A Beam of Light Read online

  “Thank you, Signora. For the moment I have nothing else to ask you.”

  He hung up and eyed Pasquale.

  “Did you hear?”

  “I heard.”

  “Was that what you wanted to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so?”

  “I can assure you the mugger’s not part of the local action.”

  “So he’s an outsider or a one-offer?”

  “More likely a one-offer than an outsider.”

  “I see.”

  But Montalbano also saw that Pasquale had something else to say to him but couldn’t make up his mind.

  “Is there something else?”

  “Maybe.”

  It was hard for him to say what he wanted to say.

  “Speak. You know I’ll never mention your name to anyone.”

  “I’ve never had any doubt of that, as far as that goes.”

  He made up his mind.

  “It’s all bullshit,” said Pasquale.

  “What’s all bullshit?”

  “What that lady just told you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Tell me something: Don’t the police ever talk to the carabinieri? Or the carabinieri to the police?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Angelo Burgio, the jeweler with the shop in Vicolo Crispi, reported to the carabinieri that he’d been burglarized exactly three nights ago.”

  Montalbano’s eyes opened wide.

  “Can you tell me any more?”

  “I could, but . . . don’t forget what you said.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Pasqualì.”

  “As they always do, the guys had posted a lookout inside the doorway to one of the buildings, where he could see all the way up and down the street. The lookout stayed there for a whole hour, from eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty. It don’t add up.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He didn’t see anybody lying on the ground, and he didn’t see any cars stop either.”

  “I see.”

  “And, for your information, I can also say that during that hour, the only vehicles that came down Vicolo Crispi were an ambulance, a small van, and a three-wheeler.”

  “Thanks, Pasqualì.”

  “Much obliged, Inspector.”

  And so the beautiful Loredana had told her husband a big fat lie.

  They had to find out what really happened, and where the sixteen thousand euros had gone.

  Every conjecture now became a possibility, starting with the chance that the mugging had taken place somewhere else, that Loredana had recognized the mugger and didn’t have the courage to tell her husband, and ending with the possibility that Loredana was in cahoots with the mugger himself.

  The inspector got up, went into Fazio’s office, picked up the paper accompanying the report that Fazio had covered with notes, and there she was: Valeria Bonifacio, Loredana’s bosom friend, Via Palermo 28. There was even her telephone number.

  He sat down at Fazio’s desk and dialed it.

  “Hello?” said a woman at the other end.

  Montalbano pinched his nose to change the sound of his voice.

  “Is this the Bonifacio home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m ragioniere Milipari of Fulconis Shipping. I’d like to speak with the captain.”

  “My husband is currently in Genoa. His ship called at port there.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll call him on his cell. Oh, listen, if we want to send a package to him in Vigàta, will you be home tomorrow?”

  “Yes, until ten a.m.”

  “Thank you, signora.”

  He hung up. He was determined to go and pay a visit to Signora Valeria early the next morning. With the husband not around to make trouble, it was more likely she would say what he wanted to know.

  When he got home, he noticed that Adelina had left him a note on the kitchen table.

  yissterday you et out an so I hed to trow out what I cookt wich was rilly a shem. An sints I see you hedda good campany lest nite, I didna mek nuthin for tonite, figgerin you was gonna eat out tonite too an thet way I woudna hev to trow out good food aggenn. If you wanna eat at hom tomorow leev me a note tellin me.

  He cursed the saints. But this was not a vendetta on Adelina’s part because a woman had slept there; indeed the housekeeper would roll out the red carpet for any eventual rival of Livia’s, since she had a strong dislike of Livia, who repaid her fully in kind. No, Adelina’s good faith was beyond dispute, but the fact remained that there was nothing to eat in the house.

  It wasn’t that he was really so hungry at that moment, but his appetite was liable to sneak up on him later.

  Eating out again was out of the question. Marian was liable to call when he was out and he wouldn’t be there to answer. He could, of course, take his cell phone with him, but he wouldn’t have been able to speak in the presence of other people.

  He opened the fridge. There was just a little jar of anchovies in olive oil.

  But how could there not be anything else? Obviously Adelina had forgotten to restock him with the usual reserves of tumazzo and other cheeses, passuluna olives, salami . . .

  He looked at his watch. In theory, there should have been enough time to go down to the Marinella Bar, buy a few provisions, and come back before Marian called.

  He was halfway home when a tractor-trailer right in front of his car skidded and swerved crosswise, blocking the road. With a speed worthy of a race car driver in the Carrera Panamericana, he drove off the road, went about ten yards with two wheels on the slope of a ditch and the other two in the open countryside, at a tilt so sharp he looked exactly like a stuntman, then passed the semi and got back on the road.

  He was immediately overcome by terror at what he had just done. His hands began to tremble. So he pulled over at the side of the road and waited until he was a little calmer and fit to drive again.

