Rounding the Mark (21 page)

Mildly reassured, Fonso Spàlato went and sat back down. But he was clearly still nervous. He sat at the edge of the chair, ready to flee. He must have been wondering if he was indeed at Vigàta Police headquarters or in the province’s remaining insane asylum. What disturbed him more than anything was the loving smile Montalbano beamed in his direction as he gazed at him. Indeed, at that moment the inspector was swept up in a wave of gratitude towards the man, who looked like a clown but was not. How could he ever repay him?

“Listen, Mr. Spàlato. I haven’t quite understood the reasons for your various travels. Did you come to Vigàta expressly to talk to me?”

“Yes. Unfortunately I have to go immediately back to Trieste. Mama is not well and she misses me. We’re . . . very close.”

“Think you could stay another two days, three at the most?”

“Why?”

“Because I think I could get you, firsthand, some very important information.”

Fonso Spàlato thought about this a long time, his little eyes hidden behind closed lids. Then he decided to speak.

“At the start of our discussion, you told me you knew nothing about any of this.”

“It’s true.”

“But if you didn’t know anything, how can you say now that, in a very short space of time, you could get—” ”

“I didn’t lie to you, believe me. You told me some things I didn’t know before, but I now have the feeling those facts have put a current investigation of mine on the right track.”

“Well, I’m at the Regina in Montelusa. I think I could stay on another two days.”

“Excellent. Could you describe Gafsa’s lieutenant, the one who often comes here? What’s his name?”

“Jamil Zarzis. He’s about forty, short and stocky . . . Or so at least I’m told . . . Oh, yes, one more thing: he has hardly any teeth.”

“Well, if, in the meantime, he’s decided to see a dentist, we’re screwed,” the inspector commented.

Fonso Spàlato threw his little hands in the air, as if to say that was all he knew about Jamil Zarzis.

“Listen, you told me Gafsa makes a point of eliminating his adversaries personally. Is that really true?”

“Yes.”

“A burst of Kalashnikov and goodnight, or—”

“No, he’s a sadist. He’s always finding new ways. I was told that he hung one man upside down until he died, and literally roasted another over hot coals; with yet another he bound his wrists and ankles with metal wire and slowly drowned him in the lagoon. Still another he—”

The inspector stood up. Worried, Fonso Spàlato fell silent.

“What’s wrong?” he said, ready to jump out of his chair and start running.

“Do you mind if I whinny again?” the inspector politely asked.

15

“Who’s that?” asked Mimì, watching Fonso Spàlato walk away down the corridor.

“An angel,” replied Montalbano.

“Right! In those clothes?”

“Why not? Do you think angels should only dress the way they do in the paintings of Melozzo da Forlì? Haven’t you ever seen that Frank Capra movie called . . . wait . . .”

“Never mind,” said Mimì, who was obviously on edge. “I wanted to tell you that Tommaseo phoned. I told him we’d be handling the case, but he wouldn’t give us authorization to search the villa, nor would he consent to tapping Marzilla’s phone. So the whole performance you orchestrated didn’t help one goddamned bit.”

“That’s okay, we’ll work on our own. But could you explain why you’re in such a bad mood?”

“You want to know why I’m in a bad mood?” Augello fired back at him. “Because I listened to Beba’s phone call to Tommaseo and I heard the kind of questions that pig asked her. I was standing there with my ear glued to the receiver. When she finished telling him what she’d seen, he started asking things like, ‘Were you alone in the car?’ To which Beba replied with embarrassment, ‘No, I was with my boyfriend.’ So he said: ‘What were you doing?’ And Beba, pretending to be even more embarrassed, ‘Well, you know . . .’ So the pig says, ‘Were you making love?’ Beba answers in a faint voice, ‘Yes . . .’ And he asks, ‘Was the relation consummated?’ Here Beba hesitated a moment, and so the swine explained to her that there were certain important facts he had to know in order to clarify the situation as much as possible. And at that point she stopped holding back and started getting into it. You have no idea the kinds of details she came out with! And the more she said, the more the pig got worked up! He actually wanted Beba to come in and testify in person! He wanted to know her name and what she looked like. To cut it short, after she hung up, we ended up quarreling. My question is, where did she dig up some of those details?”

