Angelica's Smile

by Andrea Camilleri

  He parked the car behind the villa.

  Angelica was waiting for him at the top of the staircase that led to her room.

  “Here I am!”

  She smiled at him. And it was as if the sun, which was setting, had changed its mind and risen back into the sky.

  Montalbano started climbing, and she came a few steps down. They embraced and kissed halfway. The inspector then said:

  “Let’s get going while there’s still some light.”

  She turned around, went back up the stairs, and disappeared into her room.

  Montalbano began to climb but failed to see a stair and fell, causing a terrible pain in his ankle. He was barely able to suppress a string of curses.

  Angelica rushed to his aid.

  “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “A little, in my . . . ankle.”

  “Think you can walk?”

  “Yes, let’s not waste any time. It’s going to get dark very soon.”

  It didn’t take him long to find the little box that brought the current from the villa to her room. He grabbed a chair, climbed onto it, and removed the cover of the box.

  A wire had short-circuited.

  “Go down into the villa and turn off the power.”

  She opened a door and disappeared.

  Montalbano took advantage of the situation to get a good look at the room.

  It was rather spartan and must have been used for one purpose only. That one. And the observation put him in a dark, terrible mood.

  Angelica returned.

  “Done.”

  “Get me some electrical tape.”

  It took him barely two minutes to fix the problem.

  “Go and turn the power back on.”

  He remained standing on the chair, awaiting the result.

  All at once the light in the middle of the room came on.

  “Bravissimo!” said Angelica, coming back into the room. “Why don’t you come down?” she added.

  “You’ll have to help me.”

  She drew near, and, bracing himself with both hands on her shoulders, he carefully descended.

  His ankle hurt like hell.

  “Lie down on the bed,” said Angelica. “I want to see what you’re made of.”

  He obeyed. She lightly pulled up his left trouser leg.

  “Oh my God! It’s so swollen!”

  She took his shoe off with some difficulty, and then the sock, too.

  “That’s quite a sprain!”

  She went into the bathroom and returned with a small tube in her hand.

  “If nothing else, this will lessen the pain a little.”

  She massaged him all around the ankle with the ointment.

  “In about ten minutes, I’ll put your sock back on.”

  And she came and lay down beside him.

  Then she put her arms around him and rested her head on his chest.

  Through Montalbano’s head flashed the words:

  That in this very bed on which he lies

  His love has lain, and often, in the close

  Embrace that nothing of herself denies.

  And who knew with how many!

  Flesh for hire. Males who took money to give pleasure.

  How many pairs of eyes had seen her naked body?

  How many hands caressed her on that bed?

  And how many times had that room, which looked like a cell, heard her voice say, “More . . . more . . .”

  A fierce jealousy took hold of him.

  The worst kind, jealousy of the past.

  But he could do nothing about it. He started trembling in anger, in fury.

  No less abhorrence now our hero shows

  And no less quickly from that bed he flies . . .

  “I’m leaving!” he said, sitting up.

  Angelica, confused, raised her head.

  “What’s got into you?”

  “I’m leaving!” he repeated, putting his sock back on, and then his shoe.

  Angelica must have intuited a little of what was going on in his mind, because she just lay there watching him, without saying another word.

  Montalbano descended the staircase with teeth clenched so he wouldn’t cry out in pain, then got in his car, turned the key in the ignition, and drove off.

  He was furious.

  The moment he got home, he unplugged the phone and went and lay down in bed.

  Four whiskies later, lying there with the bottle within reach, he felt his rage come down a few degrees.

  And he began to think.

  First of all, he had to take care of his ankle; otherwise he might not make it to work tomorrow.

  He looked at the clock. Nine-thirty.

  He called Fazio on his cell phone and explained the situation to him. Saying, however, that he’d twisted his ankle stepping up from the beach to the veranda.

  “I’ll be there in half an hour with Licalzi,” said Fazio.

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the massager of the Vigàta soccer team.”

  He didn’t even know Vigàta had a soccer team.

  Despite the pain he was feeling and his displeasure over missing dinner with Angelica, he was hungry.

  He got up, leaning on chairs and other furniture as he made his way to the kitchen.

  In the refrigerator was a large platter of seafood salad.

  He ate it at the kitchen table, which he didn’t bother to set.

  The moment he finished it, the doorbell rang. He went and answered the door.

  “This is Signor Licalzi,” said Fazio.

  Licalzi was a giant of about six foot three, with hands that were frightening just to look at. He was carrying a small black bag like the ones doctors use.

  Montalbano lay back down in bed, and the man started fiddling with his foot and leg.

  “It’s nothing serious,” Licalzi said.

  And when, in his life, had anything ever been serious? he thought bitterly to himself.

