The Shape of Water (13 page)

“Should I come back and pick you up at the gas station?”

“No, stop at headquarters. I’ll return in a squad car.”

 
 
The police car and a private vehicle were blocking the entrances to the filling station. As soon as he stepped out of his car, with Germanà taking the road for Montelusa, the inspector was overwhelmed by the strong odor of gasoline.

“Watch where you step!” Fazio shouted to him.

The gasoline had formed a kind of bog, the fumes of which made Montalbano feel nauseated and mildly faint. Stopped in front of the station was a car with a Palermo license plate, its windshield shattered.

“One person was injured, the guy at the wheel,” said the sergeant. “He was taken away by ambulance.”

“Seriously injured?”

“No, just a scratch. But it scared him to death.”

“What happened, exactly?”

“If you want to speak to the station attendant yourself . . .”

The man answered Montalbano’s questions in a voice so high-pitched that it had the same effect on him as fingernails on glass. Things had happened more or less as follows: A car had stopped, the only person inside had asked him to fill it up, the attendant had stuck the nozzle into the car and left it there to do its work, setting it on automatic stop because meanwhile another car had pulled up and its driver had asked for thirty thousand in gas and a quick oil check. But as the attendant was about to serve the second client, a car, from the road, had fired a burst from a submachine gun and sped off, disappearing in traffic. The man at the wheel of the first car had set off immediately in pursuit, the nozzle had slipped out and continued to pump gasoline. The driver of the second vehicle was shouting like a madman; his shoulder had been grazed by a bullet. Once the initial moment of panic had passed and he realized there was no more danger, the attendant had assisted the injured man, while the pump continued to spread gasoline all over the ground.

“Did you get a good look at the face of the man in the first car, the one that drove off in pursuit?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you really sure?”

“As sure as there’s a God in heaven.”

Meanwhile the firemen summoned by Fazio arrived.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Montalbano said to the sergeant. “As soon as the firemen are done, pick up the attendant, who hasn’t convinced me one bit, and take him down to the station. Put some pressure on him: the guy knows perfectly well who the man they shot at was.”

“I think so, too.”

“How much do you want to bet it’s one of the Cuffaro gang? I think this month it’s their turn to get it.”

“What, you want to take the money right out of my pocket?” the sergeant asked, laughing. “That’s a bet you’ve already won.”

“See you later.”

“Where are you going? I thought you wanted me to give you a lift in the squad car.”

“I’m going home to change my clothes. It’s only about twenty minutes from here on foot. A little breath of air will do me good.”

He headed off. He didn’t feel like meeting Ingrid Sjostrom dressed in his Sunday best.

12

He plunked down in front of the television right out of the shower, still naked and dripping. The images were from Luparello’s funeral that morning, and the cameraman had apparently realized that the only people capable of lending a sense of drama to the ceremony—in every other way so like countless other tedious official events—were the trio of the widow, Stefano the son, and Giorgio the nephew. From time to time Signora Luparello, without realizing it, would jerk her head backwards, as if repeatedly saying no. This “no” was interpreted by the commentator, in a low, sorrowful voice, as the obvious gesture of a creature irrationally rejecting the concrete fact of death; but as the cameraman was zooming in on her to catch the expression in her gaze, Montalbano found confirmation of what the widow had already confessed to him: there was only disdain and boredom in those eyes. Beside her sat her son, “numb with grief,” according to the announcer, and he called him “numb” only because the composure the young engineer showed seemed to border on indifference. Giorgio instead teetered like a tree in the wind, livid as he swayed, continually twisting a tear-soaked handkerchief in his hands.

The telephone rang, and Montalbano went to answer it without taking his eyes off the television screen.

“Inspector, this is Germanà. Everything’s been taken care of. Counselor Rizzo expressed his thanks and said he’d find a way to repay you.”

Some of Rizzo’s ways of repaying debts—he whispered to himself—his creditors would have gladly done without.

