Game of Mirrors (8 page)

He got in his car, drove to Via Pisacane, parked, and got out.

Donato Miccichè’s apartment was on the same floor as the Tallarita flat, just across the landing.

The inspector knocked, and the door was opened by a man of about sixty in a wheelchair, unshaven, wearing an old pajama top and holding a plaid blanket over his legs.

“Inspector Montalbano, police. Are you Donato Miccichè?”

“Yes.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Come in.”

The man showed him into the usual living-dining room with a sofa and two armchairs in a corner.

The atmosphere was one of dignified poverty.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you, I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Do you own a green Volvo with the license plate number
XZ
452
BG
?”

“Yes.” Then, a moment later, “Did somethin’ happen?” he asked apprehensively.

“No, it’s just a routine check.”

Miccichè seemed relieved.

“My insurance is all in order.”

“That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Where do you keep the car?”

“I rent a space in a garage just down the street.”

“Please give me the address.”

“Via Pisacane eleven.”

Wouldn’t you know it?

“Who usually drives it?”

“Until about six months ago, I always drove it, but then, unfortunately, I couldn’t anymore.”

“What happened?”

“I got run over by a car while crossin’ the street in Montelusa. Broke both of my legs.”

“So does one of your family members use the car?”

“My wife don’t drive and my two sons don’t live here; one works in Rome, the other in Benevento.”

“So am I to conclude that your car has been sitting in a garage for six months?”

Miccichè’s unease was plain to see. He made as if to say something, then changed his mind and remained silent.

Montalbano thought that a bit of encouragement at this point might be a good thing.

“Signor Miccichè, it’s not a crime, you know, if you lend it to someone every now and then. Even I sometimes lend my car to my wife or my brother.”

He figured it would seem reassuring for him to come off as a cop, yes, but with a family. A person like everyone else.

Miccichè thought it over for a minute before speaking.

“Yeah, I know iss not a crime.”

So a bit of encouragement wasn’t enough? Should he resort to threats to extract the information from him?

Montalbano assumed a serious expression.

“I ought to remind you that I am a public official, and you are duty-bound to answer my questions.”

Miccichè sighed.

“Iss not that I don’ wanna answer . . . Iss that iss a very
private matter . . . I wouldn’t wanna cause no harm to anyone . . .”

“I formally guarantee you that nothing you say to me will leave this room.”

Miccichè finally made up his mind.

“The other apartment on this floor, just across the landing, belongs to the Tallarita family . . . When I had my accident, they really helped me a lot . . . An’ I was very grateful for it. One day Arturo, who’s their son, came to me an’ ast me secretly if he could borrow my car . . . He begged me not to say nothin’ to no one, not even his mother . . . He’s mixed up with some married woman who lives ousside of town . . . Anyway, since I couldn’t use the car anymore an’ wanted to sell it, he talked me into keepin’ it . . . He would pay for the rent on the garage, the taxes, an’ the insurance . . . An’ so I said I would sell it to him, but he could take his time payin’ me for it. He said no, he didn’t want anyone to know that he owned a car . . . And anyway, I liked still havin’ the car an’ thinkin’ maybe one day I might drive it again . . . So, to make a long story short, I gave ’im the keys to the garage, since he uses the car only at night . . .”

Another piece of the puzzle had found its place.

The hypothesis the inspector had formulated on the jetty had proved correct.

Liliana had only one lover: Arturo.

So why was she doing everything in her power to make it seem as if their relationship were over?

If her husband couldn’t care less about what she did, and she didn’t have another man, what need was there to hide the fact that they were lovers?

On top of that, Arturo, too, was keen on maintaining secrecy. He didn’t want anyone else to know.

As far as Arturo was concerned, however, there might be an explanation. In all probability he had a girlfriend in Vigàta, and if his affair with Liliana ever came out, there would be hell to pay with his girlfriend.

While the inspector was driving with his thoughts elsewhere, he realized he hadn’t respected the stop sign as he turned onto the Corso. A powerful car coming on at high speed very nearly crashed into him, managing to stop barely an inch away from the broad side of his car. And Montalbano, too, instinctively stopped. At the wheel of the sporty two-seater was a man who just sat there without moving. Montalbano didn’t know if the guy was letting him go first, so, just to be safe, he didn’t move either.

Then the sports car backed up a little, screeched its tires, took off like a rocket, and vanished in the direction of Montelusa.