  Or if, perchance, there had been something, the ridiculousness of the past twenty-four hours had completely effaced it.

  Licalzi finished wrapping his foot nice and tight.

  “It would probably be better if you didn’t go out tomorrow morning and stayed home and rested.”

  Spending a whole morning alone with his thoughts, at this point in time, was really not an option for him.

  “Impossible! I have a lot of work to do at the office!”

  Fazio looked at him but said nothing.

  “But driving is not—”

  “I’ll come by at nine to pick him up,” said Fazio.

  “A cane would be a good idea.”

  “I’ll bring him one myself,” Fazio intervened again.

  “Well, be sure to get out of bed as little as possible, only for the strictest necessities,” Licalzi added.

  Montalbano’s eyes sought out Fazio’s, who gestured “no” with his head. He mustn’t offer to pay the massager.

  “Thank you so very much,” Montalbano said, holding out his hand.

  Then he made as if to get up, to see them out.

  “Don’t get up, we know the way,” Licalzi ordered him.

  “G’night, Chief.”

  “Thank you too, Fazio.”

  “Don’t mention it, Chief.”

  Now came the hard part.

  Despite what Licalzi had just told him, he got up, grabbed the bottle, glass, cigarettes, and lighter, and went and sat down on the veranda.

  The first fundamental point, essential to the reflection to come:

  You, dear Salvo, are a first-class idiot, while Angelica is a genuine, upright person.

  Had she ever hidden the existence of her love nest from
him?

  Or the reason she had one?

  Wasn’t it one of the first things she mentioned to him outright?

  And what would he, on the other hand, have preferred?

  For her to be a young virgin so like a rose, to say it again with Ariosto?

  And for him to be the first to pluck that rose, which no despoiling hand had ever touched?

  10

  Had he gone completely dotty?

  Or was this one of the first signs of the stultification that comes with old age?

  In her room he’d been overcome not by a fit of jealous rage, as he’d thought, but by a fit of senile dottiness.

  And Angelica must have felt deeply offended and embittered by his behavior.

  She’d always played aboveboard with him, and this was how he returned the favor?

  During the night she spent in the car with him, as they were kissing, hugging, caressing one another, not once did she say “I love you” or anything similar.

  She’d been honest even then.

  And he’d treated her the way he’d treated her.

  Even Mr. Z, in writing the anonymous letter to Ragonese . . .

  Wait a second!

  Stop right there, Montalbà!

  When Bonetti-Alderighi had him read the letter, he’d noticed something strange that at the time hadn’t quite rung true to him, but at that moment he’d been too wrapped up in the role he was playing to try and figure out what it was.

  What had that note said?

  Suddenly it all came back to him.

  Mr. Z, who accused him of omission, had on his own part omitted two important things, surely on purpose.

  The first was that he mentioned only Angelica’s cousin’s villa and didn’t say a word about her special room in that villa.

  The second was that he’d entirely passed over Angelica’s special use of that room.

  In fact he’d written that Angelica had gone there to spend her day off, or something similar.

  Whereas the burglars, when they went in, could see for themselves that the girl was sleeping with a man!

  And so why had he omitted these two rather important details?

  Did he want to make trouble for Montalbano while keeping Angelica’s reputation intact? Why would he want to do that?

  What sort of relationship could Mr. Z have with Angelica?

  This was something only she could explain.

  But this meant having to see her again.

  And he had no intention of doing this.

  Because the ridiculous scene in the love nest did at least have one positive result:

  It made him realize that his affair with Angelica could not continue.

  Absolutely not.

  It had been not so much an infatuation as a bout of madness.

  He felt a lump in his throat.

  He dissolved it with his tenth glass of whisky.

  Then, resting his arms on the table, and his head on his arms, he fell asleep almost immediately, entirely numb from alcohol and self-pity.

  Around five o’clock in the morning he dragged himself into bed.

  “Wanna som’ caffee, Isspector?”

  “Thanks, Adelì.”

  He opened one eye, and about five minutes later managed to open the other one too. He had a mild headache.

  The first cup of coffee revived him.

  “Could I have another cup?”

  The second one polished him up.

  The telephone rang.

  He’d thought it was still unplugged. Maybe the housekeeper had plugged it back in.

  “Adelì, you answer that. And tell them I can’t get out of bed.”

  He heard her talking but couldn’t tell with whom. Then Adelina came back to his room.

  “’A’ wazza you girlfrenn. She gonna call you onna cell phone.”

  And in fact the little march began to sound.

  “Where on earth were you last night? You have no idea how many times I tried to call!”

  “I was out on a stakeout.”

  “You could have told me!”

  “I’m sorry, but I went directly there from the office. I didn’t go home in between.”

