Patience of the Spider

09

They arrived in less than half an hour. A uniformed policeman from Montelusa who didn’t know the inspector opened the gate. He let the doctor pass and then blocked Montalbano’s car.

“Who are you?”

“What I wouldn’t give to know! Let’s just say that, conventionally speaking, I’m Inspector Montalbano.” The policeman gave him a puzzled look, but let him drive through. In the living room they found only Minutolo and Fazio.

“Where is my brother?” the doctor asked.

“Listen,” said Minutolo, “when listening to the phone call he nearly passed out. So I went upstairs to call the nurse, who roused him and persuaded him to go lie down.”

“I’m going upstairs,” said the doctor.

And he left, bag in hand. Fazio, meanwhile, had set up the equipment near the telephone.

“This one’s also a recorded message,” Minutolo began.

“And this time they get to the point. Listen, and we’ll talk afterwards.”

Pay close attention. Susanna’s health is fine, but she’s feeling desperate because she wishes she could be at her mother’s side.

Get six billion lire ready. I repeat, six billion lire.The Mistrettas know where to find it. Goodbye.

The same disguised male voice that was in the first recording.

“Did you manage to trace the call?” Montalbano asked.

“You ask such useless questions!” Minutolo retorted.

“This time they didn’t let us hear Susanna’s voice.”

“Right.”

“And they talk in lire.”

“How did you expect them to talk?” Minutolo asked sar-castically.

“In euros.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“No, it’s not. Unless you belong to that class of shopkeepers who think a thousand lire’s the same as a euro.”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing, just an impression.”

“Say it.”

“The person sending the message still thinks the old way.

It’s comes more naturally to him to count in lire instead of euros. He didn’t say ‘three million euros,’ he said six billion lire. In short, it seems to me that the man on the phone is of a certain age.” “Or he’s clever enough to have us thinking that way,” said Minutolo. “He’s taking us for a ride the way he did when he scattered the helmet and backpack at the opposite ends of town.” “Can I go outside for a bit? I need some air,” said Fazio.

“I’ll be back in five minutes. In any case, if the phone rings, you’re here to pick up.”

Not that he really needed to go out. He just didn’t feel right, listening to a conversation between his superiors.

“Go ahead, go ahead,” Minutolo and Montalbano said in unison.

“But there is something new, and rather serious, in my opinion, in that phone call,” Minutolo resumed.

“Right,” said Montalbano. “The kidnapper is certain that the Mistrettas know where to find six billion lire.”

“Whereas we haven’t the slightest idea.”

“But we could.”

“How?”

“By putting ourselves in the kidnappers’ shoes.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Not in the least. What I mean is that we, too, could force the Mistrettas to take the necessary steps in the right direction, the one that leads to the possible ransom money. And those steps might clear up a whole lot of things for us.” “I don’t understand.”

“Let me sum it up for you. The kidnappers knew right from the start that the Mistrettas were not in any position to pay a ransom, and yet they kidnapped the girl anyway. Why?

Because they also knew that the Mistrettas could, if necessary, get their hands on a large sum of money. Do you agree so far?”

“Yes.”

“Mind you, the kidnappers are not the only ones who know that the Mistrettas can do this.”

“They’re not?”

“No.”

“And how do you know?”

“Fazio reported two strange phone calls to me. Have him repeat them to you.”

“And why didn’t he report them to me?”

“It must have slipped his mind,” Montalbano lied.

“Concretely speaking, what should I do?”

“Have you informed the judge of this last message?”

“Not yet. I’ll do it right now.”

He made as if to lift the receiver.

“Wait. You should suggest to him that, since the kidnappers have now made a specific request, he should put a restraining order on the assets of Mr. and Mrs. Mistretta, and then report this measure to the press.” “What would we gain from that? The Mistrettas don’t have a cent, and everybody knows it. It would be a pure formality.”

“Of course. It would be a pure formality if it remained between you, me, the judge, and the Mistrettas. But I said the measure should be made known to the public. Public opinion may be full of shit, as some maintain, but it matters. And the public will begin to wonder if it’s true that the Mistrettas know where to find the money, and if so, they’ll ask themselves why they don’t do what they need to do to get their hands on it. It’s possible the kidnappers themselves will have to tell the Mistrettas what they need to do. And something will finally come out in the open. Because, on the face of it, my friend, this doesn’t look to me like a simple kidnapping.” “What is it, then?”

“I don’t know. It gives me the impression of a billiards game, where one banks a shot off the cushion in front so that the ball will end up on the opposite side.”

“You know what I say? As soon as he recovers a little, I’m going to put the squeeze on Susanna’s father.”

“Go ahead. But keep one thing in mind. Even if, five minutes from now, we learn the truth from the Mistrettas, the judge must still proceed the way we said. With your permission, I’ll speak with the doctor as soon as he comes downstairs.

I was at his house when Fazio called. He was telling me some interesting things, and I think the conversation is worth continuing.”

At that moment Carlo Mistretta entered the room.

“Is it true they asked for six billion lire?”

“Yes,” said Minutolo.

“My poor niece!” the doctor exclaimed.

“Come, let’s go have a breath of air,” Montalbano invited him.

The doctor followed him outside as though sleepwalking.

They sat down on a bench. Montalbano saw Fazio hurry back into the living room. He was about to open his mouth when the doctor again beat him to it.

“The phone call my brother just described to me relates directly to what I was telling you at my place.”

“I’m sure it does,” said the inspector. “I think, therefore, that if you feel up to it, you need to—”

“I feel up to it. Where were we?”

“Your brother and his wife had just moved to Uruguay.”

“Oh, yes. Less than a year later, Giulia wrote a long letter to Antonio, suggesting he come join them in Uruguay. The work prospects were excellent, the country was growing fast, and Salvatore had won the esteem of many important people and was in a position to help him . . . I forgot to mention that Antonio had got a degree in civil engineering—you know, bridges, viaducts, roads . . . Well, he accepted and came. In the early going, my sister-in-law supported him unstintingly. He remained in Uruguay for five years. Just think, they’d bought two apartments in the same building in Montevideo so they could be close to one another. Among other things, Salvatore sometimes had to leave home for months at a time for work, and he felt reassured to know that he wasn’t leaving his young wife alone. Anyway, to make a long story short, during those five years, Antonio made a fortune. Not so much as an engineer, the way my brother tells it, but through his skill in manipulating the various ‘free zones’ that were so numerous over there . . . which was a more or less legal way of evading taxes.” “Why did he leave?”

“He said he was terribly homesick for Sicily. And he couldn’t stand being away any longer. And that, with all the money he now had, he could start up his own business over here. My brother later suspected, though not at the time, that there was a more serious reason.” “What was that?”

“That maybe he’d made a wrong move and feared for his life. In the two months prior to his departure, his moods had become impossible, though Giulia and Salvatore attributed this to the fact that he was leaving soon. They were like a single family. And Giulia, in fact, suffered a great deal when her brother left. So much, in fact, that Salvatore accepted an offer to go work in Brazil just so that she could live in a new and different environment.” “And they didn’t see each other again until—”

“Are you kidding? Aside from the fact that they continually called and wrote to each other, Giulia and Salvatore came to Italy at least once every two years and spent their vacations with Antonio. Just think, when Susanna was born . . .” At the mention of her name, the doctor’s voice cracked. “. . . When Susanna was born rather late in their marriage—they’d given up hope of having children—they brought the baby here so she could be baptized by Antonio, who was too busy to travel.

Eight years ago, my brother and Giulia finally moved back.

They were tired. They’d been all over South America and they wanted Susanna to grow up in Italy. On top of this, Salvatore had managed to put aside a good deal of money.”

“Could you say he was a rich man?”

“Frankly, yes. And it was I who took care of everything. I invested his savings in stocks, land, real estate . . . As soon as they arrived, Antonio announced that he was engaged and would soon be married. The news took Giulia entirely by surprise. Why hadn’t her brother ever mentioned having a girlfriend he intended to marry? She had her answer when Antonio introduced Valeria, his future wife, to her. A beautiful child, barely twenty years old. Antonio, by this point, was pushing fifty, and he went head over heels for the girl.” “Are they still married?” Montalbano asked with involun-tary malice.

“Yes. But Antonio quickly discovered that to hold on to her, he had to cover her in gifts and fulfill her every desire.”

“Did he ruin himself?”

“No, that’s not what happened. ‘Operation Clean Hands’

happened.”

“Wait a minute,” Montalbano interrupted. “Operation Clean Hands started in Milan over ten years ago, when your brother and his wife were still abroad. And before Antonio got married.” “True. But you know how things go in Italy, don’t you?

Everything that happens up north—Fascism, liberation, industrialization—takes a long time to reach us. Like a long, lazy wave. Anyway, a few magistrates finally woke up down here as well. And Antonio had won quite a few government contracts. Don’t ask me how, because I don’t know and I don’t want to know, though it’s not hard to imagine.” “Was he investigated?”

“He made the first move himself. He’s a very clever man.

To save himself from an eventual investigation that would surely have led to his arrest and conviction, he needed to make some papers disappear. He confessed this, in tears, to his sister, one evening six years ago. And he added that the operation would cost him two billion lire, which he needed to find in a month’s time, because he didn’t have the cash at that moment and didn’t want to borrow from the banks. Those were days when anything he did could be interpreted the wrong way.

He said the whole thing almost made him laugh—or cry—

because two billion lire was a trifle compared to the huge sums that often passed through his hands. And yet those two billion lire represented his salvation. And they would, of course, be only a loan. He pledged to repay the entire sum within three months, supplemented by any losses incurred by the hasty sell-off. Giulia and my brother stayed up an entire night discussing this. Salvatore would have given the shirt off his back to keep his wife from despairing. The following morning they phoned me and told me of Antonio’s request.” “And what did you do?”

“I must confess that I reacted badly at first. Then I had an idea.”

“What?”

“I said the request seemed senseless, insane, to me. All he needed was to have Valeria sell her Ferrari, her boat, and some jewelry, and they would have their two million quite easily.

Or, if he had trouble reaching that figure, Giulia and Salvatore could make up the difference. But only the difference. In short, I was trying to limit the damage.”

“Did you succeed?”

“No. That same day, Giulia and Salvatore spoke with Antonio and told him about my offer. But Antonio started crying. During that period tears came easily to him. He said that if he accepted, not only would he lose Valeria, but word would get around and he would lose his good standing in the community. People would start saying he was on the verge of bankruptcy. And so my brother decided to sell everything.” “How much did they get for it, out of curiosity?”

“One billion seven hundred and fifty million lire. By the end of the month they no longer had anything, just Salvatore’s pension.”

“Another thing, also out of curiosity, sorry. Do you know how Antonio reacted, when he was given less than the sum he’d asked for?”

“But he got the two million he’d asked for!”

“Who made up the difference?”

“Do I really have to say?”

“Yes.”

“I did,” the doctor said reluctantly.

“And what happened next?”

“After the three months had gone by, Giulia asked her brother if he could pay back the loan, at least in part. Antonio asked her if they could delay it a week. Mind you, they had nothing in writing: no agreements, no promissory notes, nothing. The only document was a receipt for the two hundred fifty million lire my brother had insisted on giving me. Four days later,Antonio was indicted for a variety of things, including corruption of a public official, fraudulent balance sheets, and so on. After five months had passed, Giulia, who’d been wanting to send Susanna to an exclusive boarding school in Florence, asked again for some of the money back, only to have Antonio reply rudely that this was not the right time for it. And so Susanna stayed here to study. Well, in short, the right time never came.” “Are you telling me those two billion lire were never re-paid?”

“Precisely. Antonio beat the rap at his trial, quite probably because he’d managed to get rid of the incriminating documents, but one of his businesses mysteriously went bankrupt. Then, by some sort of domino effect, his other businesses all met the same end. Everybody got screwed: creditors, suppliers, employees, everyone. What’s more, his wife caught the gambling bug and lost incredible sums of cash. Then, three years ago, Giulia and Antonio had a terrible row, after which they stopped speaking to one another.

That was when Giulia first got sick. She no longer wanted to live. And, as I’m sure you understand, it wasn’t simply a matter of money.”

“How’s Antonio’s business doing now?”

“Splendidly. Two years ago he got his hands on some new capital. Personally, I think the bankruptcies were all staged, and in reality he illegally transferred his money abroad. Then, with the new law, he brought it back in, paid his percentage, and put his affairs in order—like all the other crooks who did the same thing, once the law legalized what had once been illegal. Now, because of the earlier bankruptcies, all his businesses are in his wife’s name. As for us, I repeat: We haven’t seen a cent.” “What’s Antonio’s surname?”

“Peruzzo. Antonio Peruzzo.”

Montalbano knew that name. Fazio had mentioned it when reporting the phone call from a former “administrative employee at Peruzzo’s” who’d wanted to remind Susanna’s father that too much pride was a bad thing. It was all starting to make sense.

“You do realize,” the doctor went on, “that Giulia’s illness complicates the present situation.”

“In what way?”

“A mother is always a mother.”

“Whereas a father is only sometimes a father?” the inspector retorted brusquely, feeling slightly irritated by the cliché.

“I meant that with Susanna’s life in danger, if Giulia weren’t so sick, she wouldn’t have hesistated a second to ask Antonio for help.”

“And you think your brother won’t?”

“Salvatore has a lot of pride.”

The same word the former Peruzzo employee used.

“So you think there’s no way he would ever give in?”

“My God, ‘no way,’ I can’t say. Maybe, if put under enough pressure . . .”

“Like receiving one of his daughter’s ears in the mail?” He’d said it on purpose. The whole manner in which the doctor had set about telling the story had put his nerves on edge. The man acted like he had nothing to do with any of it, even though he’d personally thrown in two hundred and fifty million lire. He only got upset when Susanna’s name was mentioned. This time, however, the doctor gave such a start that Montalbano could feel it in the bench they were sitting on, which shook a little.

“Would they go so far?”

“They could go even farther than that, if they want.” He’d succeeded in rousing the doctor. In the wan light filtering out the living room’s French doors, he saw him reach into his pocket, pull out a handkerchief, and wipe his brow.

What he needed to do now was to pry open the chink he’d opened in Carlo Mistretta’s armor.

“I’m going to tell it to you straight, Doctor. The way things stand right now, we haven’t the slightest idea who the kidnappers are or where they’re keeping Susanna prisoner.

Not even a vague idea, despite the fact that we’ve found your niece’s helmet and backpack. Did you know we’d found them?”

“No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.” A long, deep silence ensued. Because Montalbano was waiting for the doctor to ask a question. A natural question that any other person would have asked. The doctor, however, didn’t open his mouth. So the inspector decided to go on.

“If your brother doesn’t take the initiative, the kidnappers could take that as a sign that he’s not willing to cooperate.”

“What can we do?”

“Try to persuade your brother to make some overture to Antonio.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“Tell him that otherwise you’ll have to make the overture yourself. Or is it too hard for you, too?”

“Well, yes, it’s very difficult for me too, you know. But certainly not as hard as it is for Salvatore.” He stood up stiffly.

“Shall we go back inside?”

“I think I’d like to get a little more air.”

“Well, I’m going in. I’ll go see how Giulia’s doing, and if Salvatore’s awake, which I doubt, I’ll tell him what you said to me. If not, I’ll tell him tomorrow morning. Good night.” Montalbano didn’t have the time to finish a cigarette before he saw the doctor’s silhouette come out of the living room, slip into his SUV, and drive off.

Apparently Salvatore hadn’t been awake and the doctor hadn’t been able to talk to him.

The inspector got up and went into the house. Fazio was reading a newspaper, Minutolo had his head buried in a novel, and the uniformed policeman was looking at a travel magazine.

“Sorry to disrupt the quiet contemplation of your reading group,” said Montalbano. Then, turning to Minutolo, “I need to talk to you.”

They withdrew into a corner of the room, and the inspector told him everything he’d learned from the doctor.

o o o

While driving home, he glanced at his watch. Christ, was it late! Surely Livia’d already gone to bed. So much the better, because if she was still up, the usual squabble, sure as death, was bound to break out. He opened the door gently. The house was dark, but the outside light on the veranda was on. And there was Livia, in a heavy sweater, sitting on the bench in front of half a glass of wine.

Montalbano bent down to kiss her.

“Forgive me.”

She returned his kiss. The inspector heard singing in his head. There would be no quarrel tonight. Livia, however, seemed melancholy.

“Did you stay home waiting for me?”

“No. Beba called and told me Mimì was in the hospital.

So I went to see him.”

