A PENGUIN MYSTERY
©ElviraGiorgianni
GAME OF MIRRORS
Andrea Camilleri, a bestseller in Italy and Germany, is the author of the popular Inspector Montalbano mystery series as well as historical novels that take place in nineteenth-century Sicily. His books have been made into Italian TV shows and translated into thirty-two languages. His thirteenth Montalbano novel, The Potter’s Field, won the Crime Writers’ Association International Dagger Award and was longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.
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First published in Penguin Books 2015
Copyright © 2011 by Sellerio Editore
Translation copyright © 2015 by Stephen Sartarelli
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Originally published in Italian as Ilgiocodeglispecchiby Sellerio Editore, Palermo.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Camilleri, Andrea. [Il Gioco degli specchi. English] Game of mirrors / Andrea Camilleri ; [translated by] Stephen Sartarelli. pages cm ISBN 978-1-101-61326-9
1. Montalbano, Salvo (Fictitious character)—Fiction. I. Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954—translator. II. Title. PQ4863.A3894G6813 2015 853’.914—dc23 2014032889
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
He’d already been sitting for at least two hours, naked as the day God created him, in a chair that looked dangerously like an electric chair, wrists and ankles bound in iron bands to which were attached a great many wires that led into a metal cabinet all decorated on the outside with quadrants, pressure gauges, ampere meters, barometers, and little green, red, and blue lights blinking on and off without end. On his head was a sort of dome just like the hair dryers that hairdressers put on ladies’ heads when giving them a perm, except that his was connected to the cabinet by a large black cable with hundreds of colored wires wound up inside.
The doctor, a man of about fifty with a helmet of hair parted in the middle, a goatee, gold-rimmed glasses, a smock that couldn’t possibly have been any whiter, and an obnoxious, conceited air, had been asking him questions rapid-fire, such as:
“Who was Abraham Lincoln?”
“Who discovered America?”
“What do you think of when you see a woman with a nice backside?”
“What’s nine times nine?”
“What would you rather eat, an ice-cream cone or a piece of moldy bread?”
“How many of Rome’s seven kings were there?”
“What would you rather see, a funny movie or a fireworks display?”
“If a dog attacked, would you run away or stand your ground and growl?”
At a certain point the doctor suddenly fell silent, went ahem ahemwith his throat, removed a stray thread from the sleeve of his smock, looked Montalbano in the eye, then sighed, shook his head in discouragement, sighed again, went ahemahemagain, pushed a button, and the iron bands around the inspector’s wrists and ankles popped open and the dome rose up above his head.
“I guess the examination’s over,” the doctor said, going and sitting down behind the desk in a corner of the medical office. He started writing at the computer.
Montalbano stood up and grabbed his underpants and trousers in one hand, but he felt perplexed.
What was that Iguesssupposed to mean? Was the goddamned pain-in-the-ass examination over or not?
A week earlier he had received a memo signed by the commissioner informing one and all that, in keeping with the new rules regarding personnel, issued personally in person by the minister of justice, he would have to undergo a mental health checkup at the Clinica Maria Vergine of Montelusa within ten days’ time.
Why was it, he’d wondered at the time, that a minister can have the mental health of his subordinates checked, but a subordinate couldn’t have the mental health of the minister checked? And so he’d protested to the commissioner.
“What do you want me to say, Montalbano? These are orders from on high. Your colleagues have all cooperated.”
“Cooperate” was the watchword. If you didn’t cooperate, rumors would fly that you were a pedophile, pimp, or serial nun rapist, and you would be forced to resign.
“Why don’t you put your clothes back on?” the doctor asked.
“Why don’t I . . . ?” the inspector muttered, searching for an explanation and beginning to get dressed. And that was when it happened. His trousers no longer fit. He was sure they were the same ones he’d had on when he came in, but they’d shrunk. Try as he might to suck in his gut, try as he might to squeeze himself into them, there was no way. They didn’t fit. They were at least three sizes too small for him. In his last desperate attempt to put them on,
he lost his balance, leaned one hand on a cart with a mysterious device on it, and the cart shot off like a rocket and crashed against the desk. The doctor leapt up in the air, startled.
“Have you gone mad?”
“My trousers . . . won’t fit,” the inspector stammered, trying to explain.
Getting up angrily, the doctor grabbed the trousers by the belt and pulled them up for him.
They fit perfectly.
Montalbano felt as ashamed as a little boy in kindergarten who needed the teacher’s help in getting his clothes back on after going to the bathroom.
“I already had my doubts,” the doctor said, sitting back down and resuming his writing at the keyboard, “but this last episode has swept away any lingering uncertainty.”
What did he mean?
“Could you explain?”
“What’s to explain? It’s all so clear! I ask you what you think about if you see a beautiful woman’s backside and you reply that you think of Abraham Lincoln!”
The inspector balked.
“I did? I said that?!”
“Do you want to contest the recording?”
Montalbano had a flash and suddenly understood. He’d been set up!
“It’s a plot!” he started yelling. “You all want to make it look like I’m crazy!”
