Angelica's Smile (6 page)

“We do know, however, that the investigation is being handled by Chief Inspector Montalbano. In all honesty, we cannot say that it is in good hands, given the pre—”

Montalbano zapped the screen with the remote, telling the guy to fuck off.

One question lingered, however: How did Ragonese ever come to know about the burglaries? Surely nobody from the police department or the prosecutor’s office could have told him.

Want to bet it was the ring’s mastermind himself who informed the newsman through an anonymous letter?

Pretentious as he was, it was possible he didn’t like the fact that his deeds weren’t making headlines.

Montalbano felt a little tired. Driving wore him out. He decided to go to bed.

And he had a dream.

Without knowing why or wherefore, he found himself in the middle of an arena,
all dressed up like a paladin in the puppet theatre, on horseback, with his lance in rest.

A great many ladies and knights were watching the joust, and they were all standing, looking at him, and shouting:

“Hurrah for Salvo! Hurrah for Christendom’s champion!”

Impeded in his movements by his armor, he couldn’t reply with a bow, and so he raised his arm, which weighed a ton, and waved his steel-gloved hand.

Then the trumpets sounded and a knight clad entirely in black armor entered the arena, a frightening giant of a man with his face hidden by his lowered visor.

Charlemagne himself stood up and said:

“Let the battle begin!”

And Montalbano immediately began to charge the black knight, who for his part remained as still as a statue.

Then, just like that, the black knight’s lance struck his shoulder, knocking him off his horse.

As he was falling, the black knight raised his visor.

He had no face. In its place was a sort of rubber ball.

Then Montalbano realized that the faceless knight was the mastermind of the burglary ring, and was about to kill him.

Jesus Christ! He was going to look so bad in front of all those people!

He woke up in a sweat, his heart chugging wildly.

The phone rang shortly after eight.

He cursed the saints.

His secret intention had been to stay in bed until nine, so Adelina could bring him coffee in bed.

“Hello?” he said rudely into the receiver.

“
Matre santa
, Chief! I canna help it, bu’ ’ere’s been anutter buggery! If you wan’, I c’n call back in a half a hour,” Catarella whined.

“What’s done is done, Cat. Tell me about it.”

“The signura Angelica Cosulicchio call juss now.”

Cosulicchio? Cosulich! Angelica Cosulich was number fourteen on the list.

QED.

“Where’s she live?”

“On Via Cavurro, nummer fitteen.”

But that was the same street as the Peritores!

“Have you told Fazio?”

“’E’s toined off.”

“All right, call the lady back and tell her I’m on my way.”

The building Signora Cosulich lived in was shaped like an ice-cream cone.

Including the little bits of hazelnut sprinkled on top.

“Cosulich?” he asked the doorman.

“Which?”

Good God, he couldn’t bear to have another spat with a doorman. He felt like turning on his heel and leaving, but he overcame the impulse.

“Cosulich.”

“I got that the first time; I’m not deaf. But there are two Cosuliches here. Angelica and Tripolina.”

He wanted to say Tripolina, just so he could meet a woman with such a strange name.

“Angelica.”

“Top floor.”

The elevator was superfast, practically punching him in the stomach as he soared up to the penthouse—that is, to the level of the whipped cream that usually crowns the ice cream cone.

There was only one door on the entire, enormous, crescent-shaped landing, and the inspector rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked moments later from inside the door.

“Inspector Montalbano.”

The door opened, and three things happened to the inspector, in the following order:

First, his vision clouded over slightly; second, his legs began to give out; and third, he was suddenly quite out of breath.

Because not only was Signora Cosulich a stunningly natural beauty of about thirty, without a hint of makeup, a rarity in this day of face-painted savages, but also . . .

Was it real, or was it all just his imagination?

Signora Cosulich looked exactly like, was the spitting image of, the figure of Angelica in
Ariosto’s
Orlando Furioso
, or at least the way he’d imagined her and pined for her, in the flesh, when, at age sixteen, he looked in secret at the illustrations by Gustave Doré, which his aunt had forbidden him to see.

It was inconceivable, a true miracle.

