you step out of line this time, I’ll screw you. And you must keep me continually up to date on the progress of the case. Good day.”
“Good night” would have been more appropriate.
And the commissioner, in his rage, had let slip an important admission. Namely, that he’d been forced to give the case back to him, against his own will. Therefore, someone else had intervened. Who could it have been? And, more importantly: Why?
But since the commissioner had, in fact, called, and it had not been possible to give any ready answers to his questions, the inspector decided to go out and eat at Enzo’s.
As he was heading towards the port for his customary stroll, he had an idea. Maybe he could do something to help to loosen La Giovannini’s tongue and make her reveal to Mimi exactly what she did while sailing the seas, and perhaps confirm whether it was the sort of traffic he already suspected her of.
He took the roundabout way to the lighthouse, and when he was in front of the
“Anybody here?”
Captain Sperli answered from the mess room.
“Who’s there?”
“Inspector Montalbano.”
“Come in, come in.”
The inspector went below decks through the hatch. The captain was finishing his lunch. Beside him stood Digiulio, serving as his waiter.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Montalbano. “If you’re eating, I can come back later.”
“No, please, I’ve already finished. Would you have some coffee with me?”
“I’d love some.”
“Please sit down.”
“Signora Giovannini’s not here?”
“She’s here but she’s resting. If you like, I-”
“No, no, please let her sleep. I heard you were having some problems with your fuel. Has that been set right?”
“Apparently it was a false alarm.”
“So you’ll be leaving as soon as you can?”
“If we can get poor old Shaikiri’s body back tomorrow morning, as we’ve been promised, we’ll bury him and then set sail in the afternoon.
Digiulio brought the coffee. They drank it in silence. Montalbano then started digging in his pockets. To get better access to what he was looking for, he pulled out the sheets of paper Catarella had given him, and set these down on the table. On the top sheet was the name, in block letters: KIMBERLEY PROCESS. He hadn’t yet had the time to read them, but whatever they said, they must nevertheless have a precise meaning for the captain, since Giovannini kept a file with the same name in her safe. And indeed, the moment the captain’s eyes fell on the sheet of paper, he gave a start. At last Montalbano extracted the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, fired one up, and put the papers back in his pocket.
Meanwhile Sperli had become visibly nervous.
“Look, if you’d like to speak with Signora Giovannini, I can go-”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” said Montalbano, getting up. “It was nothing of importance. I’ll pass by again later. Have a nice day.”
He went up on deck, then back down onto the wharf. Sperli hadn’t budged. He seemed to have turned to stone.
Perhaps he really ought to find out what this Kimberley Process was, the inspector thought, considering the effect it had on the captain.
But he would look into it later, at the office. First the walk to the lighthouse.
As he was sitting on the flat rock, all at once the thought of Laura assailed him with all the ferocity of a rabid dog. It caused him genuine, physical pain. The violence was perhaps due to the fact that he had managed for a while not to think of her, thanks to his preoccupation with the case. It had been his sort of revenge. But now her absence sliced right through him. It was an open wound.
No, he couldn’t phone her. He mustn’t. There was, however, one thing he could do that wouldn’t have negative consequences.
He got in his car and headed to the Harbor Office.
Outside the entrance stood the usual guard and two sailors, chatting. He drove a little further past, then parked in such a way that he could see, in the rearview mirror, who went in and who came out.
He stayed there for fifteen minutes, smoking one cigarette after another. Then, in a moment of lucidity, he felt embarrassed, ashamed of himself.
What was he doing there? He hadn’t even done this sort of thing when he was sixteen, and now he was doing it at fifty-eight? Fifty-eight, Montalba! Don’t you forget it! Or was it perhaps the folly of old age that made him act this way?
Humiliated and depressed, he started up the car and drove back to the station.
As soon as he sat down, he pulled out Catarella’s printouts and was about to start reading them when the phone rang.
“Ah Chief! ’At’d be Dacter Lattes onna line who-”
“I’m not here!”
He yelled it so loudly that Catarella complained.
“
The inspector hung up. He didn’t feel like talking. How could he ever justify his actions to Lattes? How could he ask to be forgiven? With what words? Why had he been so stupid as not to follow Livia’s advice?
The telephone rang again.
“’Scuse me, Chief, but there’s a young lady says she wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poi-”
“On the phone?”
“Nah, she’s onna premisses.”
He didn’t have the time. He absolutely had to read those printouts.
“Tell her to come back tomorrow morning.”
Again the phone.
“Chief, ya gotta try ’n’ unnastand but the young lady says iss rilly rilly urgentlike.”
“Did she say what her name was?”
“Yessir. Vanna Digiulio.”
17
