè Sanfilippo!” Mimi cried out, letting the car swerve.

  “Either you drive safely or I’m not going to tell you anything else. The fact that the stable’s owners live on the floor above him seems to Sanfilippo a fantastic coincidence.”

  “Wait. Are you sure it’s a coincidence?”

  “Yes, it’s a coincidence. And, incidentally, if I have to put up with your questions, they have to be intelligent. It’s a coincidence. Sanfilippo didn’t know that Giuliana was dead, and he had no reason to pretend otherwise. He didn’t know that the former stable had been bequeathed to Mrs. Griffo, because the will hadn’t been made public yet.”