A Beam of Light Page 9

  “No. At the time, when I was talking to her, I didn’t have that impression. It was Loredana’s attitude here, with us, that led me to realize what her game was.”

  “Sorry, but what game do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you think Loredana wanted to take me by the hand and lead me wherever she wanted to go? And like a good boy I held out my hand for her and let myself be led?”

  “Are you trying to tell me she wasn’t raped?” Mimì asked. “Then what was her reason for going in for medical examination?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that she let herself be raped. She needed certification of a sexual attack. And got it from her gynecologist. Please note that she didn’t tell us of her own accord that she’d been raped; she made me force it out of her. She’s extremely clever.”

  “But for what purpose?”

  “I’ll tell you for what purpose. Clearly, though, those two women . . . So Loredana comes home with a bite on her lips. Valeria tells me the mugger also had her touch him, and then Loredana comes here all agitated as if she’s hiding something . . . How skillfully those two managed to plant the idea in my head that she’d been raped! They worked together perfectly! A couple of real pros, those two!”

  “All right,” Augello said impatiently. “But what need was there for her to have been raped?”

  “To neutralize any suspicion of complicity between her and the mugger.”

  “You’re right,” Fazio quickly chimed in.

  “And for that reason, since two plus two usually equals four, the rapist and rape victim must have been in cahoots, which means that Loredana can lead us to the mugger. And this, Mimì, is where you come in.”

  “I get it. You want me to come on to Loredana.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “So what am I supposed to do then?”

  “Come on to Valeria Bonifacio. Who, I assure you, is worth the effort, as women go. Have Fazio fill you in on everything, and don’t set foot back here until you’ve established contact with her.”

  Montalbano noticed that Fazio looked pensive.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not convinced, Chief.”

  “You’re not in agreement over Inspector Augello’s assignment?”

  “That’s fine. I’m not convinced they would go through this whole song and dance for just sixteen thousand euros.”

  “Why, does that seem like so little to you?”

  “It’s plenty, but it doesn’t seem like a lot in relation to all the rest. But that’s just my impression.”

  “You may be right. But given where we stand, we have no choice but to move forward.”

  There was a pause, and then he continued.

  “Anyway, I have a vague idea myself as to the identity of this mugger, which came to me the moment I realized we were dealing with a consensual encounter.”

  “As far as that goes,” said Fazio, “I’ve got an idea myself.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then tell me the name.”

  “You tell me.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll say his first name, and you say his last. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Carmelo . . .” the inspector began.

  “Savastano,” Fazio concluded.

  “Wow, what a couple of geniuses you are!” Mimì exclaimed in disdain. “It was so obvious it was him that I didn’t even want to take part in your silly competition, which seemed like something out of kindergarten.”

  He got up and left. The telephone rang.

  “Chief, ’ere’d be a Signor Intelligiano onna premisses.”

  “Is he intelligent?”

  “I dunno, Chief, wan’ me to ax ’im?”

  “No, just send him in.”

  Intelisano had no problem with doing what Montalbano asked of him.

  “That’s fine with me, Inspector. If you wanna go an’ talk to the two Tunisians in Spiritu Santo, it’s more convenient to go by way of Montelusa, ’cause there’s a good road there. That’s what I always do.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “I think it’s best if we go in two cars, mine and yours. We can meet outside Montelusa, at the intersection for Aragona. Seven-thirty okay with you?”

  “Seven-thirty sounds perfect.”

  “How should I introduce you?”

  “As Engineer Carlo La Porta.”

  He was about to head home when Catarella rang to tell him that Dr. Squisito from Counterterrorism was on the premises and wanted to talk to him personally in person.

  “His name is Sposìto, Cat. Send him in.”

  Sposìto was an assistant commissioner of about forty-five, always shabbily dressed and disheveled and always in a hurry. He and the inspector had never had any direct dealings with each other, but had crossed paths many times at Montelusa Central, and Montalbano found him reasonably likable.

  “I’ll take just five minutes of your time,” said Sposìto. “I’m in a hurry. Since I was already coming this way, I thought I’d take advantage of—”

  “No problem at all. Have a seat.”

  “I’ll start by saying that we’ve already checked out the little house in Spiritu Santo—on the sly, of course—and you were absolutely right. It was almost certainly being used as a depot for one crate of rocket launchers and two crates of ammunition. But I need some further clarification.”

  “I’m glad to help. What do you need to know?”

  “According to what Inspector Augello told us, when the property’s owner noticed that a door had been put on the house, he didn’t come to report this to you the same day that he discovered it, but the following day. Is that right?”

  “No, he came the evening of the same day, but I’d already left and Augello told him to come back the following day.”

