IM1 The Shape of Water (2002) Read online

  On the other hand, the woman continued, to get back to the subject of greatest interest to me, I am convinced that we are dealing with a criminal actlet me finishnot a homicide, not a physical elimination, but a political crime. An act of extreme violence was done, and it led to his death.

  Please explain, signora.

  I am convinced that my husband was forced, under the threat of violence or blackmail, to go to that disgraceful place where he was found. They had a plan, but they were unable to execute it in full because his heart gave out under the stress orwhy not?out of fear. He was very ill, you know. He had just been through a very difficult operation.

  But how would they have forced him?

  I dont know. Perhaps you can help me find out. They probably lured him into a trap. He was unable to resist. I dont know, maybe they photographed him at that place or had him recognized by someone. And from that moment on they had my husband in the palm of their hands; he became their puppet.

  Who are they?

  His political adversaries, I think, or some business associates.

  You see, signora, your reasoning, or rather your conjecture, has one serious flaw: you have no proof to support it.

  The woman opened the yellow envelope shed been holding in her hand all this time and pulled out some photographs, the ones the lab had taken of the corpse at the Pasture.

  Oh, God, Montalbano murmured, shuddering.

  The woman, for her part, showed no emotion as she

  studied them.

  How did you get these?

  I have good friends. Have you looked at them?

  No.

  You were wrong not to, and she chose a photo and handed it to Montalbano along with the magnifying glass. Now, take a good look at this one. His trousers are pulled down, and you can just get a glimpse of the white of his briefs.

  Montalbano was covered in sweat; the discomfort he felt irritated him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  I dont see anything strange about that.

  Oh, no? What about the label of the briefs?

  Yes, I can see it. So?

  You shouldnt be able to see it. This kind of briefand if you come into my husbands bedroom, Ill show you othershas the label on the back and on the inside. If you can see them, as you can, it means they were put on backwards. And you cant tell me that Silvio when getting dressed that morning put them on that way and never noticed. He took a diuretic,you see, and had to go to the bathroom many times a day and could have easily put them properly back on at any point of the day. And this can mean only one thing.

  Whats that? the inspector asked, stunned by the womans lucid, pitiless analysis, which she made without shedding a tear, as though the deceased were a casual acquaintance.

  That he was naked when they surprised him, and that they forced him to get dressed in a hurry. And the only place he could have been naked was in the little house at Capo Massaria. That is why I gave you the keys. I repeat, it was a criminal act against my husbands public image, but only half successful. They wanted to make him out to be a pig, so they could feed him to the pigs at any moment. It would have been better if he hadnt died; forced to cover himself, he would have done whatever they asked. The plan did, however, succeed in part: all my husbands men have been excluded from the new leadership. Rizzo alone escaped; actually, he gained by it.

  And why did he?

  That is up to you to discover, if you so desire. Or else you can stop at the shape theyve given the water.

  Im sorry, I dont understand.

  Im not Sicilian; I was born in Grosseto and came to Montelusa when my father was made prefect here. We owned a small piece of land and a house on the slopes of the Amiata and used to spend our summers

  there. I had a little friend, a peasant boy, who was younger than me. I was about ten. One day I saw that my friend had put a bowl, a cup, a teapot, and a square milk carton on the edge of a well, had filled them all with water, and was looking at them attentively.

  What are you doing? I asked him. And he answered me with a question in turn.

  What shape is water?

  Water doesnt have any shape! I said, laughing. It takes the shape you give it.

  At that moment the door to the library opened, and an angel appeared.

  11

  The angelMontalbano at that moment didnt know how else to define himwas a young man of about twenty, tall, blond, very tanned, with a perfect body and an ephebic aura. A pandering ray of sun had taken care to bathe him in light in the doorway, accentuating the Apollonian features of his face.

  May I come in, zia?

  Come in, Giorgio, come in.