  “And why can’t you get out of bed?”

  “I twisted my ankle. It was night, you know, total darkness . . .”

  Bravo Montalbano! Tireless seeker of truth in public, incorrigible liar in private.

  Fazio arrived at nine.

  “Absolute calm at the Sciortinos’ house.”

  “Let’s see what happens tonight.”

  When it came time to put on his shoes, there was no way the left one would fit.

  “Wear a shoe on your right foot and a slipper on your left,” Fazio suggested after having tried in vain to help him.

  “I’ll feel ridiculous coming to the office with one slipper.”

  “Then just stay here; it’s not like there’s a whole lot to do at the station. I’ll come back in the afternoon with Licalzi.”

  “Wait a second. Sit down. I have something to tell you. Yesterday, when the commissioner called me . . .”

  He told him about the anonymous letter and what it said.

  “Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

  “It certainly does.”

  “Don’t you think it might not be a bad idea to question Signorina Cosulich about it?”

  “I think she’s the only person who could give us an explanation,” said Fazio.

  “Then call her and question her.”

  Fazio gave him a bewildered look.

  “The whole thing seems rather delicate to me. Why don’t you do it yourself, tomorrow, since you seem to be on such familiar terms with her?”

  “First of all, because we’re losing time. And, anyway, what gives you the idea that I’m on more familiar terms with her than you are?”

  Fazio didn’t dare open his mouth.

  “Call her this morning, even,” the inspector went on, “and have her come in when she gets off work at the bank, which will be around six. Then come back here and report to me.”

  He stayed in bed the rest of the morning, reading a novel.

  He felt like a convalescent, not because of his foot but because of his heart.

  At one o’clock, Adelina brought him lunch in bed.

  Pasta ’ncasciata (a sheer delight that can change the outlook even of someone on the verge of suicide).

  Squid cut up into rings and fried to a crisp.

  Fruit.

  When Adelina finally went home, after leaving him his dinner for the evening, he became convinced that he would never digest properly while lying down.

  So he got dressed, put on one shoe and one slipper—the beach, after all, was deserted—grabbed the cane that Fazio had brought him, and took a long walk along the water’s edge.

  Fazio came by at around seven-thirty.

  “Licalzi should be here any minute.”

  Montalbano didn’t give a flying fuck about Licalzi. He was interested in something else.

  “Did you talk to La Cosulich?”

  “Yessir. She was rather worried about you.”

  Was he wrong, or was there a faint shadow of a smile playing on Fazio’s lips?

  Or did he think this merely because he had something to hide and everything seemed to be conspiring against him?

  “Why was she worried?”

  “Because her branch director called her and told her what Ragonese had said on TV. He wanted an explanation. She hadn’t heard anything about it before then. She pretended to be very surprised and confirmed that it was her place in Vigàta that had been robbed. But she was very worried about the possible consequences for you.”

  Montalbano preferred not dwelling any further on the s
ubject, as they were wandering onto dangerous terrain.

  “Did you mention the part of the anonymous letter that didn’t make sense to us?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And wha’d she say?”

  “She said she couldn’t explain it. Actually, she blushed and even mentioned that the thieves had in fact seen her sleeping with someone . . .”

  This wasn’t a very pleasurable subject either.

  “And in conclusion?”

  “In conclusion, she was left wondering, just like us.”

  Did they enjoy following leads that went nowhere?

  The doorbell rang. It was Licalzi.

  “Did you stay in bed all day?”

  “Of course!”

  “In fact you seem almost healed.”

  Apparently the long walk along the beach had done him well.

  “Now I’m going to give you a massage, rub a bit of cream on you, put the wrap back on, and, you’ll see, tomorrow you’ll be able to go back to work without any problem.”

  He said it in a cheery tone, as if going back to work was even better than going dancing.

  Licalzi’s massaging of his ankle and the surrounding area made him think again of Angelica doing the same thing as he lay on her bed.

  And at that moment a bright light rather like a camera flash lit up his brain.

  When Licalzi had finished, Montalbano thanked him again, and since Fazio was making as if to leave, he stopped him.

  “You stay behind another five minutes, please, Fazio.”

  Fazio showed Licalzi out and then came back.

  “What is it, Chief?”

  “You have to talk with La Cosulich again, immediately.”

  Fazio grimaced.

  “Why?”

  “Show her the list the Peritores drew up and ask her whether any of the men on the list have ever pursued her insistently, and whether she turned them down.”

  Fazio made a doubtful face.

  “It’s an idea that came to me just now,” Montalbano continued. “Suppose someone from the list was rejected by her; he could now have her in the palm of his hand and blackmail her. If you don’t sleep with me, I’ll broadcast far and wide what you really do in your cousin’s villa.”