1 2 6

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10

A sudden pang of jealousy. Absurd, of course, but he couldn’t help it. Could Livia be melancholy because Mimì lay in a hospital bed?

“How is he?”

“He’s got two broken ribs. They’re discharging him to morrow. He’ll have to take care of himself at home.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes, I couldn’t wait any longer,” said Livia, getting up.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to warm up some—”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll get some stuff from the fridge.” He returned with a dish covered with green and black olives and Ragusan caciocavallo. In his other hand, a glass and a bottle of wine. The bread he’d slipped under his arm. He sat down. Livia gazed at the sea.

“I can’t stop thinking about that girl who was kidnapped,” she said without turning, “and something you said to me the first time we talked about it.” In a way, Montalbano felt reassured. Livia’s melancholy was not for Mimì but for Susanna.

“What did I say?”

“That the day she was kidnapped, she went to her boyfriend’s apartment to make love.”

“So?”

“But you told me that normally it was always the boy who had to ask; whereas that day, Susanna herself took the initiative.”

“What does that mean, in your opinion?”

“That maybe she had a premonition of what was going to happen.”

Montalbano said nothing. He didn’t believe in premonitions, prophetic dreams, or things of that nature.

After a brief silence, Livia asked:

“Are you getting anywhere?”

“Just two hours ago, I had neither compass nor sextant.”

“And now you’ve got both?”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

He began telling her what he’d learned. When he’d finished speaking, Livia looked puzzled.

“I really don’t see what conclusions you can draw from the story this Dr. Mistretta told you.”

“No conclusions at all, Livia. But it provides many starting points, many indications that I didn’t have before.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact—and I’m convinced of this—that they wanted to kidnap not the daughter of Salvatore Mistretta but the niece of Antonio Peruzzo. He’s the one with the dough. And there’s no saying she was kidnapped only for the ransom money; there’s also the revenge motive. When Peruzzo went bankrupt, he must have messed up many people’s lives. And the kidnappers’ strategy is to drag Antonio Peruzzo slowly into the middle of this. Slowly, so that nobody realizes that they wanted to get to him from the start. Whoever organized this kidnapping knew what had happened between Antonio and his sister; they knew that Antonio was beholden to the Mistrettas, and that, as Susanna’s godfather, he was responsible . . .” He trailed off, wanting to bite his tongue. Livia cast a placid glance at him; she looked like an angel.

“Why don’t you continue? Did you suddenly remember that you yourself want to become the godfather at the baptism of a criminal’s son, and that you may soon have some serious responsibilities of your own?” “Can we please drop that subject?”

“No, I think we should explore it.”

They explored it, squabbled, made peace, and went to bed.

At three twenty-seven and forty seconds, time’s mechanism jammed again. But this time the clack sounded far away, and only half woke him up.

o o o

It was as if the inspector had spoken to crows. (Indeed, people in Vigàta and environs believe that to those who can understand them, these black birds, garrulous creatures that they are, communicate the latest news on the doings of human beings, since they have a clear view—a bird’s-eye view, in fact—of the whole.) What happened was that around ten o’clock the following morning, when Montalbano was in his office, the bomb exploded. Minutolo called.

“Do you know what’s up at TeleVigàta?”

“No. Why?”

“They’ve interrupted all their programming. There’s only a notice saying that in ten minutes there’s going to be a special edition of the news.”

“I guess they’re acquiring a taste for it.” He hung up and rang Nicolò Zito.

“What’s this business about a special news broadcast at TeleVigàta?”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Have the kidnappers got back in touch with you?”

“No. But since we gave them no satisfaction last time . . .” The inspector went to the café near the station. The television was on, displaying a notice for the upcoming broadcast.

Some thirty people had gathered round, also awaiting the special edition. Apparently word had spread fast. The notice then disappeared, and the TeleVigàta News logo appeared, with the words Special Edition underneath. When all this disappeared, the chicken-ass face of Pippo Ragonese appeared.

“Dear viewers, about an hour ago, in the morning mail, our editorial offices received a perfectly normal-looking envelope, posted in Vigàta, with no return address, and with our address written in block letters. Inside was a Polaroid snapshot of Susanna Mistretta, who is being held prisoner. We cannot show it to you because we had it sent immediately to the magistrate conducting the investigation, as it was our legal duty to do. On the other hand, we believe it is our journalistic duty to inform you of this development. Susanna is shown at the bottom of some sort of dry well, wearing a heavy chain around her ankle.

She is neither blindfolded nor gagged. She is sitting on the ground, atop some rags, her arms around her knees, and looking up with tears in her eyes. On the back of the photo, also in block letters, are the enigmatic words: ‘ To the person concerned. ’ ” He paused, and the camera zoomed in on him. A very close close-up. Montalbano had the distinct impression that at any moment a nice warm egg might come out of Ragonese’s mouth.

“The instant we first learned of the girl’s kidnapping, our hard-working editorial staff sprang into action. What point was there, we asked ourselves, in kidnapping a girl whose family is in no way able to pay any ransom? Thus we immediately steered our investigation in what turned out to be the right direction.” Like hell you did, asshole! Montalbano said to himself. You immediately fingered the immigrants!

“And today we’ve come up with a name,” Ragonese continued, his voice sounding like something out of a horror film. “The name of the person who is in a position to pay the ransom demanded. He is not the girl’s father, but perhaps her godfather. The words on the back of the photo, To the person concerned, are addressed to him. Out of our longstanding and continuous respect for privacy, we won’t mention his name.

But we implore him to intervene, as he can and must, without any further delay.”

Ragonese’s face disappeared, and a hush came over the café. Montalbano left and returned to his office. The kidnappers had got what they wanted. He’d barely sat down when Minutolo called again.

“Montalbano? The judge just sent me the photo that asshole was talking about. Do you want to see it?”

o o o

Minutolo was alone in the villa’s living room.

“Where’s Fazio?”

“He went into town. He had to go sign something for some bank account of his,” Minutolo replied, handing him the photo.

“Where’s the envelope?”

“Forensics kept it.”

The photo looked a bit different from the way Ragonese had described it. First of all, it was obvious she was not in a well, but in some sort of cement vat or cistern a good ten feet deep. It clearly hadn’t been used for a long time, because on the left-hand side there was a long crack that started at the very top and ran about a foot and half downward, growing wider at the end.

Susanna was in the position he’d described, but she wasn’t crying. On the contrary. In her expression Montalbano noticed a determination even stronger than he’d seen in the other photo. She was sitting not on rags, but on an old mattress. And there was no chain around her ankle. Ragonese had made it up, no doubt to add color. In any case, never in a million years could the girl escape on her own. Beside her, but almost outside the frame, were a dish and a plastic glass. She was wearing the clothes she’d had on when she was abducted.

“Has her father seen this?”

“Are you kidding? Not only have I not let him see the photo, I haven’t let him watch TV. I told the nurse not to let him out of his room.”

“Did you inform the uncle?”

“Yes, but he said he couldn’t come for another two hours.”

As he asked his questions, the inspector kept looking at the photograph.

“They’re probably keeping her in a rainwater cistern that’s no longer in use,” said Minutolo.

“Out in the country?”

“Well, yes. They probably used to have these kinds of tanks here in town, but now I don’t think it’s very likely. Anyway, she’s not gagged. She could scream if she wanted to. If she was in some inhabited area, people would hear her.” “She’s also not wearing a blindfold, for that matter.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, Salvo. They could put on ski masks when they go visit her.”

“They must have used a ladder to put her down there,” said Montalbano. “Which they lower whenever she needs to come up. And they probably feed her by lowering a basket on a rope.” “If we’re in agreement, then,” said Minutolo, “I’ll ask the commissioner to intensify the searches across the countryside.

Especially around farmhouses. The photo, at least, was good for one thing: We know now she’s not being held in a cave.” Montalbano was about to hand back the photograph, but changed his mind and continued to study it carefully.

“Something not look right to you?”

“The light,” replied Montalbano.

“They probably just put a lamp down there.”

“Okay. But not just any lamp.”

“You’re not going to tell me they used a floodlight!”

“No. They used one of those lights that mechanics use . . .

You know, when they need to look at a motor in a garage . . .

One of those with a long cord . . . See these regular lines of shadow that intersect? They’re a projection of the broad-mesh screen that protects the lightbulb.”

“And so?”

“But that’s not the light that doesn’t look right to me.

There must be some other light source, because it’s casting a shadow on the rim across from it. See? The person taking the photo is not standing on the edge, but beside it, and he’s leaning forward to take the shot of Susanna below. This means that the sides of the cistern are quite thick and slightly above ground level. To cast this sort of shadow, the man taking the snapshot must have some kind of light behind him. But, mind you, if it was an intense light, the shadow would be deeper and more sharply defined.” “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“There was an open window behind the photographer.”

“So?”

“So does it seem logical to you for them to photograph a kidnapped girl with the window open and not put a gag on her?”

“But that merely confirms my hypothesis! They’re holding her at some godforsaken country farmhouse, and she can scream all she wants! Nobody will hear her, even with all the windows open!” “Bah,” said Montalbano, flipping the photo over.

to the person concerned

Written in block letters with a ballpoint pen by someone clearly accustomed to writing in Italian. Still, there was something odd, something forced, about the handwriting.

“I also noticed,” said Minutolo. “He didn’t try to falsify his handwriting. It looks rather like somebody left-handed trying to write with his right hand.”

“To me it looks like it was written slowly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t really explain it. It’s as though somebody with bad, almost illegible handwriting had forced himself to trace every letter clearly, and thus had to slow down his normal writing speed. Then there’s another thing. The letter T beginning the word the is written over something, as if to correct it. One can clearly see that a W was written there first.

He’d probably intended to write ‘To whom it may concern,’

then changed it to ‘To the person concerned.’ Which is more precise. The person who kidnapped Susanna or masterminded the operation is not just any old thug but someone who understands the importance of words.” “You really are very good,” said Minutolo. “But as things stand now, where do your deductions lead us?”

“As things stand now, nowhere.”

“Then shall we try to think about what we need to do? In my opinion, the first thing is to get in touch with Antonio Peruzzo. Do you agree?”

“Absolutely. Have you got his number?”

“Yes. While I was waiting for you, I did a little research.

At present Peruzzo has three or four businesses that are sub-sidiary to a kind of central office in Vigàta, called Progresso Italia.”

Montalbano sneered.

“What’s wrong?”

“How could it be otherwise? In perfect keeping with the times. Italy’s progress is in the hands of a crook!”

“You’re wrong, because officially everything’s in his wife’s name, Valeria Cusumano. Although I’m convinced the lady has never set foot in that office.”

“Okay, call him up.”

“No, you call him. Set up an appointment and go talk to him. Here’s the number.”

The scrap of paper Minutolo handed him had four phone numbers on it. The inspector chose to dial the one for “Se-nior Management.”

“Hello? This is Inspector Montalbano. I need to speak with Antonio Peruzzo.”

“Mr. Peruzzo’s out.”

Montalbano felt his nerves begin to fray.

“Out of the office? Out of town? Out of his mind? Out of—”

“Out of town,” the secretary cut him off coldly, sounding a bit miffed.

“When will he be back?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Where did he go?”

“To Palermo.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“At the Excelsior.”

“Has he got a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Please give me the number.”

“I really don’t know if—”

“Okay, you know what I’m going to do?” Montalbano said in the sinister tone of someone unsheathing a dagger in the shadows. “I’m going to go there and ask him for it myself.” “No! Okay, here it is.”

He wrote it down and phoned the hotel.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Peruzzo is not in his room.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Actually, he wasn’t even here last night.” The cell phone was turned off.

“Well, what do we do now?” asked Minutolo.

“We jerk off big-time,” said Montalbano, still on edge.

At that moment Fazio appeared.

“The whole town’s abuzz with rumors! Everybody’s talking about Engineer Peruzzo, the girl’s uncle. Even though they didn’t say his name on TV, everyone knew they meant him. Two factions have formed; one group says the engineer has got to pay the ransom, and the other says he’s under no obligation to his niece. But the first group’s a lot bigger. They almost came to blows at the Café Castiglione.” “Well, they’ve managed to screw Peruzzo,” was Montalbano’s comment.

“I’m going to have the phones bugged,” said Minutolo.

o o o

It didn’t take long for the rain falling from heaven onto Antonio Peruzzo to turn into the Great Flood. And this time, the engineer hadn’t had enough time to build himself an ark.

o o o

To all the faithful who went to the church to ask him his opinion, Father Stanzillà, the oldest and wisest priest in town, said there was no doubt about it, human or divine: The uncle must pay the ransom, since he was made the child’s godfather at her baptism. Moreover, by shelling out the money the kidnappers were asking, he would only be repaying the girl’s mother and father the huge sum he had pried away from them by deceit. And the priest told everyone about the two-billion-lire loan, a matter he knew all about, down to its finest details.

In short, he added a good dose of fuel to the fire. It was a good thing for Montalbano that Livia didn’t have any churchgoing girlfriends who could tell her what Father Stanzillà thought of the whole affair.

o o o

On the Free Channel News, Nicolò Zito announced to one and all that Antonio Peruzzo, in the face of this specific obligation, was suddenly nowhere to be found. Once again, the engineer had behaved true to form.This flight from a life-and-death matter, however, not only did not absolve him of his responsibility, it made it weigh all the more heavily upon him.

o o o

On TeleVigàta, Pippo Ragonese proclaimed that since Peruzzo was a victim of the communist judiciary who had managed to remake his fortune thanks to the new government’s initiatives to spur private enterprise, it was his moral duty to show that the confidence the banks and institutions had placed in him was well-founded. Especially since rumor had it—and it was certainly no secret—that he was considering running for public office among the ranks of those currently renovating Italy. Any gesture that could be interpreted as a re-jection of public opinion on his part could have fatal consequences for his political aspirations.

o o o

Titomanlio Giarrizzo, venerable former presiding judge of the Court of Montelusa, declared in an unwavering voice to his associates at the local chess club that if the kidnappers had appeared before his bench, he would have condemned them to the harshest of punishments but also praised them for having exposed the true face of that notorious scallywag, “Engineer” Antonio Peruzzo.

o o o

And Signora Concetta Pizzicato, who had a stand at the fish market with a sign that read cuncetta the clairvoyant fortune-teller’s live fish, replied to any and all who asked if Peruzzo would pay the ransom: “Cu al sangu sò fa mali morii> mangiatu da li maiali,” or “He who harms his own flesh and blood/ shall be eaten by pigs and die.”

o o o

“Hello? Progresso Italia? This is Inspector Montalbano. Have you heard from Engineer Peruzzo, by any chance?”

“No. No news.”

It was the same girl as before, except that now there was a shrill, almost hysterical tone to her voice.

“I’ll call back.”

“No, please, look, it’s useless. Mr. Nicotra has ordered all telephones to be cut off in ten minutes.”

“Why?”

“We’re getting dozens and dozens of calls . . . full of insults . . . obscenities.”

The girl was about to burst into tears.

1 3 9

0p>

11

Around five in the afternoon Gallo reported to Montalbano that a nasty rumor had spread about town which, if there was still any need, turned everyone against Antonio Peruzzo. The gossip had it that the engineer, to get out of paying the ransom, had asked a judge to freeze his assets. And that the judge had refused. The story didn’t seem to hold water, but the inspector decided to check it out anyway.

“Minutolo? Montalbano here. Do you know, by any chance, what the judge intends to do about Peruzzo?”

“Look, he just called me up and was beside himself.

Somebody told him there was a rumor—”

“I’ve already heard.”

“Well, he told me he’s had no contact of any sort, either direct or indirect, with Peruzzo. And that, for the moment, at least, he’s not authorized to freeze the assets of any of the Mistrettas’ family, friends, acquaintances, or neigh-bors . . . He went on and on, like a river overflowing its banks.” “Listen, have you still got Susanna’s photo?”

“Yes.”

“Could you lend it to me till tomorrow? I want to have a better look at it. I’ll send Gallo for it.”

“Still fixated on that business about the light?”

“Yes.”

It was a lie. The point wasn’t the light, but the shadow.

“Okay, Montalbano, but don’t lose it. I mean it. Otherwise, who’s going to deal with the judge?”

o o o

“Here’s the photo,” said Gallo half an hour later, handing him an envelope.

“Thanks. Send Catarella in here.”

Catarella arrived in a flash, tongue hanging out, like a dog responding to his master’s whistle.

“Your orders, Chief!”

“Listen, Cat, that trusty friend of yours . . . the guy who’s really good with photographs and can blow them up . . . what’s his name?”