Before he’d even finished yelling, the door flew open and two burly orderlies burst in and seized him. Montalbano tried to break free, cursing and kicking in every direction, and then . . .
. . . and then he woke up. Bathed in sweat, with the sheet rolled around him so tightly that he couldn’t move. Like a mummy.
When he finally managed to free himself, he looked at the clock. It was six in the morning.
The air coming in through the window was hot. Scirocco. The patch of sky he could see from his bed was entirely covered by a milky veil of cloud. He decided to lie there for another ten minutes. No, the dream he’d just had was wrong. He would never go crazy, of that he was certain. If anything, he would start going senile little by little, forgetting the names and faces of the people dearest to him, until he sank into a sort of mindless solitude.
What nice, comforting thoughts he had first thing in the morning! His solution was to get up, race into the kitchen, and make coffee.
When he was ready to go out, he realized it was too early to go to the station. He opened the French door giving onto the veranda, sat down outside, and smoked a cigarette. It felt really hot. He decided it was better to go back inside and loll about the house until eight.
He got in his car and started driving down the little road that linked Marinella with the provincial road. About two hundred yards from his house was another small house, almost identical to his, which after sitting vacant for about two years was now inhabited by a childless couple, the Lombardos. The husband, Adriano, was a tall, stylish man of about forty-five who according to Fazio was the sole representative in all of Sicily of a large computer brand, a job that required him to travel a great deal. He owned a fast sports car. His wife, Liliana, about ten years younger than him, was an impressively attractive brunette from Turin. Tall with long, perfect legs, she must have engaged in some kind of sport. And when you saw her walking from behind, even if you were stark raving mad, you most certainly thought of Abraham Lincoln. For her part, she had a small Japanese car for driving around town.
Their relations with Montalbano went no further than “good morning” and “good afternoon,” on those rare occasions when they crossed paths in their cars along the access road—which usually meant a complicated series of maneuvers, since the road was not wide enough for two vehicles to pass side by side.
That morning, out of the corner of his eye Montalbano saw Signora Lombardo’s car just inside the open gate to her property, with the hood up and the lady bent over, looking inside. There seemed to be some sort of problem. Since he was in no hurry, almost without thinking he swerved to the right, went another ten yards or so, and pulled up in front of the open gate. Without getting out of the car, he asked:
“Need a hand?”
Signora Liliana beamed a grateful smile.
“It won’t start!”
Montalbano got out but remained outside the gate.
“If you need to go into town, I can give you a lift.”
“Thank you so much. I am in something of a rush, actually. But do you think you could have a quick look at the engine?”
“Believe me, signora, I don’t know the first thing about cars.”
“All right, then. I’ll come with you.”
She lowered the hood, came through the gate without shutting it, and got into the car through the door that Montalbano was holding open for her.
They drove off. Though the windows were all down, the car filled with her scent, which was at once delicate and penetrating.
“The problem is I don’t know any mechanics, and my husband won’t be back for another four days.”
“You should give him a call.”
Signora Lombardo seemed not to have heard the suggestion.
“Couldn’t you recommend one yourself?”
“Of course. But I don’t have his phone number on me. If you like, I can take you to his garage.”
“Wonderful. You’re so kind.”
They didn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. Montalbano didn’t want to seem nosy, and she, for her part, though polite and affable, clearly didn’t want to get too familiar. After he introduced her to the mechanic, she turned and thanked him, and their brief encounter came to an end.
“Augello and Fazio here?”
“’Ey’re onna scene, Chief.”
“Send them to me.”
“’Ow’s ’ey gonna come, Chief?” Catarella asked, confused.
“What do you mean, how’re they gonna come? On their legs, that’s how!”
“But ’ey ain’t ’ere, Chief, ’ey’re onna scene where the scene is.”
“And where’s this scene?”
“Wait an’ I’ll have a look.”
He picked up a piece of paper and read it.
“’Ere i’ssez Via Pissaviacane, nummer twinny-eight.”
“Are you sure it’s called Via Pissaviacane?”
“Sure as death, Chief.”
He’d never heard of it.
“Ring Fazio and put him through to my office.”
The telephone rang.
“Fazio, what’s going on?”
“Somebody put a bomb in front of a warehouse in Via Pisacane very early this morning. No injuries, just a terrible fright and some broken windows. And a big hole in the metal shutter, naturally.”
“What’s inside the warehouse?”
“Nothing, actually. It’s been empty for almost a year.”
“I see. And the owner?”
“I questioned him. I’ll tell you everything later. We’ll be back in about an hour, max.”
He started grudgingly signing some papers, just so that the huge stack on his desk might find a slightly less precarious equilibrium. For some time now Montalbano had formed a clear idea about a mysterious phenomenon, but he preferred not discussing it with anyone. Because if he did, they certainly would consider him mad.