“Come on, Mimì, don’t be childish! What, have you become jealous now?”

Mimì gave him a long look.

“Yes,” he said.

And he left the room.

“Send me Catarella!” the inspector shouted at him.

“Your orders, Chief!” said Catarella, instantly materializing.

“I think I remember you saying once that you often go visit a brother of yours who lives near Capo Russello.”

“Yessir, Chief.”

“Good. Can you explain to me how you get there?”

“No need to ’splain, Chief. I can come wit you myself in poisson!”

“Thanks, but this is something I have to take care of alone, no offense. So, can you explain to me how I get there?”

“Yessir. You take the road to Montereale and go past it. Keep goin for a coupla miles and on the left y’see an arrow that says Capo Russello.”

“Do I take that road?”

“No sir. You c’ntinue. Next you’re gonna see an arrow that says Lampisa. That’s the road you take.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Chief, that arrow that says Lampisa only says Lampisa in a manner o’ speakin. Forget about goin to Lampisa if you only follow that arrow.”

“So what should I do?”

“When you take the road to Lampisa, you go about a hundred fifty yards till you see a big iron gate that used to be there but isn’t there no more.”

“How am I supposed to see a gate that isn’t there?”

“Easy, Chief. ’Cause after where the gate used to be, there’s two rows of oak trees. That used to be the Baron Vella’s property, now it’s nobody’s property. When you come way to the back of that driveway an’ you see the belapidated ruins of the baron’s villa, you turn alla way around the last oak tree onna left. And not tree hunnert yards later you’re in Lampisa.”

“And that’s the only way to get there?”

“It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On if you’re walkin or drivin there.”

“I’m driving.”

“Then iss the only way, Chief.”

“How far away is the sea?”

“Not a hunnert yards, Chief.”

 
 
To eat or not to eat? That was the question. Was it nobler in the mind to suffer the pangs of outrageous hunger or to hang it all and go stuff his belly at Enzo’s? The Shakespearian dilemma arose when he looked at his watch and noticed it was already eight o’clock. If he gave in to hunger, that would give him just barely an hour to devote to dinner. Which meant that he would have to eat with Chaplinesque speed. Now, one thing was certain, and that was that eating hastily was not eating. At best it was mere self-nourishment. An essential difference, since at that moment he felt no need to nourish himself the way an animal or a tree might. What he felt like doing was savoring bite after bite, taking as much time as was needed. No, there was no point. And, to avoid falling into temptation, once he got home he opened neither the refrigerator nor the oven. He took all his clothes off and went into the shower. Then he put on a pair of jeans and a Canadian bear-hunter’s shirt. It occurred to him that he didn’t know how things would go, and he wondered: to pack or not to pack? Perhaps it was better to bring his pistol. Then he picked out a dark-brown sport coat that had a spacious inner pocket and put this on. He didn’t want to alarm Ingrid if at some point he needed to fetch his weapon; better get it now. He went outside to the car, opened the glove compartment, grabbed the pistol, and slipped it in the inside pocket of the jacket. When he bent down to close the glove compartment, the gun slid out of the pocket and fell to the floor of the car. Montalbano cursed the saints, got down on his knees—because the gun had ended up under the seat—picked it up, locked the car, and went back in the house. Feeling hot with his jacket on, he took it off and set it down on the dining room table. He decided it was a good time to call Livia. He picked up the receiver, dialed the number, and just as the first ring began, the doorbell rang as well. To open or not to open? He hung up and went to open the door. It was Ingrid, a little early. More beautiful than ever, if that was possible. To kiss her or not to kiss her? The question was answered at once by the Swede, who kissed him.

“How are you?”

“I feel a little like Hamlet.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Never mind. Did you come in your husband’s car?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

An utterly academic question. Montalbano didn’t know a bloody thing about cars. Or motors, for that matter.

“A BMW 320.”

“What color?”

