This time too, after parking in the Marinella Bars lot, he noticed that her car was already there, beside a Porsche convertible that looked like a rocket and was painted a tasteless shade of yellow that offended the eyes.
When he entered the bar, Ingrid was standing at the counter drinking a whisky. Beside her was a fortyish man dressed in a fancy canary-yellow suit, sporting a Rolex and ponytail, and talking to her confidentially.
When he has to change clothes, thought the inspector, does he also change cars?
As soon as she saw him, Ingrid came running and embraced him, kissing him lightly on the lips. She was obviously happy to see him. Montalbano, too, was pleased: Ingrid looked like a gift from God, with her jeans painted on her very long legs, her sandals, her light-blue see-through blouse affording a glimpse of her round breasts, her blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
"Sorry," he said to the canary who was with her. "See you around."
They went and sat down at a table. Montalbano didn't feel like drinking anything. The man with the Rolex and ponytail took his whisky out to the seaside terrace. Ingrid and the inspector smiled at each other.
"You're looking well," she said. "A lot better than you did on TV today."
"Yeah," said Montalbano, then changed the subject: "You look like you're doing all right yourself."
"Did you want to see me to exchange compliments?"
"I wanted to ask a favor of you."
"Here I am."
The man with the ponytail was eyeing them from the terrace.
"Who's that?"
"Somebody I know. I passed him on my way here. He followed and offered me a drink."
"In what sense do you know him?"
Ingrid turned serious, a line creasing her forehead.
"Are you jealous?"
"No, you know better than that. Anyway, there'd be no reason, with him. It's just that he got on my nerves from the minute I saw him. What's his name?"
"Come on, Salvo. What do you care?"
"Tell me his name."
"Beppe . . . Beppe De Vito."
"And what does he do to earn his Rolex, Porsche, and everything else?"
"Trades in leather goods."
"Ever slept with him?"
"Yes, about a year ago, only once. And he was just suggesting we do it again. But I don't have a very pleasant memory of it."
"Some kind of degenerate?"
Ingrid eyed him for a moment, then let out a laugh that made the bartender jump.
"What's so funny?"
"The face you just made: the good cop full of indignation. No, Salvo, he's just the opposite. Totally lacking in imagination. All I can remember is that it seemed suffocating and pointless."
Montalbano gestured for the man with the ponytail to come over to their table, and as he approached, smiling, Ingrid gave the inspector a worried look.
"Hello. Don't I know you? You're Inspector Montalbano, aren't you?"
"Unfortunately for you, you're going to get to know me even better."
The other became flustered, his whisky trembling in his glass, ice cubes tinkling.
"Why unfortunately?"
"Your name is Giuseppe De Vito and you deal in leather goods, am I correct?"
"Yes, but...I don't understand."
"You'll understand in due time. One of these days you're going to be called in to Montelusa police headquarters. I'll be there, too. I think we'll have a lot to talk about."
The man with the ponytail, face suddenly pale, set his glass down on the table, unable to hold it any longer.
"Couldn't you ...at least give me a hint . . . some explanation ...?"
Montalbano assumed the expression of someone just overcome by an irresistible wave of generosity.
"All right, but only because you're a friend of the lady. Do you know a German man by the name of Kurt Suckert?"
"Never heard of him, I swear," the man said, digging a canary-colored handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping his brow with it.
"Well, if that's your answer, I have nothing more to say to you," the inspector said icily. He looked him up and down, then gestured for him to come closer. "I'll give you my advice: Don't try to be too clever. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," De Vito replied mechanically. And without even looking back at Ingrid, he raced out of the bar.
"You're a shit," Ingrid said calmly, "and an asshole."
"Yes, you're right. Every now and then something comes over me, and I get that way."
"Does this Suckert really exist?"
"He used to. But he called himself Curzio Malaparte. He was a writer."
They heard the roar of the Porsche, burning rubber as it pulled out.
"So did you get it out of your system?" Ingrid asked.
"I think so."
"I could tell right away, you know, that you were in a bad mood."
"What is it? Can you tell me?"
"I could, but it's not worth going into. Problems at work."
Montalbano suggested that Ingrid leave her car in the bars parking lot; they would come back later to get it. Ingrid didn't ask him where they were going, nor what they were going to do. All of a sudden Montalbano asked her:
"How's it going with your father-in-law?"
"Fine!" Ingrid said cheerfully. "I'm sorry, I should have mentioned it sooner. Things are fine with my father-in-law. He's left me in peace for two months now. Hes no longer after me."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. He hasn't told me anything. The last time was on our way back from Fela, where we'd been to a wedding. My husband couldn't make it and my mother-in-law wasn't feeling well, so the two of us were left alone again. At some point he turned off onto a side road, continued for a mile or two, then stopped in a wooded area. He made me get out of the car, tore off my clothes, threw me to the ground, and fucked me with his usual brutality. The next day I left for Palermo with my husband, and when I got back a week later, my father-in-law seemed like he'd aged. He was trembling. Since then, he's sort of been avoiding me. Now when I find myself face-to-face with him in some corridor of the house, I'm no longer afraid he's going to push me up against the wall with one hand on my tits and the other on my cunt."
"It's better this way, isn't it?"
...
The story Ingrid had just told him Montalbano knew better than she did. The inspector had learned of Ingrid's relations with her father-in-law the very first time he met her. Then one night, as they were talking, without warning, Ingrid had burst into convulsive sobs; she could no longer bear the situation with her husbands father. An absolutely liberated woman, she felt soiled, demeaned by this quasi-incestuous relationship that was being forced on her. She thought of leaving her husband and returning to Sweden. Being an excellent mechanic, she would manage to earn a living.
That was when Montalbano had made up his mind to help get her out of that mess. The following day, he'd invited Corporal Anna Ferrara to his house for dinner. Young Anna was in love with him and convinced that he and Ingrid were lovers.
"I'm desperate," he had told her, opening the evening with a face worthy of a great tragic actor.
"Oh my God, what's wrong?" asked Anna, squeezing one of his hands in hers.
"Ingrid is cheating on me."
He let his head fall to her breast and by some miracle managed to make his eyes grow moist.
Anna suppressed an exclamation of triumph. She'd been right all along! Meanwhile the inspector was hiding his face in his hands, and the girl felt overwhelmed by this exhibition of despair.