“How far did you get?”
“I’ve got about twenty left. Then I’ll get started on the novel.You know, Salvo, I have a feeling I might know who the woman is.”
“Tell me.”
“Not yet. I have to think it over.”
“I have a vague idea about it too.”
“What’s that?”
“I think we’re dealing with a woman who’s not so young anymore, and who took on a twenty-year-old lover. Whom she paid handsomely.”
“I agree. Except that if it’s the woman I think it is, she’s not middle-aged. She’s rather young. And there’s no money involved.”
“So you think it’s a question of infidelity?”
“Why not?”
“Maybe you’re right.”
No, Mimi wasn’t right. Montalbano sensed instinctively, in his gut, that behind the killing of Nenè Sanfilippo there must be something big. So why was he agreeing with Mimi’s hypothesis? To keep him happy? What was the proper verb? Ah, yes: to cajole him. He was pandering to him shamelessly. Perhaps he was behaving like that newspaper editor in the movie The Front Page, who resorts to every expedient on earth and in heaven to keep his ace reporter from moving, for love, to another city It was a comedy with Matthau and Lemon, and he remembered that he died laughing. Why was it that, thinking back on it now, he didn’t even crack a smile?
“Livia? Hi, how are you? I want to ask you two questions, and then tell you something.”
“What are their numbers?”
“What are what’s numbers?”
“The questions. What are their reference numbers?”
“Come on ...”
“Don’t you realize you’re talking to me as if I was some kind of office?”
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean—”
“Go ahead, ask me the first one.”
“Livia, imagine we’ve made love—”
“I can’t.The prospect is too remote.”
“Please, I’m being serious.”
“All right, but give me a minute while I collect my memories. Okay. Go on.”
“Would you ever think, the day after, to write me a letter describing everything you felt?”
There was a pause, and it lasted so long that Montalbano thought Livia had hung up on him.
“Livia? You there?”
“I was trying to think. No, I, personally, wouldn’t do that. But another woman, in the throes of a violent passion, might.”
“The second question is this: When Mimi Augello confided in you that he planned to get married—”
“Oh, God, Salvo, you’re such a bore when you put your mind to it!”
“Let me finish. Did he also say he was going to ask to be transferred? Did he?”
This time the pause was even longer than before. But Montalbano knew she was still at the other end, because her breathing had grown heavy. Then, in a faint voice, she asked:
“Did he do that?”
“Yes, Livia, he did. Then, because the commissioner made an asinine comment, he withdrew his request. But only temporarily, I think.”
“Salvo, believe me, he never said anything to me about leaving Vigàta. And I don’t think he had that in mind when he talked about his marriage plans. I’m sorry. Very sorry. And I realize how sorry you must be. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“That I miss you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“A lot a lot.”
There, that’s how you do it. Trust in the most utterly obvious thing. And surely the truest.
He went to bed with the book by Vázquez Montalbán and began rereading it from the beginning. At the end of the third page, the telephone rang. He thought about it a moment; the desire not to answer was strong, but the caller was liable to persist until his nerves were frayed.
“Hello? Am I speaking with Inspector Montalbano?”
He didn’t recognize the voice.
“Yes.”
“Inspector, I beg your pardon for disturbing you at this hour, when you’re finally enjoying some much-desired rest with your family ...”
What family? Had everyone gone batty, from Dr. Lattes to this stranger, with this idea of his nonexistent family?
“Who is this?”
“... but I was certain to find you at home. I am Orazio Guttadauro, the lawyer. I don’t know if you remember me ...”
How could he not remember Guttadauro, the Mafia’s favorite lawyer, who during the investigation into the murder of the beautiful Michela Licalzi had tried to entrap the then captain of the Montelusa Flying Squad? A worm had a deeper sense of honor than Orazio Guttadauro.
“Would you excuse me a moment, sir?”
“By all means! I should be the one asking you ...”
He let him go on talking, went into the bathroom, emptied his bladder, and gave his face a good washing. When talking to Guttadauro one had to be alert and vigilant, to catch even the most fleeting nuances in the words he used.
“Here I am, Counsel.”
“This morning, my dear Inspector, I went to see my old friend and client Don Balduccio Sinagra, whom you certainly must know, at least, by name, if not personally.”
Not only by name, but also by reputation. Sinagra was head of one of the two Mafia families—the other being the Cuffaro family—that were vying for territorial control over the Montelusa province. Leading to at least one death per month, on each side of the fence.
“Yeah, I know the name.”
“Good. Don Balduccio is very advanced in years, and celebrated his ninetieth the day before yesterday. He’s got a few aches and pains, as is normal for his age, but his mind is still extremely lucid. He remembers everything and everyone, and keeps up with the newspapers and television. I go to see him often because the man simply charms me with his memories and, I humbly confess, with his enlightened wisdom. Just think—”
Was this lawyer joking? Had he called him at home at one o‘clock in the morning just to bust his balls with details on the mental and physical health of a hood like Balduccio Sinagra, who would make the world a better place if he were to die tomorrow?
“Mr. Guttadauro, don’t you think—”
“Forgive me the long digression, Inspector, but when I start talking about Don Balduccio, for whom I harbor feelings of deep veneration—”
“Look, Mr. Guttadauro—”
“Please please please excuse me. Forgiven? Forgiven. I’ll get to the point. This morning, when talking of this and that, Don Balduccio mentioned your name.”
“Was it during the this or the that?”
The remark came out before Montalbano could stop it.
“I don’t understand,” said the lawyer.
“Never mind.”
And he said no more. He wanted Guttadauro the lawyer to do the talking, and so he pricked up his ears all the more.
“He asked about you. If you were in good health.”
A chill ran down the inspector’s spine. If Don Balduccio asked after somebody’s health, in ninety percent of the cases that person, a few days later, would be climbing the hill to Vigàta Cemetery in a hearse. But again he didn’t open his mouth, to encourage Guttadauro to keep talking. Stew in your juices, asshole.
“The fact is, he would really like to see you,” the lawyer shot out, finally coming to the point.
“That’s not a problem,” said Montalbano with the aplomb of an Englishman.
“Thank you, Inspector, thank you! You cannot imagine how happy I am with your answer! I was sure you would satisfy the wishes of an elderly man who, despite everything people say about him—”
“Will he be coming to the police station?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who? Mr. Sinagra. Didn’t you just say he wanted to see me?”
Guttadauro cleared his throat twice in embarrassment.
“Inspector, the fact is that Don Balduccio has a great deal of difficulty moving about. He can’t stand on his feet. It would be very painful for him to come in to the police station. Surely you understand ...”