“His name’s Cicco De Cicco his name is, Chief.”

“Is he still at Montelusa Central?”

“Yessir, Chief. Still posted at his post.”

“Excellent. Have Imbrò man the switchboard and go take this photo to him. Let me explain exactly what I want him to do.”

o o o

“There’s some kid wants to talk to you. His name’s Francesco Lipari.”

“Let him in.”

Francesco had lost weight. The dark circles under his eyes now took up half his face. He looked like the Masked Man of comic book fame.

“Have you seen the photo?” he asked without saying hello.

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

“Look, to begin with, she wasn’t in chains, as that asshole Ragonese claimed. And she’s not in a well, but inside an empty cistern at least ten feet deep. Given the circumstances, she looked like she was doing all right.” “Could I see the picture?”

“If you’d come earlier . . . I just sent it to Montelusa for an analysis.”

“What kind of analysis?”

He couldn’t very well tell Francesco everything he had in mind.

“It’s not about Susanna, but the place where they’re keeping her.”

“Can you tell if . . . if they’ve hurt her?”

“I really don’t think so.”

“Could you see her face?”

“Of course.”

“How did her eyes look?”

This kid was going to make a really good cop.

“She wasn’t scared. That’s probably the first thing I noticed. In fact, her expression looked very . . .”

“Determined?” said Francesco Lipari.

“Exactly.”

“I know her. It means she’s not giving in to her situation, and that sooner or later she’s going to try to escape. The kidnappers will have to watch her very closely.” He paused. Then he asked: “Do you think Peruzzo will pay up?” “The way things are going, he’s got no choice but to cough up the money.”

“Did you know that Susanna never said anything to me about this business between her mother and her uncle? I felt sort of bad when I heard about it.”

“Why?”

“Because I felt like she couldn’t confide in me.”

o o o

When Francesco left the office, feeling a little more relieved than when he’d entered, Montalbano sat there thinking about what the kid had just told him. There was no question that Susanna was courageous, and her look in the photo confirmed this. Courageous and resolved. Then why had her voice sounded so desperate when she asked for help in that first phone call? Was there not a contradiction between the voice and the image? Perhaps only an apparent contradiction.

The telephone recording was probably made only a few hours after she’d been kidnapped, when Susanna hadn’t yet regained control of herself and was still suffering from severe shock.

One can’t be courageous nonstop, twenty-four hours a day.

This was the only possible explanation.

o o o

“Chief, Cicco De Cicco says he’s gonna get on it straightaway and so the pitchers’ll be ready round nine aclack t’morrow morning.”

“I want you to pick them up yourself.”

Catarella suddenly assumed a mysterious manner, leaned forward, and said in a low voice:

“Are wese the only twos that knows about this, Chief?” Montalbano nodded, and Catarella walked out of the office stiff-legged, knees straight, arms swinging out from his sides with fingers spread. The pride of sharing a secret with his boss had changed him from a dog into a strutting peacock.

o o o

The inspector got in his car to go home, lost in thought. But could that confused tangle of meaningless words and indefin-able images that passed now and then through his head be really called thought? His mind seemed to have gone awry like a television set when the picture breaks apart into a sort of grainy zigzag of muddled interference that prevents you from watching what you want to watch and at the same time gives you a faded image of another simultaneous program, and you’re forced to fiddle with the settings, trying to find the cause of the disturbance and to make it go away.

Suddenly Montalbano no longer knew where he was. He no longer recognized the habitual landscape along the road to Marinella. The houses were different, the shops were different, the people were different. Jesus, where had he ended up?

He must certainly have made a wrong turn. But how was that possible, since he’d been taking this road at least twice a day for years?

He pulled over, stopped, had a look around, and then understood. Without realizing or wanting to, he’d taken the road to the Mistrettas’ villa. For a brief moment, his hands on the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals had acted on their own, without his taking the slightest notice. This happened to him sometimes. That is, his body would do things quite independently, as though not connected to his brain.

And when it did this, there was no point in opposing it, because there always turned out to be a reason.

What to do now? Turn around or continue? Naturally, he continued.

When he entered the living room, there were seven people there listening to Minutolo. They were standing around a big table that had been moved from its corner to the middle of the room. Spread out on the table was a giant map of Vigàta and surroundings, a military sort of map that showed everything down to the street lamps and back alleys where only dogs and goats went to pee.

From his headquarters, Commander-in-Chief Minutolo ordered his men to conduct more intensive, and hopefully fruitful, searches. Fazio was in his usual place. By this point he had merged with the armchair in front of the little table holding the telephone and its related contraptions. Minutolo looked surprised to see Montalbano. Fazio made as if to get up.

“What is it? Did something happen?” asked Minutolo.

“No, no, it’s nothing,” said Montalbano, who was just as surprised to find himself there.

Some of those present greeted him, and he replied vaguely.

“I’m giving out orders for—” Minutolo began.

“I can see that,” said Montalbano.

“ ‘Did you wish to say something?” Minutolo politely invited him.

“Yes. No shooting. For any reason.”

“May I ask why?”

The question had been asked by a young guy, an up-and-coming assistant inspector, well-dressed, quick-tongued, and well-toned, with a lock of hair falling rakishly onto his forehead. He looked like a social-climbing business type. One saw so many of his ilk nowadays. A rapidly proliferating race of assholes. Montalbano took an immediate dislike to him.

“Because once, somebody like you shot and killed some wretch who had kidnapped a girl. The search went on, but in vain. The only person who could say where the girl was being held could no longer speak. She was found a month later, bound hand and foot, dead of starvation and dehydration. Satisfied?” A heavy silence descended. Why the hell had he come back to the villa? Was he, the old cop, merely turning uselessly round and round like a screw stripped of its threads?

He needed a sip of water. There had to be a kitchen somewhere in there. He found it at the end of a corridor. In the kitchen was a nurse, fiftyish and chubby, with an open, friendly face.

“You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? Would you like something?” she asked with a sympathetic smile.

“Yes, a glass of water, please.”

The woman poured him a glass of mineral water from a bottle she’d extracted from the refrigerator. As Montalbano drank, she filled a hot-water bottle with steaming water and made as if to leave.

“Just a minute,” the inspector said. “Where’s Mr. Mistretta?”

“He’s sleeping. It’s what the doctor wanted. And he’s right. I gave him some tranquilizers and sleeping pills, as he told me.”

“And Mrs. Mistretta? Is she better? Worse? Any news?”

“The only news we’ll ever hear of that poor woman is when she dies.”

“Is she in her right mind?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But even when she seems to understand, in my opinion she doesn’t.”

“Could I see her?”

“Follow me.”

Montalbano felt apprehensive. But he knew well that it was a false apprehension, dictated by his desire to postpone an encounter that would be very hard for him to bear.

“What if she asks who I am?”

“Are you kidding? That would be a miracle.” Halfway down the corridor there was a broad, comfortable staircase leading upstairs, where there was another corridor, this one with six doors.

“That’s Mr. Mistretta’s bedroom; that’s the bathroom, and that’s the lady’s bedroom. It’s easier for the help if she sleeps alone. Those doors across the hall are the girl’s room—poor thing!—another bathroom, and a guest room,” the nurse explained.

“Could I see Susanna’s room?”

“Certainly.”

He opened the door, poked his head in, and turned on the light. A small bed, armoire, two chairs, a small table with books, a bookcase. All in perfect order. And almost totally anonymous, like a hotel room only temporarily inhabited.

Nothing personal, no posters, no photographs. Like the cell of a lay nun. He turned off the light and closed the door. The nurse gently opened the other door. At the same moment, the inspector’s forehead and palms broke into a heavy sweat. An uncontrollable terror always came over him whenever he found himself face to face with a dying person. He didn’t know what to do. He had to give strict orders to his legs to prevent them from running away of their own accord and dragging him along with them. A dead body didn’t frighten him. It was the imminence of death that shook him to the depths of his soul.

He managed to get hold of himself and cross the threshold. Then began his personal descent into hell. He was immediately assailed by the same unbearable odor he had smelled in the room of the legless man, the husband of the woman who sold eggs. Except that here the odor was denser. It stuck to one’s skin like a very fine film. It was, moreover, brownish-yellow in color, with streaks of fiery red. A color in motion.

This had never happened before. The colors evoked by smells had always seemed as though painted on canvas. They held still. Now, however, the red streaks were starting to form a whirlpool. By this point the sweat had drenched his shirt. The woman’s regular bed had been replaced by a hospital bed whose whiteness sliced through Montalbano’s memory and tried to pull him backwards, to the days of his recovery. Beside the bed were oxygen canisters, an I.V. stand, and some complicated paraphernalia on a small table. A small cart (also white, for Christ’s sake!) was literally covered with vials, small bottles, gauze, measuring glasses, and other containers of vary-ing size. From where he had stopped, barely two steps inside the door, the bed looked empty to him. No human contour could be seen under the taut covers. Even the two pointed mounds formed by the feet when one lies supine were missing. And that sort of strange grey ball forgotten on the pillow was too small to be a head; perhaps it was a large rubber en-ema syringe whose color had faded. He advanced another two steps and froze in horror. That thing on the pillow was indeed a human head that had nothing human about it, a hairless, dried-up tangle of wrinkles so deep they looked like they’d been carved with a drill bit. Its mouth was open, a black hole without so much as a hint of white teeth. He had once seen something similar in a magazine, the handiwork of head-hunters, practiced on their prey. As he stood there staring, unable to move and almost not believing his eyes, out of the hole that was the mouth came a sound created only by the dry, burnt-up throat: “Ghanna . . .”

“She’s calling her daughter,” said the nurse.

Montalbano backpedaled, stiff-legged, knees refusing to bend. To avoid falling, he leaned on a side table.

Then the unexpected happened. Clack. The jamming of the mechanism in his head rang out like a pistol shot. Why? It certainly wasn’t three twenty-seven and forty seconds in the morning. He was sure of that. And so? Panic assailed him with the viciousness of a rabid dog. The desperate red of the smell became a vortex that threatened to suck him in. His chin began to tremble. His knees, no longer stiff, turned to pudding. To avoid falling, he clutched the marble top of the side table. Luckily the nurse, who was busy with the dying woman, noticed nothing. Then the part of his brain not yet seized by blind fear reacted, enabling him to respond properly.

That Thing which had marked him as the bullet penetrated his flesh was trying to tell him that it was here, too, in this very room. Lurking in a corner, ready to appear at the right moment and in the form most appropriate—bullet, tumor, flesh-burning fire, life-drowning water. It was merely a presence made manifest. It didn’t concern him. It wasn’t his turn yet.

And this sufficed to give him some strength. At that moment he noticed a photograph in a silver frame on the side table. A man, Mr. Mistretta, was holding the hand of girl of about ten, Susanna, who in turn held the hand of an attractive, healthy, smiling woman full of life, Signora Giulia. The inspector kept staring at that happy face, to cancel out the image of the other face on the pillow, if one could still call it that. Then he turned heel and went out, forgetting to say goodbye to the nurse.

o o o

He raced like a madman toward Marinella, got home, pulled up, got out of the car but did not go inside. Instead he ran down the beach to the water, took off his clothes, waited a few seconds for the cold night air to chill his skin, then began to advance slowly into the water. With each step the cold cut him with a thousand blades, but he needed to clean his skin, flesh, bones, and still further within, down to his very soul.

He started to swim. But after about ten strokes, a hand armed with a dagger must have emerged from the black waters and stabbed him in the exact same spot as his wound. At least that was how it seemed to him, so sudden and violent was the pain. It began at the wound and spread throughout his body, becoming unbearable, paralyzing. His left arm froze up, and it was all he could do to turn over on his back and do the dead man’s float.

Or was he dying in earnest? No, by this point he darkly knew that it was not his fate to die in the water.

Finally, and ever so slowly, he was able to move again.

o o o

He swam back to shore, picked up his clothes, and smelled his arm, seeming still to detect a trace of the horrendous stench of the dying woman’s chamber. The saltwater hadn’t succeeded in getting rid of it. He would have to wash every pore in his skin, one by one. Panting as he climbed the steps of the veranda, he tapped at the French doors.

“Who is it?” Livia asked from within.

“Open up, I’m freezing.”

Livia opened the door and saw him standing there naked, dripping wet and purple with cold. She started crying.

“Livia, please . . .”

“You’re insane, Salvo! You want to die! And you want to kill me, too! What did you do? Why? Why?” Despairing, she followed him into the bathroom. The inspector covered his entire body with liquid soap, and when he was all yellow he stepped into the shower stall, turned on the water, and began scraping his skin with a piece of pumice stone. Livia, who’d stopped crying, looked at him petrified.

He let the water run a long time, nearly emptying the tank on the roof.

As soon as he got out of the shower, Montalbano asked wild-eyed:

“Can you smell me?”

And as he was asking this question, he took a whiff of his arm. He looked like a hunting dog.

“But what’s got into you?” Livia asked, distressed.

“Just come here and smell me, please.”

Livia obeyed, running her nose over Salvo’s chest.

“What do you smell?”

“Your skin.”

“Are you sure?”

Finally satisfied, the inspector put on a clean set of under-wear, a shirt, and a pair of jeans.

They went into the living room. Montalbano sat down in an armchair, Livia settled into the one beside it. For a short spell neither said a word. Then, with her voice still unsteady, Livia asked: “Better now?”

“Better.”

Another stretch of silence. Then Livia again:

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m hoping I will be soon.”

More silence. Then Livia ventured:

“Want to tell me about it?”

“It’s hard.”

“Just try, please.”

And so he told her about it. It took time, for it really was hard for him to find the right words to describe what he had seen. And what he had felt.

When he had finished, Livia asked a question, only one, but it hit the nail on the head.

“Would you explain to me why you went to see her? What need was there?”

Need. Was that the right word? Or the wrong word? True, there was no need, but at the same time, inexplicably, there was.

Ask my hands and feet, he would have liked to reply. Better not delve too deeply. There was still too much confusion in his head. He threw up his hands.

“I can’t explain it, Livia.”

As he was saying these words, he realized they were only half true.

They talked a while more, but Montalbano’s appetite did not return. His stomach was still in knots.

“Do you think Peruzzo will pay?” Livia asked as they were about to get into bed.

It was the question of the day. Inevitable.

“He’ll pay, he’ll pay.”

He’s already paying, he wanted to add, but said nothing.

o o o

As he held her tight and kissed her upon entering her, Livia sensed that he was sending a desperate plea for consolation.

“Can’t you feel that I’m here?” she whispered in his ear.

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12

When he awoke, it was already broad daylight. Maybe there had been no clack that night, or if there had, it hadn’t been loud enough to make him open his eyes. It was time to get up, but he chose to lie in bed instead. Though he said nothing to Livia, his bones ached, clearly a consequence of his swim the evening before. And the fresh scar on his shoulder had turned purple and throbbed. Livia noticed that something wasn’t right, but decided not to ask any questions.

o o o

Between one chore and another, he arrived at the office a little late.

“Ahh, Chief, Chief! The pitchers Cicco De Cicco made for you’s blown up on your desk!” Catarella said, looking around with suspicion, as soon as the inspector walked in.

De Cicco had, in fact, done an excellent job. In the enlargements it became clear that the crack in the concrete just under the rim of the basin wasn’t a crack at all. It was a deceptive play of light and shadow created by a piece of string hanging from a nail. Attached to the other end of the string was a large thermometer of the sort used to measure the temperature of must. Both the string and thermometer were black from prior use and the soot that had accumulated on them.

There was no doubt in Montalbano’s mind: The kidnappers had stuck the girl in a long-abandoned wine vat. So there had to be a press nearby, at a higher level. But why hadn’t they bothered to remove the thermometer? Perhaps they hadn’t paid any mind to it, having got used to seeing the vat the way it had always been. If you see something enough times you often end up not noticing it anymore. Whatever the case, this discovery greatly reduced the area of the search. They were no longer looking for a secluded country cottage, but a veritable farmstead, one perhaps partially in ruin.

He immediately got on the phone to Minutolo and told him of his discovery. Minutolo thought this was a very important development and said that since this considerably lessened the number of targets for their search, he would immediately issue new orders to the men out scouring the countryside.

Then he asked:

“What do you think of the news?”

“What news?”

“Didn’t you see TeleVigàta’s eight o’clock report?”

“Do you think the first thing I do in the morning is turn on the TV?”

“The kidnappers phoned TeleVigàta, and the TV station recorded everything, then played the recording on the air.

The same disguised voice. He says that ‘the person concerned’

has until tomorrow evening. Otherwise nobody will ever see Susanna again.”