  When he was just outside the front door of his house he heard the telephone ringing inside. Laden with shopping bags, he lost precious time searching for his keys and unlocking the door.

  He shot inside, dropping the bags to the floor, and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  He was greeted by a dial tone. Surely it had been Marian.

  And now what? How could he have been so stupid not to have asked Marian for her cell phone number? Actually, to be more precise, he had no telephone number whatsoever for Marian, or even an address.

  He had to resign himself.

  After going and retrieving the shopping bags from the entranceway, he set the table on the veranda. But he still didn’t feel like eating. He fired up a cigarette.

  What was Marian doing in Milan at this hour?

  The telephone rang. He raced over.

  She was answering the question he’d just asked. As if by telepathy.

  “Ciao, Inspector.”

  “Ciao. Was that you who called just a few minutes ago?”

  “Yes. I’m just on my way out of my parents’ house. I’m going to dinner with that dealer I mentioned. I’ve been speeding things up. I spent all afternoon glued to the telephone, because I want to get back as soon as possible. You have no idea how much I miss you.”

  She paused, then:

  “If you don’t have the courage to tell me anything else, tell me how much you like me.”

  “I like you . . . a lot.”

  “Can I call you later? Even if it’s a little late?”

  “Of course.”

  “I send you a kiss.”

  “Same . . .”

  She stopped.

  “Same who? You or someone else?”

  “Me.”

  He hung up and headed out to the veranda on stiffened legs, but
then the telephone rang again.

  He figured Marian had forgotten to tell him something.

  “Ciao, Salvo.”

  It wasn’t Marian.

  “Who is this?”

  As he was asking the question, he realized he was making a mistake bigger than a skyscraper.

  How could he not have recognized the voice at the other end? Perhaps because he still had Marian’s voice ringing in his ears?

  “Now that it’s you who don’t recognize my voice on the phone, what am I supposed to do?” Livia asked angrily.

  There was no escaping it, he would have to start telling lies. He took a deep breath and dived in.

  “Apparently you didn’t realize I was kidding.”

  “I know you too well, Salvo. You were waiting for a call from another woman, I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, if you’re so sure, then there’s no point discussing the subject any further, is there?”

  “Tell me her name.”

  Better to continue with the joke.

  “Karol.”

  “Carol?!”

  “Yes, what’s so strange about that? Karol with a K. Exactly like the last pope, remember?”

  “But is it a woman?”

  “Of course.”

  He pretended to be offended.

  “But how could you possibly imagine that I . . . with a man?”

  “And what does she do?”

  “She’s a lap dancer in a club in Montelusa.”

  Livia thought about this for a minute. Then she said.

  “I don’t believe you. You’re just fucking with me.”

  A tremendous weariness suddenly came over Montalbano.

  He didn’t have the courage to tell Livia what was happening to him. Not over the telephone. It would have been impossible.

  “Listen, Livia, this is a very difficult moment for me, and—”

  “At the office?”

  He seized the escape valve.

  “Yes, at the office. It’s a long story that I’d like to tell you about in calmer circumstances and even ask for your advice, but very shortly Fazio’s coming by to pick me up. I’ll be back too late to call you. I’ll call you tomorrow evening, if I can. All right?”

  “All right,” Livia said frostily.

  The phone call had worn him out. He went back to the veranda and tried to eat something, but he just wasn’t up to it.

  He cleared the table and went and sat in the armchair in front of the television. He channel-surfed until he found a police film that went on for two hours, including the commercials. Then he watched the eleven o’clock news report on the Free Channel.

  How was it that nobody said a thing about the burglary at Burgio Jewelers? Apparently the carabinieri had succeeded in keeping the news under wraps in order to conduct their investigation in peace.

  He found a western that helped another two hours go by.

  At last he turned off the set when his eyelids started drooping. Then he went out on the veranda and sat down.

  This was a risky move, because it meant he would start thinking about his situation with Livia and Marian.

  And he didn’t want to do this. He wasn’t ready yet.

  Of course, sooner or later, he would have to face the matter head-on.

  And whatever the solution turned out to be, it was certain to bring him much happiness and cause him great pain.

  6

  He glanced at his watch. Almost two. How long did dinners in Milan last, anyway? What the fuck! Not even if all the waiters were over eighty or walked on crutches could it take so long! And what did Marian and the dealer have to say to each other, after all? Did they have to review the entire history of art? True, she’d warned him she would call late, but here the birds were going to start chirping before long!

  I’m going to unplug the phone and go to bed, he thought.

  And at that exact moment the telephone rang.

  He’d become so agitated in the previous few minutes that he gave a start in his chair that very nearly made him fall on the floor.

  “He . . . hello!”

