Angelica's Smile: An Inspector Montalbano Mystery - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Andrea Camilleri is the bestselling author of the popular Inspector Montalbano mystery series, as well as historical novels that take place in nineteenth-century Sicily. He lives in Rome.

Stephen Sartarelli (translator) is an award-winning translator and poet. He lives in France.

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1

He awoke with a start and sat up in bed, eyes already open. He was sure he’d heard someone talking in his bedroom. And since he was alone in the house, he became alarmed.

Then he started laughing, having remembered that Livia had shown up unannounced at his place that evening. The surprise visit had pleased him immensely, at least at first. And there she was now, sleeping soundly beside him.

A still-violet shaft of the dawn’s very earliest light shone through the window shutter. He let his eyelids droop without bothering to look at the clock, in hopes of getting a few more hours of sleep.

But then his eyes suddenly popped open again. Something had just occurred to him.

If someone had spoken in his bedroom, it could only have been Livia. She’d therefore been talking in her sleep. But this had never happened before. Or perhaps it wasn’t the first time. But if she had in fact talked in her sleep before, she’d done it so quietly that it hadn’t woken him up.

And it was possible she was, at that moment, still in the same dream state and might say a few more words.

So this was an opportunity not to be missed.

People who suddenly start talking in their sleep can’t help but say true things, the truths that they have inside them. He remembered reading that it was impossible to tell lies or stretch the truth in a dream state, because one is defenseless when asleep, as helpless and innocent as a baby.

It was very important not to miss anything of what Livia was saying. Important for two reasons. The first was general in nature, being that a man can live a hundred years at a woman’s side, sleep with her, have children with her, breathe the same air as her, and think he knows her as well as humanly possible, and still, in the end, feel as though he never really knows what she is like deep inside.

The other reason was more specific and immediate in nature.

He carefully got out of bed and went and looked outside through the slats of the shutter. It promised to be a lovely day, without clouds or wind.

Then he went over to Livia’s side of the bed, pulled up a chair, and sat down at the head, as in an all-night vigil at the hospital.

The previous evening—and this was the more specific reason—Livia had raised a big stink in a fit of jealousy, ruining the pleasure he had felt by her surprise visit.

Things had gone as follows.

The telephone had rung and she went to answer.

But as soon as she said hello, a woman’s voice at the other end had said:

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number.”

And she promptly hung up.

And so Livia got it in her head that the caller had been a woman he was having an affair with, that they’d arranged to meet that evening, and that when she’d heard Livia’s voice she’d hung up.

“I guess I rained on your parade, eh? . . . When the cat’s away, the mice will play! . . . Out of sight, out of mind! . . .”

There was no making her see reason, and things ended terribly that evening because Montalbano had reacted badly, disgusted not so much by Livia’s suspicions as by the endless barrage of clichés she kept firing at him.

So Montalbano was now hoping that Livia would say something stupid in her sleep, anything that might give him ammunition for a proper revenge.

He suddenly had a great desire to smoke a cigarette but restrained himself—first, because if Livia woke up and found him smoking in the bedroom, a revolution might break out, and second, because the smoke itself might wake her up.

About two hours later, he got a cramp in his left calf.

To make it go away, he started swinging his leg back and forth and, as a result, ended up dealing the wooden bed frame a violent kick with his bare foot.

It hurt like hell, but he managed to hold back the avalanche of curses that threatened to burst out of him.

The kick had an effect, however, because Livia sighed, moved a little, and then spoke.

Giving first a little laugh, in a full voice with no trace of hoarseness, she said distinctly:

“No, Carlo, not from behind.”

Montalbano nearly fell out of his chair. This was a bit too much of a good thing, for Chrissakes!

A couple of muttered words would have sufficed, just enough for him to build a castle of baseless accusations, Jesuit-like.

But Livia had uttered a whole sentence, loud and clear! Fuck!

As if she had been completely awake.

And it was a sentence that suggested just about everything, even the worst.

Meanwhile, she had never said a word to him about any Carlo. Why not?

If she’d never mentioned him, there must be a reason.

And then, what exactly was it she didn’t want Carlo to do to her from behind?

Did that mean: from in front, okay, but not from behind?

He broke into a cold sweat.

He was tempted to wake Livia up, shake her roughly and, glaring wild-eyed, ask her in an imperious, cop-like voice:

“Who is Carlo? Is he your lover?”

But she was a woman, after all.

And therefore likely to deny everything, even when groggy with sleep. No, that would be a wrong move.

It was best to summon the strength to wait a while and try to broach the subject at the right moment.

But when was the right moment?

Anyway, he would need to have a certain amount of time at his disposal, since it would be a mistake to bring the question up directly. Livia would immediately go on the defensive. No, he needed to take a roundabout approach, without arousing any suspicion.

He decided to go and take a shower.

Going back to bed was now out of the question.

He was drinking his first coffee of the morning when the telephone rang.

By now it was eight o’clock. He wasn’t in the mood to hear about any little murders. If anything, he might kill somebody himself instead, given half a chance.

Preferably someone by the name of Carlo.

He’d guessed right. It was Catarella.

“Ahh Chief, Chief! Wha’z ya doin’, sleepin’?”

“No, Cat, I was awake. What’s up?”

“Wha’ss up is ’ere’s a buggery tha’ss up.”

Montalbano hesitated. Then it dawned on him.

“A burglary, you mean? So why are you breaking my balls, eh?”

“Chief, beckin’ yer partin’, bu—”

“But nothing! No beckons or partings! Phone Inspector Augello at once!”

Catarella was about to start crying.

“’Ass jess what I wannit a say t’yiz, ya gotta ’scuse me, Chief. I wannit a say ’at Isspecter Augello was let go whereas of diss mornin’.”

Montalbano balked. You couldn’t even sack your housekeeper anymore these days!

“Let go? By whom?”

“Bu’, Chief, i’ ’s youse yisself ’at let ’im go yisterday aftanoon!”

Montalbano remembered.

“Cat, he took a leave of absence, he wasn’t let go!”

“Bu’ ya gotta let ’im go f’r’im to be assbent!”

“Listen, was Fazio let go too?”

“’Ass also what I wannit a tell yiz. Dis mornin’ ’ere’s some troubble atta market an’ so the afficer in quession izzatta scene o’ the crime.”

It was hopeless. He would have to look into it himself.

“All right, is the aggrieved party there?”

Catarella paused for a moment before speaking.

“’Ere meanin’ where, Chief?”

“There, at the station, where else?”

“Chief,...