Treasure Hunt (7 page)

When the inspector was a little boy his uncle used to take him sometimes to the house of a friend who had some land in that area, and he remembered that on the right-hand side of that street, at the time a dirt road, it was all a dense grove of majestic Saracen olive trees, and on the left, an expanse of vineyards as far as the eye could see.

And now only cement. He started insulting them all in his mind, architects, engineers, surveyors, contractors, and masons, with a rage so irrational that he could feel the blood thumping in his temples.

“But why do I let it get to me so much?” he asked himself.

True, the destruction of nature, the death of good taste, the prevalence of ugliness were not only harmful, they were offensive, too. But it was clear that a good part of his rage was simply due to the fact that at a certain age you become intolerant and don’t let a single thing slide. Further proof that he was getting old.

The road continued up the hill, but now on either side of the road there were small homes without pretension, luckily, with little gardens in back where chickens and dogs circulated freely. Then, all at once, the little houses disappeared and the road continued between two dry-walls and then, about a hundred yards ahead, suddenly ended.

Montalbano stopped and got out.

It wasn’t true, actually, that the road ended; it was only the asphalt that did, because from that point forward the road turned into the dirt track of old, all the way down into the valley. He’d reached the very top of the hill and stood there a few moments, enjoying the panorama.

Behind him the sea, before him the distant town of Gallotta, perched atop a hill, to the right the ridge of Monserrato, which divided the territory of Vigàta from that of Montelusa. Not many patches of green. Nowadays hardly anyone worked the land anymore, a waste of effort and money.

And what now? Where was he supposed to go? In the spot where he found himself, at the top of the hill, not only were there no houses, but there wasn’t a living soul about.

travel the whole road and you’ll see

a place quite familiar to you

So said the poem, whose directions he had followed. He’d traveled the whole road, but there wasn’t anything familiar to him. Was this some kind of joke?

About ten yards from the road stood a wooden shack, about ten feet by ten, in bad shape, and it certainly wasn’t familiar to him. At any rate it was the only place where he might ask for information.

It wasn’t really a proper lane that led to the shed, but rather a dirt path barely showing any sign of the passage of man. To see it you had to study the ground very carefully, indicating that it wasn’t trod on very often.

Montalbano took the path to the closed front door. He knocked, but no one answered. Pressing his ear to the wood, between planks, he heard nothing at all. By this point it was clear the shack was uninhabited.

So what to do now? Should he force open the door or turn back and admit defeat?

“Let’s go for broke,” he said.

He went back to the car, took out a monkey wrench, and returned to the hut. Since the door wasn’t flush with the jamb, he stuck the wrench in the gap and used it as a lever. The wood was very damp and broke on the third try. Two kicks were enough, and the lock fell to the floor on the inside. Montalbano opened the door and went in.

There was no furniture, not even a chair or stool. Nothing.

But the inspector remained paralyzed, mouth open, throat suddenly dry, and broke into a cold sweat.

Because there wasn’t an inch of wall space that wasn’t covered with photographs of him. So that was why the poem said the place would be familiar to him.

Finally managing to move, he went up to the wall in front of him to have a better look at them. They weren’t exactly photographs, but computer printouts of the images that TeleVigàta had broadcast.

Him talking to Fazio, him starting his climb up the firemen’s ladder, him coming down after Gregorio Palmisano had shot his gun, him climbing back up, stopping halfway, resuming his climb, and leaping over the balustrade . . . On every wall in the hut the same images were repeated. But a white envelope stood out in the middle of the central wall, attached with a piece of adhesive tape. He tore it off angrily, so that five or six of the photographs fell to the floor. He grabbed one at random, stuck it in his jacket pocket together with the envelope, and left.

“Wha’ssa story, Chief? You back? You tol’ me y’wasn’t comin’ back,” said Catarella, half surprised, half pleased.

“Are you sorry I am?”

Montalbano had changed his mind in the car. Catarella nearly had a heart attack.

