The Age of Doubt (9 page)

“You could have met him anywhere, Chief, but I’m sure it wasn’t here.”

“Ahh Chief Chief! Jesus Christ, Chief! Jesus Christ and Mary and Joseph, Chief! I can’t hardly breathe, Chief!”

Catarella had knocked in his usual way, practically breaking down the door, and now he was acting like he’d been bitten by a tarantula.

“Calm down! What’s going on?”

“Iss Liutinnint Sferlazza!”

“On the phone?”

“Nah, Chief, ’e’s ’ere, poissonally in poisson!”

“What’s he want?”

“To talk t’yiz. But be careful, Chief, eyes open at all times!”

“Why?”

“’Cause ’e ain’t wearin’ a uniform, ’e’s in civvies!”

“And what does that mean, in your opinion?”

“‘When a carabiniere’s outta uniform, ’e’ll makes ya pay twice the norm!’ A’ss wha’ they say, Chief!”

“Don’t worry, show him in.”

Montalbano and the lieutenant had known each other for some time. And, though they might not admit it, they rather liked each other. After they shook hands, Montalbano had him sit down.

“Sorry to bother you,” the lieutenant began.

“Not at all! What can I do for you?”

“I was told that a certain Mr. Shaikiri, who’s one of the crew of a yacht called the
Vanna
, attacked one of your men, who then arrested him. Is that right?”

“Yes. On the other hand, I believe the carabinieri also arrested him, when he pissed on one of your cars.” The inspector paused a moment. “Then you released him almost at once.”

The lieutenant seemed a little uneasy.

“That’s just it. When he was inside, we received a phone call from the Regional Command, specifically about Shaikiri.”

“What did they want?”

“They wanted to know if we’d arrested him.”

Montalbano balked.

“How did they find out about it in Palermo?”

“Dunno.”

“It really doesn’t seem to me like the kind of thing that would interest the Regional Command.”

“Exactly.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I confirmed the arrest and they told me to hold him at headquarters, saying someone would be coming from Palermo the following morning to interrogate him.”

“For pissing on a squad car?”

“I was a little surprised myself. But I did as they said.”

“And did this person come?”

“Actually, no. They called me back and said the person who was supposed to question him had a problem and couldn’t come. And they said I should act in accordance with the law as far as Shaikiri was concerned. So I filed a report on him and then let him go.”

“And why did you come to see us today?”

“Because that person finally came. He’s at our station now and wants to talk with Shaikiri.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to turn the Arab over to you?”

“That’s right.”

“Out of the question.”

The lieutenant grew even more uneasy.

“The person who came—”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. Apparently he’s from the antiterrorism unit. Anyway, as I was saying, that person, as soon as he found out you’d arrested Shaikiri, had also expected . . . well, that you would refuse to turn him over to us.”

“It was pretty easy to figure that out. So what’s he plan to do?”

“If you refuse, he’s going to call the commissioner.”

“And you think the commissioner will—”

“I don’t think he’ll be able to say no to this person.”

At this point Montalbano had an idea.

“We could make an agreement.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’ll lend him to you for tonight. And you’ll bring him back to me in the morning.”

“All right,” said Lieutenant Sferlazza.

Montalbano picked up the receiver and told Fazio to come to his office.

When Fazio entered, he greeted the lieutenant but showed no surprise at seeing him there.

Surely Catarella, seeing an enemy enter the camp of Agramante, had told everyone about it.

“Turn Shaikiri over to the lieutenant at once,” the inspector said.

Fazio turned pale.

“Yessir!” he said, military style.

Five minutes later, however, he came back to the inspector, looking rather agitated.

“Could you tell me why you—”

“No,” Montalbano snapped.

Fazio turned around and left.

“Catarella, is Augello back?” he said into the phone.

“He in’t onna premisses yet.”

“But did he come to the office this morning?”

“Yessir, Chief.”

“When?”

“When you was in conf’rince wit’ Signor Fiorentino.”

“Then what?”

“I put a call fer ’im true to ’im, and then, a li’l while later, ’e, meanin’ Isspector Augello, I mean, ’e went out.”

“Do you remember who it was that called?”

“I fergit the name, but it was a girl liutinnint from the Harbor’s Office.”

The inspector dropped the receiver.

Laura! She’d gotten in touch with Mimì Augello without telling him anything!