The phenomenon was the following: How was it that the number of documents actually managed to increase during the night? How could one explain that when he left in the evening, the stack was three feet high, and when he returned in the morning it was three and a quarter, long before the day’s mail was delivered? There could be only one explanation. When the office was dark and deserted, the documents, unseen by anyone, would scatter around the room, shucking off their slipcovers, folders, and binders, and indulge in unbridled orgies, interminable copulations, unspeakable cluster fucks. So that the following morning, the fruits born of their nights of sin would increase the volume and height of the stack.
The telephone rang.
“Chief, ’at’d be Francischino onna line, wantin’ a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
Who on earth was that? But rather than waste time with Catarella, he had him put the call through.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Francischino, Inspector, the mechanic.”
“Ah, right. What is it?”
“I’m calling you from the Lombardos’ home. Somebody busted up their engine. What should I do? Tow it into the garage, or leave it here?”
“I’m sorry, but why are you asking me?”
“Because the lady don’t answer her cell phone, and since she’s your friend—”
“She’s not my friend, Francischì, she’s just an acquaintance. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“All right, sorry.”
One of the things the mechanic said stuck in the inspector’s mind.
“Why do you say somebody ‘busted up’ her engine?”
“Because that’s what happened. They opened the hood and did a load of damage.”
“Are you saying it was done on purpose?”
“I know my trade, Inspector.”
So who could have anything against the lovely Liliana Lombardo?
“So what’s this all about?” the inspector asked Fazio and Augello as soon as they sat down in front of him.
It was up to Deputy Inspector Domenico Augello, whom everyone called Mimì, to answer. And, in fact, he said:
“In my opinion, it’s a case of nonpayment of protection money. But Fazio doesn’t agree.”
“Let’s hear you out first,” said Montalbano.
“The warehouse belongs to a certain Angelino Arnone, who also owns a grocery, a bakery, and a shoe store. That makes three protection-racket payments he has to pay. Either he forgot to pay a couple, or they upped the price and he refused. And so, to bring him back in line, they sent him a warning. That’s what I think.”
“And what’s this Arnone have to say?”
“The usual bullshit we’ve heard a thousand times before. That he’s never paid the racket because he’s never been asked to pay, that he has no enemies and is loved by all.”
“And what do you think?” Montalbano asked Fazio.
“I dunno, Chief, the whole thing just doesn’t add up to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would be the first time they set a bomb off in front of a warehouse to get somebody to pay the racket. What did they damage? His metal shutter? With a few euros it’s all taken care of. Whereas according to normal procedure, they should have put it in front of his grocery or bakery or shoe store. In that case the warning would make sense.”
The inspector didn’t know what to say. On the other hand, Fazio’s doubt wasn’t really so far-fetched.
“So why, in your opinion, didn’t they stick to normal procedure this time?”
“I have no answer, to be honest. But if you’ll allow me, I’d like to know more about this Angelino Arnone.”
“Fine, gather your information and then let me know. Oh, and just what kind of bomb was it?”
“A classic time bomb. Inside a cardboard box that looked like it was left there for the garbage collectors.”
On his way to Enzo’s trattoria for lunch, the inspector happened to read the name of a short, narrow street he went up and down at least twice a day: Via Pisacane.
He’d never noticed the name before. He slowed down in front of number 28. Arnone’s warehouse, the ground floor of a three-story building, was wedged between a hardware store and the door leading to the apartments above. The bomb had been placed not in the middle of the metal shutter, but on the far right.
At Enzo’s he gorged himself. A variety of antipasti, spaghetti in squid ink, a sampling of pasta in clam sauce, and a main course of striped surmullet (actually two generous helpings).
So a walk along the jetty to the flat rock under the lighthouse became a necessity, despite the heat.
He spent an hour there, smoking and pestering a crab, then headed back to the office.
He parked and got out of the car, but to enter the building he had to push aside with his foot a large package blocking the entrance.
Something like a flash went off in his brain.
“Cat, what’s that parcel in the doorway?”
“Sorry, Chief, but summon from a’ministration’s comin’ straightaways ta pick it up. Eight packitches o’ forms, quessionaires, an’ litterhead arrived.”
How was it that the Ministry of Justice had the money to increase the bureaucratic pains in the ass but didn’t have any to buy gas for the mobile units?
“Is Fazio in?”
“Yessir.”
“Send ’im to me.”
Fazio arrived with an excuse.
“Chief, I haven’t had a free minute all morning to look into Arnone.”
“Have a seat; I want to tell you something. Today I discovered, entirely by chance, that one of the streets I usually take to go to lunch was Via Pisacane. So I had a look.”
Fazio looked at him inquisitively.
“Judging from the marks left by the blast and the hole it made in the shutter, it looked to me like the bomb was placed at the far right end of the shutter. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“In other words, close to number twenty-six, which is the entrance to the rest of the building. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, now listen up. I have a theory. If a tenant coming out or going into the building first thing in the morning sees a cardboard box blocking the doorway, what does he do?”
“Probably pushes it aside with his foot,” said Fazio. Then, a moment later: “Holy shit!”
“Exactly. It’s possible the bomb was not a warning for Arnone, but for someone who lives in that building.”
