bottle-green Renault Twingo.’
‘The one Gallo crashed into.’
‘Right. The clerk told me she’s not the kind of woman to go unnoticed. Apparently she’s very beautiful.’
‘I don’t understand why she hasn’t called yet.’ said Montalbano, who, when he put his mind to it, could be a tremendous actor.
‘I’ve formed my own theory about that,’ said Fazio. ‘The clerk said the lady’s, well, really friendly — I mean, she’s got a lot of friends.’
‘Girlfriends?’
‘And boyfriends,’ Fazio said emphatically. ‘It’s possible she’s staying with a family somewhere. Maybe they came and picked her up with their own car and she won’t notice the damage till she gets back.’
‘Sounds plausible,’
concluded Montalbano, continuing his performance.
As soon as Fazio left, the inspector called up Clementina Vasile Cozzo
‘My dear lady, how are you?’
‘Inspector! What a lovely surprise! I’m getting along all right, by the grace of God.’
‘Mind if I drop in to say hello?’
‘You are welcome to come whenever you like.’
Clementina Vasile Cozzo was an elderly paraplegic, a former elementary school teacher blessed with intelligence and endowed with a natural, quiet dignity. The inspector had met her during the course of a complex investigation some three months back and remained as attached to her as a son. Though Montalbano didn’t openly admit it to himself, she was the sort of woman he wished he could have as a mother, having lost his own when he was too young to retain much memory of her beyond a kind of golden luminescence.
‘Was Mama blonde?’ he’d once asked his father in an attempt to explain to himself why his only image of her consisted of a luminous nuance.
‘Like wheat in sunlight,’
was his father’s laconic reply.
Montalbano had got in the habit of calling on Signora Clementina at least once a week. He would tell her about whatever investigation he happened to be involved in, and the woman, grateful for the visit, which broke the monotony of her daily routine, would invite him to stay for dinner. Pina, the signora’s housekeeper, was a surly type and, to make matters worse, she didn’t like Montalbano. She did, however, know how to cook some exquisite, disarmingly simple dishes.
Signora Clementina, dressed rather smartly with an Indian silk shawl around her shoulders, showed him into the living room.
‘There’s a concert today,’
she whispered, ‘but it’s almost over.’
Four years ago, Signora Clementina had learned from her maid. Pina — who for her part had heard it from Yolanda, the violinist’s housekeeper — that the illustrious Maestro Cataldo Barbera, who lived in the flat directly above hers, was in serious trouble with his taxes. So she’d discussed the matter with her son, who worked at the Montelusa Revenue Office, and the problem, which had essentially arisen from a mistake, was resolved. Some ten days later, the housekeeper Yolanda had brought her a note that said:
‘Dear Signora. To repay you, though only in part, I will play for you every Friday morning from nine thirty to ten thirty. Yours very sincerely, Cataldo Barbera.’
And so every Friday morning, she would get all dressed up to pay homage to the Maestro in turn, and she would go and sit in a small sort of parlour where one could best hear the music At exacdy half past nine, on the floor above, the Maestro would strike up the first notes.
Everyone in Vigata knew about Maestro Cataldo Barbera, but very few had ever seen him in person. Son of a railwayman, the future Maestro had drawn his first breath sixty-five years earlier in Vigata, but left town before the age of ten when his father was transferred to Catania. The Vigatese had had to learn of his career from the newspapers. After studying violin, Cataldo Barbera had very quickly become an internationally renowned concert, performer. Inexplicably, however, at the height of his fame, he had retired to Vigata, where he bought an apartment and now lived in voluntary seclusion.
‘What’s he playing?’
Montalbano asked.
Signora Clementina handed him a sheet of squared paper. On the day before the performance, the Maestro would customarily send her the programme, written out in pencil. The pieces to be played that day were Pablo de Sarasate’s ‘Spanish Dance’, and the ‘Scherzo-Tarantella’, op. 16, of Henryk Wieniawski. When the performance was over, Signora Clementina plugged in the telephone, dialled a number, set the receiver down on a shelf and started clapping. Montalbano joined in with gusto.
He knew nothing about music, but he was certain of one thing: Cataldo Barbera was a great artist.
‘Signora,’ the inspector began,
He went on to tell her everything that had happened to him the previous day: the accident, going to the wrong funeral, his secret, night-time visit to the house, his discovery of the corpse. When he had finished, the inspector hesitated. He didn’t quite know how to phrase his request.
Signora Clementina, who had felt by turns amused and disturbed by his account, urged him on.
‘Go on, Inspector, don’t be shy. What is it you want from me?’
‘I’d like you to make an anonymous telephone call’ Montalbano said in a single breath.
He’d been back in the office about ten minutes when Catarella passed him a call from Dr Lattes, the commissioner’s cabinet chief.
‘Hello, Montalbano, old friend, how’s it going? Eh, how’s it going?’
‘Fine’ Montalbano said curtly.
‘I’m so happy to hear it’
the chief of the cabinet said snappily, true to the nickname of Caffe-Lattes that someone had hung on him for the dangerously cloying warmth of his manner.
‘At your service’
Montalbano egged him on.
‘Well, not fifteen minutes ago a woman called the switchboard asking to speak personally to the commissioner.
She was very insistent. The commissioner, however, was busy and asked me to take the call.
The woman was in hysterics, screaming that a crime had been comnutted at a house in the Tre Fontane district Then she hung up. The commissioner would like you to go there, just to make sure, and then report back to him. The lady also said that the house is easy to spot because there’s a bottle-green Twingo parked in front’
‘Oh my God!’ said Montalbano, launching into the second act of his role, now that Signora Clementina had recited her part so perfectly.
‘What is it?’ Dr Lattes asked, his curiosity aroused. ‘An amazing coincidence!’ said Montalbano, his voice full of wonder. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘Hello? Inspector Montalbano here. Am I speaking to Judge Tommaseo?’
‘Yes, good day. What can I do for you?’
‘Your Honour, the chief of the commissioner’s cabinet just informed me that they have received an anonymous phone call reporting a crime in a small house on the outskirts of Vigata.
He ordered me to go and have a look. And I’m going.’
‘Might it not be some kind of tasteless practical joke?’
‘Anything is possible. I simply wanted to let you know, out of respect for your prerogatives.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Judge Tommaseo, pleased.
‘Do I have your authorization to proceed?’
‘Of course. And if a crime was indeed committed, I want you to notify me at once and wait for me to get there.’
Montalbano called Fazio, Gallo and Galluzzo and told them to come with him to the Tre Fontane district to see if a murder had been committed.
‘At the same house you asked me for information about?’ asked Fazio, dumbfounded.
‘The same one where we crashed into the Twingo?’ Gallo chimed in, eyeing his superior in amazement.
‘Yes,’ the inspector answered both, trying to look humble.
‘What a nose, Chief.”
Fazio cried out in admiration.
They had barely set out when Montalbano already felt fed up. Fed up with the farce he would have to act out, pretending to be surprised when they found the corpse, fed up with the time he would have to waste on the judge, the coroner and the forensics team, who were