She’d stepped right over him as if he didn’t exist. As if he’d never existed! He felt enraged, embittered, displeased, pained. Why had she behaved so badly? Did she want nothing more to do with him? All at once the door seemed to explode, crashing against the wall and breaking off half the plaster.

“’Scuse me, Chief, iss so urgint my ’and slipped.”

“What do you want?” asked Montalbano, recovering his breath after the scare.

“Y’oughter know yer tiliphone’s off the hook an’ Isspector Augello called but I coun’t put ’im true seein’ as how as yer tiliphone in’t hung up an’ when I call I git a busy single ’cause iss off the hook an’—”

“Did he say he’d call back?”

“Yessir, in five minutes.”

Montalbano put the receiver back in place.

The phone rang.

“Salvo?”

The inspector didn’t answer right away. He had to finish counting to a thousand to dispel the irritation he felt and not lay into Augello and start yelling at him.

“Salvo?”

“What is it, Mimì?”

“This morning I got a call, supposedly on your behalf, from—”

“I know all about it.”

It wasn’t true. He didn’t know a goddamn thing. But he didn’t want Mimì to realize Laura had kept him out of it.

“Well, that girl, aside from being what she is—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus, Salvo, haven’t you noticed what a wonder of nature she is?”

“You think so?”

A tone of indifference. With a touch of snobbery.

“Salvo, don’t tell me you don’t—”

“Oh, she’s very pretty, no doubt about that. But to say she’s a ‘wonder of nature’ is a bit of a stretch. At any rate, get to the point.”

“I’d certainly like to get to the point with her. In fact, I think . . .” And he giggled, the imbecile!

Montalbano couldn’t let him go on or he would start insulting him.

“Tell me what she’s cooked up,” he said.

“She said that since the
Vanna
refueled yesterday, I could show up on board with her and make a fuel check.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I would go as the representative of the fuel importer, saying we’ve found some irregularities in the fuel, some residues that could impede the proper functioning of the engines. That would be the excuse.”

“And what if they only let you talk to the engineer?”

“Laura rules that out. She’s sure that the moment the owner hears mention of the engines, she’ll want to handle it herself.”

“But what the hell do you know about boat fuel?”

“Before this morning, nothing. Then at lunch Laura explained a few things to me, and in the afternoon we went and talked to a guy who really knows a lot about it. Then, tonight, Laura’s coming over to my place and . . .”

Montalbano couldn’t stand it any longer, slammed the receiver down, stood up, and started circling his desk, cursing like a madman.

Laura, in Mimì’s house! With nobody else present! The two of them, alone!

And he’d even told Laura that Mimì had a way with women! This must surely have been enough to whet her curiosity and make her feel tempted to find out whether . . .

No. It was better not to think about the possible consequences, or he would go insane!

Damn the moment he ever thought of having Mimì meet La Giovannini!

But why was he despairing now? He had wished this on himself! He’d sought it himself, stupid shit that he was! He’d served Laura up to Mimì on a silver platter with his own two hands!

9

He got home after a ferocious run-in with a motorist who, when passing him, had come so close to his car that he very nearly ran him off the road. And so, with his head in a fog of rage, he’d followed the guy, caught up with him, passed him, and then screeched to skidding halt, blocking the road crosswise with his car.

He’d got out of the car with his hair standing on end and eyes bulging, and, yelling like a madman, he’d gone on the attack, charging at the enemy. Who, meanwhile, the moment he’d seen the inspector get out of his car, had thrown his own into reverse, then accelerated forward, shooting past Montalbano, who tried to stop the car with his bare hands, very nearly falling down.

True, he had behaved just like the typical Italian driver, but as soon as he began to feel ashamed of this, he justified himself, thinking that, if nothing else, the episode had allowed him to vent his anger and frustration.

As he was opening the front door, he heard the telephone ringing.

He went to pick up, certain—for no reason in particular—that it was someone from the station.

“Hello?”

“Forgive me for disturbing you at home,” said a priestlike voice, “but as I had no news . . .”

Who was it? He didn’t recognize the voice, though it sounded both familiar and unfamiliar . . .

“I’m sorry, but what sort of news do you want?”

“Of the little boy, of course!”

“Look, I think you’ve got the wrong number. This isn’t a kindergarten!”

“Am I not speaking with Inspector Montalbano?”

“Yes, you are.”

“I wanted to know how your little boy, your son, was doing . . . What did you say his name was?”