“You’re right. Which complicates things and means we have a lot more work to do.”
“Do you want me to talk to Inspector Augello about it?”
Fazio grimaced.
“If I could bring Gallo along . . .” he said.
“Sure, go ahead,” said the inspector.
Augello came in about half an hour later.
“Have you got a minute?”
“I’ve got as much time as you need, Mimì.”
“I’ve been thinking about what Fazio said this morning about the bomb. And it is indeed an anomaly. So I asked myself why the bomb was placed at the far right end of the shutter and not in the middle.
Because right beside the warehouse is the entrance to a three-story apartment building. So my question is: Couldn’t the bomb have been intended for that building? And a tenant just pushed it aside without realizing that it had a bomb inside?”
Montalbano gave him a look of jubilation.
“Do you know that’s a brilliant observation, Mimì? Congratulations. I’ll tell Fazio to start investigating the building’s tenants right away.”
Augello stood up and went back to his office feeling satisfied. Why disappoint him? Young Eagle Scout Salvo Montalbano had done his good deed for the day.
When passing by the Lombardos’ house on his way home, he immediately noticed that her car was no longer there, and through an open window in the back he could see a bedroom all lit up and Signora Lombardo standing in front of an open armoire.
The moment he set foot in his house, he froze, unable to move, beset by a sudden doubt. How should he proceed with his lovely neighbor? Francischino surely must have told her that someone had damaged her engine on purpose. So was it or was it not his duty, as a police inspector, to offer to help her find who had done it and to protect her from further danger? Perhaps the lady was expecting him to offer to intervene. Or should he just sit tight and say nothing, since she hadn’t reported anything yet?
But what if the lady hadn’t yet had the time to report it?
As he was searching for the right answer, another doubt assailed him, this one of a strictly personal nature. If Signora Liliana was not a beautiful woman but a cross-eyed, toothless, bowlegged crone, would he still be so interested in her?
Feeling offended for having had such a thought, he answered himself sincerely: yes, he would be just as interested in her.
And this was enough to persuade him to stop wasting time and go ring the bell at the Lombardos’ gate.
He walked there, given how close their house was to his.
Signora Liliana seemed quite pleased to see him. It was said that the Piedmontese were false and polite, but her welcome didn’t seem the least bit false.
“Come in, come in! Just follow me.”
She was wearing a little dress as light as could be, short and formfitting. It looked as if it were painted on her skin. Montalbano followed her like an automaton, totally hypnotized by the harmonious undulations of the spheres moving before him. Two more spheres to be added to the celestial one of which the poets sang.
“Shall we go out on the veranda?”
“With pleasure.”
The veranda was exactly the same as his, except for the table and chairs, which were fancier and more modern.
“Can I get you something?”
“No, thanks, no need to bother.”
“I should tell you, Inspector, I’ve got some excellent vodka. But if you haven’t eaten dinner yet . . . ”
“Actually, something cold might be nice in this heat, thank you.”
“I’ll go and get you some.”
She returned with a bottle of vodka in a bucket of ice, two small stemmed glasses, and an ashtray.
“I’ll have just a little drop to keep you company,” she said. “If you feel like smoking—”
They heard a cell phone ring inside the house.
“Damn, what a pain! Excuse me for a second. In the meantime please help yourself.”
She went inside and must have gone into the bedroom to talk, perhaps closing the door, because the inspector couldn’t hear even the faintest murmur.
The phone call was long enough for Montalbano to smoke a whole cigarette.
When she returned, Signora Liliana’s face was quite red and she was breathing heavily. And her panting, incidentally, had an additionally lovely result, evoking other celestial spheres, since she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra. She must have just had a rather animated exchange.
“I’m sorry, that was Adriano, my husband. An unexpected hassle. But you haven’t had anything to drink! Here, let me serve you.”
She poured two fingers’ worth of vodka into one of the little glasses, which she held out for Montalbano, then gave herself a rather hefty dose in her own, which she brought to her lips and downed in a single draft.
So much for the “little drop”!
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Inspector?”
“I don’t know whether the mechanic told you . . . ”
“That it’s going to take a long time to fix the engine? Yes, he did, and in fact I had him tow the car to his garage. It’s not going to be easy for me to go back and forth to Montelusa. It’s true there’s the bus, but its schedule is so odd . . . ”
“I usually leave for the office around eight in the morning. If you want I can give you a ride, at least on the way in . . . ”
“Thanks, I think I’ll take you up on that. I’ll be ready and waiting tomorrow at eight.”
Montalbano returned to the subject that interested him.
“Did the mechanic tell you how the engine got damaged?”
She laughed. Matresanta, what a laugh! It hit him right in the gut. She sounded like a dove in love.
“There was no need for me to ask him. I’m a terrible driver; I must have subjected that poor engine—”
“No, that’s not it.”
“It’s not?”
“No. Your car’s engine was intentionally damaged, quite on purpose.”
She immediately turned pale. Montalbano continued:
“That’s the mechanic’s opinion, and he knows what he’s talking about.”