  While the youth moved toward the sofa, weightlessly, his feet seeming not to touch the ground but merely to glide across the floor, navigating a sinuous, almost spiral path, brushing past objects within reach or, more than brushing, lightly caressing them, Montalbano caught a glance from the signora that told him to put the photograph he was holding in his pocket. He obeyed, while the widow quickly put the other photos back in the yellow envelope, which she placed beside her on the sofa. When the young man came

  near, the inspector noticed that his blue eyes were streaked with red, puffy from tears, and ringed with dark circles.

  How do you feel, zia? he asked in an almost singing voice, then knelt elegantly beside the woman, resting his head in her lap. In Montalbanos mind flashed the memory, bright as if under a floodlight, of a painting he had seen oncehe couldnt remember wherea portrait of an English lady with a greyhound in the exact same position as the one the young man had assumed.

  This is Giorgio, the woman said. Giorgio Zri, son of my sister Elisabetta and Ernesto Zri, the criminal lawyer. Perhaps you know him.

  As she spoke, the woman stroked his hair. Giorgio gave no indication of having understood what was said. Visibly absorbed in his devastating grief, he didnt even bother to turn toward the inspector. The woman,moreover, had taken care not to tell her nephew who Montalbano was and what he was doing in their house.

  Were you able to sleep last night?

  Giorgios only reply was to shake his head.

  Ill tell you what you should do. Did you notice that Dr. Capuanos here? Go talk to him, have him prescribe you a strong sedative, then go back to bed.

  Without a word, Giorgio stood up fluidly, levi

  tated over the floor with his curious, spiral manner of movement, and disappeared beyond the door.

  You must forgive him, the lady said. Giorgio is without doubt the one who has suffered most, and who suffers most, from the death of my husband. You see, I wanted my own son to study and find himself a position independently of his father, far from Sicily. You can perhaps imagine my reasons for this. As a result, in Stefanos absence my husband poured all his affection on our nephew, and his love was returned to the point of idolatry. The boy even came to live with us, to the great displeasure of my sister and her husband, who felt abandoned.

  She stood up, and Montalbano did likewise.

  Ive told you everything I thought I should tell you, Inspector. I know Im in honest hands. You may call me whenever you see fit, at any hour of the day or night. And dont bother to spare my feelings; Im what they call a strong woman. In any event, act as your conscience dictates.

  One question, signora, which has been troubling me for some time. Why werent you concerned to make it known that your husband hadnt returned ...? What I mean is, wasnt it disturbing that your husband didnt come home that night? Had it happened before?

  Yes, it had. But, you see, he phoned me Sunday night.

  From where?

  I couldnt say. He said he would be home very late. He had an important meeting and might even be forced to spend the night away.

  She extended her hand to him, and the inspector, without knowing why, squeezed it in his own and then kissed it.

  Once outside, having exited by the same rear door of the villa, he noticed Giorgio sitting on a stone bench nearby, bent over, shuddering convulsively.r />
  Concerned, Montalbano approached and saw the youths hands open and drop the yellow envelope and the photos, which scattered about on the ground. Apparently, spurred by a catlike curiosity, he had got hold of them when crouching beside his aunt.

  Are you unwell?

  Not like that, oh, God, not like that!

  Giorgio spoke in a clotted voice, his eyes glassy, and hadnt even noticed the inspector standing there. It took a second, then suddenly he stiffened, falling backwards from the bench, which had no back. Montalbano knelt beside him, trying in some way to im

  mobilize that spasm-racked body; a white froth was beginning to form at the corners of the boys mouth.

  Stefano Luparello appeared at the door to the villa, looked around, saw the scene, and came running.

  I was coming after you to say hello. Whats happening?

  An epileptic fit, I think.

  They did their best to prevent Giorgio, at the height of the crisis, from biting off his tongue or striking his head violently against the ground. Then the youth calmed down, his shudders diminishing in fury.

  Help me carry him inside, said Stefano.

  The same maid who had opened up for the inspector came running at Stefanos first call.

