Angelica's Smile

Praise for Andrea Camilleri and the Montalbano Series

“Camilleri’s Inspector Montalbano mysteries might sell like hotcakes in Europe, but these world-weary crime stories were unknown here until the oversight was corrected (in Stephen Sartarelli’s salty translation) by the welcome publication of
The Shape of Water
. . . . This savagely funny police procedural . . . prove[s] that sardonic laughter is a sound that translates ever so smoothly into English.”

—
The New York Times Book Review

“Hailing from the land of Umberto Eco and La Casa Nostra, Montalbano can discuss a pointy-headed book like
Western Attitudes Toward Death
as unflinchingly as he can pore over crime-scene snuff photos. He throws together an extemporaneous lunch of shrimp with lemon wedges and oil as gracefully as he dodges advances from attractive women.”

—
Los Angeles Times

“[Camilleri’s mysteries] offer quirky characters, crisp dialogue, bright storytelling—and Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging protagonists in detective fiction. . . . Montalbano is a delightful creation, an honest man on Sicily’s mean streets.”

—
USA Today

“Camilleri is as crafty and charming a writer as his protagonist is an investigator.”—
The Washington Post Book World

“Like Mike Hammer or Sam Spade, Montalbano is the kind of guy who can’t stay out of trouble. . . . Still, deftly and lovingly translated by Stephen Sartarelli, Camilleri makes it abundantly clear that under the gruff, sardonic exterior our inspector has a heart of gold, and that any outburst, fumbles, or threats are made only in the name of pursuing truth.”—
The Nation

“Camilleri can do a character’s whole backstory in half a paragraph.”—
The New Yorker

“Subtle, sardonic, and
molto simpatico
: Montalbano is the Latin re-creation of Philip Marlowe, working in a place that manages to be both more and less civilized than Chandler’s Los Angeles.”

—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)

“Wit and delicacy and the fast-cut timing of farce play across the surface . . . but what keeps it from frothing into mere intellectual charm is the persistent, often sexually bemused Montalbano, moving with ease along zigzags created for him, teasing out threads of discrepancy that unravel the whole.”

—
Houston Chronicle

“Sublime and darkly humorous . . . Camilleri balances his hero’s personal and professional challenges perfectly and leaves the reader eager for more.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“The Montalbano mysteries offer
cose dolci
to the world-lit lover hankering for a whodunit.”

—
The Village Voice

“In Sicily, where people do things as they please, Inspector Salvo Montalbano is a bona fide folk hero.”

—
The New York Times Book Review

“The books are full of sharp, precise characterizations and with subplots that make Montalbano endearingly human. . . . Like the antipasti that Montalbano contentedly consumes, the stories are light and easily consumed, leaving one eager for the next course.”

—
New York Journal of Books

“The reading of these little gems is fast and fun every step of the way.”

—
The New York Sun

Also by Andrea Camilleri

Hunting Season

T
HE
I
NSPECTOR
M
ONTALBANO
S
ERIES

The Shape of Water

The Terra-Cotta Dog

The Snack Thief

Voice of the Violin

Excursion to Tindari

The Smell of the Night

Rounding the Mark

The Patience of the Spider

The Paper Moon

August Heat

The Wings of the Sphinx

The Track of Sand

The Potter’s Field

The Age of Doubt

The Dance of the Seagull

Treasure Hunt

A PENGUIN MYSTERY

Elvira Giorgianni

ANGELICA’S SMILE

Andrea Camilleri, a bestseller in Italy and Germany, is the author of the popular Inspector Montalbano mystery series as well as historical novels that take place in nineteenth-century Sicily. His books have been made into Italian TV shows and translated into thirty-two languages. His thirteenth Montalbano novel,
The Potter’s Field
, won the Crime Writers’ Association International Dagger Award and was longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.

Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.

PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

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New York, New York 10014

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

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A Penguin Random House Company

First published in Penguin Books 2014

Copyright © 2010 by Sellerio Editore

Translation copyright © 2014 by Stephen Sartarelli

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Originally published in Italian as
Il sorriso di Angelica
by Sellerio Editore, Palermo.