“Whatcha sayin’, Chief? If y’ask me, whinniver y’appear ’ere poissonally in poisson, I almos’ feel like gittin’ down on my knees!”

For a split second Montalbano had a horrendous vision of himself clad in a light-blue cloak like Our Lady of Fatima.

“I need you to explain something for me.”

Catarella staggered for a second, as if he’d just been clubbed in the head. Too many emotions in too few seconds.

“Me . . . asplain t’yiz? Asplain? You kiddin’ me?”

The inspector pulled out of his pocket the photograph from the hut and shoved it under Catarella’s nose. It showed him putting his foot down on the firemen’s ladder with what wasn’t exactly an air of nonchalance.

“What is this?” he asked.

Catarella gave him a confused look.

“’Ass you, Chief! Dontcha rec’nize yisself?”

“I didn’t ask you
who
that is, but
what
!” said Montalbano, pinching the sheet of paper between his thumb and index finger.

“Iss paper,” Catarella replied.

Montalbano cursed, but only in his mind. He didn’t want to make Catarella upset, but just get him to explain a few things about
“pewters.”

“Is that a photograph or not?”

Catarella took it out of his hands.

“If I mays,” he said.

He studied it for a few moments, then gave his sentence.

“’Iss is a photaraff ’ass not rilly a photaraff.”

“Good, good! Go on.”

“’Iss pitcher wadn’t took wit’ a camera, but transferrated from a VHS to a pewter ann’ ’enn prinnit.”

“Splendid! And how did it get onto the VHS?”

“’Ey musta riccorded the pogram on TeleVigàta.”

“And how did they make the photographs?”

“By ’ookin’ up a viddeo riccorder to a priph’ral of a pewter, a priph’ral ’ass called a viddeo ’quisition.”

The inspector didn’t understand a goddamn thing about the last part, but he’d found out what he’d wanted to know.

“Cat, you’re a god!”

Catarella suddenly turned bright red, opened his arms, spreading his fingers, and did a half-pirouette. Whenever Montalbano praised him, he got so puffed up he became like a peacock spreading its tail.

As soon as he got back home, he remembered that there was nothing to eat, and he felt a little hungry. It would have been a mistake to skip supper because, later in the night, that little bit of hunger would turn into out-and-out ravenousness. He pulled the letter out of his pocket, still unopened, along with the photograph, set them both down on the table, went to splash a little water on his face, and then remained undecided about what to do about dinner, since he didn’t feel like going back to Enzo’s after having been there for lunch.

The telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“How long has it been since we last saw each other?” said a beautiful female voice that he recognized immediately.

“Since the days of Rachele,” he replied. “Have any news of her?”

“Yes, she’s doing well. I was just admiring your brave deeds on TV the other day and I felt like seeing you again.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Are you free this evening?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then, I’ll come by in half an hour. In the meantime try to think of a nice place to take me out to dinner.”

He was pleased to hear from Ingrid, his Swedish friend, confidante, and sometimes accomplice.

To make that half hour go by, he thought he would read the new instructions for the treasure hunt. He picked up the envelope but then put it back down almost immediately. There might be something in it that would upset him. Reading it before going out to eat was therefore out of the question, since there was the risk it might make him lose his appetite.

All at once he remembered what had happened with Adelina, and he went and opened the closet to check on the dolls. They were gone.

Apparently Pasquale had put them somewhere else. But where? They weren’t in the kitchen. He opened the armoire, but they weren’t there either. Want to bet he took them home with him? Perhaps the best thing was to give him a ring, so he could also get an update on Adelina.

Pasquale’s wife answered the phone and told him her husband had gone out and would be back in about an hour.

“Should I have him call you?”

“No, thank you. I’m going out now and won’t be back till late.”

“Should I tell him anything?”

“Well, yes.”

He had to say it in a roundabout way so that she wouldn’t understand what he was talking about . . .

“Tell him I urgently need those things we were talking about, and to call me tomorrow morning.”

Then he went and sat on the veranda to smoke a cigarette.

When he saw Ingrid in the doorway, he did a double take.

