The Shape of Water by Andrea Camilleri Page B

a tastefully elegant sitting area with a small table and two armchairs. Only five paintings adorned the walls, and with a shudder of excitement Montalbano immediately recognized the artists: there was a Guttuso portrait of a peasant from the forties, a landscape in Lazio by Melli, a demolition by Mafai, two rowers on the Tiber by Donghi, and a woman bathing by Fausto Pirandello. The selection showed exquisite taste and rare discernment. The door opened, and a man of about thirty appeared: black tie, open face, stylish.
    “It was I who phoned you. Thank you for coming. Mama was very keen on seeing you. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you.” He spoke with no regional inflection whatsoever.
    “No trouble at all. I simply don’t see of what use I could be to your mother.”
    “That’s what I said to her, too, but she insisted. And she wouldn’t give me any hint as to why she wished to inconvenience you.”
    He looked at the fingertips of his right hand as if seeing them for the first time, then discreetly cleared his throat.
    “Please try to understand, Inspector.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “For Mama’s sake. It’s been a very trying time for her.”
    The young man turned to leave, then suddenly stopped.
    “Ah, Inspector, I wanted to inform you so you wouldn’t find yourself in an embarrassing situation.
    Mama knows how my father died and where he died. How she found out, I have no idea. She already knew two hours after the body was found. Please excuse me.”
    Montalbano felt relieved. If the widow knew, he wouldn’t be forced to concoct any pious fictions to hide the indecency of her husband’s death from her. He went back to enjoying the paintings. At his house in Vigàta he had only drawings and prints by Carmassi, Attardi, Guida, Cordio, and Angelo Canevari, to which he had been able to treat himself by docking his meager salary. More than that he couldn’t afford; he could never pay for a painting on the level of these.
    “Do you like them?”
    He turned about abruptly. He hadn’t heard the signora enter. She was a woman past fifty, not tall, with an air of determination; the tiny wrinkles lining her face had not yet succeeded in destroying the beauty of her features. On the contrary, they highlighted the radiance of her penetrating green eyes.
    “Please make yourself comfortable,” she said, then went and sat on the sofa as the inspector took a seat in an armchair. “Such beautiful pictures. I don’t know much about painting, but I do like them. There are about thirty scattered around the house. My husband bought them. Painting was his secret vice, he loved to say. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his only one.”
    We’re off to a good start, Montalbano thought, then asked:
    “Are you feeling better, signora?”
    “Compared to when?”
    The inspector stammered, as if he were in front of a teacher asking him difficult questions.
    “Well, I—I don’t know, compared to this morning . . . I heard you were unwell today—in the cathedral.”
    “Unwell? I was fine, as good as one might feel in such circumstances. No, my friend, I merely pretended to faint. I’m a good actress. Actually, a thought had come into my mind: if a terrorist, I said to myself, were to blow up this church with all of us inside, at least one-tenth of all the hypocrisy in the world would disappear with us. So I had myself escorted out.”
    Impressed by the woman’s candor, Montalbano didn’t know what to say, so he waited for her to resume speaking.
    “When I was told where my husband had been found, I called the police commissioner and asked him who was in charge of the investigation—if there was any investigation. The commissioner gave me your name, adding that you were a decent man. I had my doubts: are there still any decent men? And so I had my son phone you.”
    “I can only thank you, signora.”
    “But we’re not here to exchange compliments. I don’t want to waste your time. Are you absolutely