“Then I went to see Saro and gave him the check. It took some effort to convince them—they thought it was some kind of practical joke—and then they started kissing my hands. I’ll spare you all the things they said the Lord should do for you. The car’s at headquarters. You want me to bring it to you?”

The inspector glanced at his watch; there was still a little more than an hour before his rendezvous with Ingrid.

“All right, but there’s no hurry. Let’s say nine-thirty. Then I’ll give you a ride back into town.”

 
 
He didn’t want to miss the moment when she pretended to faint. He felt like a spectator to whom the magician had revealed his secret: the pleasure would be in appreciating not the surprise but the skill. The one who missed it, however, was the cameraman, who was unable to capture that moment even though he had quickly panned from his close-up of the minister back to the group of family members, where Stefano and two volunteers were already carrying the signora out while Giorgio remained in place, still swaying.

 
 
Instead of dropping Germanà off in front of police headquarters and continuing on, Montalbano got out with him. Fazio was back from Montelusa, and he had spoken with the wounded man, who had finally calmed down. The man, the sergeant recounted, was a household-appliance salesman from Milan who every three months would catch a plane, land in Palermo, rent a car, and drive around. Having stopped at the filling station, he was looking at a piece of paper to check the address of the next store on his list of clients when he suddenly heard the shots and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Fazio believed his story.

“Chief, when this guy goes back to Milan, he’s going to join up with the people who want to separate Sicily from the rest of Italy.”

“What about the attendant?”

“The attendant’s another matter. Giallombardo’s talking to him now, and you know what he’s like: someone spends a couple of hours with him, talking like he’s known him for a hundred years, and afterward he realizes he’s told him secrets he wouldn’t even tell the priest at confession.”

 
 
The lights were off, the glass entrance door barred shut. Montalbano had chosen the Marinella Bar on the one day it was closed. He parked the car and waited. A few minutes later a two-seater arrived, red and flat as a fillet of sole. The door opened, and Ingrid emerged. Even by the dim light of a streetlamp, the inspector saw that she was even better than he had imagined her: tight jeans wrapping very long legs, white shirt open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, sandals, hair gathered in a bun. A real cover girl. Ingrid looked around, noticed the darkness inside the bar, walked lazily but surely over to the inspector’s car, then leaned forward to speak to him through the open window.

“See, I was right. So where do we go now? Your place?”

“No,” Montalbano said angrily. “Get in.”

The woman obeyed, and at once the car was filled with the scent that Montalbano already knew well.

“Where do we go now?” Ingrid repeated. She wasn’t joking anymore; utter female that she was, she had noticed the man’s agitation.

“Do you have much time?”

“As much as I want.”

“We’re going someplace where you’ll feel comfortable, since you’ve already been there. You’ll see.”

“What about my car?”

“We’ll come back for it later.”

They set off, and after a few minutes of silence Ingrid asked him a question she should have asked from the start.

“Why did you want to see me?”

The inspector was mulling over the idea that had come to him as he told her to get in the car: it was a real cop’s sort of idea, but he was, after all, a cop.

“I wanted to see you, Mrs. Cardamone, because I need to ask you some questions.”

“ ‘Mrs. Cardamone’? Listen, Inspector, I’m very familiar with everyone I meet, and if you’re too formal with me I’ll only feel uncomfortable. What’s your first name?”

“Salvo. Did Counselor Rizzo tell you we found the necklace?”

“What necklace?”

“What do you mean, what necklace? The one with the diamond-studded heart.”

“No, he didn’t tell me. Anyway, I have no dealings with him. He certainly must have told my husband.”

“Tell me something, I’m curious: are you in the habit of losing jewelry and then finding it again?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Come on, I tell you we found your necklace, which is worth about a hundred million lire, and you don’t bat an eyelash?”

Ingrid gave a subdued laugh, confined to her throat.

“The fact is, I don’t like jewelry. See?”

