A Beam of Light Read online

  Catarella knelt beside the body-box and raised the lid slightly. Then he turned his head suddenly and twisted his mouth:

  “Iam fetet,” he said to the inspector.

  Montalbano leapt backwards in astonishment. So it was true! He hadn’t heard wrong! Catarella spoke Latin!

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it already stinks.”

  Oh no, you don’t! This time he’d heard clearly! There was no mistaking it.

  “You’re trying to fuck with me!” he exploded, deafening himself first and foremost with his shout.

  By way of reply, a faraway dog began barking.

  Catarella immediately let the coffin lid drop and stood up, red as a rooster.

  “Me? Wit’ yiz? ’Ow can y’ever amagine such a ting? Never in a million years would I ever . . .” Unable to finish, he buried his face in his hands and started wailing:

  “O me miserum! O me infelicem!”

  Montalbano could no longer see straight and lost control, jumping on Catarella, grabbing him by the neck and shaking him as if he were a tree whose ripest fruit he wanted to make fall to the ground.

  “Mala tempora currunt!” Lococo said philosophically, taking a pull on his cigar.

  Montalbano froze in terror.

  So now Lococo was talking Latin too? Had they all gone back in time without noticing? But then how was it that they were wearing modern clothes instead of tunics or togas?

  At this point the coffin lid moved from the inside, crashed to the ground with a loud thud, and the corpse, which looked like a mummy, began to stand up very slowly.

  “You, Montalbano: Have you no respect for the dead?” the corpse asked, dark with anger as it removed the shroud from its face, becoming immediately recognizable.

  It was Hizzoner the C’mishner Bonetti-Alderighi.

  Montalbano remained in bed for a long time, thinking about the dream he’d just had and feeling terribly spooked.

  Not, of course, because the corpse had turned out to be Bonetti-Alderighi or because Catarella and Lococo had started speaking Latin, but because the dream had been treacherous, deceitful—that is, one of those where the sequence of events follows strict patterns of logic and chronology. And every detail, every element appears in a light that increases the sense of reality. And the boundaries between dream and reality end up becoming too subtle, practically invisible. At least in the last part the logic disappeared, otherwise it would have been one of those dreams where after some time has passed you’re unable to tell whether what you remember was real or just a dream.

  Except that there wasn’t a single thing that was real in the dream he’d just had, not even the arrival of the minister. And therefore, the day that lay ahead was not a day off. He had to go to work. Like any other day.

  He got up and opened the window.

  The sky was still half blue, but the other half was changing color, tending towards gray, owing to a blanket of flat, uniform clouds coming in from the sea.

  He’d just come out of the shower when the phone rang. He went to answer, wetting the floor with the water dripping from his body.

  It was Fazio.

  “Chief, sorry to bother you, but—”

  “What is it?”

  “The commissioner called. He just got an urgent communication concerning the Minister of the Interior.”

  “But isn’t he in Lampedusa?”

  “Yes, but apparently he wants to come and visit the emergency camp in Vigàta. He’s arriving in about two hours by helicopter.”

  “What a goddamn pain in the ass!”

  “Wait. The commissioner has put our entire department under the command of Deputy Commissioner Signorino, who’ll be here in about forty-five minutes. I just wanted to let you know.”

  Montalbano heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Thanks.”

  “You, I assume, have no intention of attending.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “What should I tell Signorino?”

  “That I’m sick in bed with the flu and apologize for my absence. And that I’m quite dutifully twiddling my thumbs. When the minister leaves, call me here, in Marinella.”

  So the minister’s visit was real after all.

  Did this mean he’d had a prophetic dream? And if so, was he soon going to find the commissioner in a coffin?

  No, it was a simple coincidence. There wouldn’t be any others. Especially because, if one really thought about it, there was no chance on earth that Catarella would ever start speaking Latin.

  The phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Sorry, wrong number,” said a woman’s voice, hanging up.

  But wasn’t that Livia? Why’d she say she had a wrong number? He called her up.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Sorry, Livia, but you ring me at home, I answer the phone, and you hang up, saying it’s a wrong number?”

  “Ah, so it was you!”

  “Of course it was me!”

  “But I was so sure you wouldn’t be at home that . . . by the way, what are you doing still at home? Are you unwell?”

  “I’m perfectly fine! And don’t try to dodge the issue!”

  “What issue?”

  “The fact that you didn’t recognize my voice! Does that seem normal to you, that after all these years—”

  “They weigh heavy on you, don’t they?”

  “What weighs heavy on me?”

  “All the years we’ve been together.”

  In short, they had a nice little row that lasted a good fifteen minutes and more.

  Afterwards, he dawdled about the house for another half hour in his underpants. Then Adelina arrived and, upon seeing him, got scared.

  “Oh my God, Isspector, wha’ ss wrong? You sick?”

