“What, you want to take the money right out of my pocket?” the sergeant asked, laughing. “That’s a bet you’ve already won.”
“See you later.”
“Where are you going? I thought you wanted me to give you a lift in the squad car.”
“I’m going home to change my clothes. It’s only about twenty minutes from here on foot. A little breath of air will do me good.”
He headed off. He didn’t feel like meeting Ingrid Sjostrom dressed in his Sunday best.
12
He plunked down in front of the television right out of the shower, still naked and dripping. The images were from Luparello’s funeral that morning, and the cameraman had apparently realized that the only people capable of lending a sense of drama to the ceremony—
in every other way so like countless other tedious official events—were the trio of the widow, Stefano the son, and Giorgio the nephew. From time to time Signora Luparello, without realizing it, would jerk her head backwards, as if repeatedly saying no. This “no”
was interpreted by the commentator, in a low, sorrowful voice, as the obvious gesture of a creature irrationally rejecting the concrete fact of death; but as the cameraman was zooming in on her to catch the expression in her gaze, Montalbano found confirmation of what the widow had already confessed to him: there was only disdain and boredom in those eyes. Beside her sat her son, “numb with grief,” according to the announcer, and he called him “numb” only because the composure the young engineer showed seemed to border on indifference. Giorgio instead teetered like a tree in the wind, livid as he swayed, continually twisting a tear-soaked handkerchief in his hands.
The telephone rang, and Montalbano went to answer it without taking his eyes off the television screen.
“Inspector, this is Germana. Everything’s been taken care of. Counselor Rizzo expressed his thanks and said he’d find a way to repay you.”
Some of Rizzo’s ways of repaying debts—he whispered to himself—his creditors would have gladly done without.
“Then I went to see Saro and gave him the check.
It took some effort to convince them—they thought it was some kind of practical joke—and then they started kissing my hands. I’ll spare you all the things they said the Lord should do for you. The car’s at headquarters. You want me to bring it to you?”
The inspector glanced at his watch; there was still a little more than an hour before his rendezvous with Ingrid.
“All right, but there’s no hurry. Let’s say nine-thirty. Then I’ll give you a ride back into town.”
~
He didn’t want to miss the moment when she pre
tended to faint. He felt like a spectator to whom the magician had revealed his secret: the pleasure would be in appreciating not the surprise but the skill. The one who missed it, however, was the cameraman, who was unable to capture that moment even though he had quickly panned from his close-up of the minister back to the group of family members, where Stefano and two volunteers were already carrying the signora out while Giorgio remained in place, still swaying.
~
Instead of dropping Germana off in front of police headquarters and continuing on, Montalbano got out with him. Fazio was back from Montelusa, and he had spoken with the wounded man, who had finally calmed down. The man, the sergeant recounted, was a household-appliance salesman from Milan who every three months would catch a plane, land in Palermo, rent a car, and drive around. Having stopped at the filling station, he was looking at a piece of paper to check the address of the next store on his list of clients when he suddenly heard the shots and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Fazio believed his story.
“Chief, when this guy goes back to Milan, he’s going to join up with the people who want to separate Sicily from the rest of Italy.”
“What about the attendant?”
“The attendant’s another matter. Giallombardo’s talking to him now, and you know what he’s like: someone spends a couple of hours with him, talking like he’s known him for a hundred years, and afterward he realizes he’s told him secrets he wouldn’t even tell the priest at confession.”
~
The lights were off, the glass entrance door barred shut.
Montalbano had chosen the Marinella Bar on the one day it was closed. He parked the car and waited. A few minutes later a two-seater arrived, red and flat as a fillet of sole. The door opened, and Ingrid emerged. Even by the dim light of a streetlamp, the inspector saw that she was even better than he had imagined her: tight jeans wrapping very long legs, white shirt open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, sandals, hair gathered in a bun. A real cover girl. Ingrid looked around, noticed the darkness inside the bar, walked lazily but surely over to the inspector’s car, then leaned forward to speak to him through the open window.
“See, I was right. So where do we go now? Your place?”
“No,” Montalbano said angrily. “Get in.”
The woman obeyed, and at once the car was filled with the scent that Montalbano already knew well.
“Where do we go now?” Ingrid repeated. She wasn’t joking anymore; utter female that she was, she had noticed the man’s agitation.
“Do you have much time?”
“As much as I want.”
“We’re going someplace where you’ll feel comfortable, since you’ve already been there. You’ll see.”