Montalbano felt a cold shudder run up his back.

“They’ve invented the multimedia kidnapping. Didn’t they say anything else?”

“I’ve reported the whole call to you word for word. In fact, they’re sending me the tape in a little bit, if you want to come hear it. The judge is up in arms, he wants to put Ragonese in jail. And you know something? I’m starting to get seriously worried.” “Me too,” said Montalbano.

So the kidnappers no longer deigned to call the Mistretta home. They had achieved their goal, which was to involve Antonio Peruzzo without ever mentioning his name. Public opinion was unanimously against him. Montalbano was now certain that if the kidnappers ended up killing Susanna, people would hold it not against them but against the uncle, who had refused to do his duty and intervene. Kill? Wait a second. The kidnappers never used that word. They clearly spoke good Italian and knew what to do with the language. They’d said that nobody would ever see the girl again. And when speaking to common folk, a word like kill would certainly have made more of an impression. So why hadn’t they used it? He seized upon this lin-guistic fact with all the intensity of his despair. It was like holding onto a blade of grass to keep from falling off a cliff.

Perhaps the kidnappers intended to leave a margin for negotia-tion and did so by avoiding the use of a verb from which there was no return. Whatever the case, one had to act fast. But how?

o o o

That afternoon Mimì Augello, who’d got sick of lolling about the house, popped up at the office with two bits of news.

The first was that late that morning, Signora Valeria, Antonio Peruzzo’s wife, when about to get in her car in a Montelusa parking lot, was recognized by three women, who surrounded her, shoved her, knocked her to the ground, and started spitting on her, screaming that she ought to be ashamed of herself and should advise her husband to stop wasting time and pay the ransom. More people, meanwhile, had gathered round to lend support to the three women. What saved Signora Valeria was a patrol of Carabinieri that happened to be passing by. At the hospital, the engineer’s wife was found to have contusions, bruises, and cuts.

The second bit of news was that two large trucks belonging to Peruzzo Ltd. had been set on fire. To avoid any misun-derstandings or misinterpretations, on a wall nearby someone had written pay up now, asshole!

“If the kidnappers kill Susanna,” Mimì concluded, “Peruzzo’s gonna get lynched.”

“Do you think the whole thing’s going to come to a bad end?” asked Montalbano.

“No,” Mimì said at once, without having to think twice.

“But, say the engineer doesn’t pay a cent? The kidnappers have sent him a kind of ultimatum.”

“Ultimatums are made to be violated. They’ll come to an agreement, you’ll see.”

“How’s Beba doing?” asked the inspector, changing the subject.

“Pretty well, actually. By the way, Livia came by to see us, and Beba told her we were planning to ask you to be our son’s godfather at the baptism.”

No, come on! Was the whole town set on making him godfather?

“And that’s the way you inform me?”

“Why, you want a notarized document or something? Did you somehow imagine we wouldn’t ask you?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Anyway, Salvo, I know you too well. If I hadn’t asked you, you would have felt offended and pulled a long face on me.”

Montalbano realized it was best to steer the conversation away from his character, which lent itself to contradictory interpretations.

“And what did Livia say?”

“She said you would be overjoyed, especially since it would even things out, though I don’t know what she meant by that.”

“Me neither,” Montalbano lied.

Of course he knew exactly what she’d meant: a criminal’s son and a policeman’s son, both with him as their godfather.

That would even things out, according to Livia, who, when she put her mind to it, could be just as mean as him, if not more.

o o o

It was now evening. He was about to leave the station to go home when Nicolò Zito called.

“I haven’t got any time to explain ’cause I’m about to go on the air,” he said in a rush. “Watch my newscast.” The inspector dashed down to the café. There were about thirty people there, and the television was tuned to the Free Channel. A message on the screen read: “In a few minutes, an important announcement on the Mistretta kidnapping.” He ordered a beer. The message disappeared, giving way to the news logo. Then Nicolò appeared, sitting behind his custom-ary glass desk. He was wearing the face he reserved for momentous occasions.

“This afternoon,” he said, “we were contacted by Francesco Luna, a lawyer who has defended the concerns of Engineer Antonio Peruzzo more than once. He asked us to allow him the airtime to make an announcement. It is not an interview.

He also stipulated we must not follow his declaration with any commentary of our own. We decided to accept his conditions, despite their restrictions, because this is a very important moment for the fate of Susanna Mistretta, and Mr. Luna’s words may go a long way towards clarifying matters and leading to a happy resolution of this delicate and dramatic case.” Cut. A typical lawyer’s office appeared. Dark wood bookcases full of unread books, collections of laws dating back to the late nineteenth century but surely still in effect, because in Italy no part of any hundred-year-old law is ever thrown away. Same as with pigs. Mr. Luna looked exactly the way his name would suggest: lunar. Round, full-moon face, obese, full-moon body. Obviously influenced by this fact, the lighting engineer bathed the whole scene in a blue, lunar light.

The lawyer was spilling out of an armchair. In his hand he held a sheet of paper, which he looked down at from time to time as he spoke.

“I speak on behalf of my client, Engineer Antonio Peruzzo, who finds himself forced to emerge from his dutiful silence to stem the rising tide of lies and iniquities that have been un-leashed against him. Mr. Peruzzo wants everyone to know that, being well aware of the difficult economic conditions of the Mistretta family, he put himself at the full disposal of Susanna Mistretta’s abductors the day after her kidnapping. Unfortunately, however, and inexplicably, Mr. Peruzzo’s readiness to cooperate has not been returned in kind by the kidnappers.

This being the case, Mr. Peruzzo can only reaffirm the commitment he has already made, not only with the abductors, but with his own conscience.”

Everyone gathered at the bar burst out laughing, drowning out the statement that followed.

“If the engineer’s made a commitment with his conscience, the girl’s screwed!” one of them shouted, saying what everyone was thinking.

Things were so bad that if Peruzzo himself went on TV

to announce to everyone that he had decided to pay the ransom, everyone would think he was paying with counterfeit bills.

The inspector went back to the office and rang Minutolo.

“The judge just called and said he’d also seen the lawyer’s statement. He wants me to go see Luna and get some clarifi-cations. What you might call an informal visit. And respectful.

In short, we need to put on kid gloves. I’ve already phoned Luna, who knows me. He said he’s available. Does he know you?”

“Dunno. He knows who I am.”

“You want to come, too?”

“Sure. Give me the address.”

o o o

Minutolo was waiting for him at the front door. He’d come in his own car, like Montalbano. A wise precaution, since many of Luna’s clients would probably have a heart attack if they saw a police car parked in front of their lawyer’s place. The house was heavily and luxuriously furnished. A housekeeper dressed like a housekeeper showed them into the same study they’d seen on television. She gestured for them to make themselves comfortable.

“Mr. Luna will be right with you.”

Minutolo and Montalbano sat down in two armchairs in a sort of sitting room that had been set up in a corner. They nearly disappeared inside their respective, enormous easy chairs, custom-made for elephants and Mr. Luna. The wall behind the desk was entirely covered by photographs of vary-ing size, all duly framed. There must have been at least fifty.

They looked like ex-votos hung to commemorate and thank some miracle-working saint. The lighting in the room made it impossible to tell who the people in the photos were. Maybe they were clients saved from the nation’s prisons by that blend of oratory, cunning, corruption, and survival instinct that was Mr. Luna. Given, however, that the host was late in arriving, the inspector couldn’t resist, and he got up and went over to look at the photos. They were all of politicians: senators, deputies of the chamber, ministers, former or current undersecretaries. All signed and dedicated to the “dear” or “dearest” Mr. Luna. Montalbano sat back down. He now understood why the commissioner had advised them to proceed with caution.

“My dear friends!” said the lawyer upon entering the room. “Please don’t get up! Can I get you anything? I have whatever you want.”

“No, thank you,” said Minutolo.

“Yes, please, I’d like a daiquiri,” said Montalbano.

The lawyer gave him a befuddled look.

“Actually, I don’t—”

“Never mind,” the inspector conceded, gesturing as if brushing away a fly.

As the lawyer was easing himself onto the sofa, Minutolo shot a dirty look at Montalbano, as if to tell him to stop clown-ing around.

“So, shall I speak first, or do you want to ask questions?”

“You speak first,” said Minutolo.

“All right if I take notes?” asked Montalbano, sticking his hand in his jacket pocket, which contained nothing whatsoever.

“No! Why do you need to do that?” Luna burst out.

Minutolo’s eyes implored Montalbano to stop making trouble.

“Okay, okay,” said the inspector, conciliatory.

“Where were we?” asked the lawyer, confused.

“We hadn’t started yet,” said Montalbano.

Luna surely noticed the mockery, but pretended not to.

Montalbano understood that the lawyer understood, and so decided to knock it off.

“Oh, yes. Well, around ten a.m. on the day after the abduction, my client received an anonymous phone call.”

“When?!” Minutolo and Montalbano asked in unison.

“Around ten a.m. on the day after the abduction.”

“You mean barely fourteen hours after?” asked Minutolo, still bewildered.

“Exactly,” the lawyer continued. “A man’s voice informed him that, since the abductors were aware that the Mistrettas were not in a position to pay the ransom, for all intents and purposes they considered him the only person who could satisfy their demands. They said they would call back at three in the afternoon. My client . . .” (Every time he said “my client” he made the kind of face a nurse might make when wiping the sweat off her moribund patient’s forehead) “. . . rushed here to see me. We quickly came to the conclusion that my client had been skillfully cornered. And that the kidnappers were holding all the cards. If they wanted to drag him into this, there wasn’t much we could do about it. Shirking his responsibility to the girl would gravely damage his reputation, which had already been harmed by a few unpleasant episodes. And it might ir-reparably compromise his political ambitions. Which I think has already happened, unfortunately. He was supposed to be on the ticket in the next elections, in a district where he would have been a shoo-in.” “No point in asking with what party,” said Montalbano, looking up at a photo of Berlusconi in a jogging outfit.

“Yes, no point indeed,” the lawyer said sternly, then continued. “I gave him some suggestions. The kidnappers called back at three. When asked, at my suggestion, for proof that the girl was alive, they replied that this would soon be broadcast on TeleVigàta. Which in fact is exactly what happened. They asked for six billion lire. They wanted my client to buy a new cell phone and go immediately to Palermo, without telling anyone, except his bankers. One hour later they called back for the cell phone number. My client had no choice but to obey, and withdrew the six billion in record time. On the evening of the following day, they called again, and he told them he was ready to pay. But since then, inexplicably, he has received no further instruction, as I said on TV.” “Why didn’t Peruzzo authorize you to make that statement any earlier than this evening?”

“Because the kidnappers had warned him against any such action. He was not to grant any interviews or make any statement at all, but to disappear for a few days.”

“And did they withdraw the warning?”

“No. My client decided to take the initiative himself, which is extremely risky .. . But he can’t stand it any longer . . . especially after that cowardly attack on his wife, and after his trucks were torched.” “Do you know where Peruzzo is now?”

“No.”

“Do you know his cell phone number—the new one?”

“No.”

“How do you stay in touch?”

“He calls me. From a public phone.”

“Does he have email?”

“Yes, but he left his computer at home. That’s what they told him to do, and he has obeyed.”

“In short, are you telling us that any freeze of his assets would be useless at this point, since Peruzzo’s already got the ransom money on him?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think he’ll phone you the moment he knows where and when he’s supposed to deliver the ransom?”

“What for?”

“Are you aware that if he did, you would be legally obligated to inform us at once?”

“Of course I am. And I’m ready to do as required. Except that my client won’t be calling me, or at least not until it’s all been taken care of.”

Minutolo had asked all the questions. This time Montalbano decided to speak.

“What size?”

“I don’t understand,” said the lawyer.

“What size bills did they want?”

“Ah, yes. Five-hundred euros.”

Strange. Big bills. Easier to carry around, but much harder to spend.

“Do you know if your client . . .” (the lawyer made the nurse-face) “. . . managed to write down the serial numbers?”

“I don’t know.”

The lawyer looked at his gold Rolex and grimaced.

“And there you have it,” he said, standing up.

o o o

They stopped to chat a moment outside the lawyer’s house.

“Poor Peruzzo,” the inspector said by way of comment.

“He tried to cover his ass immediately. He’d pinned his hopes on a quick kidnapping, so people wouldn’t find out, whereas—”

“That’s one thing that has me worried,” said Minutolo.

And he began to clarify: “From what the lawyer said, if the kidnappers immediately contacted Peruzzo—”

“—almost twelve hours before they made their first phone contact with us,” Montalbano cut in, “then they played us like puppets at the puppet theater. Because those guys were playact-ing with us. They knew from the very first moment whom they wanted to force to pay the ransom. They’ve made the two of us waste a lot of time, and they’ve made Fazio lose sleep.

They’re smart. In the final analysis, the messages they sent to the Mistretta home were scenes from an old script, more than anything else. They showed us what we wanted to see, told us what we expected to hear.” “Based on what the lawyer said,” Minutolo resumed, “the kidnappers theoretically had the situation under control less than twenty-four hours after the abduction. One call to Peruzzo, and he would turn over the money. Except that they never got back to him. Why? Had they run into trouble?

Maybe the men we have out scouring the countryside are hampering their freedom of movement? Maybe we should let up a little?”

“What are you afraid of, exactly?”

“That if those guys feel threatened, they’ll do something stupid.”

“You’re forgetting one basic thing.”

“What?”

“That the kidnappers have remained in contact with the television stations.”

“So why won’t they get in touch with Peruzzo?”

“Because they want him to stew in his own juices first,” said the inspector.

“But the more time passes, the greater their risk!”

“They’re well aware of that. And I think they also know they’ve played out the string as far as it’ll go. I’m convinced it’s only a matter of hours before Susanna goes home.” Minutolo looked befuddled.

“What! This morning you didn’t seem at all—”

“This morning the lawyer hadn’t yet spoken on television and hadn’t yet used an adverb he repeated when speaking to us. He was shrewd. He indirectly told the kidnappers to stop playing games.” “Excuse me,” said Minutolo, completely confused, “but what adverb did he use?”

“Inexplicably.”

“And what does it mean?”

“It means that he, the lawyer, knew the explanation perfectly well.”

“I haven’t understood a goddamned thing.”

“Forget it. What are you going to do now?”

“Report to the judge.”

1 6 7

0p>

13

Livia wasn’t at home. The table was set for two people, and beside her plate was a note.

I’ve gone to the movies with my friend. Wait for me to eat dinner.

He went and took a shower, then sat down in front of the television. The Free Channel was showing a debate on Susanna’s abduction, with Nicolò as moderator. Taking part in the discussion were a monsignor, three lawyers, a retired judge, and a journalist. Half an hour into the program, the debate openly turned into a kind of trial of Antonio Peruzzo.

Or, more than a trial, an out-and-out lynching. When all was said and done, nobody believed what Luna the lawyer had said. None of those present seemed convinced by the story that Peruzzo had the money ready and was only waiting to hear from the suddenly silent kidnappers. Logically speaking, it was in their interest to get their hands on the money as quickly as possible, free the girl, and disappear. The more time they wasted, the greater the risk. And so? It seemed natural to think that the person responsible for the delay in Susanna’s liberation was none other than Peruzzo himself, who—as the monsignor insinuated—was dragging things out trying to extract some miserable little discount on the ransom. The way he was acting, would he get any discount when he appeared before God on Judgment Day? In conclusion, it seemed clear that, once the girl was freed, a change of scene was Peruzzo’s only option.

Talk about political ambitions gone up in smoke! He wasn’t even welcome anymore in Montelusa, Vigàta, or environs.

o o o

This time the clack at three twenty-seven and forty seconds woke him up. He realized his brain was clear and functioning perfectly, and took advantage of this to review the entire kidnapping case, starting from Catarella’s first phone call. He stopped thinking around five-thirty, when he suddenly began to feel sleepy. As he was sinking into unconsciousness, the telephone rang and, luckily, Livia didn’t hear it. The clock said five forty-seven. It was Fazio, who was very excited.

“Susanna’s been freed.”

“Oh, really? How is she?”

“Fine.”

“See you later,” Montalbano concluded.

And he went back to bed.

He told Livia the news the moment she began to move in bed, showing the first signs of waking up. She leapt out of bed and onto her feet, as if she’d seen a spider between the sheets.

“When did you find out?”

“Fazio called. It was around six.”

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

“Was I supposed to wake you up?”

“Yes. You know how anxiously I’ve been following this whole ordeal. You let me keep sleeping on purpose!”