  “Adelì, don’t you start in now too. No, I’m not sick, don’t worry. I feel fine. In fact, you know what? Today I’ll be eating at home. What are you going to make for me?”

  Adelina smiled.

  “How about I mekka you a nice pasta ’ncasciata?”

  “Sounds fabulous, Adelì.”

  “An’ enn tree or four crispy fry mullets?”

  “Let’s say five and leave it at that.”

  Heaven had suddenly fallen to earth.

  He stayed inside for another hour or so, but as soon as an angelic scent began to reach his nostrils from the kitchen, he realized it was hopeless: he would never be able to resist. An empty feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach, the only solution for which was to take a long walk along the beach.

  When he returned about two hours later, Adelina informed him that Fazio had called to say that the minister had changed his mind and gone straight back to Rome instead of coming to Vigàta first.

  Montalbano got to the station after four o’clock with a smile on his lips, feeling at peace with himself and the entire world. The miracle of pasta ’ncasciata.

  He stopped for a moment in front of Catarella who, seeing his boss enter, had sprung to attention.

  “Tell me something, Cat.”

  “Yessir, Chief.”

  “Do you know Latin?”

  “O’ course, Chief.”

  Montalbano balked, stunned. He was convinced that Catarella had only made his way, barely, through the compulsory years of schooling.

  “Did you study it?”

  “Well, I can’t rilly say as how I rilly studied it, as far as studyin’ goes, but I c’n say I know it pritty good.”

  Montalbano felt more and more astonished.

  “So how did you do it?”

  “Do wha’, Chief?”

  “Come to know Latin?”

  “Iss one o’ my favorite stories.”
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  “What’s one of your favorite stories?”

  “The one ’bout Latin an’ ’is magic lamp. You know, where the genius comes out an’ grannit ’is wishes.”

  The smile returned to Montalbano’s lips. So much the better. Everything was back to normal.

  2

  On his desk loomed the inevitable mountain of papers to be signed. Among the personal mail that had come in was a letter inviting Inspector Salvo Montalbano to the inauguration of an art gallery that called itself “Il piccolo porto.” Launching the new enterprise was a show of twentieth-century painters, the very artists he liked. The letter had arrived late, since the inauguration had already taken place the day before.

  It was the first art gallery ever to open in Vigàta. The inspector slipped the invitation into his jacket pocket. He intended to go and check the place out.

  A short while later, Fazio came in.

  “Any news?”

  “Nothing. But there might have been big news.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chief, if the minister hadn’t changed his mind and had come here, the whole thing would have been a disaster.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the immigrants had organized a violent protest.”

  “When did you find this out?”

  “Just before Commissioner Signorino arrived.”

  “Did you inform him?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  “What else could I do, Chief? As soon as he arrived, Signorino had us all line up and advised us all to keep a stiff upper lip and not to create any useless alarms. He told us the television cameras and journalists would be there, and that for this reason we had to be careful to give the impression that everything was working to perfection. So I began to worry that if I were to tell him what I’d been told, he would accuse me of creating useless alarms. So I told our men just to remain on the alert, ready to intervene, but nothing more.”

  “Well done.”

  Mimì Augello came in, looking upset.

  “Salvo, I just got a call from Montelusa.”

  “So?”

  “Bonetti-Alderighi was rushed to the hospital a couple of hours ago.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “He was feeling bad. Something to do with his heart, apparently.”

  “But is it serious?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Well, find out and let me know.”

  Augello left. Fazio’s eyes were fixed on Montalbano.

  “What’s wrong, Chief?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The moment Inspector Augello told you the news, you turned pale. I wouldn’t think you’d take it so hard.”

  Could he possibly tell him that for a second he’d seen Bonetti-Alderighi inside the coffin with the shroud covering his face, just as in the dream?

  He answered Fazio rudely, quite on purpose.

  “Of course I take it hard! We’re men, aren’t we? What are we, animals?”

  “Sorry,” said Fazio.

  They stood there in silence. A few moments later Augello returned.

  “Good news. Nothing with the heart, nothing serious. Just a case of indigestion. They’ll release him this evening.”

  Montalbano felt quite relieved inside. In the end, there had been no premonitions in his dream.

  There wasn’t a single visitor in the art gallery, which was located exactly halfway down the Corso. Montalbano felt selfishly delighted; this way he could enjoy the pictures in total comfort. Fifteen painters were on exhibit, each with one painting. From Mafai, Guttuso, and Pirandello to Donghi, Morandi, and Birolli. A real treat.

  Out of a small door, behind which there must have been an office, emerged an elegant woman of about forty in a sheath dress—tall, good-looking, with long legs, big eyes, high cheekbones, and long ink-black hair. At first glance, she looked Brazilian.

  She smiled at him, then approached, hand extended.

  “You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? I’ve seen you on television. I’m Mariangela De Rosa—Marian the gallerist, to friends.”

  Montalbano liked her immediately. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen.

  “Congratulations. These are very fine paintings.”

  Marian laughed.

  “A little too fine and expensive for the Vigatese.”

  “Indeed, I can’t imagine how a gallery like yours, here in Vigàta, could—”

  “Inspector, I wasn’t born yesterday. This show is just to attract attention. The next one will feature engravings—still of high quality, of course—but much more affordable.”

  “I can only wish you the best of luck.”

  “Thanks. Can I ask whether there’s one painting here that you especially like?”

  “Yes, but if you want to persuade me to buy it, you’re wasting your time. I’m in no position to—”

  Marian laughed.

  “Well, it’s true, that was a self-interested question, but my only interest was in getting to know you better. I have this belief that I can understand a lot about a man by knowing what painters he likes and what authors he reads.”

  “I once knew a mafioso, author of some forty murders, who would weep with emotion in front of a painting by Van Gogh.”

  “Don’t be mean to me, Inspector. Care to answer my question?”

  “All right. I like the Donghi painting, but also the Pirandello. Equally. I don’t think I could choose between them.”

  Marian looked at him, then closed the two headlights she had for eyes.

  “So you’re a connoisseur.”

  It wasn’t a question but a declaration.

  “Connoisseur, no. But I know what I like.”

  “Well, you like the right things. Tell me the truth: Do you have some art at home?”

  “Yes, but nothing of any importance.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No, I live alone.”

  “So will you invite me one day to see your treasures?”

  “Gladly. And what about you?”

  “In what sense?”

  “Are you married?”

  Marian pursed her beautiful red lips.

  “I was until five years ago.”

  “How did you end up in Vigàta?”

  “But I’m from Vigàta! My parents moved to Milan when I was two and my brother Enrico four. Enrico came back here a few years after graduating, and he now owns a salt mine near Sicudiana.”

  “And why did you come back?”

  “Because Enrico and his wife kept insisting . . . I went through a bad patch after my husband . . .”

  “You don’t have any children?”

  “No.”

  “What made you decide to open an art gallery in Vigàta?”

  “I wanted something to do. But I have a lot of experience, you know. When I was married I had two galleries, small ones, one in Milan and the other in Brescia.”

  A fiftyish couple came in gingerly, looking around almost as if they feared some sort of ambush.

  “How much does it cost?” the man asked from the doorway.

  “It doesn’t cost anything to enter,” said Marian.

  The man whispered something into the woman’s ear. Then she did the same to him. Whereupon the man said:

  “Good evening.”

  And the couple turned around and went out. Montalbano and Marian started laughing heartily.

  When, half an hour later, Montalbano also left the gallery, he’d already made plans to pick up Marian at eight o’clock the following evening and take her out to dinner.

  It was a lovely evening, and so he set the table on the veranda and ate the pasta ’ncasciata left over from lunch. Then he fired up a cigarette and started contempl
ating the sea.

  After their row that morning, there was little chance Livia would be calling. She would let a good twenty-four hours pass just to let him feel her resentment.

  He didn’t feel like reading or watching TV. He just wanted to sit there and not think about anything.

  But this was surely a hopeless proposition, since his brain refused to remain thoughtless and, on the contrary, kept a good hundred thousand simultaneously in play, unleashing one after the other like rapid-fire camera flashes.

  The dream of the coffin. Bonetti-Alderighi’s initials embroidered on the shroud. The Donghi painting. Catarella speaking Latin. Livia not recognizing his voice. The Pirandello painting. Marian.

  Ah, Marian.

  Why had he immediately said yes when she suggested they go out to dinner together? Twenty years earlier he would have answered differently; he would have refused and would have even been surly about it.

  Was it perhaps because it was hard to say no to a woman as beautiful and elegant as this one? But hadn’t he said no endless times to women even more beautiful than Marian?

  This could only mean one thing. That his personality had undergone a change due to aging. The reality was that nowadays he very often felt lonely, and he was tired of feeling lonely, bitter about being lonely.

  He knew perfectly well that if he dragged certain nights out by smoking and drinking whisky on the veranda, it wasn’t because he couldn’t sleep, but because it really bothered him that he was sleeping alone.

  He wished he had Livia at his side, but if it couldn’t be Livia, any other good-looking woman would do.

  And the strange thing about this desire was that there was nothing sexual about it. He wished only that he could feel the warmth of another body next to his. He remembered the title of a film that expressed this desire perfectly: To Sleep Next to Her.

  He didn’t even have any friends he could really call friends. The kind you can confide in, the kind to whom you can reveal your innermost thoughts. Fazio and Augello were certainly his friends, but did not belong to this category.

  Disconsolate, he stayed out on the veranda to finish the bottle of whisky.

  Every so often he nodded off but then would wake up barely fifteen minutes later, feeling more and more melancholy, more and more convinced he’d done everything wrong in life.