He got into his car and headed straight for Montelusa Central Police, without dropping by the station.
Luckily for him, the office he needed to go to was located on the opposite side of the building from the commissioner’s office. At least there was no danger of running into that colossal pain in the ass Lattes.
But sooner or later they were bound to cross paths. How was he going to resolve the problem once and for all? He’d promised Livia he would tell him the truth-that is, that he wasn’t married and had no children, and was a bachelor though he’d been with the same woman for many years. But hadn’t he already told him this at least five times in the past, and each time the guy seemed not to hear him, so that, when next they met, he was immediately back to square one and asking the inspector how his family was doing? Trying to convince Lattes was therefore a waste of breath.
Perhaps, however, there was a solution: to show up in front of Lattes one fine morning, dressed in deep mourning and unshaven, and say, between sobs, that his wife and sons had died in a car accident. Yes, that seemed to be the only solution.
But wouldn’t Livia then make a big stink? Wouldn’t she accuse him at the very least of having wiped out his whole family? Was it worth the risk?
To say nothing of the fact that there would be no mention of the crash in the papers.
No, he had to find another solution.
Meanwhile, he’d arrived at Montelusa Central. Going in through a back door, he climbed two flights of stairs and stopped in front of a small table at which a uniformed policeman he knew was seated.
“Is Inspector Geremicca in?”
“Yes, the inspector’s in his office. You can go in.”
Montalbano knocked and entered.
Attilio Geremicca was about fifty years old, thin as a beanpole, and smoked foul-smelling cigars. Montalbano was convinced he had the things specially made for him out of a blend of chicken shit and tobacco. Geremicca was standing and looking at a fifty-euro note through a sort of gigantic microscope on a tall counter.
Looking up, he saw Montalbano and went up to him with open arms. They embraced, genuinely happy to see each other.
After chatting a bit, Geremicca asked Montalbano if he needed anything, and the inspector, after handing him Lannec’s passport, told him the whole story.
“And what do you want from me?” Geremicca asked.
“I want you to find out if that passport is authentic or not.”
Geremicca studied it carefully while lighting another cigar.
Thinking he would never manage to hold his breath for the whole time, Montalbano pretended to sneeze, giving himself an excuse to put his handkerchief over his nose and keep it there.
“It’s not easy to say,” Geremicca commented. “But if it’s not authentic, it was made, at least in part, by a real master. Look how many borders it’s crossed without ever arousing any suspicion.”
“So you’re inclined to say it’s authentic.”
“I’m not inclined to say anything. Do you have any idea how many people there are who travel for years and years with phony passports? Hundreds! And this Lannec…”
“Actually, as far as the name is concerned, there’s something you ought to know that might be important.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve discovered that this Émile Lannec, born in Rouen, has the same name and birthplace as the protagonist of a novel by Simenon. Could that be of any use to you?”
“I can’t say yet. Listen, could I hang on to this for a few days?”
“Not for too long. One week enough?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want it for?”
“I want to show it to a French colleague of mine who is quite the specialist on the subject.”
“Will you mail it to him?”
“No, there’s no need.”
“But how will your colleague know whether the paper, the stamps-”
“A passport’s not a banknote, Salvo!” Geremicca said, smiling. “Normally passport counterfeiters work with authentic documents obtained illegally or stolen from some office while still fresh. That’s why I said a minute ago that it looked to me, but only in part, like the work of a master. Anyway, if my French friend needs any further clarification, there’s always the Internet. Don’t worry, a week should be more than enough time.”
The first thing he did upon entering the station was to call Fazio into his office.
“Have the carabinieri brought back Shaikiri?”
“Yessir. He’s here.”
The inspector was about to tell him to bring him into the office when the telephone rang.
“Wait a second,” he said, picking up the receiver.
“Ahh Chief! That’d be proxetutor Gommaseo onna line wantin’ a talk to…”
“All right, put him on.”
“Montalbano?”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Listen, I wanted to let you know that yesterday afternoon a rather irritated Signora Giovannini, owner of the Vanna, descended on me… Fine-looking woman… you know who I mean?”
“Yes I do, sir.”
“She must be a dominatrix, I’m sure of it.”
Montalbano didn’t understand.
“A what? Dominate what?”
“She dominates her partner, my friend! You can bank on it. In the intimacy of her bedroom, that lady dresses up in leather pants and spike heels and uses whips on her lover, whom she treats like an animal and probably puts a bit in his mouth and rides him like a horse…”
Montalbano felt like laughing but managed to restrain himself. For a brief moment, the prosecutor’s words conjured in his mind an image of Mimì naked and sprawled out on the floor like a bear rug, with La Giovannini grinding her heel into his back… Ah, the sexual fantasies of Prosecutor Tommaseo! Who, to all appearances, had never been with a woman. With all these fantasies about La Giovannini in his head, his eyes were probably popping out and his hands trembling at that very moment, drool collecting at the corners of his mouth.