  “Ciao, Inspector. Forgive me for keeping you waiting, but the dinner dragged on and on.”

  Montalbano the gentleman emerged in all his splendor.

  “Forgive you? For what? I realize perfectly well that there are certain things . . .”

  “And then Gianfranco wanted to go and have a drink in a nightclub. I got back just now.”

  Montalbano the gentleman was swallowed up by Montalbano the caveman.

  “And who’s this Gianfranco?”

  “Gianfranco Lariani, the art dealer. Oh, that’s right, I never told you his name. He was so insistent: ‘Come on, what’s it to you, five minutes—come on, don’t be silly.’ In short, I had to give in for diplomatic reasons.”

  Oh, how familiar they were with each other!

  “Did you know him before?”

  “Who, Gianfranco? No, but I think I already mentioned to you that it was Pedicini who told me to get in touch with him.”

  And so, right off the bat, on first meeting, they’re all friendly and familiar, come on, what’s it to you, don’t be silly . . .

  Better change the subject.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s great. At least I think it is.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Lariani’s a slyboots, the kind that . . . doesn’t bare his soul so easily.”

  And a good thing, too! That was all they needed! Montalbano couldn’t hold back any longer.

  “What’s he like?”

  “In what sense?”

  “As a man.”

  “Well, very elegant, gentlemanly, around forty-five, rather good-looking . . .”

  And there it was, the pang of jealousy kept long at bay, but in vain.

  Zap! An arrow square in the chest.

  “Did he try to seduce you?”

  “I would have been surprised if he hadn’t. You should have seen me! I was in top form. His jaw dropped when he saw me. But that’s of no importance. I think Pedicini was right, and Lariani has the stuff.”

  “Did he tell you himself?”

  “Not explicitly. But indirectly, he did. I told you he was a sly one, didn’t I? He’s not going to show his hand right away. But I realized he had a weakness. Money. In fact he opened up when I told him—without putting much emphasis on it—that I was in the habit of paying in ready cash, with bank transfers.”

  “So how did you leave things with him?”

  “I’m going to go see him tomorrow afternoon.”

  Alarm bells started ringing.

  “Where?” he asked, trying to seem indifferent.

  “At his house.”

  No, no, no! This was getting serious!

  “Why at his house, if I may ask? Doesn’t this man have an office? Or is this the custom in Milan?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, come on. From what I gathered, I think he has an apartment connected to his house where he keeps the paintings. But I doubt I’ll conclude anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “I know how these people operate. He’ll show me a few daubs just to test me. I’ll tell him I’m not interested in that kind of stuff, and he’ll be forced to grant me another appointment. And that’s when he’ll let me into his inner sanctum.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He’ll show me his best stuff. And that’ll be the moment to make a deal. Provided, of course, that Lariani, as I seem to have gathered, has what Pedicini is looking for.”

  “Why, what’s he looking for?”

  “Well, in seventeenth-century Italian painting, there are Madonnas, crucifixes, Nativities galore. But he’s not interested in those subjects, or portraits eith
er. What he wants is still lifes, landscapes, and genre scenes. And he wants large-format canvases.”

  “I see. But will this keep you away for a long time? Do you think you’ll be able to conclude a deal soon?”

  “I hope so. It’s very hard being far away from you. It’s never happened to me before, to feel so . . .”

  She stopped.

  “What did you do today?” she asked.

  “At the office?”

  “Yes. I want to share every minute of your life.”

  “Look, I’d be happy to tell you, but you’d just get bored.”

  “All right, I’ll make it easier for you. Tell me what you did while waiting for my call.”

  “I watched two movies on TV and . . .”

  He was about to say inadvertently that he’d spoken with Livia, but he held himself back just in time.

  But Marian felt him braking.

  “And?”

  He didn’t want to start telling lies to her too. One would be enough.

  “Then Livia called.”

  “Oh.”

  A pause. Then:

  “Did you tell her about us?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think it’s the right time yet.”

  Another pause, longer this time.

  “Look, Salvo, I hope you realize that for me, at least, this wasn’t just a one-night stand. Nor is it just a momentary whim. I know myself too well.”

  “I realize that.”

  “And from what I felt the other night, I’m convinced it wasn’t just a brief affair for you either.”

  “If I thought it was just a one-night stand, I wouldn’t be here talking on the phone to you.”

  “We should talk about this together when I get back. But now I have to go. When I get into bed, I’m going to pretend you’re lying there beside me. What time can I call you tomorrow?”

  “I can’t really say. Why don’t we just get in touch in the evening, when we’ll have more time to talk?”

  “Whatever you say. Good night, my dear Inspector.”

  There were two options. Clear and precise. Either stay up thinking about how to broach the question with Livia, or try to fall asleep immediately, with the sound of Marian’s voice still in his ears.