Montalbano had never seen Ingrid so upset, never, not even the time she was framed to look like, or almost like, the chief suspect in a crime.
“‘Do you know her?”
“Of course.”
“Are you friends?”
“Pretty good friends.”
Montalbano turned off the video.
“How did you get that tape?”
“Could we go talk in the other room? Some of the pain has come back.”
He got into bed. Ingrid sat down on the edge.
“I’m uncomfortable like this,” the inspector complained.
Ingrid got up, pulled him up, and put the pillow behind his back so he could remain half-sitting. Montalbano was starting to enjoy having a nurse.
“How did you get that cassette?” Ingrid asked again.
“My second-in-command found it at Nenè Sanfilippo’s place.”
“And who’s he?”
“You don’t know? He’s that twenty-year-old who was murdered a few days ago.”
“Right, I heard some mention of that. But why did he have that tape?”
Ingrid was being utterly sincere. She seemed truly amazed by the whole business.
“Because he was her lover.”
“What? A kid like that?”
“Yes. She never talked about it with you?”
“Never. At least, she never mentioned his name. Vanya is very reserved.”
“How did the two of you meet?”
“Well, in Montelusa the only comfortably married foreign women are me, two English ladies, an American, two Germans, and Vanya, who is Romanian. We’ve formed a kind of club, just for fun. Do you know who Vanya’s husband is?”
“Yes, Dr. Ingrò, the transplant surgeon.”
“Well, from what I can gather, he’s not a very nice man. For a while, though she’s at least twenty years younger, Vanya was happy living with him. Then love faded, for him too. They began to see less and less of each other, and he was often traveling the world.”
“Did she have lovers?”
“Not that I know of. She remained very faithful, in spite of everything.”
“What do you mean, in spite of everything?”
“Well, they stopped sleeping with each other. And Vanya’s a woman who—”
“I get the picture.”
“Then, suddenly, about three months ago, she changed. She became sort of more cheerful and sadder at the same time. I realized she was in love. So I asked her, and she said yes. As far as I could tell, it was a great physical passion, mostly.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who? Your friend, Vanya.”
“But she left about two weeks ago!”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Of course. She’s in a village near Bucharest. I have her address and phone number. She wrote me a couple of lines. She says she had to go back to Romania because her father got sick after falling into disfavor and losing his ministerial post.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No.”
“Do you know Dr. Ingrò very well?”
“I’ve probably met him three times at the most. Once was when he came to my house. He’s very elegant, but unpleasant. Apparently he owns an extraordinary collection of paintings. Vanya says it’s a kind of illness, his collection mania. He’s spent an incredible amount of money on it.”
“Listen, I want you to think before answering: would he be capable of killing or having somebody kill Vanya’s lover, if he ever discovered her infidelity?”
Ingrid laughed.
“You must be kidding! He didn’t give a shit about Vanya anymore!”
“But don’t you think her husband might have made her leave Vigata to separate her from her lover?”
“Yes, that’s possible. But if he did it, it was only to avoid nasty rumors and gossip. He’s not the type of man to take things any further.”
They looked at each other in silence. There was nothing else to say. Something then occurred to Montalbano.
“If you don’t have your car, how are you going to get home?”
“Call a cab?”
“At this hour?”
“Then I’ll sleep here.”
Montalbano felt the sweat begin to bead on his forehead.
“What about your husband?”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“Look, tell you what. Just take my car and go.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll have somebody come pick me up tomorrow morning.”
Ingrid stared at him in silence.
“Do you think of me as a bitch in heat?” she asked, dead serious, with a kind of sadness in her eyes.
The inspector felt embarrassed.
“I’m happy for you to stay,” he said sincerely.
As if she’d always lived in that house, Ingrid opened a drawer in his dresser and took out a shirt.
“Okay if I wear this?”
In the middle of the night, Montalbano, drowsy with sleep, realized there was a woman’s body lying next to his. It could only be Livia. He reached out and put his hand on a smooth, solid buttock. All at once an electric shock ran through him. Christ, it wasn’t Livia. He pulled his hand abruptly away.
“Put it back,” Ingrid said in a thick voice.
“It’s six-thirty. Coffee’s ready,” said Ingrid, touching him delicately on his damaged shoulder.
The inspector opened his eyes. Ingrid had only his shirt on.
“Sorry to wake you up so early. But you yourself said, before falling asleep, that you had to be at your office by eight.”
He got up. He felt less pain, but the tight bandaging made it hard to move. Ingrid removed it for him.
“I’ll wrap you up again after you wash.”
They drank their coffee. Montalbano had to use his left hand, as the right was still numb. How would he manage to wash himself? Ingrid seemed to read his mind.
“Leave it to me,” she said.
In the bathroom, she helped the inspector out of his briefs. She took off the shirt she was wearing. Montalbano carefully avoided looking at her. Ingrid, on the other hand, acted as if they’d been married ten years.
In the shower, she lathered him up. Montalbano had no reaction. He felt, to his delight, like he was a little boy again, when loving hands used to perform the same task on his body.
“I see apparent signs of awakening,” said Ingrid, laughing.
Montalbano looked down and blushed violently. The signs were more than apparent.
“Forgive me. I’m mortified.”
“About what?” Ingrid asked. “For being a man?”
“Turn on the cold water, it’s for the best,” said the inspector.
Then came the torment of being dried off. When he put on his briefs, he sighed in satisfaction, as if to signal that the danger was past. Before wrapping him back up, Ingrid got dressed. That way everything, for the inspector, could proceed more calmly. Before going out, they drank another cup of coffee. Ingrid climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Now, I want you to drop me off at the station, and you can continue on to Montelusa in my car,” said Montalbano.
“No,” said Ingrid. “I’ll drive you to the station and take a taxi from there. It’s easier than having to bring the car back to you later.”
For half of the drive they sat in silence. One thought kept stewing in the inspector’s brain, however, and at a certain point he mustered up the courage and asked:
What happened between us last night?“
Ingrid laughed.
“Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
“Is it important for you to remember?”
“I’d say so.”
“All right. You know what happened? Nothing, if that’s what your scruples want.”
“And what if I didn’t have any scruples?”
“Then everything happened. Whatever works best for you.
There was silence.
“Do you think that our relationship has changed since last night?” Ingrid asked.
“Absolutely not,” the inspector replied frankly.
“Then why all the questions?”
Her reasoning made sense. And Montalbano asked no more questions. As she pulled up in front of the station, she asked: