“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. Ingro 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.”