She showed him her hands.

“I don’t wear rings, not even a wedding band.”

“Where did you lose the necklace?”

Ingrid didn’t answer at once.

She’s reviewing her lesson,
thought Montalbano.

Then the woman began speaking, mechanically. Being a foreigner didn’t help her to lie.

“I was curious about this place called the Pastor—”

“Pasture,” Montalbano corrected.

“I’d heard so much about it. I talked my husband into taking me there. Once there I got out, walked a little, and was almost attacked. I got scared and was afraid my husband would get in a fight. We left. Back at home I realized I no longer had the necklace on.”

“How did you happen to put it on that evening, since you don’t like jewelry? It doesn’t really seem appropriate for going to the Pasture.”

Ingrid hesitated.

“I had it on because that afternoon I’d been with a friend who wanted to see it.”

“Listen,” said Montalbano, “I should preface all this by saying that even though I am, of course, talking to you as a police inspector, I’m doing so in an unofficial capacity.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is, anything you tell me will remain between you and me. How did your husband happen to choose Rizzo as his lawyer?”

“Was he not supposed to?”

“No, at least not logically. Rizzo was the right-hand man of Silvio Luparello, who was your father-in-law’s biggest political adversary. By the way, did you know Luparello?”

“I knew who he was. Rizzo’s always been Giacomo’s lawyer. And I don’t know a bloody thing about politics.”

She stretched, arching her arms behind her head.

“I’m getting bored. Too bad. I thought an encounter with a cop would be more exciting. Could you tell me where we’re going? Is there still far to go?”

“We’re almost there.”

After they passed the San Filippo bend, the woman grew nervous, looking at the inspector two or three times out of the corner of her eye. She muttered:

“Look, there aren’t any bars or cafés around here.”

“I know,” said Montalbano, and, slowing the car down, he reached for the leather purse that he had placed behind the seat Ingrid was in. “I want you to see something.”

He put it on her lap. The woman looked at it and seemed truly surprised.

“How did you get this?”

“Is it yours?”

“Of course it’s mine. It has my initials on it.”

When she saw that the two letters of the alphabet were missing, she became even more confused.

“They must have fallen off,” she said in a low voice, but she was unconvinced. She was losing her way in a labyrinth of questions without answer, and clearly something was beginning to trouble her now.

“Your initials are still there, you just can’t see them because it’s dark. Somebody tore them off, but their imprints are there in the leather.”

“But who tore them off? And why?”

Now a note of anxiety sounded in her voice. The inspector didn’t answer. He knew perfectly well why they had done it: to make it look as if Ingrid had wanted to make the purse anonymous. When they came to the little dirt road that led to Capo Massaria, Montalbano, who had accelerated as if intending to go straight, suddenly cut the wheel violently, turning onto the path. All at once, without a word, Ingrid threw open the car door, nimbly exited the moving vehicle, and started fleeing through the trees. Cursing, the inspector braked, jumped out, and gave chase. After a few seconds he realized he would never catch her and stopped, undecided. At that exact moment he saw her fall. When he was beside her, Ingrid, who had been unable to get back up, interrupted her Swedish monologue, incomprehensible but clearly expressing fear and rage.

“Fuck off!” she said, and continued massaging her ankle.

“Get up, and no more bullshit.”

With effort, she obeyed and leaned against Montalbano, who remained motionless, not helping her.

 
 
The gate opened easily; it was the front door that put up resistance.

“Let me do it,” said Ingrid. She had followed him without making a move, as though resigned. But she had been preparing her plan of defense.

“You won’t find anything inside, you know,” she said in the doorway, her tone defiant.

She turned on the light, confident, but when she looked inside and saw the videocassettes and the perfectly furnished room, she reacted with visible surprise, a wrinkle creasing her brow.

“They told me . . .”

She checked herself at once and fell silent, shrugging her shoulders. She eyed Montalbano, awaiting his next move.