Excerpts from
Orlando Furioso (The Frenzy of Orlando), A Romantic Epic: Part One
by Ludovico Ariosto, translated with an introduction by Barbara Reynolds (Penguin Classics, 1975). Translation copyright © Barbara Reynolds, 1975. Reprinted by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Camilleri, Andrea.

[Sorriso di Angelica. English]

Angelica’s smile / Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli.

pages cm. — (A Penguin mystery)

ISBN 978-1-101-61325-2 (eBook)

1. Montalbano, Salvo (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Police—Italy—Fiction. 3. Sicily (Italy)—Fiction. I. Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954– translator. II. Title.

PQ4863.A3894S6713 2014

853'.914—dc23 2014005735

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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, how’s I asposta know ’oo this guy is?”

“Is he there or isn’t he?”

“’Oo?”

“The aggrieved party.”

Catarella remained silent.

“Hello?”

Catarella didn’t answer.

Montalbano thought the line had gone dead.

And he fell prey to that tremendous, cosmic, irrational fear that came over him whenever a phone call was cut off, as if he were the last person left alive in the universe.

He started shouting like a madman.

“Hello! Hello!”

“I’m right ’ere, Chief.”

“Why don’t you answer?”

“Chief, promiss ya won’ get upset if I tell yiz I dunno wha’ss a grieve party?”

Calm and patient, Montalbà, calm and patient.

“That’d be the guy who got robbed, Cat.”

“Oh, that guy! Bu’ iss no party f’r ’im, Chief!”

“What’s his name, Cat?”

“’Is name’s Piritone.”

Which in Sicilian means
big fart
. Was it possible?

“Are you sure that’s his name?”

“Sware to Gad, Chief. Carlo Piritone.”

Montalbano felt like screaming. Two Carlos the same morning was too much to bear.

“Is Signor Piritone at the station?”

“Nah, Chief, ’e jess called. ’E lives a’ Via Cavurro, nummer toitteen.”

“Ring him and tell him I’m on my way.”

Livia hadn’t been woken up by either the phone or his yelling.

In her sleep she had a faint smile on her lips.

Maybe she was still dreaming about Carlo. The bitch.

He felt overwhelmed by uncontrollable rage.

Grabbing a chair, he lifted it up and slammed it down on the floor.

Livia woke up suddenly, frightened.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry. I have to go out. I’ll be back for lunch. Ciao.”

He ran out to avoid starting a fight.

Via Cavour was in the part of Vigàta where the rich people lived.

It had been designed by an architect who deserved a life sentence at the very least. One house looked like a Spanish galleon from the days of pirates, while the one beside it was clearly inspired by the Pantheon in Rome . . .

Montalbano pulled up in front of number 13, which looked like the Pyramid of Menkaure, got out of the car, and went into the building. On the left was a little booth of wood and glass with the porter in it.

“Can you tell me what floor Mr. Piritone lives on?”

The porter, a tall, burly man of about fifty who clearly spent a lot of time at the gym, set down the newspaper he was reading, took off his glasses, stood up, opened the door of the booth, and came out.

“No need to bother,” said Montalbano, “all I need is—”

“All you need is for someone to bust your face,” said the porter, raising a clenched fist.

Montalbano cringed and took a step back.

What was this guy’s problem?

“Wait, listen, there must be some kind of misunderstanding. I’m looking for a Signor Piritone and I am—”

“You better make yourself scarce, and fast—I mean it.”

Montalbano lost patience.

“I’m Inspector Montalbano, goddammit!”

The man looked surprised.

“Really?”

“Would you like to see my ID?”

The porter turned red in the face.

“Christ, it’s true! Now I rec’nize ya! I’m sorry, I thought you were somebody tryin’ t’ fuck wit’ me. I apologize, sir. But look, there’s nobody here named Piritone.”

Naturally, Catarella, as usual, had given him the wrong name.

“Is there anyone with a similar name?”

“There’s a
dottor
Peritore.”

“That could be him. What floor?”

“Third.”

The porter walked him to the elevator, endlessly excusing himself and bowing.

It occurred to Montalbano that one of these days Catarella, by screwing up every name he gave him, was going to get him shot by someone who was a little on edge.