Angelica's Smile Read online

  Angelica started laughing.

  A laughter made of pearls falling to the floor and bounding, falling back down and bounding back up again.

  An elderly patron of the restaurant, sitting alone, turned toward Angelica and bowed in homage to her.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because I don’t like to talk when I’m eating, either. You can imagine how unbearable it is to sit at a table with coworkers talking about nothing but work!”

  They didn’t exchange another word. Only glances, smiles, hums, and affirmations, in great quantity.

  It was much better than a long conversation.

  They took things easy, and when they finally left the trattoria, they felt a little weighted down.

  “Shall I take you home?”

  “Are you going back to headquarters?”

  “Not right away. First . . .”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well . . .”

  Should he tell her or not? Could he ever keep anything secret from her?

  “I’m going to drive to the port, park the car, and take a walk along the eastern jetty, out to the lighthouse, where I’m going to sit down on a rock and smoke a cigarette. Then I’ll go back to the office.”

  “Is there room for two on this rock?”

  There was room, but not much, and thus their bodies were in continuous contact.

  An ever so light breeze was blowing.

  For love, who burns my heart within my breast,

  Fanning it with his wings, creates this breeze.

  They finished their cigarettes without saying a word.

  Then she said:

  “About that favor I asked of you . . .”

  “Fazio didn’t say anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “We decided to comply with your request.”

  In reply to your question, he should have said first, if he really wanted to play the perfect bureaucrat.

  He realized that they were both balancing their words as on a gymnast’s beam; one too many or too few might spoil the whole situation.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Shall we go back?” Montalbano asked.

  “Let’s go back.”

  How naturally and simply Angelica took his hand in hers on the walk back!

  They returned to the car.

  “Shall I give you a lift to the bank?”

  “No. I asked for the day off. I want to put everything back in order at home. My cleaning lady’s coming to help.”

  “So I’ll give you a ride home instead?”

  “I’d rather walk. It’s not so far, really. But thanks for the company.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the days that followed, he couldn’t remember how he’d spent that afternoon at the office.

  Surely Fazio came to talk to him about something, but damned if he understood the first thing of any of it.

  His body sat in the chair behind the desk; this was verified by all who saw it. But what they didn’t see was that his head had become detached from his body and was stuck to the ceiling like a child’s helium balloon.

  He said Yes, yes and No, no at the right times and the wrong times.

  Fazio came in a second time, saw him with a faraway look in his eyes, and decided to go back to where he’d come from.

  The inspector felt a little feverish.

  Why didn’t Angelica find some excuse and give him a ring? He needed to hear her voice.

  Ah, cruel Love! What is the reason why

  You seldom make our longings correspond?

  At last it was eight o’clock.

  Time to go home to Marinella.

  He stood up, went out of his office, and when he was passing by Catarella, he asked:

  “Were there any phone calls for me?”

  “Nah, Chief, not f’yiz.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Assolutely.”

  “Well, have a good—”

  “Acktchully, Chief,” Catarella interrupted him, “jess now there’uz a general callin’ ’at called.”

  “You mean a general in the army or something?”

  “Nah, Chief, general inna sense ’at i’z about sumpin’ generally general.”

  What could it mean?

  “Could you be a little clearer?”

  “Twuz a ginnelman ’oo din’t want nuttin’ in pattickler.”

  “But what did he say?”

  “Sumpin’ useless ’atta police can’t do nuttin’ wit’ noways.”

  “Just tell me anyway.”

  “I didna unnastann’ much, Chief. ’E said as how since ’is frenn arrived, ’e was gonna leave. So wha’ was I asposta say? I jess wisht ’im a nice vacation.”

  A thought exploded in Montalbano’s head like a thunderbolt.

  “Did he say what his name was?”

  “Yessir, ’e did, an’ I writ it down.”

  Catarella picked up a scrap of paper.

  “Sciocchino, ’e said ’is name was.”

  Sciortino! Who, as they’d arranged, was supposed to inform him when he went to his house by the sea!

  “Call Fazio and tell him to come at once to my office.”

  He went back to his room, and Fazio arrived a minute later.

  “What’s up, Chief?”

  “The Sciortinos have gone to the seashore with their friends from Rome. I figured it out by piecing together what Catarella told me. I almost missed it. It’s our fault; we forgot to warn him.”

  “Damn! I already sent Gallo home!”

  “We’ll send someone else.”

  “Chief, we’re short on personnel. With all these cuts the government keeps making . . .”

  “And they have the gall to call it a law for public safety! We’ve got no cars, no gasoline, no guns, no men . . . It’s clear they’re determined to promote criminality. Enough. What can we do?”

