Rounding the Mark

I’ll go. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ingrid stood up, kissed him on the forehead, and went inside. I don’t want to go home, she’d said. What did Ingrid’s and her husband’s house represent for her? Perhaps a bed even more alien than the one she was presently lying in? And if she’d had a child, would her home have seemed different to her, warmer, more welcoming? Poor woman! How much loneliness and melancholy might she be hiding under her apparently superficial joie de vivre? He felt a new emotion towards Ingrid well up inside him, a kind of heartbreaking tenderness. He swallowed a few more sips of whisky and, as a cool wind had started to blow, went inside with the bottle and glasses. He glanced over at the bedroom. Ingrid was sleeping with her clothes on, having removed only her shoes. He sat back down at the table. He wanted to let her sleep another ten minutes or so.

Meanwhile let’s do a brief review of the previous episodes, he said to himself.

Ernesto Errera is an habitual offender, born, perhaps, in Cosenza, and in any case operating around there. He has a fine curriculum vitae that ranges from breaking and entering to armed robbery. A wanted man, he becomes a fugitive from justice. Up to this point, no different from hundreds and hundreds of other crooks just like him. Then at some point Errera resurfaces in Brindisi.

He seems to have established excellent relations with the Albanian mafia and is now involved in illegal immigration. But how? In what capacity? We don’t know.

On the morning of March 11 of last year, a shepherd from the Cosenza area finds a man’s mangled body on the railroad tracks. In an unfortunate accident, the poor bastard slipped and wasn’t able to get out of the way of the coming train. He is so badly mutilated that the only way to identify him is from the documents in his wallet and a wedding ring. His wife has him buried in the Cosenza cemetery. A few months later, Errera turns up again in Spigonella, Sicily. Except now his name is Ernesto D’Iunio, a widower and former captain of an oil tanker. He leads an apparently solitary life, though he has frequent telephone contact and often talks over a two-way radio. One unfortunate day somebody drowns him and lets him rot. Then they put him out to sea. While sailing the seas, the corpse ends up crossing paths with none other than himself.

First question: what the hell was Mr. Errera doing in Spigonella after having himself officially declared dead? Second question: who had made sure that he was not only officially but concretely dead, and why?

It was time to wake Ingrid up. He went into the bedroom. She had undressed and got under the covers. She was sleeping soundly. Montalbano didn’t have the heart to wake her. He went in the bathroom and then slipped ever so gently between the sheets. The apricot scent of Ingrid’s skin immediately assailed his nostrils; it was so strong he began to feel slightly dizzy. He closed his eyes. Ingrid moved in her sleep and stretched out one leg, placing her calf against Montalbano’s. A few minutes later, she got more comfortable. Now her whole leg was resting against him, imprisoning him. Some words came back to him, words he had memorized for a play as a teenager: There are . . . certain good apricots . . . that break down the middle . . . press them lengthwise with your fingers . . . and they open like two succulent lips . . .

Bathed in sweat, the inspector counted to ten and, with a series of almost imperceptible movements, managed to free himself, got out of bed, and, cursing the saints, went to lie down on the couch.

Jesus Christ! Not even Saint Anthony would have made it through that one!

13

He woke up aching all over. For some time now, sleeping on the sofa meant getting up the next morning with broken bones. On the dining room table was a little note from Ingrid.

Since you’re sleeping like a little angel, I’ve gone to my house to take a shower so I won’t wake you up. Kisses, Ingrid. Call me.

He was headed for the bathroom when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch: barely eight o’clock.

“Inspector, I need to see you.”

He didn’t recognize the voice.

“Who is this?”

“Marzilla, Inspector.”

“Come to the station.”

“No, not the station. They might see me. I’ll come to your place, now that you’re alone.”

How the hell did he know that first he had company and now he was alone? Was he hiding somewhere nearby, spying on him?

“Where are you, anyway?”

“In Marinella, Inspector. Practically outside your door. When I saw the woman come out, I called.”

“Wait just a minute and I’ll let you in.”

He quickly washed his face and went to open the door. Marzilla, who was leaning against the door as if to take shelter from some nonexistent rain, came inside, sidestepping the inspector. As he passed, Montalbano got a whiff of rancid sweat. Standing in the middle of the room and panting as if he’d just run a great distance, Marzilla was even paler than before and wild-eyed, his hair sticking straight up.

“I’m scared to death, Inspector.”

“Is there going to be another arrival?”

“Several, and all at the same time.”

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow, at night.”

“Where?”