  I dont want Mama to see him in this state.

  My room, said the girl.

  They walked with difficulty down a different corridor from the one the inspector had taken upon entering. Montalbano held Giorgio by the armpits, with Stefano grabbing the feet. When they arrived in the servants wing, the maid opened a door. Panting, they laid the boy down on the bed. Giorgio had plunged into a leaden sleep.

  Help me to undress him, said Stefano.

  Only when the youth was stripped down to his boxers and T-shirt did Montalbano notice that from

  the base of the neck up to the bottom of his chin, the skin was extremely white, diaphanous, in sharp contrast to the face and the chest, which were bronzed by the sun.

  Do you know why hes not tanned there? he asked Stefano.

  I dont know, he said, I got back to Montelusa just last Monday afternoon, after being away for months.

  I know why, said the maid. Master Giorgio hurt himself in a car accident. He took the collar off less than a week ago.

  When he comes to and can understand, Montalbano said to Stefano, tell him to drop by my office in Vig tomorrow morning, around ten.

  He went back to the bench, bent down to the ground to pick up the envelope and photos, which Stefano had not noticed, and put them in his pocket.

  Capo Massaria was about a hundred yards past the San Filippo bend, but the inspector couldnt see the little house that supposedly stood right on the point, at least according to what Signora Luparello had told him. He started the car back up, proceeding very slowly. When he was exactly opposite the cape, he espied, amid

  dense, low trees, a path forking off of the main road. He took this and shortly afterward found the small road blocked by a gate, the sole opening in a long drywall that sealed off the part of the cape that jutted out over the sea.

  The keys were the right ones. Leaving the car outside the gate, Montalbano headed up a garden path made of blocks of tufa set in the ground. At the end of this he went down a small staircase, also made of tufa, which led to a sort of landing where he found the houses front door, invisible from the landward side because it was built like an eagles nest, right into the rock, like certain mountain refuges.

  Entering, he found himself inside a vast room facing the sea, indeed suspended over the sea, and the impression of being on a ships deck was reinforced by an entire wall of glass. The place was in perfect order. There was a dining table with four chairs in one corner, a sofa and two armchairs turned toward the window, a nineteenth-century sideboard full of glasses, dishes, bottles of wine and liqueur, and a television with VCR. Atop a low table beside it was a row of videocassettes, some pornographic, others not. The large room had three doors, the first of which opened onto an immaculate kitchenette with shelves packed with foodstuffs and a refrigerator almost empty but for

  a few bottles of champagne and vodka. The bathroom, which was quite spacious, smelled of disinfectant. On the shelf under the mirror, an electric razor, deodorants, a flask of eau de cologne. In the bedroom, which also had a large window looking onto the sea, there was a double bed covered with a freshly laundered sheet; two bedside tables, one with a telephone; and an armoire with three doors. On the wall at the head of the bed, a drawing by Emilio Greco, a very sensual nude. Montalbano opened the drawer on the bedside table with the telephone, no doubt the side of the bed Luparello usually slept on. Three condoms, a pen, a white notepad. He gave a start when he saw the pistol, a 7.65, at the very back of the drawer, loaded. The drawer to the other bedside table was empty. Opening the left-hand door of the armoire, he saw two mens suits. In the top drawer, a shirt, three sets of briefs, some handkerchiefs, a T-shirt. He checked the briefs: the signora was right, the label was inside and in the back. In the bottom drawer, a pair of loafers and a pair of slippers. The armoires middle door was covered by a mirror that reflected the bed. That section was divided into three shelves: the topmost and middle shelves contained, jumbled together, hats, Italian and foreign magazines whose common denominator was pornography,a vibrator,sheets and pillowcases. On the

  bottom shelf were three female wigs on their respective standsone brown, one blond, one red. Maybe they were part of the engineers erotic games. The biggest surprise, however, came when he opened the right-hand door: two womens dresses, very elegant, on coat hangers. There were also two pairs of jeans and some blouses. In a drawer, minuscule panties but no bras. The other was empty. As he leaned forward to better inspect this second drawer, Montalbano understood what it was that had so surprised him: not the sight of the feminine apparel but the scent that emanated from them, the very same he had smelled, only more vaguely, at the old factory, the moment hed opened the leather handbag.