  “If you want, I’ll go myself,” said Fazio.

  There was only one solution. Montalbano weighed the pros and cons and arrived at his conclusion.

  “Listen, let’s do this. I’ll go home, eat some dinner, and then around eleven I’ll go and stand guard. Then you’ll come and relieve me around three in the morning. Give me the address of this house.”

  As he was driving home, it occurred to him that it might be best, while it was still light outside, to go and have a look at the Sciortinos’ seaside house, which was about six miles down the coast from his place, past Punta Bianca.

  It turned out to be a good idea.

  Right behind the house, which was almost on the beach, was a small hill with a few trees. One reached it by way of the provincial road.

  Parking at the side of the road, he could keep an eye on the whole situation while remaining comfortably seated in his car.

  He headed back home.

  As often happened, he heard the phone ringing just as he was opening the front door. He managed to pick up in time.

  It was Livia.

  He didn’t want to admit to himself that he was slightly disappointed.

  Livia informed him that she was calling now because she was going to be out late at a meeting with the unions.

  “And since when do you have anything to do with the unions?”

  “I was picked by my coworkers to do it. Unfortunately the company’s planning some layoffs.”

  Montalbano wished her luck.

  He went and opened the refrigerator. Nothing. He opened the oven and rejoiced.

  Adelina had prepared a casserole of eggplant parmesan that would have fed four. It smelled perfect.

  He set the table outside on the veranda and started eating, utterly thrilled.

  Since, after eating, he st
ill had an hour or so to go, he took a shower and put on an old but comfortable suit.

  He heard the phone ring and went to answer.

  It was Angelica.

  His heart started chugging like an old locomotive going uphill.

  8

  “Why are you panting?”

  “I was just jogging.”

  “I phoned the police station and they were kind enough to give me your home number.”

  Pause.

  “I just wanted to wish you good night.”

  It was suddenly springtime.

  Daisies popping out of the spaces between the tiles in the floor.

  Two swallows alighted on top of the bookcase and started twittering (if that’s what swallows actually do).

  “Thanks. Unfortunately it won’t be a good night.”

  Why did he say it?

  Did he want her to feel sorry for him, or did he want her to see him as a warrior, like Orlando?

  “Why not?”

  “I have to keep watch over the Sciortinos’ house.”

  “I know where it is. Do you think the burglars . . . tonight . . . ?”

  “It’s fairly likely.”

  “Will you be going alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where will you hide?”

  “You know that little hill behind the—”

  “Oh, I get it . . .”

  Another pause.

  “Well, good night anyway, and good luck.”

  “You too.”

  So she did call, in the end! Better than nothing. He headed toward his car, singing “Guarda come dondolo . . .”

  After sitting in the car on the hill for about ten minutes, he realized it wasn’t such a good idea.

  The Sciortinos and their friends had made a barbecue on the beach and were now smoking and drinking.

  Therefore there was no need for his surveillance. He could let himself think a little.

  This was a big mistake.

  Because he didn’t think at all about the investigation, the burglars, or Mr. Z.

  He thought about Angelica.

  And thus so deep in thought he has now gone,

  It is as though he has turned into stone.

  Sitting there motionless, he began to feel an overwhelming sense of shame rise up inside him.

  Though there was nobody there with him, he felt his cheeks burning red from the embarrassment.

  What had he done? Had he lost his mind?

  Carrying on with that girl as if he were some lovesick sixteen-year-old! It was one thing to languish over a drawing of a woman at age sixteen, and another thing entirely to start acting the fool with a real girl in the flesh.

  He had confused his boyhood dream with his reality as a man of nearly sixty.

  Ridiculous! That’s what he was, a ridiculous man!

  Falling head over heels with a girl who could be his daughter!

  What did he hope to get out of it?

  Angelica had been a fantasy of his youth, and now he wanted to cling, with her help, to a youth long gone?

  An old codger’s pipe dreams, that’s what these were!

  He had to break things off at once.

  It was beneath the dignity of a man like him.

  And it was likely Fazio knew exactly what was going on and was now laughing at him.

  What a wretched, contemptible spectacle he was making of himself!

  More than an hour he passed in thought, head bowed . . .

  No! Enough of this Orlando Furioso crap!

  Despite the fact that the windows were open, he gasped for air inside the car.

  He opened the door, got out, took a few steps around. He could hear the four people on the beach laughing.

  He fired up a cigarette and noticed that his hands were shaking.

  They couldn’t see him from down below.

  At any rate, as a preliminary measure, he would unplug the phone as soon as he got home. Just in case Angelica got it into her head to call him in the middle of the night.