Liliana poured herself more vodka and drank it. She started looking out at the sea without saying anything.
“Did you use your car yesterday, signora?”
“Yes. I was out until evening, and up to then it ran just fine.”
“So it happened last night. Someone must have climbed your gate, raised the hood, and rendered the engine unusable. Did you hear any noise?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And yet the car was parked very close to the bedroom window.”
“I said I didn’t hear anything!”
Montalbano pretended not to notice that she’d answered crossly. But having come this far, he might as well go all the way.
“Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
“No.”
But as soon as she’d said no, Liliana seemed to change her mind. She turned and looked Montalbano in the eye.
“You know, Inspector, I’m often alone, and for long periods of time. And so I’m an attractive target for . . . In short, I’ve had some trouble. Just imagine, one night some idiot came and knocked on the shutter to my bedroom window! So this might have been done by someone wanting to avenge himself for my indifference . . . ”
“Have you had any explicit propositions?”
“As many as you like.”
“Could you give me the names of any of these, er, suitors of yours?”
“But can’t you see I don’t even know what they look like? They call me up and tell me their names, but it might just be made up, and then they’re off on a string of obscenities.”
Montalbano pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and wrote something on it.
“Here’s my home phone number. Don’t hesitate to call me if anyone comes by and bothers you during the night.”
Then he stood up and said good-bye. Liliana walked him out to the gate.
“I’m so grateful you’re taking an interest in this. See you tomorrow.”
After scarfing down a dish of pasta’ncasciataand a huge serving of eggplant parmesan, both prepared by his housekeeper Adelina, he went outside and sat down on the veranda.
The sky was so full of stars it looked as if you could reach up and touch them with your hand. The gentle wind that had risen felt like a caress on his skin. After five minutes of this, however, Montalbano realized it wouldn’t work. He absolutely needed a long walk along the beach for digestive purposes.
He went down to the beach, but instead of turning right in the direction of Scala dei Turchi, as he always did, he turned left, towards town. And thus he passed directly in front of the Lombardos’ house.
But he hadn’t done it on purpose. Or had he?
All the lights were off, and he couldn’t tell whether the French door to the veranda was open or closed. Perhaps Liliana had eaten, knocked back a few more little glasses of vodka, and gone to bed.
At that moment, along the main road, a car made a U-turn and its headlights briefly lit up the rear of the house.
That was enough for Montalbano to see distinctly that there was a car stopped outside the gate.
He got worried. Want to bet the unknown engine basher had come back to do more damage? And that Liliana had phoned him to ask for help, and he hadn’t been there to take the call because he was out walking on the beach?
He changed course and headed for the Lombardos’ house. When he got to the veranda he saw that the French door was closed from the inside. And so he circled very carefully around the house to the back.
The car, a green Volvo with the license plate XZ 452 BG, was parked with its nose up against the closed gate. Through the carefully closed shutters of what Montalbano knew to be the bedroom, a thin shaft of light filtered out. The window was low enough that a person’s head came up to the sill.
He went up to it and immediately heard Liliana moaning. Certainly not in pain.
Montalbano rushed away. And to work off the agitation that had suddenly come over him, he resumed his walk along the beach.
That his lovely, amiable neighbor was telling him a pack of lies had dawned on Montalbano even during his visit. And what was happening at that very moment in the signora’s bedroom was the irrefutable confirmation of this.
At this point he would have bet the house that the person who’d phoned her was not her husband but another man.
Probably the brilliant idea of vandalizing her car’s engine had come to a lover of hers whom she’d grown tired of and given his walking papers to make room for the owner of the Volvo. Or else she’d had a quarrel with the owner of the Volvo, who’d then lost his head and taken it out on her car. Then there’d been the reconciliation, of which he’d just heard part of the soundtrack. Therefore Liliana knew perfectly well not only the first and last names and addresses of the men who called her up, but also their vital statistics and distinguishing features.
At this point Montalbano concluded that the whole affair was a private matter between Liliana and her lovers and decided that there was no more reason for him to get involved.
And so, after his customary good-night phone call to Livia, with the requisite beginnings of a squabble, he went to bed.
The following morning at eight o’clock sharp, Liliana was waiting for him in the driveway. Naturally the Volvo was no longer parked in front of the gate or anywhere in the vicinity. Perhaps because it was even hotter than the day before, she was wearing a dress similar to the one she’d had on the previous night, except this one was light blue. And it had the same devastating effect.
She was fresh and well rested. And well scented.
“Everything okay?” the inspector asked. He’d managed to ask the question without insinuation.
“I slept like a baby,” Liliana said, smiling like a cat that had just eaten a can of its favorite food and was licking its chops.
Idon’tthinkbabiessleepthewayyoudo, Montalbano thought to himself.
At that exact moment a car coming the other way decided to pass a truck at high speed.
Collision would have been inevitable had Montalbano not swerved sharply to the right with a swiftness of reflex that surprised him more than anyone, taking advantage of a wide shoulder and getting quickly back onto the road. At once he felt the weight of Liliana’s body leaning against his, and a second later the woman’s inert head fell onto his legs.
