IM1 The Shape of Water (2002) Read online

  nicola

  Montalbano arrived at the Pasture about two. There wasnt a living soul around. The lock on the little iron

  door was encrusted with salt and rust. He had expected this and had expressly brought along the oil spray used to lubricate firearms. He went back to the car and turned on the radio, waiting for the oil to do its work.

  The funeralas a local radio announcer recounted had reached some very high peaks of emotion, so that at one point the widow had felt faint and had to be carried outside. The eulogies were given, in order, by the bishop, the national vice secretary of the party, the regional secretary, and, in a personal vein, by Minister Pellicano, who had long been a friend of the deceased. A crowd of at least two thousand people waited in front of the church for the casket to emerge, at which point they burst into warm, deeply touched applause.

  Warm is fine, but how can applause be deeply touched? Montalbano asked himself. He turned off the radio and went to try the key. It turned in the lock, but the door seemed anchored to the ground. Pushing it with his shoulder, he finally managed to open it a crack, just wide enough to squeeze through. The door was obstructed by plaster chips, metal scraps, and sand; obviously the custodian hadnt been around for years. He noticed that there were actually two outer walls: the protective wall with the little entrance door and a crumbling old enclosure wall that had

  once surrounded the factory when it was running. Through the breaches in this second wall he could see rusted machinery, large tubessome twisted, some straightgigantic alembics, iron scaffolds with big holes, trestles hanging in absurd equilibrium, steel turrets soaring at illogical angles. And everywhere gashes in the flooring, great voids once covered with iron truss beams now broken and ready to fall below, where there was nothing anymore except a layer of dilapidated cement with yellowing spikes of grass shooting up from the cracks. Montalbano stood motionless in the gap between the two walls, taking it all in, spellbound. While he liked the view of the factory from the outside, he was thrilled by the inside and regretted not having brought a camera. Then a low, continuous sound distracted his attention, a kind of sonic vibration that seemed to be coming, in fact, from inside the factory.

  What machinery could be running in here? he asked himself,suspicious.

  He thought it best to exit, return to his car, and get his pistol from the glove compartment. He hardly ever carried a weapon; the weight bothered him, and the gun rumpled his trousers and jackets. Going back inside the factory, where the noise continued, he began to walk carefully toward the side farthest from

  where he had entered. The drawing Saro had made was extremely precise and served as his guide. The noise was like the humming that certain high-tension wires sometimes make in very humid conditions, except that here the sound was more varied and musical and broke off from time to time, only to resume almost at once with a different modulation. He advanced, tense, taking care not to trip over the rocks and debris that constituted the floor in the narrow corridor between the two walls, when out of the corner of his eye, through an opening, he saw a man moving parallel to him inside the factory. He drew back, sure the other had already seen him. There was no time to lose; the man must have accomplices.

  Montalbano leapt forward, weapon in hand, and shouted:

  Stop! Police!

  He realized in a fraction of a second that the other had anticipated this move and was already half bent forward, pistol in hand. Diving down, Montalbano pulled the trigger, and before he hit the ground, he managed to fire another two shots. But instead of hearing what he expecteda return shot, a cry, a shuffling of fleeing stepshe heard a deafening explosion and then a tinkling of glass breaking to pieces. When in an instant he realized what had happened, he

  was overcome by laughter so violent that he couldnt stand up. He had shot at himself, at the image that a large surviving pane of glass, tarnished and dirty, had cast back at him.

  I cant tell anyone about this, he said to himself. They would ride me out of the force on a rail.

  The gun he was holding in his hand suddenly looked ridiculous to him, and he stuck it inside his belt. The shots, their long echo, the crash, and the shattering of the glass had completely covered up the sound, which presently resumed, more varied than before. Now he understood: it was the wind, which every day, even in summer, lashed that stretch of beach, then abated in the evening, as if not wanting to disturb Geg business. Threading through the trestles metal cablessome broken, some tautand through smokestacks pocked with holes like giant fifes, the wind played its plaintive melody inside the dead factory, and the inspector paused, entranced, to listen.

  It took him almost half an hour to reach the spot that Saro had indicated, having had, at various points, to climb over piles of debris. At last he figured he was exactly parallel to the spot where Saro had found the necklace on the other side of the wall, and he started looking calmly around. Magazines and scraps of paper

  yellowed by sun, weeds, Coca-Cola bottles (the cans being too light to be thrown over the high wall), wine bottles, a bottomless metal wheelbarrow, a few tires, some iron scraps, an unidentifiable object, a rotten wooden beam. And beside the beam a leather handbag with strap, stylish, brand-new, stamped with a designer name. It clashed visibly with the surrounding ruin. Montalbano opened it. Inside were two rather large stones, apparently inserted as ballast to allow the purse to achieve the proper trajectory from outside the wall to inside, and nothing else. He took a closer look at the purse. The owners metal initials had been torn off, but the leather still bore their impressions, an I and an S: Ingrid Sjostrom.

  Theyre serving it up to me on a silver platter, thought Montalbano.