This knight, who now approached, at first glance

Had recognized, though from afar, the one

Who with angelic beauty unsurpassed

In amorous enchantment held him fast
.

Angelica, oh Angelica!

He had fallen wildly in love with her, and lost a great deal of sleep almost every night, imagining that he was doing lewd things with her that he would never have had the courage to mention even to his closest friend.

Ah, how often he had imagined himself as Medoro, the shepherd Angelica had fallen in love with, driving poor Orlando so furiously mad!

He would picture to himself, sighing and trembling, the scene in the cave, where she lay naked on the straw, with a fire burning, as it rained outside and the sheep called in the distance, saying
baaa baaaa
 . . .

More than a month that happy pair content

Remained and of their joy gave every proof.

No further than his face her glances went.

For his love she could not have enough.

Unceasingly she hung upon his side,

Yet her desire was never satisfied.

“Please come in,” said Angelica Cosulich.

The light fog clouding his eyes lifted, and only then did Montalbano notice that she was wearing a formfitting white blouse.

Like milky curds but freshly heaped within

Their plaited moulds, her rounded breasts
 . . .

Actually, those breasts were not Angelica’s, but still . . .

“Please come in,” the young woman said again, starting to smile at Montalbano’s obvious bewilderment.

Her smile was like a 100-watt lightbulb suddenly coming on in a dark room.

It took a great effort of will for Montalbano to go from sixteen years of age to his current, miserable fifty-eight.

“Sorry, I was just thinking of something.”

He went in.

Already from the entrance he got a sense of the damage the burglars had done in that apartment.

Which was enormous, furnished in the latest styles, and made you feel as though you were inside a spaceship. It must also have had a terrace without end. And circular, naturally.

“Listen,” said Angelica, “the only room that’s sort of livable right now is the kitchen. Do you mind if we go in there?”

I’d follow you even into a cold-storage room
, Montalbano thought to himself.

But he said:

“Not at all.”

She was wearing a pair of skintight black slacks, and watching her walk from behind was a gift from God. And made him feel simultaneously stronger and weaker.

She pulled out a chair for him.

“Please sit down. Shall I make you some coffee?”

“Yes, thanks. But first I’d like a glass of water.”

“Are you feeling all right, Inspector?”

“I feel ex . . . excellent.”

The water revived him.

The exact same thing had happened at the Peritores’ place. Except that there was no other man present now.

Actually, it seemed as if there was no trace of any man whatsoever in that apartment.

She poured the coffee, a cup for him and another for her, and then sat down facing the inspector.

They drank in silence.

This was fine for Montalbano. In fact, they could sit there drinking coffee until the following morning as far as he was concerned. Or, better yet, until they declared him a missing person at the police station.

Then she said:

“If you feel like smoking, go right ahead. In fact, why don’t you offer me one while you’re at it?”

She got up, went and grabbed an ashtray, and sat back down.

Taking her first puff, she said in a soft voice:

“To make a long story short, it was a carbon copy of the burglary of my friends the Peritores.”

Her voice was a celestial harmony, and it charmed him as the snake charmer’s flute charms a python.

But he had to get down to work, dammit, even though he didn’t at all feel like it. He cleared his throat, which was dry in spite of the water he had just drunk.

“Did you also spend the night in another house of yours out of town?”

She had very long blond hair which hung halfway down her back.

Before answering, she turned her face away.

For the first time, she seemed a little ill at ease.

“Yes, but . . .”

“But?”

“It’s not a house.”

“Is it an apartment?”

“Not even.”

What, was she sleeping in a tent or a camper?

“What is it, then?”

She took a long drag, blew out the smoke, then looked the inspector in the eye.

“It’s a bedroom with a double bed and a bathroom. With a separate entrance. Know what I mean?”

A shot straight to the heart, direct, precise. Fired by an expert markswoman. It hurt, but

A flood of sorrow in his bosom stays,

And by its very impetus is checked
 . . .

“I see,” he said.

A pied-à-terre. Also called a love nest in common parlance. But it was the first time he’d ever met a woman who had one.

He felt a sudden pang of irrational jealousy, like Orlando when

He sees Angelica and Medoro

Intertwined a hundred times . . .