“If that’s the way you want to see it, fine, I admit my guilt, end of subject. Now calm down.”

But Livia felt like making trouble. She eyed him with disdain.

“And I don’t understand how you can lie there in bed, instead of going to see Minutolo to get more information, to find out—”

“To find out what? If you want more information, turn on the TV.”

“Sometimes your indifference drives me crazy!” She went and turned on the television. Montalbano, for his part, locked himself in the bathroom and took his time.

Obviously to get on his nerves, Livia kept the volume high. As he was drinking his coffee in the kitchen, he could hear angry voices, sirens, screeching tires. He could barely hear the telephone when it rang. He went into the dining room. Everything was vibrating from the infernal noise emanating from the set.

“Livia, would you please turn that down?” Muttering to herself, Livia obeyed. The inspector picked up the receiver.

“Montalbano? What’s wrong, aren’t you coming?” It was Minutolo.

“What for?”

Minutolo seemed stunned.

“Er . . . I dunno . . . I thought you’d be pleased . . .”

“Anyway, I have the impression you’re under siege.”

“That’s true. There are dozens of journalists, photographers, and cameramen outside the gate . . . I had to call in reinforcements. The judge and the commissioner should be here soon. It’s a mess.” “How’s Susanna doing?”

“A bit the worse for wear, but basically all right. Her uncle examined her and found her in good physical condition.”

“How was she treated?”

“She said they never once made a violent gesture. On the contrary.”

“How many were there?”

“She saw only two hooded men. Obviously peasants.”

“How did they release her?”

“She said that last night, when she was sleeping, they woke her up, made her put on a hood, tied her hands behind her back, took her out of the vat, and made her get in the trunk of a car. They drove for over two hours, she said. Then the car stopped. They made her get out, had her walk for half an hour, then loosened the knots around her wrists and made her sit down. Then they left.” “And they never spoke to her at any point during all this?”

“Never. It took her a while to free her hands and remove the hood. It was pitch-black outside. She hadn’t the slightest idea where she was, but she didn’t lose heart. She managed to get her bearings and headed in the direction of Vigàta. At some point she realized she was near La Cucca, you know, that village—” “Yeah, I know. Go on.”

“It’s a little over two miles from her villa. She walked the distance, arrived at the gate, rang the bell, and Fazio went and let her in.”

“All according to script, in other words.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they keep enacting the same drama that we’ve become accustomed to seeing. A sham performance. The real show they put on for one spectator alone, Antonio Peruzzo, and they asked him to join in. Then there was a third show aimed at the general public. How was Peruzzo? Did he play his part well?” “Frankly, Montalbano, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Have you succeeded in getting in touch with Peruzzo?”

“Not yet.”

“So what happens next?”

“The judge is going to hear Susanna’s story, then this afternoon there’ll be a press conference. Aren’t you going to come?”

“Not even if you put a gun to my head.”

o o o

He was barely in the doorway to his office when the phone rang.

“Chief? There’s some jinnelman onna line says he’s the moon. So, tinkin he’s makin some kinda joke, I says I’m the sun. He got pissed off. I tink he’s insane.”

“Put him on.”

What did the devoted nurse want from him?

“Inspector Montalbano? Good morning. This is Francesco Luna, the lawyer.”

“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

“First of all, my compliments on your receptionist.”

“Well, sir, you see—”

“Pay them no mind, but look and move on, as the poet says.

Let’s drop it. I’m calling you only to remind you that your pointless, offensive sarcasm yesterday, toward myself and my client, was inexcusable. You know, I have the misfortune, or good luck, of having an elephant’s memory.” Because you, sir, ARE an elephant, the inspector wanted to say, but he managed to restrain himself.

“Please explain what you mean, sir.”

“Yesterday evening, when you and your colleague came to my house, you were convinced my client would not pay the ransom, whereas, as you have seen—”

“Excuse me, but you’re mistaken. I was convinced that your client, like it or not, would pay the ransom. Have you managed to get in touch with him?”

“He phoned me last night, after doing what he needed to do. What people expected of him.”

“Can we talk to him?”

“He doesn’t feel up to it yet. He’s just been through a terrible ordeal.”

“You mean the ordeal of three million euros in bills of five hundred?”

“Yes. Three million, stuffed in a suitcase or a duffel bag, I’m not sure which.”

“Do you know where they told him to drop the money off?”

“Well, they phoned him yesterday evening around nine and described in minute detail a road he was supposed to take to a small overpass, the only one there is along the road to Brancato. With hardly any traffic. Under the overpass, he would find a sort of little well covered by a lid that could be easily lifted. All he needed to do was put the suitcase or duffel inside, close it back up, and leave. My client arrived on the spot shortly before midnight. He did exactly as he was ordered to do, then quickly went away.” “Thank you, Mr. Luna.”

“Excuse me, Inspector. I want to ask a favor of you.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I would like you to help us resuscitate my client’s reputa tion, which has been so gravely compromised. And this you can do by honestly saying exactly what you know. Not one word more, not one word less.”

“May I ask who the other resuscitators are?”

“Myself, Inspector Minutolo, all the engineer’s friends from within and without the party—in short, everyone who’s had a chance to know—”

“If the opportunity presents itself, I’ll be sure to do so.”

“I appreciate it.”

The telephone rang again.

“Chief, iss Doctor Latte with an S at the end.” That is, Dr. Lattes, chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, a churchgoing, cloying sort of man, subscriber to the L’Osservatore Romano, and known informally as Caffè-Lattes.

“My dear Inspector! How are you doing?”

“I can’t complain.”

“Let us thank the Blessed Virgin! And how’s the family?” What a pain in the ass! He had got it in his head that the inspector had a family, and there was no way to shake him out of this conviction. If he ever found out that Montalbano was a bachelor, the shock might be lethal.

“Fine, thanking the Blessed Virgin.”

“Well, on behalf of Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi, I’m inviting you to attend the press conference that will be held at Montelusa Central Police at five-thirty this evening, concerning the felicitous outcome of the Mistretta kidnapping. The commissioner would like to make it clear, however, that only your attendance is being requested—that is, you will not be asked to speak.” “Thank the Blessed Virgin,” Montalbano muttered under his breath.

“What was that? I didn’t hear.”

“I said I was wondering something. As you know, I’m still convalescing, and was called back into service only because—”

“I know, I know. And so?”

“So could I be exempted from attending the press conference? I’m a bit tired out.”

Lattes couldn’t hide how happy the inspector’s request made him. Montalbano was always considered a loose cannon at these official functions.

“But of course! Of course! Take good care of yourself, dear friend. But consider yourself on duty until further notice.”

o o o

Surely someone had already thought of writing The Perfect Investigator’s Handbook. It had to exist, since there was, after all, a Junior Woodchucks’ Guidebook. And it was certainly written by Americans, who were capable of publishing handbooks on how to put buttons in buttonholes. Montalbano, however, had never seen such a handbook. Nevertheless, somewhere in such a book the writer must surely recommend that the sooner the investigator inspects a crime scene, the better. That is, before the elements—rain, wind, sun, man, animals—so alter the scene that the telltale signs, already barely perceptible, become indecipherable.

Based on what Mr. Luna had told him, Montalbano—

alone among the investigators—knew where Peruzzo had left the ransom money. It was his duty, he reasoned, to inform Minutolo of this fact at once. Surely the kidnappers had spent a long time hiding in the area around the overpass on the road to Brancato, first making sure there were no policemen lying in ambush, then waiting for Peruzzo’s car to arrive, and finally letting a bit more time pass to ensure that all was calm before coming out in the open and picking up the suitcase. And surely they had left some trace of their presence. It was therefore imperative to examine the site before the crime scene was altered (as per aforementioned Handbook).

Wait a second, he said to himself as his hand was picking up the telephone. What if Minutolo couldn’t go there immediately? Wasn’t it better to get in his car and have a first look himself? Just an initial, superficial inspection? If, then, he discovered anything important, he would alert Minutolo so a more thorough examination could be conducted.

Such was how he tried to quiet his conscience, which had been muttering to itself for some time. His consience, however, was stubborn. Not only would it not be silenced, but made its own feelings known.

No point in making excuses, Montalbà.You just want to screw Minutolo, now that the girl’s no longer in danger.

“Catarella!”

“Your orders, Chief!”

“Do you know the quickest way to Brancato?”

“Which Brancato, Chief? Upper Brancato or Lower Brancato?”

“Is it so big?”

“No sir. There’s just five hunnert nabitants till yesterday.

Fact is, tho, that seeing as how Upper Brancato’s been falling down the mountainside below—”

“What do you mean? Are there landslides?”

“Yessir, so, seeing as how there’s what you just said there is, they hadda build a new town unner the mountin. But there’s fifty old folks din’t wanna leave their homes and so now the nabitants been nabitting all apart from nother wuther, wit four hunnert forty-nine b’low ’n’ fifty up top.” “Wait a second. We’re missing one inhabitant.”

“Din’t I jes say there’s five hunnert till yesterday? Yesterday one of ’em died, Chief. My cussin Michele tol’ me. He lives out Lower Brancato way.”

Of course! How could Catarella not have a relative in that godforsaken village?

“Listen, Cat. If you’re driving from Palermo, which comes first, Upper or Lower Brancato?”

“Lower, Chief.”

“And how do you get there?”

The explanation was long and convoluted.

“Listen, Cat. If Inspector Minutolo rings, tell him to call me on the cell phone.”

o o o

He took the scorrimento veloce, the “expressway,” for Palermo, which was clogged with traffic. This was a perfectly ordinary two-lane road, slightly broader than normal, but, for no apparent reason, everyone considered it a kind of autostrada and therefore drove as though they were on an autostrada. Trucks passing trucks, cars racing at ninety miles an hour (since such was the speed limit a cabinet minister, the one ostensibly “in charge” of such matters, had set for the autostrade), tractors, motor scooters, rattletrap little pickups lost in a tide of mopeds. On both sides, right and left, the road was dotted with little slabs of stone adorned with bouquets of flowers—not for beauty’s sake, but to mark the exact spots where dozens of luckless wretches, in cars or on motorbikes, had lost their lives. A continuous commemoration—which nobody, however, gave a damn about.

He turned left at the third intersection. The road was paved but had no markings or signs. He would have to trust in Catarella’s directions. By now the landscape had changed.

Low, rolling hills, a few vineyards. And not a trace of any villages. He hadn’t even crossed another car. He began to get worried. Most importantly, he didn’t see another living soul he might ask for directions. All at once he didn’t feel like proceeding any farther. But just as he was about to make a U-turn and head back to Vigàta, he saw a cart and horse coming towards him. He decided to ask the driver for help. He drove on a little, and when he was in front of the horse, he stopped, opened the car door, and got out.

“Good day,” he said to the driver.

The driver seemed not to have noticed the inspector. He merely looked straight ahead, reins in hand.

“Likewise,” he replied. Sixtyish and sunburnt, gaunt and dressed in fustian, he was wearing an absurd Borsalino on his head that must have dated back to the fifties.

But he made no motion to stop.

“I wanted to ask you for some information,” said Montalbano, walking beside him.

“Me?” asked the man, half surprised, half worried.

Who else, if not? The horse?

“Yes.”

“Ehhhhh,” said the man, pulling on the reins. The animal stopped.

The man said nothing and kept looking straight ahead.

He was waiting to be asked the question.

“Listen, could you tell me how to get to Lower Brancato?”

Reluctantly, as though it cost him great effort, the man on the cart said:

“Keep going straight. Third road on the right. Good day.

Ahhh!”

That ahhh was directed at the horse, which resumed walking.

o o o

Half an hour later, Montalbano saw something that looked like a cross between an overpass and a bridge appear in the distance. Unlike a bridge, it had no parapet, but large protective metal screens instead; and unlike an overpass, it was arched like a bridge. In the background loomed a hill on which a group of small, dicelike white houses sat impossibly balanced halfway down the slope. That had to be Upper Brancato, whereas nary a roof of the lower village was visible yet. Whatever the case, he must be close. Montalbano stopped the car about twenty yards from the overpass, got out, and started looking around. The road was distressingly empty. The only other vehicle he’d encountered since the junction was the cart. He’d also noticed a peasant hoeing. That was all. Once the sun went down and darkness fell, one probably couldn’t see anything along that road. There was no sort of lighting whatsoever, no houses that might give off a faint glow at night. So where had the kidnappers taken up position while waiting for Peruzzo’s car? And most importantly, how could they have known for certain that the car they saw was indeed Peruzzo’s and not another vehicle that by some miracle happened to be passing that way?

Around the overpass—the need for which remained un-clear, as well as how or why it had occurred to anyone to build it—there were no bushes or walls to hide behind. Even in the dead of night, the site provided no cover that might prevent one from being seen in the headlights of a passing car. And so?

A dog barked. Spurred by the need to see another living being, Montalbano’s eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for it. He found it. It was at the start of the overpass on the right, and he could only see its head. Maybe they’d built it just so dogs and cats could cross the road. Why not, since when it came to public works in Italy, the impossible often became possible? All at once the inspector realized that the kidnappers had hidden in the very spot where the dog was now.

He trudged through the brush, crossed a dirt road, and came to the point where the overpass began. It was hog-backed; that is, sharply curved. Someone who placed himself right at the start of the overpass could not be seen from the road below. He looked carefully down at the ground as the dog backed away, growling, but found nothing of interest, not even a cigarette butt. Then again, why would you find a cigarette butt lying about, now that everyone’s been scared to death of smoking by those warnings on packs that say things like “Smoking makes you die of cancer”? Even criminals have been giving up the vice, depriving poor policemen of essential clues. Maybe he should write a complaint to the minister of health.

He searched the opposite side of the viaduct as well.

Nothing. He went back to the starting point and lay down on his stomach. He looked down below, pressing his head against the metal screen, and saw, almost vertically beneath him, a stone slab covering the opening to a small well. Seeing Peruzzo’s car approach, the kidnappers must certainly have climbed up the viaduct and done as he had done—that is, lain down on the ground. And from there, in the glare of the headlamps, they had watched Peruzzo lift the stone lid, place the suitcase in the well, and leave. That must surely be how it went. But he had not accomplished what he had set out to do in coming all the way out here. The kidnappers had left no trace.

He came down from the overpass and went underneath.

He studied the slab covering the well. It looked too small for a suitcase to fit inside. He did some quick math: six billion lire equaled three million one hundred euros, more or less. If each wad contained one hundred bills of five hundred euros, that would make a total of sixty-two wads. Therefore they didn’t need a large suitcase. On the contrary. The slab was easy to lift, since it had a sort of iron ring attached to it. He stuck a finger inside the ring and pulled. The slab came off. Montalbano looked inside the well and gasped. There was a duffel bag inside, and it did not look empty. Was Peruzzo’s money still in it? Was it possible the kidnappers hadn’t picked it up?

Then why had they freed the girl?

He knelt, reached down, and grabbed the bag, which was heavy, pulled it out, and set it down on the ground. Taking a deep breath, he opened it. It was filled with wads not of bills, but of glossy old magazine clippings.

1 8 2

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14

The shock sort of pushed him backwards, knocking him down on his ass. Mouth open in astonishment, he began asking himself some questions. What did this discovery mean? That Engineer Peruzzo himself had filled the bag with scrap paper instead of euros? Was Peruzzo, as far as he knew, a man capable of taking the extreme sort of gamble that would endanger the life of his niece? After thinking about this a moment, he concluded that the engineer was indeed capable of this and more. In that case, however, the kidnappers’ actions became inexplicable. Because there were only two possibilities, there was no getting around it: either the kidnappers had opened the bag on the spot, realized they’d been hoodwinked, and decided nevertheless to release the girl, or else they had fallen into the trap—that is, they’d seen Peruzzo put the bag in the well, had no chance to check it immediately and, trusting in appearances, had given the order to free Susanna.

Or had Peruzzo somehow known that the kidnappers wouldn’t be able to open the bag at once and check its contents, and had gambled against time? Wait. Wrong line of reasoning. No one could have prevented the kidnappers from opening the well whenever they saw fit. Since delivery of the ransom did not necessarily mean the immediate release of the girl, against what “time” could Peruzzo have gambled? None whatsoever. No matter which way one looked at it, the engineer’s trick seemed insane.

As he sat there, stunned, questions riddling his brain like machine-gun fire, he heard a strange sort of ringing and couldn’t tell where it was coming from. He decided it must be an approaching flock of sheep. But the sound didn’t come any closer, even though it was very close already. Then he realized it must be his cell phone, which he never used and had only put in his pocket on this occasion.