  Then, tomorrow morning, as soon as he got to work, he would order Catarella to . . .

  He suddenly noticed a car turning off the main road. It extinguished its headlights and continued to proceed slowly in darkness, with the motor running silently, toward the spot where he was parked.

  His heart leapt into his throat.

  It was surely the thieves.

  They, too, had chosen the hill as their observation point.

  He tossed aside his cigarette and, bent over all the while, hurried back to his car, opened the glove compartment, grabbed his gun, and crouched down.

  The car advanced slowly, headlights still off.

  He formulated a plan.

  Arresting them now made no sense; in fact, it would be a big mistake.

  He had to wait for them to get busy trying to break in to the house. At which point he would immediately call the Sciortinos on the cell and alert them. They would start yelling and shouting for help, and the frightened robbers would abandon their efforts.

  He, meanwhile, would make sure that when the thieves turned tail and got back in their car, they would find it out of order.

  The rest he would improvise.

  The car stopped a short distance away. The door opened.

  Out stepped Angelica.

  With sweet and amorous affection filled,

  His goddess he approached without delay.

  She, with her arms about him, cooed and billed . . .

  Much later, after the Sciortinos and their friends had gone to bed, and the lights in the house were all out, and the full moon lit up the night like the day, he asked her:

  “Why did you come?”

  “For three reasons,” she said. “Because I wasn’t sleepy, because I wanted to see you again, and because I thought we would be less likely to arouse the burglars’ suspicions if we were a couple necking in the car.”

  “Whose car did you come here in?”

  “I rented it this afternoon. I can’t do without it.”

  “I don’t like sitting in the car. We have time.”

  “I don’t like it either.”

  Still later, around two-thirty in the morning, Montalbano told the girl that Fazio would be coming soon to relieve him.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “I think it would be better.”

  “Shall we have lunch together tomorrow?”

  “Ring me at the office. If I’m free . . .”

  They embraced and held each other tight.

  Then they kissed for so long that they both came out of it panting, as if they had been holding their breaths underwater.

  Then she left.

  About ten minutes later, Fazio arrived. Montalbano was waiting for him outside his car.

  He didn’t want Fazio to get too close. He smelled too much like Angelica.

  “Any news?” asked Fazio.

  Hell yes, there was news! An unexpected, divine miracle had happened. But it had nothing to do with the investigation.

  “Nah. All quiet.”

  For no reason at all, Fazio shone his big standard-issue police flashlight in the inspector’s face.

  “Chief! What happened to your lips?”

  “Nothing, why?”

  “They’re all red and swollen.”

  “Probably got a few mosquito bites.”

  For almost four hours, he and Angelica had hardly done anything but kiss and neck wildly.

  “All right then, Chief, good night.”

  “Good night to you too. Oh, and don’t forget, don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

  “All right.”

  He knew there was no point in going to bed. He would h
ave done nothing but toss and turn between the sheets, not sleeping a wink and thinking only of Angelica.

  So he set himself up on the veranda, with cigarettes and whisky within reach. And he ended up watching the sun rise.

  The usual solitary fisherman passed by, greeting him with a wave of the hand. Then he put his boat into the water.

  “Want to come for a ride?”

  “Sure, why not? I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He went inside, put on his bathing suit, ran down to the beach, stepped into the water, and climbed aboard the boat.

  When they were out at sea, he dived into the water and went for a long swim, until he felt thoroughly exhausted.

  The water was freezing cold, but it was what he needed to chill his blood, which had reached the boiling point that night.

  He showed up at the station all clean and shiny, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

  “Jeezis, Chief! Yer soitanly lookin’ good dis mornin’! Ya look ten years younger!” Catarella exclaimed upon seeing him.

  “Actually, Cat, if you’d said thirty years younger, that would have been even better,” Montalbano replied.

  Then he asked:

  “Any sign of Fazio?”

  “’E jess got in.”

  “Send him to me.”

  “All quiet,” said Fazio when he came in. “I left at half past five. Too late for burglars.”

  “Maybe you ought to give the Sciortinos a ring and find out how long they plan to stay at Punta Bianca.”

  “Already taken care of.”

  Whenever Fazio said “already taken care of,” which he did often, it got on Montalbano’s nerves.

  “They’re leaving the day after tomorrow,” Fazio continued.

  “Which means that we have to organize shifts for tonight and tomorrow night as well.”

  “Already taken care of.”

  Under the desk, Montalbano’s foot, on its own initiative, started tapping its heel against the floor.

  “Will you be needing me?” he asked.

  “No, Chief. For the time being you’re off the hook. Unless you enjoy it . . .”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  Was Fazio insinuating something? Had he suspected anything?