  10

  The thought of accepting the platter so kindly being offered him, along with everything that might be on it, came to mind as he was refortifying himself with a generous helping of the roast peppers that Adelina had left in the refrigerator. He looked for Giacomo Cardamones telephone number in the directory; his Swedish wife would probably be home at this hour.

  Who dat speakin?

  Its Giovanni. Is Ingrid there?

  I go see, you wait.

  He tried to guess from what part of the world this housekeeper had landed in the Cardamone home, but he couldnt figure it out.

  Ciao, monster cock, how are you?

  It was a deep, husky voice, which fit the description Zito had given him. Her words, however, had no erotic effect whatsoever on the inspector. Actually, they made him feel upset: of all the names in the

  world, he had to go and pick one belonging to a man Ingrid knew down to his anatomical proportions.

  Are you still there? Did you fall asleep on your feet? Did you fuck a lot last night, you pig?

  Excuse me, signora...

  Ingrids reaction was immediate, an acceptance without surprise or indignation.

  Youre not Giovanni.

  No.

  Then who are you?

  Im an inspector with the police force. My name is Montalbano.

  He expected an expression of alarm but was promptly disappointed.

  Ooh, how exciting! A cop! What do you want from me?

  Her tone remained familiar, even after she knew she was speaking with someone she didnt know. Montalbano maintained his formality.

  I would like to have a few words with you.

  I cant this afternoon, but Im free this evening.

  All right then, this evening.

  Where? Shall I come to your office? Tell me where it is.

  Better not. Id prefer somewhere more discreet.

  Ingrid paused.

  How about your bedroom? The womans voice had grown irritated. Apparently she was beginning to think that the person on the line was some imbecile trying to make advances.

  Listen, signora, I realize youre suspicious, with good reason. Lets do this: Ill be back at headquarters in Vig in an hour. You can phone there and ask for me. All right?

  The woman didnt answer immediately. She was thinking it over befo
re making up her mind.

  No, I believe you, cop. Tell me when and where.

  They agreed on the place, the Marinella Bar, which at the appointed hour, ten oclock, would surely be deserted. Montalbano advised her not to tell anyone, not even her husband.

  The Luparello villa stood at the entry to Montelusa as one approached from the sea. A massive nineteenth- century building,it was surrounded by a high defensive wall with a wrought-iron gate at the center, now thrown open. Montalbano walked down the tree-lined lane cutting through one part of the park and came to the huge, double front door, one half of which was open, the other half draped with a large black bow. He

  leaned forward to look inside: in the vestibule, which was rather vast, there were some twenty people, men and women,looking appropriately grief-stricken,murmuring in soft voices. He thought it unwise to walk through the crowd; someone might recognize him and start wondering why he was there. Instead, he walked all around the villa and at last found a rear entrance, which was closed. He rang the bell several times before someone came and opened the door.

  Youve made a mistake. For condolence visits use the front door, said a small, alert housekeeper in black pinafore and starched cap, who had classified him at a glance as not belonging to the category of caterers.

  Im Inspector Montalbano. Could you tell someone of the family Im here?

  Theyve been expecting you, Inspector.

  She led him down a long corridor, opened a door, and gestured for him to enter. Montalbano found himself in a large library with thousands of well-kept books neatly arrayed on enormous shelves. There was an immense desk in one corner, and in the corner opposite, a tastefully elegant sitting area with a small table and two armchairs. Only five paintings adorned the walls, and with a shudder of excitement Montalbano immediately recognized the artists: there was a Guttuso por

  trait of a peasant from the forties, a landscape in Lazio by Melli, a demolition by Mafai, two rowers on the Tiber by Donghi, and a woman bathing by Fausto Pirandello. The selection showed exquisite taste and rare discernment. The door opened, and a man of about thirty appeared: black tie, open face, stylish.

  It was I who phoned you. Thank you for coming. Mama was very keen on seeing you. Im sorry for all the trouble Ive caused you. He spoke with no regional inflection whatsoever.

  No trouble at all. I simply dont see of what use I could be to your mother.

  Thats what I said to her, too, but she insisted. And she wouldnt give me any hint as to why she wished to inconvenience you.

  He looked at the fingertips of his right hand as if seeing them for the first time, then discreetly cleared his throat.

  Please try to understand, Inspector.

  I dont understand.

  For Mamas sake. Its been a very trying time for her.

  The young man turned to leave, then suddenly stopped.

  Ah, Inspector, I wanted to inform you so you wouldnt find yourself in an embarrassing situation.

  Mama knows how my father died and where he died. How she found out, I have no idea. She already knew two hours after the body was found. Please excuse me.

  Montalbano felt relieved. If the widow knew, he wouldnt be forced to concoct any pious fictions to hide the indecency of her husbands death from her. He went back to enjoying the paintings. At his house in Vig he had only drawings and prints by Carmassi, Attardi,Guida,Cordio,and Angelo Canevari,to which he had been able to treat himself by docking his meager salary. More than that he couldnt afford; he could never pay for a painting on the level of these.

  Do you like them?