“Chief, is that you? Fazio here.”

“What is it?”

“Chief, Inspector Minutolo wants me to inform you of something that just happened about forty-five minutes ago. I tried you at the station, at home, and finally Catarella remembered that—” “Okay, fine, tell me what it is.”

“Well, Inspector Minutolo called Luna to find out if he’d heard from Peruzzo. The lawyer said Peruzzo paid the ransom last night and had even explained to him where he’d left the money. And so Inspector Minutolo rushed to the place, which is along the road to Brancato, to conduct a preliminary search.

Unfortunately, the newsmen followed right behind him.”

“In short, what did Minutolo want?”

“He says he’d like you to meet him there. I’ll tell you what’s the quickest way to get—”

But Montalbano had already hung up. Minutolo, his men, and a swarm of journalists, photographers, and cameramen might arrive at any moment. And if they saw him, how would he explain what he was doing there?

Gee, what a surprise! I was just out tilling the fields . . .

He hastily lowered the duffel bag into the well, closed it with the stone slab, ran to the car, started up the engine, began turning the car around, then stopped. If he went back the same way he’d come, he would surely run into Minutolo and the festive caravan of cars behind him. No, he had best continue on to Lower Brancato.

It took him barely ten minutes to get there. A clean little town, with a tiny piazza, church, town hall, café, bank, trattoria, and shoe store. All around the piazza were granite benches, with some ten men sitting on them, all aging, old, or decrepit.

They weren’t talking, weren’t moving at all. For a fraction of a second, Montalbano thought they were statues, splendid examples of hyperrealist art. But then one of them, apparently belonging to the decrepit category, suddenly threw his head backwards and laid it against the back of the bench. He was either dead, as seemed quite likely, or had been overcome by a sudden desire to sleep.

The country air had whetted the inspector’s appetite. He looked at his watch. Just short of one o’clock. He headed towards the trattoria, then stopped short. What if some journalist got the brilliant idea to make his phone calls from Lower Brancato? No question, of course, that there would be any restaurants in Upper Brancato. But he didn’t feel like letting his stomach go empty for too long. The only solution was to run the risk and enter the trattoria in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone come out from behind the counter and stop to stare at him. The man, fat and forty, approached him with a big smile.

“But . . . aren’t you Inspector Montalbano?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Iss a real plisure. I’m Michele Zarco.”

He declaimed his first and last names in the tone of someone known to one and all. But since the inspector kept staring at him without a word, he clarified:

“I’m Catarella’s cussin.”

o o o

Michele Zarco, land surveyor and vice mayor of Brancato, was his salvation. First, he brought him to his house for an informal meal—that is, to eat whatever was available. Nuttin spicial, as he put it. Signora Angila Zarco, a woman of few words, blonde to the point of looking washed out, served them cavatuna in tomato sauce that were eminently respectable, followed by coniglo all’agrodolce—sweet-and-sour rabbit—from the day before. Now, preparing coniglo all’agrodolce is a complicated matter, because everything depends on the right propor-tion of vinegar to honey and on making the pieces of rabbit blend properly with the caponata in which it must cook. Signora Zarco clearly knew how to go about this, and for good measure had thrown in a sprinkling of toasted ground almonds over the whole thing. On top of this, it is well-known that the coniglo all’agrodolce you eat the day it is made is one thing, but when eaten the next day it is something else entirely, because it gains considerably in flavor and aroma. In short, Montalbano had a feast.

Then Vice Mayor Zarco suggested they visit Upper Brancato, just to aid digestion. Naturally they went in Zarco’s car.

After taking a road that consisted of one sharp turn after another and looked like the X-ray of an intestine, they stopped in the middle of a cluster of houses that would have made an Expressionist set-designer’s day. Not a single house stood up straight. They all leaned to the left or the right at angles so extreme that the Tower of Pisa would have looked perfectly per-pendicular by comparison. Three or four houses were actually attached to the hillside and jutted out horizontally, as if they had suction cups holding them in place, hidden in the founda-tions. Two old men walked by talking to each other, but rather loudly, because one was listing sharply to the right, the other to the left. Perhaps they’d been conditioned by the inclina-tions of the houses in which they lived.

“Shall we go back home for coffee? The missus makes a good cup,” said Zarco, when he saw that Montalbano, under the influence of the surroundings, had started walking askew himself.

When Signora Angila opened the door for them, to Montalbano she looked like a child’s drawing: almost albino, her hair braided, her cheeks red. She seemed agitated.

“What’s wrong?” her husband asked.

“The TV just said the girl was released but the ransom wasn’t paid!”

“Really?!” asked the land surveyor, looking over at Montalbano.

The inspector shrugged and threw his hands up, as if to say he didn’t know the first thing about the whole affair.

“Oh, yes,” the woman went on. “They said the police found Mr. Peruzzo’s duffel bag, right near here, in fact, and it was filled with newspaper. The newsman wondered how and why the girl was freed. What’s clear is that piece of slime uncle of hers risked getting her killed!” No longer Antonio Peruzzo or “the engineer,” but “that piece of slime,” that unnamable shit, that excrescence of sewage. If Peruzzo had indeed wanted to gamble, he’d lost.

Although the girl had been freed, he was now forever prisoner of the utter, absolute contempt in which people held him.

o o o

The inspector decided not to return to the office but to go back home and watch the press conference in peace. When nearing the overpass, he drove very carefully, in case any stragglers had stayed behind. At any rate, the signs that a horde of policemen, journalists, photographers, and cameramen had passed through were everywhere: empty cans of Coca-Cola, broken beer bottles, crumpled packs of cigarettes. A garbage dump. They’d even broken the stone slab that covered the little well.

o o o

As he was opening the door to his house, he froze. He hadn’t called Livia all morning. He’d completely forgotten to tell her he wouldn’t make it home for lunch. A squabble was now inevitable, and he had no excuses. The house, however, was empty. Livia had gone out. Entering the bedroom, he saw her open suitcase, half full. He immediately remembered that Livia was supposed to return to Boccadasse the next morning. The vacation time she’d taken to stay beside him at the hospital and during his convalescence was over. He felt a sudden pang in his heart, and a wave of emotion swept over him, treacherous as usual. It was a good thing she wasn’t there. He could let himself go without shame. And let himself go he did.

Then he went and washed his face, after which he sat down in the chair in front of the telephone. He opened the phone book. The lawyer had two numbers, one for his home, the other for his office. Montalbano dialed the latter.

“Legal offices of Francesco Luna,” said a female voice.

“This is Inspector Montalbano. Is Mr. Luna there?”

“Yes, but he’s in a meeting. Let me see if he picks up.” Various noises, recorded music.

“My dear friend,” said Luna. “I can’t talk to you right now. Are you in your office?”

“No, I’m at home. You want the number?”

“Please.”

Montalbano gave it to him.

“I’ll call you back in about ten minutes,” said the lawyer.

o o o

The inspector noted that during their brief exchange, Luna didn’t once call him by his name or title. One could only imagine what sort of clients he was meeting with; no doubt they would have been troubled to hear the word inspector.

About half an hour passed, give or take a few minutes, before the phone rang.

“Inspector Montalbano? Please excuse the delay, but first I was with some people and then I thought I’d better call you from a safe phone.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Luna? Have the phones to your office been tapped?”

“I’m not sure, but the way things are going . . . What did you want to tell me?”

“Nothing you don’t already know.”

“Are you referring to the bag full of clippings?”

“Exactly. You realize, of course, that this development is a serious impediment to the resuscitation of Peruzzo’s reputation, to which you’d asked me to contribute.” Silence, as if they’d been cut off.

“Hello?” said Montalbano.

“I’m still here. Answer me sincerely, Inspector: Do you think that if I’d known there was only scrap paper inside that well, I would have told you and Inspector Minutolo?”

“No.”

“Well, the moment he heard the news, my client called me up, extremely upset. He was in tears. He realized that this discovery was like cementing his feet and throwing him into the sea. Death by drowning, with no chance of ever coming back to the surface. Inspector, that duffel bag was not his. He’d put his money in a suitcase.” “Can he prove it?”

“No.”

“And how does he explain that police found a duffel instead of a suitcase?”

“He can’t explain it.”

“And he’d put the money in this suitcase?”

“Of course. Let’s say roughly sixty-two bundles of five-hundred-euro bills totaling three million ninety-eight thousand euros and seventy-four cents, rounded off to the euro, and equaling six billion old lire.” “And you believe that?”

“Inspector, I have to believe my client. But the point is not whether I believe him. It’s whether the public believes him.”

“But there may be a way to prove that your client is telling the truth.”

“Oh, really? What?”

“Simple. As you yourself said, Mr. Peruzzo had very little time to scrape together the ransom money. Therefore there must be bank documents with the related data attesting to the withdrawal of the amount. All you have to do is make these documents public, and your client will have proved his absolute good faith.” Deep silence.

“Did you hear me, Counsel?”

“Of course. It’s the same solution I promptly suggested to him myself.”

“So, as you can see—”

“There’s a problem.”

“What?”

“Mr. Peruzzo didn’t get the money from any banks.”

“Oh, no? Then where did he get it?”

“My client agreed not to reveal the names of those who so generously consented to assist him at this delicate moment.

In short, nothing was written down on paper.” Out of what filthy, stinking sewer had come the hand that gave Peruzzo the money?

“Then the situation seems hopeless to me.”

“To me, too, Inspector. So hopeless, in fact, that I’m beginning to wonder if my counsel is still of any use to Mr. Peruzzo.” So the rats, too, were getting ready to abandon the sinking ship.

o o o

The press conference began at five-thirty sharp. Behind a large table sat Minutolo, the judge, the commissioner, and Dr.

Lattes. The conference hall was packed with journalists, photographers, and cameramen. Nicolò Zito and Pippo Ragonese were there, too, at a proper distance from one another. The first to speak was Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi, who thought it best to start at the beginning—that is, to explain how the kidnapping came about. He pointed out that this first part of the account was based on declarations made by the girl. On the evening of the abduction, Susanna Mistretta was returning home on her moped, along the road she normally took, when, at the intersection with the San Gerlando trail, right near her house, a car pulled up beside her and forced her to turn onto the dirt road to avoid collision. Upset and confused by the incident, Susanna barely had time to stop before two men got out of the car, their heads covered by ski masks. One of them lifted her bodily and threw her into the car.

Susanna was too stunned to react. The man removed her helmet, pressed a cotton wad to her nose and mouth, gagged her, tied her hands behind her back, and made her lie down at his feet.

In confusion, the girl heard the other man get back in the car, take the wheel, and drive off. At this point she lost consciousness. Investigators hypothesize that the second man had gone to remove the motorbike from the road.

When Susanna woke up, she was in total darkness. She was still gagged, but her hands had been untied. She realized she was in an isolated place. Moving about in the dark, she gathered that she’d been put inside some sort of concrete vat at least ten feet deep. There was an old mattress on the ground.

She spent the first night this way, despairing not so much over her own situation, but for her dying mother. Then she must have drifted off to sleep. She woke up when someone turned on a light, a lamp of the sort used by mechanics to light up a car’s motor. Two men in ski masks were watching her. One of them took out a small portable cassette recorder, and the other came down into the vat on a ladder. The man with the tape recorder said something while the other removed Susanna’s gag. She cried for help, and the gag was put back on. They returned a short while later. One of them came down the same ladder, removed her gag, then climbed back up. The other took a Polaroid snapshot of her. They never gagged her again. To bring her food—always canned—they always used the ladder, which they would lower each time. In one corner of the vat there was a pail for bodily functions. As of that moment the light remained on.

At no time during her confinement was Susanna subjected to any mistreatment. She had no way, however, to attend to her personal hygiene. Nor did she ever hear her abductors speak. And they never once answered her questions or addressed her in any manner. They didn’t even say she was about to be freed when they had her come up out of the vat.

Later Susanna was able to lead investigators to where she was released. And there, in fact, police found the rope and the handkerchief that had been used to gag her. In conclusion, the commissioner said, the girl was in fairly good condition, considering the terrible ordeal she’d just been through.

Lattes then pointed to a journalist, who stood up and asked why they couldn’t interview the girl.

“Because the investigation is still ongoing,” replied the judge.

“In short, was the ransom paid or not?” asked Zito.

“We’re not at liberty to reveal that right now,” the judge answered again.

At this point Pippo Ragonese stood up. His lips were pursed so tightly that the words came out compressed.

“I’d like n’t t’ask a quest’n b’t t’make a st’tm’nt—”

“Speak clearly!” shouted the Greek chorus of journalists.

“I want to make a statement, not to ask a question.

Shortly before I came here, our studios received a phone call that was forwarded to me. I recognized the voice of the same kidnapper who had phoned me before. He declared, and I quote, that the ransom had not been paid, and that although the person who was supposed to pay had tricked them, they had decided to set the girl free anyway, because they didn’t want to have a death on their conscience.” Mayhem broke out. People leapt to their feet, gesticulat-ing, other people ran out of the room, the judge inveighed against Ragonese. The uproar got so loud that you couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying. Montalbano turned off the television, went out on the veranda, and sat down.

o o o

Livia got home an hour later and found Salvo looking out at the sea. She didn’t seem the least bit angry.

“Where were you?”

“I dropped in to say hi to Beba and then went over to Kolymbetra. Promise me you’ll go there one of these days. And where were you? You didn’t even phone to say you weren’t coming home for lunch.” “I’m sorry, Livia, but—”

“Don’t apologize. I have no desire to quarrel with you.

These are our last few hours together, and I don’t want to spoil them.”

She flitted about the house a bit, then did something she almost never did. She went and sat on his lap and held him tight. She stayed there awhile, in silence. Then:

“Shall we go inside?” she whispered in his ear.

Before going into the bedroom Montalbano, for one reason or another, unplugged the telephone.

o o o

As they lay in each other’s arms, dinnertime passed. And after-dinnertime as well.

“I’m so happy Susanna’s kidnapping was solved before I left,” Livia said at a certain point.

“Yeah,” replied the inspector.

He’d managed to forget about the abduction for a few hours. But he was instinctively grateful to Livia for having reminded him of it. Why? What did gratitude have to do with it? He had no explanation.

As they ate they spoke little. Livia’s imminent departure weighed heavy on both their minds.

She got up from the table and went to finish packing. At some point he heard Livia call from the other room:

“Salvo, did you take the book of yours I was reading?”

“No.”

It was a novel by Simenon, Monsieur Hire.

Livia came and sat beside him on the veranda.

“I can’t find it. I wanted to bring it with me so I can finish it.”

The inspector had a hunch where it might be. He got up.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back.”

The book was where he thought it would be, in the bed room, caught between the wall and the head of the bed, having fallen off the nightstand. He bent down, picked it up, and put it on top of the already closed suitcase. He went back out on the veranda.

“I found it,” he said, and started to sit back down.

“Where?” asked Livia.

Montalbano froze, thunderstruck. One foot slightly raised, body leaning slightly forward. As if in the throes of a back spasm. He held so still that Livia got scared.

“Salvo, what’s wrong?”

He was powerless to move. His legs had turned to lead, but his brain kept whirring, all the gears spinning at high speed, happy to be finally turning the right way.

“My God, Salvo, are you ill?”

“No.”

Ever so slowly, he felt his blood, no longer petrified, begin to flow again. He managed to sit down. But he had an expression of utter astonishment on his face and didn’t want Livia to see it.

He rested his head on her shoulder and said:

“Thanks.”

At that moment he understood why, earlier, when they were lying in bed, he’d felt a gratitude for which, at first, he’d had no explanation.

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15

When time’s mechanism jammed at three twenty-seven and forty seconds, Montalbano didn’t wake up, since he was already awake. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep. He would have liked to toss and turn in bed, letting himself be carried off by waves of thought following one upon the other like breakers in rough seas, but he was forcing himself not to disturb Livia, who’d fallen asleep almost at once, and therefore he couldn’t thrash his arms and legs about.

The alarm went off at six, the weather looked promising, and by seven-fifteen they were already on the road to Punta Raisi, the airport of Palermo. Livia drove. Along the way they spoke little or not at all. Montalbano was already far away, thinking about what he was itching to do, to determine whether the idea he’d had was an absurd fantasy or an equally wild reality. Livia was also lost in thought, worrying about what awaited her in Genoa, the backlog at work, the things left hanging because she’d suddenly needed to go to Vigàta for a long stay at Salvo’s side.