Shit! It was that goddamn pain in the ass Lattes! To whom he’d told that big lie about his young son being sick! And what had he said the kid’s name was? The only hope was to keep to generalities.

“There’s been a slight improvement, Doctor. Thanks for asking. And forgive me for not recognizing you at once, but, you know, I’ve been so worried these days, so upset . . .”

“I understand perfectly, Inspector. And please accept my heartfelt wishes for a speedy recovery. May the Blessed Virgin keep you in her heart . . . And keep me informed—I mean it.”

“It’s the least I can do, I promise.

“As for those files that need to be checked—”

He hung up. He really didn’t want to hear any talk about files at a time like this.

He barely had time to take off his jacket before the phone started ringing again. It was surely Lattes, who must have thought they’d been cut off.

And so Montalbano decided to go into tragic mode to get Lattes out of his hair for a while.

He picked up the receiver and started speaking in an angry voice.

“What is this?! My child, my flesh and blood is fighting for his life in a hospital bed and you want to talk about files? You do have a heart, don’t you?”

Total silence at the other end. Perhaps he had treated the poor Dr. Lattes a bit harshly. Better try to make up.

“I’m sorry if I raised my voice, Doctor, but you must understand my state of mind. My poor little boy . . .”

“What the hell are you talking about?” interrupted a woman’s voice, which he recognized at once.

Livia!

He felt as if the whole bleeding world was crashing down on his head.

He hung up at once. He was finished. Toast.

Livia would never believe that the story of the little boy was a stupid lie he’d invented out of whole cloth.

The phone started ringing again.

No, until he collected his thoughts, he was in no condition to talk to her. He bent down and unplugged the phone.

Then he undressed on the spot, throwing his clothes to the floor as he ran to the shower.

He urgently needed to refresh his body and his brain.

Once out of the shower, he plugged the phone back in. Now he felt more in a state to talk to Livia without getting overly agitated. He would tell her the truth simply, in a clear, firm tone. And he would convince her. He dialed her number.

“Listen, Livia, I swear I don’t have a son.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” said Livia.

He wasn’t expecting that response and felt rather relieved. It would make everything else a lot easier.

“How can you be so sure?”

“You would never have been able to keep it hidden from me for so long. Who did you think you were talking to?”

“Dr. Lattes. You see, I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this before, but he has this obsessive notion that I’m married and have at least two children. I’ve never been able to convince him otherwise. So I had to give him some rope. He was trying to saddle me with some bureaucratic hassle, and so I made up this story that one of my sons was gravely ill. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Livia repeated frostily.

“Yes.”

“And aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Good God, Livia, why should I feel ashamed?”

“For pretending your son was gravely ill, just to—”

“What are you saying? The son doesn’t exist, you said it yourself just a minute ago!”

“That doesn’t matter. For Lattes, he exists.”

“Livia, you’re not making any sense!”

“No, my dear. I find it utterly ignoble that you used a sick child as an excuse for not doing something you didn’t want to do.”

“Livia, try to be rational. The child is pure fiction.”

“But it still shows what kind of mind you have!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you could have come up with a thousand other excuses, but you didn’t! It certainly would never have occurred to
me
to say a thing like that, and I’m not even a mother!”

Maybe Livia wasn’t entirely wrong. No, in fact she was decidedly right. One should never joke about sick little children, even imaginary ones. But he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“Listen, Livia, I really don’t feel like hearing about what kind of mind I have, especially from you.”

“Why? What have I done?”

“You didn’t come to my funeral.”

Livia was speechless.

“What . . . ? What are you talking about? Are you insane?”

“No, I’m not insane! I had a dream that I died, and you didn’t feel like coming down from Boccadasse.”

“But it was a dream!”

“So what? And the little boy was imaginary!”

“No, no, no! It’s not the same thing at all! You were dead, and hopefully resting in peace, whereas that poor little boy is alive and you’re making him suff—”

“Listen, let’s forget about it. You know what I’m going to do? Tomorrow I’m going to call Lattes and set everything straight.”

“Do whatever you think best, but get rid of the story about the little boy. And if it really means so much to you, I apologize for not coming to your funeral. Next time, I won’t miss it.”

They laughed, at last.

“How are you?” Montalbano asked.

“I’m fine. And you?”

“I’m bogged down in an investigation that’s . . . Speaking of which, do you know anyone called Émile Lannec?”