  He turned about abruptly. He hadnt heard the signora enter. She was a woman past fifty, not tall, with an air of determination; the tiny wrinkles lining her face had not yet succeeded in destroying the beauty of her features. On the contrary, they highlighted the radiance of her penetrating green eyes.

  Please make yourself comfortable, she said, then went and sat on the sofa as the inspector took a seat in an armchair. Such beautiful pictures. I dont know much about painting, but I do like them. There are about thirty scattered around the house. My husband bought them. Painting was his secret vice, he loved to say. Unfortunately, it wasnt his only one.

  Were off to a good start, Montalbano thought, then asked:

  Are you feeling better, signora?

  Compared to when?

  The inspector stammered, as if he were in front of a teacher asking him difficult questions.

  Well, II dont know, compared to this morning... I heard you were unwell todayin the cathedral.

  Unwell? I was fine, as good as one might feel in such circumstances. No, my friend, I merely pretended to faint. Im a good actress. Actually, a thought had come into my mind: if a terrorist, I said to myself, were to blow up this church with all of us inside,at least one- tenth of all the hypocrisy in the world would disappear with us. So I had myself escorted out.

  Impressed by the womans candor, Montalbano didnt know what to say,so he waited for her to resume speaking.

  When I was told where my husband had been found, I called the police commissioner and asked him who was in charge of the investigationif there was any investigation. The commissioner gave me your name, adding that you were a decent man. I had my doubts: are there still any decent men? And so I had my son phone you.

  I can only thank you, signora.

  But were not here to exchange compliments. I dont want to waste your time. Are you absolutely certain it wasnt a homicide?

  Absolutely.

  Then what are your misgivings?

  Misgivings?

  Yes, my dear, you must have some. There is no other way to explain your reluctance to close the investigation.

  Ill be frank, signora. Theyre only impressions, impressions I really cant and shouldnt allow myself, in the sense that, since we are dealing with a death by natural causes, my duty should lie elsewhere. If you have nothing new to tell me, I shall inform the judge this very evening

  But I do have something new to tell you.

  Montalbano was struck dumb.

  I dont know what your impressions may be, the signora continued, but Ill tell you what mine are. Silvio was, of course, a shrewd, ambitious man. If he stayed in the shadows all those years, it was with a specific purpose in mind: to come into the limelight at the right moment and stay there. Now, do you really believe that this man, after all that time spent on patient maneuvers to get where he did, would decide,

  one fine evening, to go with a woman, surely of ill repute, to a shady place where anyone could recognize him and possibly blackmail him?

  That, signora, is one of the things that has perplexed me the most.

  Do you want to be even more perplexed? I said woman of ill repute, and I would like to clarify that I didnt mean a prostitute or any sort of woman for whom one pays. Im not sure if Im explaining myself clearly. Let me tell you something: Right after we got married, Silvio confided in me that he had never been with a prostitute or gone to a licensed brothel when they still existed. Something prevented him. So this leads one to wonder what sort of woman it was who convinced him to have relations with her in that hideous place.

  Montalbano had never been with a prostitute either, and he hoped that no new revelations about Luparello would reveal other points of similarity between him and a man with whom he would not have wanted to break bread.

  You see, my husband quite comfortably gave in to his vices, but he was never tempted by self- destruction, by that ecstasy for baseness, as one French writer put it. He consummated his affairs discreetly, in a little house he had built, though not in his name, at the tip of Capo Massaria. I found out about it from the customary compassionate friend.

  She stood up, went over to the desk, rummaged through a drawer, then sat back down holding a large yellow envelope, a metal ring with two keys, and a magnifying glass. She handed the keys to the inspector.

  Incidentally, he had a mania for keys. He had two copies of each set, one of which he would keep in that draw
er; the other he always carried on his person. Well, the second copy was never found.

  They werent in your husbands pockets?

  No. And they werent in his engineering studio either. Nor were they found in his other office, the so- called political office. Vanished, evaporated.

  He could have lost them on the street. We dont necessarily know that they were removed from him.

  Its not possible. You see, my husband had six sets of keys. One for this house, one for the country house, one for the house by the sea, one for the office, one for the studio, one for his little house. He kept them all in the glove compartment of his car. From time to time he would take out the set he needed.

  And none of these sets was found?

  No. I gave orders to have all the locks changed. With the exception of the little house, of whose existence I am officially unaware. If you wish, you may visit the place. Im sure youll find some revealing vestiges of his affairs.

  Twice she had said his affairs, and Montalbano wished he could console her in some way.

  Aside from the fact that Mr. Luparellos affairs do not fall within the scope of my investigation, I have nevertheless questioned some people, and I must say in all sincerity that the answers Ive received have been rather generic, applicable to anyone.

  The woman looked at him with the faint hint of a smile.

  I never did reproach him for it, you know. Practically speaking, two years after the birth of our son, my husband and I ceased to be a couple. And so I was able to observe him calmly and quietly for thirty years, without having my vision clouded by the agitation of the senses. You seem not to understand, please forgive me: in speaking of his affairs, my intention was to avoid specifying the sex.

  Montalbano hunched his shoulders, sinking farther down into the armchair. He felt as if hed just taken a blow to the head from a crowbar.