How was it that the years didn’t pass for that woman? The gears of time had jammed for her. In fact, she looked even younger to him than the last time he’d seen her, and more than a year had gone by. She was dressed the same way as usual, jeans, blouse, and sandals. And she was as elegant as if she were wearing a designer dress.

They hugged warmly. Ingrid didn’t use perfume, she didn’t need to, because her skin smelled like just-picked apricots.

“Want to come in?”

“Not now, maybe later. Have you decided where to go?”

“Yes, there’s a restaurant on the shore, at Montereale, where—”

“The one with the antipasti? I know it. Let’s take my car.”

He couldn’t figure out what make Ingrid’s car was, but it was the sort of model she really liked. A two-seater, and flat as a filet of sole.

Four-wheeled, very fast sole. With another woman at the wheel, he might not have been so ready to climb aboard that sort of missile, but he trusted her driving. In fact, when she still lived in Sweden, Ingrid had been a race-car mechanic.

It took her twenty minutes to get to the restaurant, a distance that would have taken Montalbano a good forty-five. When she drove, Ingrid preferred not to talk. But every so often she turned to look at Montalbano, smiling and lightly stroking his leg.

They sat down at the table closest to the sea, about twenty yards from the beach. The restaurant was famous for the quantity and quality of its antipasti, to the point that almost all its customers skipped the first course. Which was what they decided to do, too. They also ordered a bottle of chilled white wine.

As they were waiting for the first antipasti, they used the time to chat a little. Ingrid knew that once he had a plate in front of him, Montalbano only liked to open his mouth to eat.

“How’s your husband doing?”

“I never see the guy! Ever since he got elected, he barely comes to Montelusa once every couple of months.”

“Don’t you ever go to Rome to see him?”

“Whatever for?”

“Well, you
are
still husband and wife. . . .”

“Come on, Salvo, you know very well that it’s only a formality. And, anyway, I like things this way.”

“Any new loves?”

“Is this an official interrogation?”

“Of course not, it’s just to make conversation.”

“All right, just to make conversation, the answer is no.”

“So, no men for the past year?”

“Are you kidding? I guess that, like a good Catholic, you think a woman should only sleep with a man she’s in love with?”

“If I was so Catholic as you say, I would reply that a woman should only sleep with the man she’s married to.”

“Good God, how boring!”

The waiter arrived carrying the first six dishes delicately balanced in his arms.

After twelve different copious appetizers and two bottles of wine, while waiting for the main course, a mixed grill of fish, they resumed their conversation.

“And what about you?” Ingrid asked.

“Me what?”

“Still faithful to Livia, with an occasional exception?”

“Yes.”

“You mean yes to fidelity or yes to the exceptions?”

“Fidelity.”

“You mean that after Rachele—”

“Nothing.”

“Not even a little temptation?”

“As for temptations, I have those all the time.”

“Really? So how do you resist? Do you just say a little prayer and the devil runs away?”

“Come on, don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you. On the contrary. I admire you. Sincerely.”

“You used to ask fewer questions.”

“I guess I’m just becoming more and more Italian and nosey about others. Tell me, does it take a lot out of you?”

“Does what take a lot out of me?”

“Resisting temptation.”

“Sometimes, yes. But lately less and less. It must be my age.”

Ingrid looked at him and then started laughing with gusto.

“What’s so funny?”

“This business about age. You’re totally wrong, you know. Age has very little to do with these things. I can tell you from personal experience. There are thirty-year-olds who seem like they’re seventy, in this respect, and vice versa.”

The grilled fish arrived, along with another bottle. When they were done, Montalbano asked her if she wanted a whisky.

“Yes, I do. But at your place.”

As soon as Ingrid turned up the driveway to his house, she asked:

“Were you expecting someone?”

“No.”

He too had noticed the strange car parked outside the front door.

When they pulled up beside it, out of the other car emerged a girl of about twenty, nearly six feet tall and gorgeous, blond, wearing a miniskirt up to her pubis and a little too much makeup. They got out of their car too.

“Montalbano?”

