Andrea Camilleri - The Age Of Doubt

“I’m not upset.”

“All right, then. Shall we meet tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve been thinking about this, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the commissioner’s phone call was providential.”

There was no way any phone call from Bonetti-Alderighi could ever be providential. It would be against nature.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it was fate. It was a very precise sign.”

Was she raving?

“Listen, explain yourself a little better.”

“It means there can never be and must never be anything between us.”

“Don’t tell me you believe that sort of rubbish!”

She didn’t reply, and Montalbano got further incensed.

“What, do you get up and read the horoscope in the paper first thing every morning?”

Laura hung up.

Montalbano redialed the number, but the phone rang and rang without reply.

His appetite, naturally, had gone south.

The only thing to do was to sit out on the veranda, armed with cigarettes and whisky, and wait for the rage to subside so he could go to bed.

Wait a second, Montalbà. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that the only emotion you’re feeling at this moment is rage? And not regret or sadness?

And if I feel only rage, does that mean something?

Yes, sir, it certainly does. Shall we postpone the discussion until after you’ve ascertained that you have enough cigarettes and whisky in the house?

He went out, ducked into the Marinella Bar, came back, and as he was about to unlock the door, he heard the telephone ringing. In his haste, he fumbled with the keys and had to set the bottle down to open the door.

Naturally, by the time he raised the receiver, he heard only a dial tone.

How was it possible he could never manage to pick up the phone in time?

It must certainly have been Laura trying to call.

So, what to do now? Call her himself? And what if it hadn’t been Laura? At that moment the phone started ringing again.

“Laura!”

At the other end, total silence. Want to bet it was that pigheaded commissioner again?

“Who is this?” the inspector asked.

“Livia.”

In an instant, he was bathed in sweat.

“And I want to know who this Laura is,” she added.

Not knowing in his despair what to say, he laughed.

“Ha ha!”

“You find my question funny?”

“So you’re jealous, eh?

“Of course I’m jealous. Answer me and stop acting like an imbecile.”

She’d said it in the exact same tone of voice as Bonetti-Alderighi.

“You’re not going to believe me, but when you called, I was trying to think of the name of Petrarch’s beloved, and it finally came to me as I was picking up the receiver…”

“And you think I’m so stupid as to swallow that explanation?”

By now Montalbano’s sweat was pouring into his eyes, blinding him, while the receiver was slipping out of his hand.

“I’m sorry, could I call you back in five minutes?”

“No,” said Livia, hanging up.

The phone call from Livia was really the last thing he needed. Sighing sadly, he picked up the bottle on the ground outside the door, put it down on the table on the veranda, went and washed his face, and finally sat down outside.

What was it he was supposed to think about?

Ah, yes, the reason why he felt only rage, instead of regret or sadness.

But is it really so necessary to tackle this question right now? When your head is in such a state of confusion? Couldn’t you postpone it?

No, I really think this is the right moment. And I don’t want to hear any childish excuses. So, buck up, and proceed. In what circumstances does a person feel rage? Answer me.

Well, there could be any number of reasons for-

No, no, stop beating around the bush, stop equivocating, as the commissioner might say. Stick to the subject at hand. The question couldn’t be clearer: Why did you become enraged when Laura refused to see you?

Well, because I really wanted to see her and-

Are you really so sure?

Of course.

No, you’re lying to yourself. You’re like the person who cheats when he plays solitaire.

Then why?

I’ll tell you why. Quite simply because you were unable to do what you wanted to do.

No, when you put it that way, you make it sound vulgar. As if I wanted only to-

Oh, yeah? Wasn’t that your intention?

Come on, cut the bullshit!

What bullshit? Listen, if you truly loved her, at this moment you would be sorrowful, forlorn, call it whatever you like, but not angry.

Explain what you mean.

If you’re angry, it means what you really feel for Laura is not love. Rage, in fact, means you consider Laura an object you want to grab, something that manages to elude your grasp at the last minute.

Are you saying I see her as an… a…

Let’s say a fish. Which you want to catch with a landing-net. You manage to get the fish to go into the net, but as you’re lifting it out of the water, the fish wiggles out, breaks free, and dives back into the water. And you’re left there like an idiot, with an empty net in your hand. And that’s why you feel enraged.

So what would you call what I feel for her?

Attraction. Desire. Vanity. Or else you see her as a kind of life raft you desperately want to grab hold of to avoid drowning in the seas of old age.

So it’s not love?

No. And you know what I say to you? That if you really were seriously in love with her, you would try and understand her motives and misgivings .

He went on this way for another two hours. When he’d finally emptied the bottle, he laid his head down on his folded arms on the table and fell into a sort of troubled half-sleep.

The cool dawn air woke him up.

He stood up, went into the house, took a nice hot shower, shaved, and drank his customary mugful of espresso.

There was only one question rattling around in his brain: Would he be able to stand never seeing Laura again? Would he have the strength?

He came to the conclusion that he would respect her feelings, would not force her, and would not take any initiatives himself.

But at that moment, he had to find a way to pass the hours until it was time to go to the office. He grabbed Petrarch’s Canzoniere and decided to read it in the early morning light.

He read for a long time, but at a certain point he came to a poem that said:

My ship sails brimful of oblivion

O’er harsh seas on a winter’s night

Between Scylla and Charybdis…

and he had to stop. He had a lump in his throat.

Wasn’t he, too, caught in a sort of sea storm between Scylla and Charybdis?

He closed the book, looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.

At that moment the doorbell rang. Who could it be, so early in the morning? For a split second he hoped it was Laura dropping by before going on duty. He went and opened the door. It was Mimì Augello.

Sleepy, wasted, and unshaven.

“How are you feeling, Mimì?”

“Ground to a pulp.”

His first question was:

“Could I have some coffee?”

The second question was:

“Could I take a shower?”

And the third, and last, was:

“Could I use your razor?”

Finally, clean and refreshed, and sitting down on the veranda, he began to tell his story.

“When you called me yesterday evening, I was already on board and had no excuse for leaving. Why did you do it?”