“What is this? Another one of your strange jokes?”

“Come on. Do you know him or don’t you?”

“Of course I do. We met him together.”

“Where?”

“In Marinella.”

He had no recollection whatsoever of it.

“Really? And who is he?”

“He’s . . . ,” she started and then stopped. Then she giggled. “He’s someone who’s exactly like your son.”

“Come on, Livia, don’t . . .”

But she’d already hung up. He called back, but the phone rang and rang with no answer.

So this was how Livia would punish him for the story of the sick little boy. Damn! The woman never pardoned him a single weakness! Not one!

As he wasn’t the least bit hungry, he didn’t look to see what was in the refrigerator or the oven. Instead he grabbed a bottle of whisky, a glass, his cigarettes, and went out on the veranda and sat down.

Émile Lannec.

He went back inside, picked up the Frenchman’s passport, then sat down again outside.

From what he could gather from the visas, Lannec had been three times to South Africa, twice to Namibia (which he would never have been able to find on a map), four times in Botswana (which he didn’t know either), and then in Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Lebanon, and Syria.

Except for Israel, he’d been to every country on the Mediterranean coast of Africa and the Middle East.

What line of business was Monsieur Lannec in?

Finishing his first glass, he got up, went and got a world atlas, and looked for Namibia and Botswana. They were two countries bordering on the upper regions of South Africa.

Then, all at once, the name South Africa made him remember that the
Vanna
had also been splashing about in that area. It was Laura who’d told him. He felt a twinge in his heart.

Laura!

By now she was alone with Mimì. They had definitely finished eating, and imagine Mimì not trying to take advantage of the situation! Boat fuel, right! Camouflage, right! The guy was worse than Don Juan! There was a good chance he already had her in his arms and was holding her tight . . .

To erase the image from his mind, he inhaled a whole glass of whisky in a single gulp.

The only hope was to concentrate, like an Indian holy man, on the question of Lannec.

He succeeded, with some effort, in doing so.

Might there be a connection between Lannec and the
Vanna
? But by the time the
Vanna
entered the port, Lannec had already been dead for a while. Besides, the arrival of the
Vanna
had been entirely unexpected. And so? Whom had the
Vanna
come to meet? How was it possible he couldn’t remember having met Lannec, and in Marinella of all places?

What had Livia said?

That Lannec was exactly like the little boy Montalbano had invented.

Wait a second, Montalbà, stop right there. You’re getting very warm.

Livia had therefore implied that Lannec didn’t exist in reality and was thus an imaginary person.

A flash went off in his brain. An invented character! A character in a novel!

He shot to his feet, dashed inside, and went up to the bookcase. It had to be a book he had read together with Livia.

Almost independently of his brain, his right arm reached up, and his right hand picked out a book with a light-blue cover:
Les Pitard
, by Georges Simenon. A masterpiece. He had liked the book very, very much, so much that he’d read it two more times on his own. He opened it.

There he was, the novel’s protagonist, Captain Émile Lannec of Rouen, the owner and captain of a very old steamboat called the
Thunderbolt
.

He leafed through the book, which now started coming back to him. It told a marvelous story. Unfortunately, however, it had nothing to do with the case currently on his hands.

Couldn’t it be just a coincidence? That a murder victim happened to have the exact same name as a Simenon character? Not really. What would be the chances of that? One in a billion?

Or could it have been a joke on the part of the Frenchman, to take a name that, in any case, no one would ever recognize?

All the same, there was something worth trying: to check the passport’s authenticity. But how could it be that of all those people who stamped and pasted visas on it, nobody noticed that it was a counterfeit document? Well, actually, it
was
possible.

He went and sat back down on the veranda, and poured himself another glass of whisky.

But then, was it really so important to know whether the passport was authentic or not?

Was it really so critical to the investigation to know whether the victim was named Lannec, Parbon, or Lapointe?

No, he was wrong here. It
was
important. Very important. Because it was possible that the inspector’s colleagues in France could find out whose passport had been counterfeited, and then, through this person, trace the process back to Lannec’s real identity. And it was possible it would lead to someone well known to the French authorities, and that . . .

At this point he could no longer think. He felt a little drunk. Actually, he didn’t
feel
drunk, he was, in fact, drunk. He stood up, head spinning slightly, went back inside, closed the French door behind him, and lay down in bed, falling asleep immediately.