Before Livia entered the boarding area, they embraced in the crowd like two teenagers in love. As he held her in his arms, Montalbano felt two conflicting emotions that had no natural right to be together, yet there they were. On the one hand he felt deep sadness that Livia was leaving. Without a doubt the house in Marinella would underscore her absence at every turn, now that he was well on his way to becoming a man of a certain age and starting to feel the weight of solitude. On the other hand he felt rather pressed, anxious for Livia to leave right away, without further delay, so that he could race back to Vigàta to do what he had to do, totally free and no longer obliged to conform to her schedule or answer her questions.

Then Livia broke away, looked back at him, and headed towards the security checkpoint. Montalbano stood still. Not because he wanted to follow her with his eyes until the last moment, but because a kind of astonishment had blocked his next move, which would have been to turn his back and head for the exit. For he thought he’d glimpsed, deep in her eyes—all the way inside—a sort of glimmer, a twinkle that shouldn’t have been there. It had lasted barely an instant, then gone out at once, cloaked by the opaque veil of emotion. Yet that flash—muted, yes, but still a flash—had lasted long enough for the inspector to see it and remain bewildered by it. Want to bet that Livia, too, as they were embracing, had felt the same contradictory feelings as he? That she too felt at once bitter over their parting and anxious to get back her freedom?

At first he felt angry, then started laughing. How did the Latin saying go? Nec tecum nec sine te. Neither with nor without you. Perfect.

o o o

“Montalbano? This is Minutolo.”

“Hi. Were you able to get any useful information out of the girl?”

“That’s just it, Montalbà. Part of the problem is that she’s still shaken by the abduction, which is logical, and part of it’s that she hasn’t slept a wink since she’s been back, and so she hasn’t been able to tell us much.” “Why hasn’t she been able to sleep?”

“Because her mother’s taken a turn for the worse and she hasn’t wanted to leave her bedside for even a minute. That’s why, when I got a call this morning telling me that Signora Mistretta had died during the night—” “—You dashed over there, very tactfully and opportunistically, to interrogate Susanna.”

“I don’t do those kinds of things, Montalbà. I came here because I felt it was my duty. After all the time I’ve spent in this house—”

“—You’ve become like one of the family. Good for you.

But I still don’t understand why you called me.”

“Okay. Since the funeral will be held tomorrow morning, I would like to begin questioning Susanna the day after tomorrow. The judge is in agreement. How about you?”

“What have I got to do with it?”

“Shouldn’t you be there too?”

“I don’t know. The commissioner will decide whether I should or not. Actually, do me a favor. Give him a ring, see what his orders are, and call me back.”

o o o

“Is that you, signore? Adelina Cirrinciò here.” Adelina the housekeeper! How did she already know that Livia was gone? Sense of smell? The wind? Better not to probe too deep. He might discover that everyone in town also knew what tune he hummed when sitting on the john.

“What is it, Adelì?”

“Can I come-a this aftanoon to clean house and make you somethin a eat?”

“No, Adelì, not today. Come tomorrow morning.” He needed a little time to think, alone, with nobody else around.

“D’jou decide yet abou’ ma gransson’s bappetism?” the housekeeper continued.

He didn’t hesitate one second. Thinking she was being clever with her quip about evening things out, Livia had provided him with an excellent reason to accept.

“I’ve decided, yes, I’ll do it.”

“Ah, Gesù, Amma so heppy!”

“Have you set the date?”

“Iss ahp to you, signore.”

“Me?”

“Yes, hit depends on when you free.”

No, it depends on when your son is free, the inspector wanted to say, since Pasquale, the child’s father, was always in and out of jail. But he merely said:

“Arrange everything yourselves, then let me know. I’ve got all the time in the world now.”

o o o

More than sit down, Francesco Lipari collapsed into the chair in front of the inspector’s desk. His face was pale and the circles under his eyes had turned a dense black, as though painted on with shoe polish. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them. Montalbano was shocked. He would have expected the boy to be happy and relieved that Susanna had been freed.

“Are you not feeling well?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Susanna won’t speak to me.”

“Explain.”

“What’s to explain? Ever since I first heard she’d been released, I’ve called her house at least ten times. It’s always her father, her uncle, or someone else who answers the phone. Never her. And they always tell me Susanna’s busy and can’t come to the phone. Even this morning, when I heard that her mother had died—” “Where did you hear it?”

“On a local radio station. I immediately thought: It’s a good thing she got to see her again while she was still alive! And so I phoned, I wanted to be near her, but I got the same answer. She wasn’t available.” He buried his face in his hands.

“What did I do to be treated this way?”

“You? Nothing,” said Montalbano. “But you have to try to understand. The trauma of being kidnapped is tremendous and very hard to get over. Everyone who’s been through it says the same thing. It takes time.” And the Good Samaritan Montalbano fell silent, pleased with himself. All the while he was forming his own, strictly personal opinion of the matter, but preferred not to reveal it to the young man. He therefore stuck to generalities.

“But wouldn’t having someone beside her who truly loves her help her to get over the trauma?”

“You want to know something?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll make a confession. Like Susanna, I think that I, too, would want to be left alone to contemplate my wounds.”

“Wounds?”

“Yes. And not just my own, but those I’ve inflicted on others.”

The boy looked at him, utterly at sea.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Never mind.”

The Good Samaritan Montalbano wasn’t about to waste his daily dose of goodness all at once.

“Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?” he asked.

“Yes. Did you know that Peruzzo was left off the ballot of his party’s candidates?”

“No.”

“And did you know that the Customs Police have been searching his offices since yesterday afternoon? Rumor has it that they found, right off the bat, enough material to put him behind bars.” “This is the first I’ve heard of it. And so?”

“So I’ve been asking myself some questions.”

“And you want me to answer them?”

“If possible.”

“I’m willing to answer one question only, provided I can.

Make your choice.”

The boy asked his question at once. Clearly it was the first on his list.

“Do you think it was Peruzzo who put clippings instead of money in that bag?”

“Don’t you?”

Francesco attempted a smile, but didn’t succeed. He only twisted his mouth into a grimace.

“Don’t answer a question with a question,” he said.

He was sharp, this kid. Alert and clever. It was a pleasure to talk to him.

“Why shouldn’t I think it was him?” said Montalbano.

“Mr. Peruzzo, according to what we’ve learned about him, is an unscrupulous man with a penchant for dangerous gambits.

He probably sized up his situation. The essential thing, for him, was to avoid getting drawn into the case, because once he was, he could only lose. Therefore, why not take yet another risk and try to save six billion lire?” “And what if they killed Susanna?”

“He could claim, as a last resort, that he’d paid the ransom and that it was the kidnappers who hadn’t kept their word. Because there was always the chance that Susanna might recognize one of them, which would have made it necessary to eliminate her. He would have cried and wailed in front of the TV cameras, and some people would have ended up believing him.” “And would you have been one of those people, Inspector?”

“I plead the Fifth,” said Montalbano.

o o o

“Montalbano? This is Minutolo. I spoke with the commissioner.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said he didn’t want to take advantage of your courtesy.”

“Which, translated into the vernacular, means the quicker I get my ass out of the way, the better.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, my friend, what do you want me to say? I guess I’ll go back to convalescing and wish you all the best.”

“But if I need to exchange a few ideas with you, can I—”

“Whenever you like.”

“Did you know that the Customs Police have found truck-loads of incriminating stuff in Peruzzo’s offices? Everybody thinks he’s screwed for good this time.”

o o o

He picked up the photographic enlargements that he’d had Cicco De Cicco make and put them in an envelope, which he managed, with some effort, to fit in his jacket pocket.

“Catarella!”

“Your orders, Chief.”

“Is Inspector Augello around?”

“No, Chief. He’s in Montelusa ’cause the c’mishner wants

’Specter Augello to be the inner-in-chief.” So the c’mishner had finally marginalized the inspector and was speaking only to Augello, the inner-in-chief.

“What about Fazio?”

“He ain’t here, neither, Chief. He went for a minnit over to Via Palazzolo, ’cross from the alimentary school.”

“What for?”

“There’s some shopkeeper who din’t wanna pay per-tection money shot at the guy who axed him for it but ’e missed.”

“So much the better.”

“Smuch the bitter, Chief, but t’make it up he got some guy who’s passin by in the arm.”

“Listen, Cat. I’m going home to resume my convalescence.”

“Straightaway straightaway?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come see you sometimes when I wanna see you sometimes?”

“Come whenever you like.”

o o o

Before returning to Marinella, he dropped in at the grocer’s where he sometimes got his provisions. He bought green olives, passuluna black olives, caciocavallo cheese, fresh bread sprinkled with giuggiulena, and a jar of Trapanese pesto.

Back at home, he set the table on the veranda while the pasta cooked. After shilly-shallying a bit, the day had finally surrendered to the late spring sunshine. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not a breath of wind in the air. The inspector drained the pasta, dressed it with pesto, took the dish outside, and began to eat. A man was walking by along the water, and for a moment he stopped and stared at Montalbano on the veranda. What was so strange about him that a man should eye him as if he were a painting? Perhaps he really was a painting, one that might be titled: The Solitary Pensioner’s Lunch. The idea made him suddenly lose his appetite. He kept eating his pasta, but listlessly.

The telephone rang. It was Livia. She told him she’d made it back without incident, that everything was all right, she was cleaning her apartment, and would call him back that evening. A brief phone call, but long enough to let the pasta turn cold.

He didn’t feel like eating any more. A wave of black melancholy had come over him, conceding him only a glass of wine and a bit of giuggiulena bread. He tore off a piece, put it in his mouth, and with the index finger of his right hand began searching about for giuggiulena seeds that had fallen from the crust. He pressed them against the tablecloth with his fingertip until they stuck, then brought his finger to his mouth.

The joy of eating bread with giuggiulena lay primarily in this ritual.

Flush against the veranda’s right-hand wall—on the outside, that is—was a wild shrub that over time had grown in width and height to the point where it now came up to the level of someone sitting on the bench.

Livia had told him many times that they needed to uproot it, but this had become a difficult proposition. By now the shrub’s roots must have grown as thick and long as a tree’s.

Montalbano didn’t know why, but he suddenly had the urge to cut it down. He needed only turn his head a little to the right for the whole bush to enter his field of vision. The wild plant was reviving. Here and there amidst its yellow scrub a few green buds were beginning to emerge. Near the top, between two small branches, a silvery spiderweb sparkled in the sunlight. Montalbano was certain it hadn’t been there the day before, because Livia would have noticed and, with her fear of spiders, would have destroyed it with the broom. It must have been made during the night.

The inspector stood up and leaned over the railing to get a closer look at it.

Spellbound, the inspector counted some thirty threads in concentric circles that decreased in diameter as they approached the center. The distance between threads was the same throughout, except in the middle, where it greatly increased. The circu-lar weave, moreover, was held together by a regular sequence of radial threads that emanated from the center and stretched to the outermost circle of the web.

Montalbano guessed that there were about twenty radial threads of uniform distance from one another. The center of the web was made up of the points of convergence of all the threads, which were held together by a thread different from the rest and spiral in shape.

How patient that spider must have been!

It certainly must have encountered some difficulties. A gust of wind shredding the weave, an animal that happened to pass and move a branch . . . But no matter, the spider had carried on its nocturnal labor, determined to bring its web to completion, whatever the cost, obstinate, deaf and blind to all other stimuli.

But where was the spider? Try as he might, the inspector couldn’t see it. Had it already left, abandoning everything?

Had it been eaten by some other animal? Or was it lurking hidden under some yellow leaf, looking keenly around, with its eight eyes like a diadem, its eight legs ready to spring?

All at once, the web began ever so delicately to vibrate, to quiver. Not from any sudden breath of wind, for the nearest leaves, even the flimsiest, remained still. No, it was an artificial movement, created intentionally. And by what, if not the spider itself? Apparently the invisible arachnid wanted the web to be taken for something else—a veil of frost, a wisp of steam—and was moving the threads with its legs. It was a trap.

Montalbano turned back towards the table, picked up a tiny piece of bread, broke it up into even smaller crumbs, and threw them at the web. Too light, they scattered in the air, but one did get caught in the very middle of the web, right on the spiral thread, and stayed there for only a split second. It was there one moment and gone the next. Darting out like a flash from the upper part of the web—which remained hidden under some leaves—a grey dot had enveloped the breadcrumb and vanished. But more than actually witness this movement, the inspector had sensed it. The swiftness with which the grey dot had moved was astonishing. He decided he wanted a better look at the spider’s reaction. He took another crumb, rolled it into a tiny little ball slightly bigger than the last one, and hurled it right into the center of the web, which shook all over. The grey dot pounced again, arrived at the center, covered the bread with its body, but did not return to its hiding place. It held still, perfectly visible, in the middle of its admirable structure of airy geometries. To Montalbano it seemed as if the spider was looking at him, gloating in triumph.

Then, in nightmarishly slow succession, as in an endless cinematic fadeout and fade-in, the spider’s tiny head began to change color and form, going from grey to pink, its fuzz turning to hair, the eight eyes merging into two, until it looked like a minute human face, smiling with satisfaction at the booty it held tightly between its legs.

Montalbano shuddered in horror. Was he living a nightmare? Had he drunk too much wine without realizing it? All at once he remembered a passage in Ovid he’d studied at school, the one about Arachne the weaver, turned into a spider by Athena . . . Could time have started running backwards, all the way back to the dark night of myth? He felt dizzy, head spinning. Luckily that monstrous vision didn’t last long, for the image began at once to blur and reverse the transforma-tion. Yet before the spider turned back into a spider, before it vanished again amidst the leaves, Montalbano had enough time to recognize the face. And, no, it wasn’t Arachne’s. He was sure of that.

He sat down on the bench, his legs giving out from under him. He had to drink a whole glass of wine to regain a little strength.

He realized that it must also have been late one night—on one of many nights of anguish, torment, and rage—that the other spider, too, the one whose face he’d just glimpsed, had decided to weave a gigantic web.

And with patience, tenacity, and determination, never once turning back, that spider had woven its web to completion. It was a marvel of geometry, a masterpiece of logic.

Yet it was impossible for that web not to contain at least one mistake, however minuscule, one tiny, barely visible im-perfection.

He got up, went inside, and started looking for a magnifying glass that he knew he had somewhere. Ever since Sherlock Holmes, no detective is a true detective if he doesn’t have a magnifying glass within reach.

He opened every last drawer in the house, made a mess of the place—coming across a letter he’d received from a friend six months before and never opened, he opened it, read it, learned that his friend Gaspano had become a grandfather (Shit! But weren’t he and Gaspano the same age?)—searched some more, then decided there was no point in continuing. He could only conclude, apparently, that he was not a true detective. Elementary, my dear Watson. He went back out on the veranda, leaned on the railing, and bent all the way forward until his nose was almost at the center of the spiderweb. Then he recoiled a little, suddenly scared that the lightning-fast spider might bite his nose, mistaking it for prey. He studied the web carefully, to the point that his eyes began to water. No, the web appeared geometrically perfect, but in reality it wasn’t. There were at least three or four points where the distance between one strand and the next was irregular, and there was even one spot where two threads zigzagged for very brief stretches.

Feeling reassured, he smiled. Then his smile turned to laughter. A spiderweb! There wasn’t a single cliché more used and abused to describe a scheme plotted in the shadows. He’d never employed it before. Apparently the cliché had wanted to get back at him for his disdain, becoming a reality and forcing him to take it into consideration.

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16

Two hours later he was in his car on the road to Gallotta, eyes popping because he couldn’t remember where he was supposed to turn. At a certain point he spotted, on his right, the tree with the sign saying fresh eggs painted in red.

The path from the road led nowhere except to the little white die of a cottage where he’d been. In fact it ended there.

From a distance he noticed a car parked in the space in front of the house. He drove up the path, which was all uphill, parked near the other car, and got out.

The door was locked. Maybe the girl was entertaining a client with other intentions than buying fresh eggs.

He didn’t knock, but decided to wait a little. He smoked a cigarette, leaning against his car. As he tossed the butt on the ground, he thought he saw something appear and disappear behind the tiny barred window next to the front door that allowed air to circulate inside when the door was closed. A face, perhaps. The door then opened and a distinguished-looking, chunky man of about fifty came out, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He was pepper-red with embarrassment.

“Won’t you come in, Inspector?” the woman called from inside.

Montalbano went in. She was sitting on the sofa-cot. Its cover was rumpled and a pillow had fallen to the floor. She was buttoning her blouse, long black hair hanging loose on her shoulders, the corners of her mouth smeared with lip-stick.

“I looked out the window and recognized you at once,” she said. “Excuse me just one minute.”

She stood up and started putting things in order. Like the first time he saw her, she was dressed up.

