sparkling wine.
'To whose health?' asked the inspector.
'To mine. With this guy here, I've just performed my thousandth autopsy.'
Montalbano drank up, called the doctor aside, and showed him the photograph.
'Do you think the dead girl from the Crasticeddru could have had a face like this one?'
'Would you please go fuck yourself ?' Pasquano gently asked.
'Sorry,' said the inspector. He turned on his heels and left. He was the asshole, not the doctor. He'd let himself get carried away by his enthusiasm and had gone and asked Pasquano the most idiotic question imaginable.
...
He had no better luck at the crime lab.
'Is Jacomuzzi in?'
'No, he's at the commissioners office.'
'Who's in charge of the photography lab?'
'De Francesco, in the basement.'
De Francesco eyed the photo as if he hadn't yet learned that one could reproduce images on light-sensitive film. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Tell me if you think it's a photomontage.'
'Ah, that's not my game. I only know about taking pictures and developing them. The more difficult stuff we send to Palermo.'
...
Then the wheel turned in the right direction, and things started falling into place. Montalbano phoned the photographer of the magazine that had published the review of Maraventano's book, whose name he remembered.
'Sorry to trouble you. Is this Mr. Contino?'
'Yes, it is. Who's speaking?'
'This is Inspector Montalbano. I need to talk to you about something.'
'Pleased to make your acquaintance. You can come right now, if you like.'
The photographer lived in the old part of Montelusa, in one of the few houses to survive a landslide that had done away with an entire quarter, one that bore an Arab name.
'Actually, I'm not a photographer by profession. I teach history at the lyceum, and I love it. How can I be of help to you?'
'Do you think you could tell me if this photograph is a montage?'
'I could try,' said Contino, examining the photo. 'When was it taken, do you know?'
'Around 1946, I'm told.'
'Come by again tomorrow.'
Montalbano hung his head and said nothing.
'Is it very urgent? I'll tell you what: I can give you a preliminary answer in, say, two hours, but I'll need more time to confirm it.'
'It's a deal.'
The inspector spent the two hours in an art gallery that was featuring a show by a seventy-year-old Sicilian painter still caught up in a sort of populist rhetoric, but felicitous in his intense and lively use of color. Yet he lent only a distracted eye to the paintings, as he was impatient for Contino's answer. Every five minutes he looked at his watch.
'So, what did you find?'
'I've just finished. In my opinion, it is definitely a photomontage. Rather well done.'
'What makes you think so?'
'The background shadows. The girl's head has been mounted in place of the real brides head.'
Montalbano had not told him this. In no way had Contino been alerted to this fact or been led to this conclusion by the inspector.
'I'll say even more: the girls face has been retouched.'
'In what way?'
'She's been, well, made to look a little older.'
'Could I have it back?'
'Sure, I don't have any more use for it. I thought it was going to be more difficult, but there's no need for any further confirmation.'
'You've been extremely helpful.'