  “And did you go to the site on the very morning the report was made?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Because if that’s the case, it’s clear that someone’s been keeping an eye on the house—someone who knew that Intelisano wasn’t just some passerby, but the owner. And they must have immediately taken measures and rushed over there to empty it out as soon as Intelisano went away.”

  “I see. And so?”

  “And so it’s possible—since for them it was an unexpected surprise—that the weapons haven’t yet been sent away to their destination. They may have been moved somewhere close by, perhaps not far from the house, maybe even in a place that wouldn’t be too hard to find. So there you have it. Thanks.”

  He got up, they shook hands.

  How come Sposìto didn’t say a word about the two Tunisians? Was it possible he hadn’t yet been informed of them? Or did he not want to talk about them with him?

  When the inspector got home, the first thing he did was to make sure that Adelina hadn’t left him to starve despite the note he’d left for her.

  He found a savory cake of potatoes and anchovies in the oven. A big one. Apparently Adelina, not knowing whether he would be alone, decided to make enough for two and more.

  He’d just finished setting the table on the veranda when the telephone rang.

  “Ciao, Inspector.”

  “Ciao, Marian. How’d it go with Lariani?”

  That was what he was keenest to know.

  “Badly.”

  He grew alarmed. Want to bet the bastard had invited her to his house just to take advantage of her?

  “Did he touch you?”

  “Come on, are you kidding? Do you really think I would have let him? No, it went badly because, as I’d expected, he showed me some second-rate stuff, and when I told him to stop kidding around, he replied that he might be able to get me what I was looking for, but he would need more time and would have to give it some thought.”

  “How much time?”


  “At least two days.”

  “He’s really dragging it out.”

  “Yes he is. Which means unfortunately that I won’t be able to return to Vigàta as soon as I’d hoped.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At my parents’ place. We’re going out to dinner in a little bit. Oh, listen, shortly after I got back here, Pedicini called me from Corfu. He wanted to know how things were going with Lariani. I told him Lariani was stalling. And so he told me something that at first seemed strange to me.”

  “And what was that?”

  “He suggested I tell Lariani that I was particularly interested in something by Paolo Antonio Barbieri.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Guercino’s brother. And a specialist in still lifes.”

  “And why did that seem strange to you?”

  “Because in my opinion it severely narrowed the range of Lariani’s search.”

  “You mean it made things more difficult.”

  “Or maybe simpler.”

  “Why?”

  “Because naturally I called Lariani immediately and told him that if he had to consult any third parties in his search, he should focus on Barbieri, and he started laughing and said that he’d expected that I would end up asking for him.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. But that’s enough talking about my business. Can I make a confession to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m starving!”

  “Didn’t you just say you’re going out to dinner soon?”

  She laughed.

  “Salvo, are you serious or just pretending? I’m starving for you! What about you?”

  Though he was alone, Montalbano blushed.

  “Naturally,” was all he managed to say.

  Marian laughed again.

  “Good God, sometimes you are so awkward . . . it’s adorable. Come on, Inspector, buck up and tell me you want me.”

  Montalbano closed his eyes, took as deep a breath as possible, and dived in.

  “I . . . wa . . . wa . . .” he began.

  He froze. Of course he wanted her, he just couldn’t bring himself to say it. The words inside him would head towards his mouth enthusiastically, but his lips wouldn’t move. They were unable to say them.

  “Come on, a little effort. You’re almost there,” said Marian. “You’re better off starting all over.”

  “I . . .”

  Nothing doing. This time the culprit was his throat, which was drier than the Sahara.

  “They’re calling me to dinner,” said Marian. “At this rate it’ll take an hour to make you say it. So you’re safe for now. I’ll call you back before I go to bed, to wish you good night.”

  He set down the receiver, went out on the veranda, and the telephone rang.

  Naturally it was Livia.

  “Could you wait just a second?”

  He went and drank a glass of water.

  “Okay, here I am.”

  “I tried earlier but it was busy. Who were you talking to?”

  “Fazio.”

  The lie had come to him spontaneously, quite naturally. To the point that Livia swallowed it without hesitation.

  By the time he hung up, he figured the number of lies he’d told came to at least ten.

  Could he go on this way? No, he couldn’t. With every lie he told he felt physically sullied, to the point that he now needed absolutely to go and take a shower.

  What a fine example of a man he was!

  On the one hand, for all of Marian’s effort to wrench it out of him, he’d been utterly unable to tell her even that he wanted her, though he felt that he loved her; and on the other hand he lacked the courage to speak clearly and honestly to Livia, to tell her that he no longer felt that he loved her.

  After his shower he felt better and sat down to eat. He scarfed down half of everything and then cleared the table.

  He wanted to go to bed early, since he had to get up at six so he could be at the crossroads for Aragona at seven-thirty.

  He took the phone and plugged it into the jack next to the nightstand in the bedroom.