She explained:

“I have a boyfriend, but he works abroad and comes to Italy only once a year, and so, every now and then, I need . . . Please try and understand. It’s not a steady thing with anybody.”

Can I get on the waiting list?
he wanted to ask, but said only:

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well, last night, after dinner—it must have been around nine-thirty—I got in my car and headed for Montelusa. Just outside of town, I picked up the . . . guy I had an appointment with and drove to the villa where I rent the room.”

“Excuse me for interrupting, but who owns the villa?”

“A cousin of mine who lives in Milan and comes only in summer, for a couple of weeks a year.”

“Excuse me for interrupting again . . .”

“It’s your job,” Angelica said, smiling.

Love nest or not, it was the sort of thing to be eaten slowly, in small bites, like a succulent fruit.

“Did the burglars rifle through your room as well?”

“Of course.”

“What about the villa itself?”

“Well, I had the same question, and so I went to look. I know where the keys are kept. No, they didn’t enter the villa.”

“Go on.”

“There’s not much more to say. We had a drink, talked as best we could, and then went to bed.”

And every time his heart in his chest

Leapt as though gripped by an icy hand
.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to . . .”

“Not at all, go ahead.”

“You said you talked as best you could.”

“Yes, and so?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not as if the boys I go with have to be cultured or anything. I’m interested in other talents. The one yesterday was practically half illiterate.”

Montalbano gulped. It tasted bitter. How did that other poet put it?

a fisher of sponges

will win this rare pearl
 . . .

“Go on.”

“What else is there? I woke up at seven with the worst headache. Whereas he was still out like a light. When I reached over to the bedside table for my watch, which I’d left there, it was gone. I thought it must have fallen, so I got up, and only then did I realize I’d been robbed of everything.”

“Everything meaning what?”

“My watch, my necklace, my bracelet, cell phone, computer, wallet, purse, and the keys to this apartment. Then I went outside, and the car was also gone.”

“Why had you brought your computer with you?”

“Pertinent question,” she said, laughing. “To watch a few educational videos, know what I mean?”

Of all his hopes, Orlando, not to show

His grief, all signs of it attempts to check . . .

“Yes. How did you get home?”

“My cousin keeps a utility car in the villa’s garage for getting around when he’s here.”

“Did you have a lot of money in your wallet?”

“Three thousand euros.”

“Go on.”

“I raced home, knowing what I would find there.”

“Did they take a lot of stuff?”

“A lot. And very valuable stuff, unfortunately.”

“You’ll have to come to headquarters and file a report.”

“I’ll come by later this morning. I have to figure out exactly what they took.”

She paused.

“Could I have another cigarette?”

Montalbano lit it for her.

“So why aren’t you doing what you’re supposed to do?” she asked out of the blue.

Montalbano balked.

“Why? What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, pull out a magnifying glass, take some snapshots, call the forensics lab . . .”

“For fingerprints, you mean?”

“Well, yes.”

“Do you really think that burglars as skilled as these wouldn’t wear gloves? No, no, it would be a waste of time. Speaking of which, how did they get into your lo—your room?”

He’d very nearly said “love nest,” which would have been a terrible gaffe.

But why a gaffe, really? Angelica was a woman who didn’t mince words. She called a spade a spade.

“My room is located at the back of the villa, and you reach it by means of an external staircase. Next to the entrance there’s a window with a grating over it. It’s more or less the only ventilation, and so I left it open. Aside from the bed, there’s also a little table, of course, with two chairs. I always leave the keys to the room on this table. The thieves must have pumped the gas in through this window, which they then must have shut. Then, after the gas took effect, they opened it back up, and with a telescoping pole with a hook at the end, they pulled the table closer to themselves, so all they had to do was reach out and grab the keys.”

Specialists in telescoping poles, first with a magnet, and now with a hook . . .

“Excuse me, but this business of the pole with the hook . . . How do you know this? Was this your surmise?”

“No, no, I saw it; I saw the pole. They left it there.”

Montalbano closed his eyes for a moment. Now came the most painful part for him. He took a deep breath and dived in.

“I have to ask you a couple of personal questions,” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“Have you ever brought the same man more than once to your room?”