“Yes?”

“I ring doorbell but nobody answer. So I think you out but come back later.”

Montalbano was flummoxed. Who was this? What did she want?

“Listen . . .”

“Nobody tell me you want with three people. I can do, but only with you. I don’t like with other woman. But she can watch.”

“Well, if that’s the problem . . .” said Ingrid, rather angrily, “I’ll leave right now. Bye, Salvo, have fun.”

She made as if to get back into her car, but didn’t, because Montalbano grabbed her arm as he turned towards the girl.

“Listen, signorina, this must be some kind of mistake, I never—”

“I understand. You pick her up and like her. No problem. I go.”

Montalbano let go of Ingrid’s arm, went up to the girl and said in a low voice:

“I’ll pay you anyway. How much do I owe?”

“All paid. Ciao.”

She got in the car and left, driving back up the driveway in reverse.

Montalbano, still half confused, opened the front door, and Ingrid followed him inside, not saying a word. When he opened the French door to the veranda, she went outside and sat down, still silent. He got a bottle of whisky and two glasses and then sat down beside her on the bench.

Ingrid grabbed the brand-new bottle and poured herself half a glass without offering any to Montalbano.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” the inspector began, pouring himself some whisky. “After all, between us, there’s—”

“Between us, my ass!”

Montalbano decided it was perhaps better to drink in silence. After a brief spell, she was the first to speak.

“Don’t think I’m jealous or anything. I don’t give a fuck about your women.”

“So then why are you making that face?”

“Because I’m profoundly disappointed.”

“About what?”

“Disappointed in you. I had no idea you could be such a hypocrite.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What is this? At the restaurant you tell me there’d been no exceptions since Rachele and when we come back here there’s a whore waiting for you. So I guess, for you, going with a whore doesn’t constitute an exception, because you don’t even consider a prostitute to be a real woman.”

“Ingrid, you are totally on the wrong track! There was a misunderstanding. I can explain everything.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, and at any rate, I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to the bathroom.”

Man, what a mess that fucking idiot Pasquale had created! In his rage Montalbano downed a whole glass of whisky. He heard Ingrid come out of the bathroom and then, moments later, he heard her cry out.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

She didn’t come back right away. Then she returned barefoot, holding her sandals in her hand. But she was different. Her eyes were now sparkling and she was wearing a mischievous, mocking smile.

“Way to go, Salvo!” she said, sitting back down beside him.

“Listen, I’d like to explain . . .”

“I repeat, I don’t care what your explanation is. I’ve known many men, but never one as hypocritical as you!”

Enough about hypocrisy! But this time, when she spoke, it was clear she was about to start laughing. What was going through her head?

“At the restaurant,” she resumed, “you told me it was your age that allowed you to resist temptation. But now I see you’ve found another way. You’re such a liar, Salvo!”

She refilled her glass.

“Of course, we women have vibrators. But it’s not the same thing.”

What on earth was she talking about?

“But why two?” she continued. “And on top of that, they’re both blond. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to get one blonde and one brunette?”

At last there was light.

“Where did you find them?”

“Under your bed. I bent down to untie my sandals and . . .”

But he was no longer listening. He stood up, climbed over her, and ran to the bedroom. The two inflatable dolls were right under the bed. That asshole Pasquale had had the bright idea to hide them there. Montalbano returned to the veranda.

“All right, now you can keep guzzling that bottle while I tell you the whole story. But I want you to listen.”

He told her everything, and at certain moments Ingrid was literally doubled over, her stomach hurting from laughing so hard.

When it was time to go at three in the morning, after all the whisky in the house had been drunk, Ingrid slapped herself on the forehead.

“I was about to forget! There’s a friend of mine who’d like to meet you.”

“An ex?”

“No, come on. He’s a twenty-year-old kid, very bright. He’s madly in love with me, but he admires you even more. It would make me very happy if you talked to him. His name is Arturo Pennisi.”

“Tell him to give me a ring tomorrow, around noon, at the office. And to mention your name. Think you can manage to drive?”