She’d fainted.
Montalbano froze. He’d never been in so awkward a situation in his life.
What was he to do?
Cursing the saints, he saw a filling station just ahead with a cafébar in back.
He pulled up, laid Liliana down on the seat a little better, dashed into the bar, bought a bottle of mineral water, and returned. Sitting back down in the car, he wet his handkerchief with the water, took her in his arms, and began to daub her face with the cold water. Moments later she opened her eyes and, remembering the danger they’d been in, she cried out and held him tight, her cheek up against his.
“Come on, there’s a good girl. It’s over now.”
He could feel her trembling. When he started gently stroking her back, she held him even tighter.
Luckily there were no other cars around, or he would have felt embarrassed at what their occupants might be thinking.
“Here, drink some water.”
She obeyed. Then Montalbano drank some himself.
“You’re all sweaty,” she said. “Were you scared, too?”
“Yes.”
A big lie. He hadn’t had time to get scared. If he was sweating and thirsty it was for a reason he couldn’t reveal to her, since she
was the cause.
The inspector was also angry with himself for the simple fact that holding a beautiful woman in his arms had put him in a state of agitation worse than a teenager’s in a similar situation. As if it were the first time. So perhaps aging was a kind of regression back into youth? No, what the hell? If anything it was a progression towards imbecility.
After about ten minutes, they were fit to head off again.
“Where shall I drop you off?”
“You can leave me at the bus stop for Montelusa. I’m terribly late now.”
When it came time to say good-bye, Liliana held his hand and squeezed it.
“Listen,” she said. “You’ve been so kind to me . . . Could I invite you to dinner at my place tonight?”
Was it perhaps her night off from the guy with the Volvo? But the real question—and a crucial one at that—was: If the lady didn’t know how to cook, what sort of ghastly slop would he be forced to ingest?
Liliana seemed to read his mind.
“Don’t worry, I’m a decent cook,” she said.
“I’d be happy to come, thanks.”
“Listen, Cat,” said the inspector, going into the switchboard operator’s closet. “Get Francischino’s garage on the line and put it through to my office, would you?”
“Straightaways, Chief. Jeezis, ’ass some fancy perfume ya got on today!”
Montalbano gawked.
“Me?!”
Catarella brought his nose up to the inspector’s jacket. “Yeah, ’iss you awright.”
It must have been Liliana’s perfume.
He headed for his office, muttering curses, then picked up the ringing phone.
“Tell me something, Francischì. Did you tell Signora Lombardo that her car’s engine was intentionally damaged?”
“Yessir.”
“And do you think they made a lot of noise when damaging it that way?”
“Absolutely, Inspector! They musta made one hell of a racket! Or else how would they a done it? They even used a hammer!”
And therefore during the destruction of her car’s engine Liliana was either holed up inside her house in terror or . . . Yes, that was the more likely scenario. She could well have spent part of the night away, with the man with the Volvo, and when she returned in the morning she found the nice little present her former lover had left her . . .
“May I?” said Fazio, poking his head inside the door.
“Come in and sit down. Any news?”
Fazio sniffed the air. “What’s that scent?”
Jeez, what a pain!
“You can plug your nose if you don’t want to smell it,”
Montalbano said gruffly.
Fazio realized he should let it drop.
“Chief, you know who lives in that apartment building in Via Pisacane? Two ex-cons and Carlo Nicotra.”
Montalbano gave him a confused look.
“You mention Nicotra as if he’s the pope or something. Who is the guy?”
“Carlo Nicotra got married to a niece of old man Sinagra six years ago and apparently the family gave him the job of overseeing all the drug dealers on the island.”
“A kind of inspector general?”
“Exactly.”
All at once the inspector remembered. Why hadn’t it occurred to him sooner? Apparently, he thought bitterly, his age was starting to play nasty jokes on him.
“But isn’t he the guy who was shot three years ago?”
“He certainly is. Right in the chest. An inch and a half to the left and it would have burst his heart.”
“Wait . . . wait . . . And isn’t he the same guy whose car was blown up last year?”
“The very same.”
“So this bomb in Via Pisacane would seem to have had a precise address, wouldn’t it?”
“So it would seem.”
“But you’re not convinced.”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. Tell me why.”
“Well, first they shot Nicotra, then he was supposed to have been blown up with his car the moment he turned the key in the ignition, except that he’d sent his assistant to go and get his car, and the guy got killed in the process . . . What I mean is that Carlo Nicotra is not the kind of man they send warnings to. They just try to kill him, period.”
“I totally agree. At any rate, I’d still keep an eye on him. And who are the two ex-cons?”
Fazio thrust a hand in his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. Montalbano frowned.
“If you start reciting the names of the father and mother and the date and place of birth of these convicts, I’m going to make you eat that piece of paper.”
Fazio turned red and said nothing.
“You would have been happier working as a clerk at the records office for a living,” said the inspector.
