“Right. Which tells us that there was a connection between Sanfilippo and the Griffos. But we have to stop there. Maybe Sanfilippo did pick them up in his car on the drive back, at the last stop before Vigàta.”
“Don’t forget that Beba said it was Alfonso Griffo himself who asked the driver to make that extra stop. Which means they must have planned it together beforehand.”
“Right again. But this does not allow us to conclude that Sanfilippo killed the Griffos himself, or that he in turn was shot as a consequence of the Griffos’ murders. The infidelity hypothesis still holds.”
“When are you going to see Ingrid?”
“Tomorrow evening. But you, tomorrow morning, try to gather some information on Eugenio Ignazio Ingrò, the transplant doctor. I’m not interested in what the papers have to say, but in the other stuff, the whispers.”
“I’ve got somebody, a friend in Montelusa, who knows him pretty well. I’ll find some excuse to pay him a visit.”
“But, Mimi, I’m warning you: kid gloves. It should be the furthest thing from everyone’s mind that we might be interested in the doctor and his cherished consort, Vanya Titulescu.”
Mimì; offended, pulled a frown.
“Do you take me for some kind of idiot?”
The moment he opened the refrigerator, he saw it.
Caponata! Fragrant, colorful, abundant, it filled an entire soup dish, enough for at least four people. It had been months since Adelina, his housekeeper, last made it for him. The bread, in its plastic bag, was fresh, bought that morning. The notes of the triumphal march of Aïda came spontaneously, naturally, to his lips. Humming, he opened the French window after turning on the light on the veranda. Yes, it was a cool night, but still warm enough to eat outside. He set the little table, brought the dish, the wine, and the bread outside, and sat down. The telephone rang. He covered the dish with a paper napkin and went to answer.
“Hello? Inspector Montalbano? This is Orazio Guttadauro.”
He’d been expecting this phone call. He’d have bet his ass on it.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“First of all, please accept my apologies for being forced to call you at this hour.”
“Forced? By whom?”
“By circumstances, Inspector.”
Clever, this lawyer.
“What circumstances are you referring to?”
“My client and friend is worried.”
Was he afraid to mention Balduccio Sinagra’s name over the phone, now that a fresh corpse had been added to the mix?
“Oh, is he? And why’s that?”
“Well ... he hasn’t heard from his grandson since yesterday.”
Since yesterday? Balduccio Sinagra was starting to cover himself.
“What grandson? The exile?”
“Exile?” the lawyer repeated, genuinely puzzled.
“No need to be so formal, Counsel. Nowadays ‘exile’ and ’fugitive’ mean pretty much the same thing. Or so they would have us believe.”
“Yes, of course,” said the lawyer, still dazed.
“But how could he hear from his grandson if he was on the run?”
One roguish turn deserved another.
“Er ... well, you know how it is, mutual friends, people passing through ...”
“I see. And what has this got to do with me?”
“Nothing,” Guttadauro was quick to affirm. And he repeated, clearly pronouncing the words: “None of this has anything to do with you.”
Message received. Balduccio Sinagra was letting him know that he had taken the advice relayed to him by Father Crucillà. Of Japichinu’s murder there would be no mention. Japichinu could just as easily have not been born, if not for the people he’d killed.
“Why, Mr. Guttadauro, do you feel the need to communicate your friend and client’s worry to me?”
“Oh, it was just to let you know that, despite this agonizing worry, my friend and client has been thinking of you.”
“Of me?” said Montalbano, on his guard.
“Yes. He asked me to send you an envelope. He says there’s something inside that may interest you.”
“Listen, Mr. Guttadauro. I’m going to bed. I’ve had a rough day.”
“I entirely understand.”
The goddamn lawyer was being ironic.
“You can bring me the envelope tomorrow, at the station. Good night.”
He hung up, went back out on the veranda, then reconsidered. Returning inside, he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Livia, darling, how are you?”
There was silence at the other end.
“Livia?”
“My God, Salvo, what’s happening? Why are you calling me?”
“Why shouldn’t I call you?”
“Because you only call when something’s bothering you.”
“Oh, come on!”
“No, really, it’s true. When you’re not feeling bothered, I’m always the first to call.”
“Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“That I’ve been thinking a lot about our relationship.”
Livia—Montalbano distinctly heard it—held her breath. She didn’t speak. Montalbano continued.
“I realized that we’re often bickering, too often. Like a couple who’ve been married for years and are feeling the strain of living together. But the good part is, we don’t live together.”
“Go on,” said Livia in a faint voice.
“So, I said to myself: why don’t we start all over again, from the beginning?”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Livia, what would you say if we got engaged?”
“Aren’t we already?”
“No. We’re married.”
“Okay. So how do we begin?”
“Like this: Livia, I love you. And you?”
“Me too. Good night, my love.”
“Good night.”
He hung up. Now he could stuff himself with the caponata without fearing any more phone calls.
14
He woke up at seven, after a night of dreamless sleep so leaden he had the impression, upon opening his eyes, that he was still in the same position as when he first lay down. It was certainly not the most glorious of mornings—scattered clouds giving the impression of sheep about to gather into flocks—but one could clearly see that it did not promise any major bouts of ill humor. He slipped on a pair of shabby old trousers, stepped down from the veranda, and, barefoot, went for a walk along the beach. The cool air cleansed his skin, lungs, and thoughts. Back inside, he shaved and went into the shower.
In the course of every investigation that came his way, there was always one day—actually, a specific moment on a certain day—when an inexplicable sense of physical well-being, a happy lightness in the interaction of his thoughts, a harmonious conjunction of his muscles, made him feel as if he could endlessly walk along a road, eyes closed, without once stumbling or running into anything or anyone. As happens, sometimes, in the land of dream. It didn’t last very long, but it was enough. By now he knew from experience that from this point on—it was like the buoy at the bend in the sea-lane, the sign of the approaching turn—every piece of the puzzle, the investigation, in other words, would fall into place, all by itself, without any effort. It was almost enough just to will it so. And this was what was going through his head in the shower, even though many things, indeed most everything, still remained obscure.
It was quarter past eight when he pulled the car up in front of the station, slowing down to park, then reconsidered and drove on to Via Cavour.The concierge gave him a dirty look and didn’t even say hello: she’d just finished washing the floor at the entrance, and now the inspector’s shoes were going to muck it all up again. Davide Griffo looked less pale. He’d recovered a little. He didn’t seem surprised to see Montalbano and immediately offered him a cup of coffee, which he’d just made.