  Going over to the bookcase, he grabbed the first book that came to hand without even looking. When he lay down he discovered that it was Stendhal’s On Love. He laughed and opened it at random.

  The first few times I felt love, that strangeness I recognized inside me, it made me think that it wasn’t love. I understand the cowardice . . .

  He went on reading for a few hours, until his eyes began to flutter. The telephone rang.

  “Good night, Inspector.”

  “Me too,” he said clumsily.

  Marian started laughing.

  “Come on, are you retarded or something? That’s the response you should have given me when I asked you if you wanted me too! So this ‘me too,’ which you uttered through clenched teeth—does it apply to the previous question or does it mean ‘I, too, wish you good night’?”

  “The second thing,” replied Montalbano, feeling at once ridiculous and cowardly.

  The right words just wouldn’t come to him.

  As he was about to leave the house, he was seized by doubt. What if the two Tunisians had seen him on television and recognized him as Inspector Montalbano? It was highly unlikely, but still possible. How was he going to change his appearance in five minutes without having anything in the house that might serve such a purpose?

  He made do with a pair of sunglasses that covered half his face, a ridiculous scarecrow hat that came down to his eyes, and an enormous red bandana that he wrapped around his neck in such a way that it came up to his nose. Then he put his fate in God’s hands.

  He found Intelisano at the crossroads, on time and waiting for him. The farmer looked a little surprised to see him in his getup, but asked no questions.

  At a certain point, Intelisano’s car stopped in the middle of a dirt road that was nevertheless fairly passable. Montalbano, who was following behind, did the same.

  “From here we have to go on foot. Lock your car.”

  To the left was a path for carts. They took it.

  “My property starts here.”

  They walked for about twenty minutes through freshly plowed land. The scent entered Montalbano’s nostrils. The earth smelled as good as the sea.

  Then they passed near a stable made of masonry with animals inside. There was a rather large shed made of corrugated metal beside it. The upper part of it was a sort of hayloft.

  For a brief moment, as Montalbano was looking, a bright beam of light flashed from the loft and shone straight in his eyes. Despite the sunglasses, he instinctively shut his eyes and when he reopened them the light was gone. He had to take the glasses off and wipe his eyes, which were watering. Maybe it was just a piece of glass that had reflected a ray of sunlight.

  9

  “That shed is really convenient,” Intelisano explained, “because there’s a hayloft up top and the ground floor can be used as a garage and for storing equipment, grains, and seeds . . . The farmhands also use it for shelter at lunchtime if the sun’s too hot or if it’s raining.”

  “Do they have the keys?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do they also sleep there at night?”

  “No, I think I already mentioned to you that they sleep in Montelusa.”

  After another ten minutes of walking they reached the spot where the Tunisians were working.

  Montalbano was able to confirm that, from where they stood, one could not see the other half of the property, the barren part with the ramshackle house, because of a low hill that blocked the view.

  But surely the two Tunisians had climbed the hill to work the land up there and thus knew of the existence of the abandoned house.

 
The two men stopped working. The one on the tractor got down. They doffed their caps. Intelisano introduced them.

  “This is Alkaf and this is Mohammet.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Montalbano, holding out his hand, which the two men shook.

  “They’re from Tunisia,” Intelisano continued, “and have been workin’ here for two years. This is Engineer Carlo La Porta, who’s thinkin’ of buying this land.”

  “You sell?” Mohammet asked Intelisano with a look of displeasure.

  “Three large properties are pretty hard to keep up with,” said Intelisano.

  Alkaf smiled at Montalbano.

  “You make good buy.”

  “Even better if you keep us working for you,” said Mohammet.

  They were both about fifty, but wore their age well. They were slender with intelligent, attentive eyes. Though dressed like paupers, they had an air of distinction about them.

  “In Tunisia, did you work for others or did you have some land of your own?” Montalbano asked them.

  “Yes, land our own,” they said in unison.

  “But only a little,” Alkaf clarified.

  “Did you use tractors?”

  “No,” said Mohammet, “no money for tractor. Hand-plow and hoe. I learn drive tractor here.”

  “Shall we continue our visit?” Intelisano asked.

  Montalbano nodded yes and took his leave of the two men, shaking their hands again.

  Once they were out of sight, Intelisano asked the inspector when he intended to come back to talk to the two men alone.

  “I’ll be back here by five at the latest. But almost certainly before that.”

  “Don’t forget that when the sun sets they finish workin’ and head back to Montelusa.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s your impression?”

  “They seem sharp, intelligent.”

  “They are. And great workers.”

  “So you would tend to rule out that—”

  “Inspector, in normal circumstances, they would be two honorable men, but in their current circumstances . . .”

  Montalbano felt the same way. They got back to the place where they’d left their cars.