The inspector didn’t have the time to read the license plate number, but he was fairly convinced he’d just had a glimpse of Signor Lombardo, Liliana’s husband.

Was he coming from home?

The moment he was back at his desk at the station, he got an internal call from Catarella.

“’At’d be the Signura Lombardi onna line, Chief, wantin’ a talk t’yiz.”

“Lombardi or Lombardo?”

“Lombardi.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure she got a pluralistick name, Chief.”

Montalbano was right to doubt him. Naturally, her name was not pluralistick, but singularistick, and the person on the line was indeed Liliana.

Who immediately started talking as soon as she heard the click of the call being put through, so that the inspector barely got out so much as a syllable.

“Hel—”

“Ciao. Listen, Salvo, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I couldn’t help it.”

“It’s no bother at all!”

“I have a proposal for you.”

“Let’s hear it.”

She giggled.

“First you have to say yes.”

“How can I say yes if I don’t know what it is?”

“You have to trust me.”

That was the last thing one should do with someone like Liliana. The lady had shown herself capable of leading
him down the Corso and into a crowded establishment and behaving as if they had just gotten out of the same bed. And so? What was happening to him? So now he was starting to fear a woman’s ruse, and a rather ingenuous one at that? The problem was that he liked everything about this woman. Even her playacting.

“All right, then. Yes.”

“Since I can get off work an hour early today, this evening I can return your favor and invite you to dinner. Are you free?”

She was offering him an excellent opportunity not to come. He could invent whatever excuse he liked . . .

Yes or no?

Make up your mind, Montalbà. Don’t forget all the bad that befalls the indecisive, from
Buridan’s ass
to Hamlet.

“Yes.”

“So you’ll come? Don’t forget you’ve already said yes to me, so if you say no now, you’ll be going back on your word.”

“I’ll come.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

And she sent him an audible kiss through the telephone cable.

“Listen, Liliana, sorry, but I think I saw your husband just a little while ago.”

Another giggle.

“That’s possible.”

“So will I meet him tonight?”

“Of course not! He must have dropped by the house to pick up something he needed. Don’t worry, we’ll be alone, just the two of us.”

It was quite likely that phone call was made in the presence of others.

Liliana was speeding things up. What need was there for her to do that? What other lies would she tell him?

Speaking of which, was her husband always just passing through? Didn’t he ever stay home for a few days?

This question brought a number of others along with it, like cherries falling from a tree.

Did this computer representative with exclusive rights for a given brand across the whole island have a sample collection?

And did he have a stock of computers that he could leave with companies and prospective buyers to try out?

And where would he keep such a stock?

At his house in Marinella?

And why had all these questions about Liliana’s husband suddenly come to mind?

What was their purpose?

And what should he bring to Liliana’s?

Roses or cannoli?

You know perfectly well that you’ve already opted for cannoli
, interrupted that pain-in-the-ass, Montalbano Two.

And wouldn’t it be better to be done with all these questions, which were giving him a headache?

He rang Fazio and told him to come to his office.

“What were you doing?” the inspector asked him.

“Nothing. I was just asking myself why these people keep putting bombs in front of empty warehouses.”

“You’re telling me! I’ve been racking my brains over that. Did you come to any conclusions?”

“Nah.”

“Me neither.”

“Did you want something?”

“Yes. I called you in to ask you whether you knew that Arturo has use of a car.”

“No. I asked around. I even inquired at the ACI. He doesn’t seem to own a car.”

“That’s because the car he uses isn’t his. He borrows it. The car he drives is a green Volvo.”

Fazio goggled his eyes.

The inspector told him everything.

“So La Lombardo presumably has only one lover?” Fazio asked.

“So it seems.”

Fazio remained pensive.

“Then I don’t understand why she told you she’d broken up with the kid.”

“Maybe because she’s doing everything possible to hook up with me. And she would like to convince me that the whole pie is for me and that I don’t have to share it with anyone, not even her husband.”

Fazio gave him a bewildered look.

“But why would she do that?”

Montalbano pretended to get upset.

“What do you mean, ‘why would she do that?’ What about my manly charm? My good looks? My intelligence?”

Fazio wasn’t buying it.

“Chief, if it was only a matter of charm and stuff like that, you wouldn’t be telling me all this. You know perfectly well that the lady is acting this way because she has a specific purpose in mind, something other than sleeping with you.”

He was sharp, no doubt about it.