Fazio began putting the piece of paper slowly back in his pocket. He was acting like a man dying of thirst who had just been refused a glass of water. Young Eagle Scout Salvo Montalbano decided to do his good deed for the day.
“Oh, okay, go ahead and read it.”
Fazio’s face lit up like a lightbulb. He unfolded the piece of paper and held it in front of him.
“The first one is Vincenzo Giannino, son of Giuseppe Giannino and Michela Tabita, born in Barrafranca on March 7, 1970. He’s done
a total of ten years in prison for armed robbery, breaking and entering, and assaulting a public official. The second one is Stefano Tallarita, son of Salvatore Tallarita and Giovanna Tosto, born in Vigàta on August 22, 1958. He’s currently in Montelusa Prison, serving a term for narcotics trafficking. He’d already been in once for four years, also for dealing.”
He folded up the paper and put it back in his pocket.
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of L'essayeuse
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: L'essayeuse pièce en un acte
Author: Pierre Veber
Release date: March 19, 2024 [eBook #73206]
Language: French
Original publication: Paris: Georges Ondet, 1922
Credits: Laurent Vogel (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK L'ESSAYEUSE ***
à Louis GANDERAX.
SCÈNE PREMIÈRE
RENÉ, LISE
LISE, derrière René
RENÉ, lisant, gauche, un rocking
Quoi, ma chérie ?
LISE, sautant sur lui et l’embrassant
Je t’aime !…
RENÉ, essoufflé
Ma petite Lise, tu es charmante…
LISE, heureuse
Vrai ? Tu le penses ?
RENÉ
Je le pense… mais tu n’as pas encore appris à m’embrasser sans me décoiffer.
LISE, triste
René, tu ne m’aimes plus !…
RENÉ, se levant
Allons donc ! On le saurait !…
LISE
Non ! tu ne m’aimes plus : Tu t’aperçois que je suis brusque !… Quand nous étions fiancés, j’aurais pu te dévisser la tête en t’embrassant, tu aurais été ravi. Maintenant, dès que je m’approche, tu replies le bras comme pour parer le baiser.
RENÉ
Je protège ma coiffure, voilà tout !
LISE
Tiens ! La voilà, ta coiffure ! (Elle l’ébouriffe.) Maintenant, je peux t’embrasser !… Ah ! mon grand, mon grand !
(Elle s’assied sur ses genoux.)
RENÉ, un peu moqueur
Ah ! mon petit, mon petit !…
LISE
On est bien, là !… Je voudrais ne plus bouger !…
RENÉ
J’y consens : je n’ai jamais eu une plus belle affaire sur les bras !
LISE
Vilain !… Tu plaisantes toujours, quand on est sérieux !… Tu vois que tu ne m’aimes plus !…
RENÉ
Si, je t’aime absolument, uniquement ! Je te l’ai juré sur toutes les personnes de ma famille auxquelles je tiens !…
LISE
Tu ne me tromperas jamais ?
RENÉ
Jamais. Je te l’ai juré aussi sur diverses tombes honorables et sur le succès de mes trois nouvelles sonates.
LISE
Alors, je peux être heureuse ?
RENÉ, baiser
Tu peux.
LISE (1)
Songe donc ! Ce serait terrible si tu disais tout ça, et si ce n’était pas vrai ! Les hommes sont si menteurs !
RENÉ (2)
Les hommes, oui, mais pas moi. D’ailleurs, c’est idiot de mentir, quand il est si facile de faire autrement : on n’a qu’à garder la vérité pour soi !… ou à la dire en riant.
LISE
Tu es rudement canaille, au fond !… Tu as dû en avoir, des maîtresses, avant notre mariage !…
RENÉ
Pas tant que ça !…
LISE, passant au 2
Si, si ! On m’a dit que tu avais eu une jeunesse agitée. (Le pinçant.) Bandit ! comme tu as dû me tromper, à cette époque-là !
RENÉ
Ma chère joie, tu ne vas pas être jalouse de mon passé ?… Fais comme moi : oublie-le !
LISE
La partie n’est pas égale ! Je n’ai pas de passé, moi ! Avant mon mariage, je n’ai connu qu’un homme !
RENÉ, étonné
Ah !… Qui ça ?
LISE
Mon fiancé !… Tu étais rudement gentil : on t’aurait mis sur une pendule !
RENÉ
J’ai beaucoup changé ?
(Il arrange ses cheveux.)
LISE
Non !… mais c’est autre chose : tu es un autre René ! Tu es le maître, maintenant. Le fiancé était doux, timide, obéissant. Le mari est décidé, fort !… Tu sais, au fond, j’aime mieux le mari.
(Elle lui saute au cou.)
RENÉ
Ma Lise adorée !… (Il l’embrasse). C’est curieux ; on m’aurait prédit, jadis, que je vivrais six mois, seul avec une petite personne, à la campagne, à trois lieues de la moindre gare, j’aurais souri !
LISE
Et tu ne t’es pas ennuyé, pendant ces six mois ?
RENÉ
Pas une seconde !