This question, on the other hand, had a specific purpose. Knowing what an asshole Ingrid’s husband was, he was likely to have had it painted in red, yellow, and green stripes with blue polka dots.

“Dark grey.”

Thank heavens. There was a chance they might not be spotted and shot right off the bat.

“Have you had dinner?” asked Ingrid.

“No. How about you?”

“No, I haven’t either. Later, if there’s time, we could . . . By the way, what are we doing tonight?”

“I’ll explain on the way there.”

The telephone rang. It was Marzilla.

“Inspector, the car they brought me is a Jaguar. I’ll be leaving my place in five minutes,” he said in a quavering voice.

Then he hung up.

“If you’re ready, we can go now,” said Montalbano.

He put on his jacket with nonchalance, not realizing it was inside out. Naturally the gun slid out of the pocket and fell to the floor. Ingrid recoiled in fright.

“Are you serious?” she asked.

 
 
Following Catarella’s instructions, they didn’t miss a single turn. Half an hour after they’d left Marinella—half an hour which Montalbano used to fill Ingrid in—they arrived at the lane of oaks. They took this, and when they’d reached the end, they saw, by the light of the headlights, the ruins of a large villa.

“Go straight,” said Montalbano. “Don’t follow the road and don’t turn left. We have to hide the car behind the villa.”

Ingrid did as he said. Behind the villa was open, desolate country. She turned off the headlights and they got out. The moon lit their way. The night was so quiet, it was frightening. They didn’t even hear any dogs barking.

“What now?” asked Ingrid.

“We leave the car here and we go find a place from where we can see the lane, so we can watch the cars that go by.”

“What cars?” said Ingrid. “Here we won’t even see any crickets go by.”

They headed off.

“Well, we can do what they do in movies,” said Ingrid again.

“Why, what do they do in movies?”

“Come on, Salvo, don’t you know? When the two police officers, a man and a woman, stake out a place, they pretend they’re lovers. They embrace and kiss, but they’re actually keeping watch.”

Now they were right in front of the villa, about thirty yards from the oak tree where the road turned towards Lampisa. They sat down on the remains of a wall and Montalbano lit a cigarette. But he didn’t have time to finish it. A car had come down the lane, advancing slowly. Perhaps the driver didn’t know the road. Ingrid leapt to her feet, held her hand out to the inspector, pulled him to his feet, and wrapped her arms around him. The car approached very slowly. For Montalbano it was like being wholly enveloped by the branches of an apricot tree. The scent made his head spin, stirring up what there was to stir up in him. Ingrid held him very tightly. At one point she whispered in his ear:

“Something’s moving.”

“Where?” asked Montalbano, chin resting on her shoulder, nose drowning in her hair.

“Between us, down below,” said Ingrid.

Montalbano felt himself blush and tried to pull his hips back, but Ingrid kept him plastered against her.

“Don’t be silly,” she said.

For a second the car’s headlights shone directly on them, then it turned left at the last oak tree and disappeared.

“That was your car, a Jaguar,” said Ingrid.

Montalbano thanked the Good Lord that Marzilla had arrived in time. He couldn’t have held out another minute. Breathing heavily, he pulled away from Ingrid.

 
 
It wasn’t a chase because at no point did Marzilla or the other two men in the Jaguar have the feeling that another car was following them. Ingrid was an exceptional driver. For as long as they were off the main road to Vigàta, she drove without headlights, guided only by the moonlight. She didn’t turn them on until they reached the main road, since she could easily hide in the traffic. Marzilla drove along briskly, though not overly fast, and this made it easier to shadow him. It was like following someone on foot. Marzilla’s Jaguar turned onto the road for Montelusa.

“I feel like I’m out for a boring Sunday drive,” said Ingrid.

Montalbano didn’t answer.

“Why did you bring your gun?” she continued. “You haven’t been needing it much.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yes, I was hoping for something more exciting.”

“Well, never fear. We’re not in the clear yet, something could still happen.”

After Montelusa, the Jaguar took the road for Montechiaro.

Ingrid yawned.

“Ouf! I have half a mind to let them know we’re following them.”

“Why?”

“To shake things up a little.”