“Anyway, as I was saying, she came by yesterday and adamantly insisted that it’s unreasonable to force her to keep her boat in the port for so long. She said we’re engaging in an obvious abuse of power, they have nothing to do with that man’s murder, and all they did was recover a dead body adrift on the water… And, indeed…”
“So what’s your conclusion?”
“Well, I just wanted to let you know that I’m rather inclined to let them leave whenever they like.”
“I wouldn’t be so-”
“Look, Montalbano, we have nothing on them to keep them here any longer. And why should we? I’m convinced that neither she nor any member of her crew had anything to do with the murder. If you disagree, you should tell me. But you have to give your reasons. And so?”
Since Tommaseo knew nothing about the girl who called herself Vanna and the suspicions she had aroused in Montalbano’s mind concerning the yacht, his assumptions were unfailingly correct. But the inspector could hardly allow that yacht to get away.
“Could you give me two more days?”
“I’ll give you one more day. That’s the most I can possibly grant you. But you have to tell me why you need the time.”
“Could I come by your office the day after tomorrow?”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
He would have to make do with a single day. After hanging up, he told Fazio to go and get Shaikiri.
A single day. But if Mimì was clever enough, maybe he could detain Signora Giovannini for another week.
Ahmed Shaikiri was twenty-eight years old, and it was hard to tell that he was North African, because he looked exactly like a Sicilian sailor. He seemed sharp and had intelligent eyes and a natural elegance about him.
Montalbano immediately liked him.
“Stick around and take a seat,” the inspector said to Fazio, who was getting ready to leave.
“You, too, sit down, Shaikiri.”
“Thank you,” the Arab said politely.
Montalbano opened his mouth to begin speaking, but the man didn’t give him the time and began to speak first.
“Before anything else, I really would like to excuse myself to this gentleman here for having punched him. Please accept my apologies,” he said, turning to Fazio. “Unfortunately, whenever I drink wine…”
He spoke perfect Italian.
“Sicilian wine,” Montalbano interrupted.
Shaikiri gave him a confused look.
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean it must be Sicilian, or maybe Greek wine that has this effect on you.”
“No, look, I-”
“Listen, Shaikiri, you’re not going to tell me that the wine you drink in… I dunno, let’s say Alexanderbaai, South Africa, just to name the first city that comes to mind, gets you so easily drunk.”
Shaikiri looked dumbfounded.
“But I…”
“Let me put it more clearly. The wine you drink in Alexanderbaai doesn’t make you start punching the local police or carabinieri or whatever it is they have down there. Isn’t that right?”
Montalbano’s words had a double effect. First, on Fazio, who immediately pricked up his ears, realizing that the inspector wasn’t just blathering at random but had a specific purpose in mind. And second, on Shaikiri, who visibly gave a start at first and then seemed to pretend he didn’t understand.
“All right, you can go,” Montalbano cut things short.
Shaikiri seemed more bewildered than ever.
“You’re not going to charge me?”
“No.”
“But I provoked and started punching a-”
“We’ll let it slide this time. You’ve already been charged by the carabinieri, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you were interrogated yesterday at their base, right?”
“Yes.”
Montalbano now felt himself trembling inside. He’d reached the point where he had to say the decisive thing that would let him know whether he was right in his surmise or mistaken all down the line.
“If you see her again, and I’m sure you will see her or at least hear from her again, please give her my best.”
Shaikiri turned pale and squirmed in his chair.
“Who am I supposed to-”
“The young lady… I’m sorry, the person who, well, let’s say ‘interrogated’ you yesterday.”
A few beads of sweat appeared on Shaikiri’s forehead.
“I… I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. Good day.”
Then, turning to Fazio:
“Let him go.”
Naturally, as soon as Shaikiri had left, Fazio raced back to Montalbano’s office.
“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“After talking to Lieutenant Sferlazza of the carabinieri, I became convinced that the person informing the so-called Vanna about what was happening aboard the yacht was Shaikiri. He had to be the one who told her that they had to change course because of the storm and head to Vigàta.”
“And how would he have done that?”
“I dunno. Maybe with a satellite phone. And so Vanna got moving so she could meet with him, but the dinghy with the corpse sent that rendezvous up in smoke. So Shaikiri got himself arrested by the carabinieri, revealed who he was, and they immediately put him in touch with Vanna. And yesterday she was finally able to talk to him.”
“And why did he punch me out, too?”
“Because he’s a smart young man. He wants his friends to think that the local wine always has the same effect on him. He gets in fights with all kinds of cops, whether carabinieri or not.”
“So then who’s this Vanna?”
“Sferlazza said something about the antiterrorism unit, but I think he was lying. There’s definitely something shady going on aboard that yacht. And Vanna is on their case. And you know something else?”
“What?”
“In my opinion the people on the Ace of Hearts are up to their necks in the business of the corpse in the dinghy.”
Fazio sat down.
“Tell me everything,” he said wearily.
“How should we proceed?” Fazio asked after he’d heard the whole story.