LISE
Tu n’as aucun regret de ta vie mondaine ?
RENÉ
Pas le moindre !… Vois ! Je n’éprouve même pas le besoin de m’habiller. Je passe ma vie en chemise de nuit et en tennis !
LISE
Et tu ne désires voir personne ?
RENÉ
Non. Les châtelains des alentours m’ont fait des avances, j’aurais pu m’enrôler dans la meilleure société ; déjà, on m’appelait « Monsieur de Tournelle », on m’anoblissait ; si j’avais donné deux chandeliers à l’église, j’étais définitivement considéré comme une personne bien pensante. J’ai préféré me retirer à l’écart, avec mon bonheur… Le mois prochain peut-être, ou le suivant, nous
rentrerons dans la vie, et nous commencerons à nous préoccuper des autres, à faire, pour leur plaire, une foule de choses ennuyeuses : à dîner en ville, à jouer au bridge, à tremper des tziganes dans une tasse de thé ; mais nous penserons que, durant six mois, nous avons habité le merveilleux pays de solitude où l’on ne cultive que la fleur d’amour.
LISE
C’est gentil ce que tu dis là…
RENÉ, gaiement
J’ai une âme de poète persan.
LISE
… Seulement, je suis bien contrariée.
RENÉ
Pourquoi ?
LISE
J’ai peur d’avoir fait une bêtise !
RENÉ
Allons donc ! Tu es capable de folies, mais tu es incapable d’une bêtise !
LISE
Si ! si !… Tu vas être fâché.
RENÉ
Non !… J’ai une chose à te pardonner ? Quel bonheur !
LISE
J’ai invité quelqu’un !
Ah diable !
RENÉ
LISE, passe près d’un canapé
Ça y est !… Tu es fâché.
RENÉ
Non, non !… Mais, s’il est encore temps de décommander ce quelqu’un ?…
LISE
Il n’est plus temps ! Elle arrive dans une demi-heure.
RENÉ
Elle ?… C’est une femme ?
LISE
Oui… mon amie Germaine Frémine… Nous nous sommes connues au cours des demoiselles Fifrelin. C’est une amie délicieuse, et d’une sûreté à toute épreuve ; nous nous écrivions tout le temps, même quand nous nous voyions tous les jours…
RENÉ
J’y suis !… C’est la divorcée ?
LISE
Elle-même !… Elle a été si malheureuse : elle avait épousé un vilain monsieur qui l’a trompée, qui l’a ensuite abandonnée pour suivre une écuyère !…
RENÉ, riant
En croupe ?
LISE
Je t’assure qu’elle a eu beaucoup de chagrin : elle aimait cet individu !… Elle vient d’obtenir le divorce ; elle m’a demandé de venir à la campagne pour se remettre. Je n’ai pas pu refuser, n’est-ce pas ?
RENÉ
En effet. Mais notre beau pays de solitude est envahi par l’ennemi ; nous serons obligés de nous surveiller, d’être convenables et bien élevés ! Et puis je suis superstitieux : je n’aime pas les personnes divorcées !…
LISE
Oh ! Germaine est une très honnête femme !
RENÉ
Je n’en doute pas ; mais, pour les amoureux, il n’y a rien de mauvais comme le voisinage d’une femme à qui l’amour n’a pas réussi.
LISE
Je suis persuadée que tu reviendras de tes préventions dès que tu la connaîtras mieux.
RENÉ
Je ne la connais pas du tout !
LISE
Mais si ! tu l’as vue, le jour de notre mariage, deux fois… d’abord, à la sacristie, lors du défilé. Je te l’ai présentée ; elle t’a dit : « Oh !
Monsieur Tournelle, vous avez écrit des mélodies exquises : je ne chante que ça ! »
RENÉ, flatté
Ah ! Je ne m’en souviens pas… mais c’est une femme de goût !
LISE
Et puis, chez nous, au lunch, elle t’a parlé ; elle t’a demandé ce que tu préparais pour cet hiver. Et tu as répondu : « Le bonheur de ma femme ! »
RENÉ
Je ne me rappelle rien de cette journée où j’ai vécu dans une sorte de brouillard : j’étais ahuri.
LISE
Souviens-toi ! Germaine était habillée d’une robe kaki, très collante, avec un jabot d’Irlande ; elle avait un amour de petit chapeau cabriolet, tout en roses pompon, et une grande canneombrelle. Tu la reconnaîtras : Germaine est très jolie, et très drôle,
avec de grands yeux noirs, un petit nez spirituel ; elle est grassouillette, et cependant elle a de la ligne… Y es-tu ?
RENÉ, passe 2
Non, mais ça ne fait rien… Dis donc, je vais m’habiller.
LISE
Oh ! ne te donne pas cette peine !…
RENÉ
Je tiens à être présentable !… Qu’on ne dise pas que tu as épousé un palefrenier ! (Sonnerie.)
LISE
Alors, dépêche-toi, je crois que la voici ! Ne te fais pas trop beau !
(René sort.)