“Never. I don’t like reheated soup.”

“How often do you use it?”

“Definitely once every couple of weeks. Of course there are exceptions, sometimes.”

I am not, am not what I seem to be . . .

“Of course,” said Montalbano, with seeming indifference.

Then he asked:

“Have you ever had, I dunno, have you ever quarreled with any of them?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“About a month ago.”

“May I ask what it was about?”

“He wanted more.”

“How much had you agreed on?”

“Two thousand.”

“And how much did he want?”

“Four.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“No.”

“How did you get out of it?”

“I threatened him.”

“How?”

“With a gun.”

She said it as though aiming a gun at someone was the most natural thing in the world.

“Are you kidding?”

“Absolutely not. When I go there with someone, I feel a lot safer if I have my gun with me. I have a license for it.”

Unlike the Angelica of his youth, this one didn’t flee from danger.

Montalbano recovered from a light swoon.

“And did you have your gun with you last night?”

“Yes.”

“And did they steal that too?”

“Of course.”

“Listen, this is very serious. When you come to headquarters, be sure to bring all the relevant documents concerning this weapon.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry, but do you have a job?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of a job?”

“I’m chief teller at the Banca Siculo-Americana. I’ve been working there for the last six months or so.”

Maybe I should have my account transferred there
, he thought.

But he asked instead:

“Can you explain to me how you find the men you go with?”

“Well, I dunno, chance encounters, bank clients . . . You know, sometimes there’s not even any need to talk; there’s an immediate understanding.”

“Listen, the keys to this place . . .”

“I left them in the entranceway.”

“One more question. Where are you from?”

“I was born in Trieste. But my mother was from Vigàta.”

“She’s no longer around?”

“No. Nor is my father. There was a terrible . . . accident here. I was only five at the time. I wasn’t around when it happened; my parents had sent me to my grandparents’ place, in Trieste.”

Her blue eyes had turned darker. Apparently the death of her parents was still a painful subject for her.

Montalbano stood up.

She did likewise.

“I need to ask you a very big favor,” Angelica said, letting her hair cover her face.

“Go right ahead.”

“Could we leave out the first part?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.”

She took a step forward and put her hands on his jacket lapels. She was standing very close to him, and Montalbano could smell the scent of her skin. It made him dizzy.

It felt as if her hands were on fire. Surely they would leave burned handprints on his jacket when she removed them.

“Could you . . . find a way not to bring up this business of the room, and say that only this place was robbed?”

Montalbano felt in danger of melting like a gelato in the sun.

“Well, it would be possible . . . but illegal.”

“So you really can’t?”

“I could, but . . . what’s to prevent the guy you spent the night with from going around telling everyone what really happened?”

“You would have to take care of that yourself.”

She removed her hands from his lapels, let them wander up to his shoulders, then folded them behind his neck.

From this position, her lips were dangerously close to his.

The more he seeks to find a lasting peace,

The more he finds just suffering and pain
.

“If anyone found out about this room, you see, I would be ruined, you understand. I’ve been sincere with you. I realized at once that I could trust you . . . But if word were ever to get out, there would certainly be repercussions at the office. I might even get fired . . . Oh, please! I would be so grateful!”

Montalbano quickly freed himself, unlinking her hands and taking a step back.

“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll see you later.”

He practically ran away.

He was all sweaty and felt as numb as if he had drunk half a bottle of whisky.

He told the whole story to Fazio. Naturally, he said nothing about how he himself had felt about Angelica.

“Let’s take one thing at a time, Chief. Let’s start with the burglary of the love nest.”

For whatever reason, Fazio’s choice of terms bothered him.

“Do you have any idea why they leave behind the special tools they use to break into people’s apartments?” Fazio continued.

“The telescoping poles? I’ve been thinking a lot about that. These guys don’t do anything without a reason. First of all, it’s a sort of bank shot that keeps being repeated in exactly the same way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain. The robbery always takes place in two phases. First they go into a house, a bedroom, wherever you like, when the owner is asleep inside. And they do this because they need the keys to the other residence, the apartment in town. And so they bank the shot off rail A so that the ball will come back and hit rail B. Is that any clearer?”