“Well, while we know plenty about the Vanna, we are totally in the dark as to the Ace of Hearts. So we need to start informing ourselves immediately.”
“I can look into that myself.”
“Fine, but you have to start somewhere. Tell you what. Go to the Harbor Office and talk to Lieutenant Belladonna, who is a woman. Have her fill you in on everything they know about the Ace of Hearts. Go there right now, in fact. The less time we waste, the better.”
He didn’t feel like going there personally in person. He couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Laura, especially after she’d surely spent the night with Mimì.
“And what if she asks me why I need all this information?”
“I think you can speak freely with her. Tell her we have strong suspicions the killing occurred aboard the cruiser.”
It was half past twelve when the outside line rang. It was Mimì Augello.
“She’s taken the bait.”
“In what sense?”
“In the way that we wanted. Laura took me aboard and then left immediately. I told the lie about the fuel and had them fill a jerry can with a sampling. La Giovannini didn’t leave me alone for a minute. Among other things, she convinced me she really knows her engines.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“From the wharf. I came off the boat to put the jerry can in my car. But I have to go aboard again because I’ve been kindly invited to stay for lunch. The lady has set her sights on me and won’t let up.”
“What do you think you’ll do next?”
“The captain will also be there at lunch, but I’m hoping to find a moment where I can ask her out to dinner, alone, tonight. I think she’ll accept. I get the impression the lady wants to eat me alive.”
“Bear in mind, Mimì, that La Giovannini has gone and protested to Tommaseo that the yacht is being detained illegally. Tommaseo wanted to give her permission to leave right away, but I got him to give me one more day. So time is running out. Got that?”
“Got it.”
It was a beautiful day. The sky looked as if it had received a new coat of paint during the night, and yet the moment he got in his car to go eat at Enzo’s, a sudden bout of melancholy descended on him with such force that everything-sky, buildings, people-turned grey all at once, as on the darkest of winter days.
Even his appetite, already skimpy, suddenly deserted him. No, there was no point in going to the trattoria; the only thing to do was to go home, unplug the telephone, undress, get in bed, and pull the sheets up over his head and blot out the whole world. But what if, for example, Fazio had something important to tell him?
He got back out of the car and went to see Catarella.
“If anyone asks for me, I’m at home. I’ll be back at work around four.”
He got back in the car and drove off.
Naturally, though covered so thoroughly by the bedsheets he looked like a mummy, he couldn’t fall asleep.
There was no wonder as to the cause of this bout of melancholy. He knew it perfectly well. It even had a name: Laura. Perhaps the moment had come to consider the whole matter in the most dispassionate manner possible, provided, of course, that he could manage to be dispassionate.
He had liked Laura a great deal at first sight. He’d felt something emotional, something deep, almost moving, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the days of his youth.
But this probably wasn’t something that happened only to him. No doubt it happened to a great many men well past the age of fifty. But what was it? Nothing more than a desperate, and useless, attempt to feel young again, as if the feeling alone could wipe out the years.
And this was precisely what was muddying the waters, because he could no longer tell whether this feeling was real and genuine or false and artificial, since it arose in fact from the illusion of being able to turn the clock back. Hadn’t the same thing happened to him with the equestrienne [11]? With Laura, however, he hadn’t had a chance to put his thoughts in order. He was letting himself be carried away by the current he himself had created when the unforeseeable had happened.
That is, when Laura had told him she felt the same attraction to him. And how had he reacted?
He’d felt simultaneously scared and happy.
Happy because the girl loved him? Or because he’d succeeded, despite his age, in making a young woman fall in love with him?
There was a pretty big difference between the two.
And didn’t fearing the consequences actually mean that the intensity of his feeling was weak enough to allow him still to consider it rationally?
In matters of love, reason either resigns or sits back and waits. If it’s still present and functioning, and forces you to consider the negative aspects of the relationship, it means it’s not true love.
Or maybe that wasn’t quite the way things were.
Maybe the fear had arisen in him from the very feeling he’d had when hearing Laura’s words. The sense, that is, that he wasn’t up to the task. That he no longer had the strength to bear the violence of a genuine emotion.
This last consideration-perhaps the most accurate so far-gave rise to a suspicion in him.
When he’d thought of using Laura to put Mimì in contact with the owner of the yacht, did he not, perhaps, have another, inadmissible, intention?
Feel like saying it out loud, Montalbà?
Didn’t you know that by introducing Laura to Mimì, the whole thing risked taking a different turn? Had you not factored this in? Or-and here, please try to be sincere-had you factored it in to perfection? Didn’t you have a secret wish that Laura would end up in Mimì’s bed? Didn’t you practically pass him off to her with your own two hands?
For this last question he had no answer.
He lay in bed for another half hour or so, then got up.
But he’d achieved a fine result. His melancholy, instead of dissipating, had increased and turned into a black mood. “Black mood at sunset,” as Vittorio Alfieri once put it.
<a l:href="#_ftnref11">[11]</a> See Andrea Camilleri, The Track of Sand (Penguin, 2010).