  There was nothing else to see. Just to be thorough, he bent down to look under the furniture. A tie had been wrapped around one of the rear feet of the bed. He picked it up, remembering that Luparello had been found with his shirt collar unbuttoned. He took the photographs out of his pocket and decided that the tie, for its color, would have gone quite well with the suit the engineer was wearing at the time of his death.

  At headquarters he found Germannd Galluzzo in a state of agitation.

  Wheres the sergeant?

  Fazios with the others at a filling station, the one on the way to Marinella. There was some shooting there.

  Ill go there at once. Did anything come for me?

  Yes, a package from Jacomuzzi.

  He opened it. It was the necklace. He wrapped it back up.

  Germanyou come with me to this filling station. Youll drop me off there and continue on to Montelusa in my car. Ill tell you what road to take.

  He went into his office, phoned Rizzo, told him the necklace was on its way with one of his men, and added that he should hand over the check for ten million lire to the agent.

  As they were heading toward the site of the shooting, the inspector explained to Germanhat he must not turn the package over to Rizzo before he had the check in his pocket and that he was to take this checkhe gave him the addressto Saro Montaperto, advising him to cash it as soon as the bank opened, at eight oclock the following morning. He couldnt say why, and this bothered him a great deal, but he sensed that the Luparello affair was quickly drawing to a conclusion.

  Should I come back and pick you up at the gas station?

  No,stop at headquarters. Ill return in a squad car.

  The police car and a private vehicle were blocking the entrances to the filling station. As soon as he stepped out of his car, with Germanaking the road for Montelusa, the inspector was overwhelmed by the strong odor of gasoline.

  Watch where you step! Fazio shouted to him.

  The gasoline had formed a kind of bog, the fumes of which made Montalbano feel nauseated and mildly f
aint. Stopped in front of the station was a car with a Palermo license plate, its windshield shattered.

  One person was injured, the guy at the wheel, said the sergeant. He was taken away by ambulance.

  Seriously injured?

  No, just a scratch. But it scared him to death.

  What happened, exactly?

  If you want to speak to the station attendant yourself...

  The man answered Montalbanos questions in a voice so high-pitched that it had the same effect on him as fingernails on glass. Things had happened more or less as follows: A car had stopped, the only

  person inside had asked him to fill it up, the attendant had stuck the nozzle into the car and left it there to do its work, setting it on automatic stop because meanwhile another car had pulled up and its driver had asked for thirty thousand in gas and a quick oil check. But as the attendant was about to serve the second client, a car, from the road, had fired a burst from a submachine gun and sped off, disappearing in traffic. The man at the wheel of the first car had set off immediately in pursuit, the nozzle had slipped out and continued to pump gasoline. The driver of the second vehicle was shouting like a madman; his shoulder had been grazed by a bullet. Once the initial moment of panic had passed and he realized there was no more danger, the attendant had assisted the injured man, while the pump continued to spread gasoline all over the ground.

  Did you get a good look at the face of the man in the first car, the one that drove off in pursuit?

  No,sir.

  Are you really sure?

  As sure as theres a God in heaven.

  Meanwhile the firemen summoned by Fazio arrived.

  Heres what well do, Montalbano said to the sergeant. As soon as the firemen are done, pick up

  the attendant, who hasnt convinced me one bit, and take him down to the station. Put some pressure on him: the guy knows perfectly well who the man they shot at was.

  I think so, too.

  How much do you want to bet its one of the Cuffaro gang? I think this month its their turn to get it.

  What, you want to take the money right out of my pocket? the sergeant asked, laughing. Thats a bet youve already won.