The telephone rang.

“Chief, ’at’d be Signura Lombardi onna line again.”

“Put her on.”

He put on the speakerphone so Fazio could also hear.

“Hello, Liliana, what is it?”

“I forgot that I don’t have any food at all in the house. I have to go shopping.”

“Shall we postpone it for another time?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. On the contrary, I wanted to ask you to lend me a hand.”

“I’d be happy to. How?”

“Well, I’ll be coming into town on the Montelusa bus in about fifteen minutes. If you could pick me up and come with me to do some shopping . . .”

The inspector looked at Fazio, who remained expressionless. He’d come this far, might as well go all the way . . . He decided to play along.

“All right, I’ll be there. Ciao.”

He hung up. Fazio looked at him questioningly.

“She wants to put on a little show with me, you see? So that half the people in town think we have a close relationship, maybe even an intimate one. That way she can make it seem like she doesn’t have another man—namely, Arturo.”

“All right. But who are they trying to hide from? Who are they afraid of? Certainly not the husband. And Arturo’s not married.”

“And why am I going to dinner at her place tonight? To try and find out just that.”

When he got to the stop, the bus hadn’t arrived yet, so he stepped out of the car to smoke a cigarette. There were already about ten people waiting for the bus, which after a fifteen-minute stop would depart again for Montelusa.

The stage was set.

The first thing Liliana did when she got off the bus was to run towards him with open arms and cries of joy, embrace him, and kiss him on the cheeks.

So that Montalbano was immediately hated by the three or four men who witnessed the scene.

Then the show began.

At the baker’s she held him arm in arm the whole time. At the grocer’s she kept an arm around his waist the whole time. At the butcher’s she found a way to steal a kiss.

“I’m done.”

“I’d like to buy some cannoli myself.”

“All right, I’ll come too.”

She didn’t want to miss the chance. She made it so that when they entered the café they were holding hands, with her looking at him as if he were Sean Connery in the days of 007.

Montalbano thought she could have saved time and effort by publishing an ad announcing to one and all that they were lovers.

“And now you’re going to drive me home and go back to your place, and we’ll see each other again at nine, not before.”

“Okay.”

He felt half amused, half annoyed. Amused because he wanted to see how far Liliana would take this dangerous game, and annoyed because she apparently took him for a
complete moron ready to damn himself at the mere sight of her thighs.

The phone rang, and he went to pick up. It was Nicolò Zito.

“Salvo, I tried you at the station but they said you were at home and so . . . Am I bothering you?”

“No, Nicolò. What is it?”

“I don’t know where to begin . . .”

“Is it something serious?”

“I dunno. Listen, I’m going to ask you a question, but I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”

“I won’t.”

“If I hadn’t called you right now but, say, three or four hours from now, would I be bothering you?”

What had got into the guy? What kind of question was that?

“I probably wouldn’t have answered the phone.”

“Why not?”

“Because I would have been out. I have to go and see someone.”

“Male or female?”

But what did it matter to Zito? Nicolò, however, was too good a friend; there must be something behind this phone call.

“Female.”

“Far from Marinella?”

“No, just a stone’s throw from my house.”

“Listen, don’t take this the wrong way . . . Just asking
you these questions is making me sweat . . . Is this some sort of . . . well, amorous tryst?”

“Nicolò, this is where I stop talking. Now it’s your turn.”

“I have to tell you something I found out by chance from my cameraman . . . He’s friends with another cameraman who works for TeleVigàta, and tonight they were supposed to go out dancing . . . but the guy called my colleague to say he couldn’t make it tonight, because he had to cover an important story, a real scoop, somewhere around Marinella . . .”

“So?”

“I don’t know why, but I thought it might concern you . . . You’re the only person living in Marinella who could possibly be of any interest to the folks at TeleVigàta.”

“Thanks, Nicolò. You’re a real friend.”

He hung up, feeling a slight bitter taste in his mouth. Part of him believed it, and part of him didn’t. But shouldn’t he probably protect himself regardless?

He rang Fazio.

They talked a long time.

And they came up with a plan.

The gate was closed. She came and opened it, then took care to close it again. She was wearing a dress that looked like the winner of a contest to see which dressmaker could use the least amount of fabric and still make a dress.

Even though there were no onlookers, she kissed him on the mouth and led him inside, holding him by the hand.

She was smiling and stepping so lightly she seemed to be flying.

A picture of true happiness.