Like the Mona Lisa, the inspector thought, by this point thinking in terms of painterly comparisons.
The camera remained stationary, as though spellbound by the image it was recording. On the sheet and pillows, the unknown woman was perfectly at ease, relaxed and in her element. A creature of the bed.
“Is she the one you thought of when reading the letters?”
“Yes,” said Augello.
Can a monosyllable contain all the pride in the world? Mimi had managed to fit it all in there.
“But how did you do it? It seems like you’ve only seen her a few times in passing. And always with her clothes on.”
“You see, in the letters, he paints her. Actually, no. It’s not a portrait. It’s more like an engraving.”
Why, when people spoke of her, did this woman bring to mind the language of art?
“For example,” Mimi continued, “he talks about the disproportion between the length of her legs and the length of her torso, which, if you look closely, should probably be a little longer. Then he describes her hair, the shape of her eyes—”
“I get the picture,” Montalbano cut him short, feeling envious. No doubt about it, Mimi had an eye for women.
Meanwhile the camera had zoomed in on her feet, then ever so slowly ascended the length of her body, lingering momentarily over the pubis, navel, and nipples, before pausing at her eyes.
How was it that the woman’s pupils shone with an inner light so intense as to surround her gaze in an aura of hypnotic phosphorescence? What was she, some sort of dangerous nocturnal animal? He looked more closely and reassured himself. Those were not the eyes of a witch. The pupils were merely reflecting the light of the floods used by Nenè Sanfilippo to better illuminate the set. The camera moved on to her mouth.The lips, two flames filling the screen, moved and parted; the catlike tip of the tongue peeped out, traced the contour of the upper lip, then the lower lip. Nothing vulgar about it, but the two men watching were dumbstruck by the violent sensuality of the gesture.
“Rewind and turn the volume up all the way,” Montalbano said suddenly.
“Why?”
“She said something, I’m sure of it.”
Mimi obeyed. The moment the shot of the mouth reappeared, a man’s voice murmured something incomprehensible.
“Yes,” the woman replied distinctly, then began running her tongue over her lips.
So there was sound. Not much, but it was there. Augello left it on high volume.
The camera then went down her neck, passing lightly over it like a loving hand, from left to right and right to left again, and again, an ecstatic caress. In fact they heard a soft moan, from the woman.
“That’s the sea,” said Montalbano.
Mimi looked at him perplexed, struggling to take his eyes off the screen.
“What is?”
“That continuous, rythmic sound that you hear. It’s not some sort of rustling in the background. It’s the sound the sea makes when it’s a little rough.The house they’re in must be right on the seashore, like mine.”
This time Mimi’s look was one of admiration.
“What a sharp ear you’ve got, Salvo! If that’s the sea we hear, then I know where they shot this video.”
The inspector leaned forward, grabbed the remote control, and rewound the tape.
“What are you doing?” Augello protested. “Aren’t we going to keep watching? I told you I only saw parts of it!”
“You can watch the whole thing when you’ve been a good boy. In the meantime, could you give me a synopsis of what you did manage to see?”
“Well, it continues with the breasts, navel, tummy, mound of Venus, thighs, legs, feet. Then she rolls over and he redoes her whole body from behind. Finally she turns over on her back again, lies down more comfortably, puts a pillow under her buttocks and spreads her legs just enough so the camera can—”
“Okay, okay,” Montalbano interrupted. “So nothing else happens? Do we never see the man?”
“No. And nothing else happens. That’s why I said it wasn’t pornographic.”
“It’s not?”
“No. That sequence is a love poem.”
Mimi was right, and Montalbano made no reply.
“Care to introduce me to this lady?” he asked.
“With great pleasure. Her name is Vanya Titulescu, thirty-one years old, Romanian.”
“A refugee?”
“Not at all. Her father was minister of health in Romania. She herself has a degree in medicine, but she doesn’t practice here. Her future husband, already a celebrity in his field, was invited to Bucharest to give a series of lectures. They fell in love, or at least, he fell in love with her, brought her back to Italy, and married her. Even though he’s twenty years her senior. But the girl jumped at the opportunity.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Five years.”
“Are you going to tell me who the husband is? Or do you plan to tell the story in installments?”
“Doctor and Professor Eugenio Ignazio Ingrò, the transplant magician.”
A famous name. He was often in the papers, made television appearances. Montalbano tried to call him to mind, saw a hazy image of a tall, elegant man of few words. He really was considered a surgeon with magic hands, in demand all over Europe. He also had a clinic of his own in Montelusa, where he’d been born and still lived.
“Do they have any children?”
“No.”
“Excuse me, Mimi, but did you gather all this information this morning after watching the tape?”
Mimi smiled.
“No, I informed myself after I became convinced she was the woman in the letters. The tape was only a confirmation.”
“What else do you know?”
“That around here, in our area—more specifically, between Vigàta and Santoli—they have a villa by the sea, with a small, private beach. And I’m sure that’s where they shot the video. They must have taken advantage when the husband was traveling abroad.”
“Is he jealous?”
“Yes, but not excessively so. But that’s probably also because her infidelity didn’t spark any rumors, not that I know of, at least. She and Sanfilippo were very good at not letting anything about their affair leak out.”
“Let me ask you a more specific question, Mimì. Is Dr. Ingrò the kind of person who would be capable of killing his wife’s lover, or having him killed, if he discovered she was being unfaithful?”
“Why do you ask me? That’s the kind of question you should ask Ingrid, who’s her friend. Speaking of which, when are you going to see her?”
“We’d planned to meet tonight, but I had to postpone.”
“Ah, that’s right, you mentioned something important, something we’re supposed to do at nightfall. What’s this about?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. The cassette you should leave here, with me.”
“You want to show it to Ingrid?”
“Of course. So, to wrap things up temporarily, what’s your take on the murder of Nenè Sanfilippo?”
“What do you think, Salvo? They don’t come any clearer than this. Dr. Ingrò, somehow or other, gets wise to their affair, and has the kid offed.”
“Why not her, too?”
“Because that would have triggered a huge scandal of international proportions. And he can’t have any shadows hanging over his private life, since that might diminish his earnings.”
“But isn’t he rich?”
“Extremely rich. At least, he would be if he didn’t have an obsession that’s siphoning off rivers of cash.”