“How is your husband feeling?” Montalbano asked, glanc-ing at the door to the back room, which was closed.

“How’s he supposed to feel, poor man?”

When she’d finished tidying up and had wiped her mouth with a Kleenex, she asked with a smile:

“Can I make you some coffee?”

“Thank you. But I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Are you kidding? You don’t seem like a cop. Please sit down,” she said, pulling out a cane chair for him.

“Thanks. I don’t know your name.”

“Angela. Angela Di Bartolomeo.”

“Did my colleagues come to interrogate you?”

“Inspector, I did just like you told me to do. I put on shabby clothes, put the bed in the other room . . . Nothing doing. They turned the house upside down, they even looked under my husband’s bed, they asked me questions for four hours straight, they searched the chicken coop and scared my chickens away and broke three baskets’ worth of eggs . . . And then there was one of ’em, the son of a bitch—pardon my language—who, as soon as we were alone, took advantage . . .” “Took advantage how?”

“Took advantage of me, touched my breasts. At a certain point it got to where I couldn’t take it anymore and I started crying. It didn’t matter that I kept saying I wouldn’t ever do any harm to Dr. Mistretta’s niece ’cause the doctor even gives my husband his medicines for free . . . But he just didn’t want to hear it.” The coffee was excellent.

“Listen, Angela, I need you to try and remember something.”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Do you remember when you said that after Susanna was kidnapped, a car came here one night and you thought it might be a client?”

“Yessir.”

“Okay, now that things have settled down, can you calmly try to remember what you did when you heard that car’s motor?”

“Didn’t I already tell you?”

“You said you got out of bed because you thought it was a client.”

“Yessir.”

“A client who hadn’t told you he was coming, however.”

“Yessir.”

“You got out of bed, and then what did you do?”

“I came in here and turned on the light.” This was the new element, the thing the inspector had been looking for. Therefore she must also have seen something, in addition to what she’d heard.

“Stop right there. Which light?”

“The one outside. The one that’s over the door and when it’s dark it lights up the yard in front of the house. When my husband was still okay, we used to eat outside in the summer-time. The switch is right there, see it?” And she pointed to it. It was on the wall between the door and the little window.

“And then?”

“Then I looked out the window, which was half open.

But the car’d already turned around, I just barely saw it from behind.”

“Do you know anything about cars, Angela?”

“Me?” said the girl. “I don’t know the first thing!”

“But you managed to see the back of the car, you just told me.”

“Yessir.”

“Do you remember what color it was?”

Angela thought about this a moment.

“I can’t really say, Inspector. Might’ve been blue, black, dark green . . . But I’m sure about one thing: it wasn’t light, it was dark.”

Now came the hardest question.

Montalbano took a deep breath and asked it. And Angela answered at once, somewhat surprised at not having thought of it first.

“Oh, yes, that’s true!”

Then she immediately made a face, looking confused.

“But . . . what’s that got to do with it?”

“In fact it’s got nothing to do with it,” he hastened to reassure her. “I asked you because the car I’m looking for looked a lot like that one.”

He got up and held out his hand to her.

“I have to go now.”

Angela also stood up.

“You want a really, really fresh egg?”

Before the inspector could answer, she’d pulled one out of a basket. Montalbano took it, tapped it twice against the table, and sucked out the contents. It had been years since he’d last tasted an egg like that.

o o o

At a junction on the way back, he saw a sign that said monte-reale 18 km. He turned and took this road. Perhaps it was the taste of the egg that made him realize he hadn’t been to Don Cosimo’s shop for quite some time. It was a tiny little place where one could still find things that had long disappeared from Vigàta, such as little bunches of oregano, concentrate of sun-dried tomatoes and, most of all, a special vinegar made from strong, naturally fermented red wine. Indeed he’d noticed that the bottle he had in the kitchen had barely two fingers’ worth left. He therefore needed urgently to restock.

It took him an incredibly long time to reach Montereale.

He’d driven at a snail’s pace, in part because he was thinking of the implications of what Angela had confirmed, in part because he enjoyed taking in the new landscape. In town, as he was about to turn onto the little street that led to the shop, he noticed a sign indicating no entry. This was new. It hadn’t been there before. It meant he would have to make a long detour. He was better off leaving the car in the little piazza that was right there, and taking a little walk. He pulled over, stopped, opened the car door, and saw a uniformed traffic cop in front of him.

“You can’t park here.”

“I can’t? Why not?”

“Can’t you read that sign? No parking.”

The inspector looked around. There were three other vehicles parked in the piazzetta. A small pickup, a minivan, and an SUV.

“What about them?”

The cop looked at him sternly.

“They have authorization.”

Why, nowadays, did every town, even if it had only two hundred inhabitants, pretend it was New York City, passing extremely complicated traffic regulations that changed every two weeks?

“Listen,” the inspector said in a conciliatory tone. “I only need to stop a few minutes. I want to go to Don Cosimo’s shop to buy—”

“You can’t.”

“Is it also forbidden to go to Don Cosimo’s shop?” said Montalbano, at a loss.

“It’s not forbidden,” the traffic cop said. “It’s just that the shop is closed.”

“And when will it reopen?”

“I don’t think it will ever open again. Don Cosimo died.”

“Oh my God! When?”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, but . . .”

“Then why are you surprised? Don Cosimo, rest his soul, was ninety-five years old. He died three months ago.” He drove off cursing the saints. To leave town, he had to take a rather labyrinthine route that ended up setting his nerves on edge. He calmed down when he started driving along the coastal road that led back to Marinella. All at once he remembered that when Mimì Augello said that Susanna’s backpack had been found, he’d specified that they’d found it behind the four-kilometer marker along the road he was on now. He was almost there. He slowed down, pulled over, and stopped at the very point Mimì had mentioned. He got out. There were no houses nearby. To his right were some clumps of wild grass, beyond which lay a golden burst of yellow beach, the same as in Marinella. Beyond that, the sea, surf receding with a lazy breath, already anticipating the sunset. On his left was a high wall, interrupted at one point by a cast-iron gate, which was wide open. At the gate began a paved road that cut straight through a well-tended, genuine wood and led to a villa that remained hidden from view. To one side of the gate was an enormous bronze plaque with letters written in high relief.

Montalbano didn’t need to cross the road to read what it said.

He got back in the car and left.

What was it Adelina often said? L’omu e’ sceccu di consiguenza. Or: Man is a jackass of consequence. A glorified donkey. And like a donkey that always travels the same road and gets used to that road, man is given to taking always the same route, making always the same gestures, without reflection, out of habit.

But would what he had just happened to discover, and what Angela had told him, stand up in court?

No, he concluded, definitely not. But they were confirmations. That, they certainly were.

o o o

At seven-thirty he turned on the television to watch the evening’s first news report.

They said there were no new developments in the investigation. Susanna was still unable to answer questions, and a huge crowd was expected at the funeral services for the late Mrs. Mistretta, despite the fact that the family had made it known they didn’t want anyone to come either to the church or the cemetery. They also mentioned in passing that Antonio Peruzzo had vanished from circulation, fleeing his impending arrest. This news, however, had not been officially confirmed.

The other station’s news broadcast, at eight, repeated the same things, but in a different order. First came the report of the engineer’s disappearance, then the fact that the family wanted a private funeral. Nobody could enter the church, and no one would be allowed into the cemetery.

o o o

The telephone rang, just as he was about to go out to eat.

He had a hearty appetite. He’d eaten hardly anything at mid-day, and Angela’s fresh egg had tasted to him like an hors d’oeuvre.

“Inspector? This . . . this is Francesco.” He didn’t recognize the voice. It was hoarse, hesitant.

“Francesco who?” he asked gruffly.

“Francesco Li . . . Lipari.”

Susanna’s boyfriend. Why was he talking like that?

“What’s wrong?”

“Susanna . . .”

He stopped. Montalbano could clearly hear him sniffle.

The kid was crying.

“Susanna . . . Susanna told . . . me . . .”

“Did you see her?”

“No. But she . . . she finally . . . answered the phone . . .” Now came the sobbing.

“I’m . . . I’m . . . sorr . . .”

“Calm down, Francesco. Do you want to come over to my place?”

“No . . . no thanks . . . I’m not . . . I’ve been drin . . .

drinking. She said she didn’t want to . . . to see me anymore.” Montalbano felt his blood run cold, perhaps colder than Francesco’s. What did this mean? That Susanna had another man? And if she had another man, then all his calculations, all his suppositions went out the window. They were nothing more than the ridiculous, miserable fantasies of an aging inspector who was no longer all there in the head.

“Is she in love with somebody else?”

“Worse.”

“Worse in what way?”

“There isn’t anybo . . . anybody else. She made a vow, a decision, when she was being held prisoner.”

“Is she religious?”

“No. It’s a promise she made to herself . . . that if she was set free in time to see her mother still alive . . . she would go away before a month had passed. And she was talking to me as though she was already gone, already far away.” “Did she tell you where she was going?”

“To Africa. She’s giving up her studies, giving up getting married, having children. Sh-she’s giving up everything.”

“To do what?”

“To make herself useful. That exactly what she said: ‘I’m finally going to make myself useful.’ She’s going away with some volunteer organization. And you know what? She’d already made her preliminary request with them two months ago, without telling me anything. All the while she was with me, she was thinking of leaving me forever. What on earth got into her?” So there wasn’t any other man. And it all made sense.

Even more than before.

“Do you think she may change her mind?”

“No, Inspector. If you’d heard her voice . . . And anyway, I know her well. When she’s made a de-decision . . . But for the love of God, what does it mean, Inspector? What does it mean?” The last question was a cry. Montalbano knew perfectly well, at this point, what it meant, but he couldn’t answer Francesco’s question. For the inspector it had all become rather simple. The scales, which had long been in a state of balance, had now tipped forcefully and entirely to one side. What Francesco had just told him confirmed that his next move was the right one. And should be made at once.

o o o

Before making any moves, however, he had to fill Livia in.

He put his hand over the telephone, but did not pick up the receiver. He still needed to talk it over with himself. Did what he was about to do, he asked himself, in some way mean that, having reached the end of his career, or almost, he was repudiating—in the eyes of his superiors, in the eyes of the law itself—the principles by which he had abided for so many long years? But had he in fact always respected these principles?

Didn’t Livia harshly accuse him once of acting like a minor god, a little god who took pleasure in changing or rearranging the facts? Livia was wrong. He was no god. Absolutely not. He was only a man with his own personal judgment of right and wrong. And sometimes what he thought was right would have been wrong in the eyes of justice. And vice versa. So was it better to act in accordance with justice, the kind of justice that’s written down in books, or with one’s own conscience?

No, Livia might not understand, and might even manage, through argument, to bring him to the opposite conclusion from the one he wanted to arrive at.

It was better to write to her. He took out a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen.

Livia my love,

he began, but couldn’t continue. He tore up the sheet and took out another.

My beloved Livia,

and he got stuck again. He took out a third sheet.

Livia,

and the pen refused to go any further.

It was hopeless. He would tell her everything face to face, looking her straight in the eye, the next time they saw each other.

Having made this decision, he felt rested, serene, revived.

Wait a minute, he said to himself. Those three adjectives, rested, serene, revived, are not your own. You’re quoting. Okay, but what?

He thought hard, putting his head in his hands. Then, confident in his visual memory, he moved with near-total assurance. He stood up right in front of the bookcase, pulled out Leonardo Sciascia’s Council of Egypt, and leafed through it.

There it was, on page 122 of the first edition from 1966, the one he’d read at age sixteen and had always carried around with him, to read from time to time.

On that extraordinary page, the abbé Vella decides to reveal something to Monsignor Airoldi that will turn his life upside down, to wit, that the Arabian Code is an imposture, a forgery created by his own hand. Yet before going to Monsignor Airoldi, the abbé Vella takes a bath and drinks a coffee.

Montalbano, too, stood at a crossroads.

Smiling, he stripped naked and slipped into the shower.

He changed all his clothes, down to his underpants, putting on an entire set of clean articles. He chose a serious-looking tie for the occasion. Then he made coffee and drank a cup with relish. By this point, the three adjectives, rested, serene, revived, were entirely his. One, however—which was not in Sciascia’s book—was missing: sated.

o o o

“What can I get for you, Inspector?”

“Everything.”

They laughed.

Seafood antipasto, fish soup, boiled octopus dressed with olive oil and lemon, four mullets (two fried, two grilled), and two little glasses, filled to the brim, of a tangerine liqueur with an explosive alcohol level, the pride and joy of Enzo the restaurateur. Who congratulated the inspector.

“I can see you’re in good form again.”

“Thanks. Would you do me a favor, Enzo? Could you look up Dr. Mistretta’s number in the phone book and write it down for me on a piece of paper?”

As Enzo was working for him, he drank a third glass of liqueur at his leisure. The restaurateur returned and handed him the number.

“People around town have been talking about the doctor,” he said.

“And what are they saying?”

“That this morning he went to the notary’s to do the pa-perwork for donating the villa he lives in. He’s going to move in with his brother, the geologist, now that his wife has passed away.” “Who’s he donating the villa to?”

“Oh, apparently some orphanage in Montelusa.” From the restaurant phone, Montalbano called first Dr.

Mistretta’s office, then his home. There was no answer. No doubt the doctor was at his brother’s villa for the wake. And no doubt only the family was there, unbothered by policemen or journalists. He dialed the number. The telephone rang a long time before somebody picked up.

“The Mistretta home.”

“Montalbano here. Is that you, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Look, we can do it tomorrow after—”

“No.”

The doctor’s voice cracked.

“You want to see me now?”

“Yes.”

The doctor let a little time elapse before speaking again.

“All right, though I find your insistence quite inappropriate. You’re aware that the funeral is tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Will it take very long?”

“I can’t say.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“I’ll be over in twenty minutes, maximum.” Exiting the trattoria, he noticed that the weather had changed. Heavy rain clouds were approaching from the sea.

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17

Seen from the outside, the villa was in total darkness, a black bulk against a sky black with night and clouds. Dr. Mistretta had opened the gate and stood there waiting for the inspector’s car to appear. Montalbano drove in, parked, and got out, but waited in the garden for the doctor to close the gate. A faint light shone from a lone window with its shutter ajar; it came from the dead woman’s room, where her husband and daughter were keeping watch. One of the two French doors in the salon was closed, the other ajar, but it cast only a dim light into the garden, because the overhead chandelier was not lit.

“Come inside.”

“I prefer to stay outside. We can go in if it starts raining,” said the inspector.

They walked in silence to the wooden benches and sat down like the time before. Montalbano pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Want one?”

“No, thank you. I’ve decided to quit smoking.” Apparently the kidnapping had led both uncle and niece to make vows.

“What was it you so urgently needed to tell me?”

“Where are your brother and Susanna?”

“In my sister-in-law’s room.”

Who knows whether they’d opened the window to let a little air into the room? Who knows whether there was still that ghastly, unbearable stench of medication and illness?

“Do they know I’m here?”

“I told Susanna, but not my brother.”

How many things had been kept, and were still being kept, from the poor geologist?

“So, what did you want to tell me?”

“Let me preface it by saying that I’m not here in an official capacity. But I can be if I want.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. It depends on your answers.”

“Then get on with your questions.”

That was the problem. The first question was like a first step down a path of no return. He closed his eyes—the doctor couldn’t see, anyway—and began.

“You have a patient who lives in a cottage off the road to Gallotta, a man who flipped his tractor and—”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the Good Shepherd Clinic, which is two and a half miles from—”

“What kind of questions are these? Of course I know it. I go there often. So what? Are you going to recite a list of my patients?”

No. No list of patients. L’omu è sceccu di consiguenza . And you, that night in your SUV, with your heart racing madly, your blood pressure soaring because of what you were doing—since you had to deposit the helmet and backpack in two different places—what roads did you take? The ones you knew best! It was almost as though you weren’t driving the car, but it was driving you . . .

“I just wanted to point out to you that Susanna’s helmet was found near the path leading to your patient’s house, and the backpack was recovered almost directly in front of the Good Shepherd Clinic. Did you know?” “Yes.”

Matre santa! Bad move! The inspector would never have expected it.

“And how did you find out?”

“From newspapers, the television, I don’t remember.”

“Impossible. The newspapers and television never mentioned those discoveries. We succeeded in letting nothing leak out.”

“Wait! Now I remember! You told me yourself, when we were sitting right here, on this very bench!”

“No, Doctor. I told you those objects had been found, but I didn’t say where. And you know why? Because you didn’t ask me.”

And that was the snag which at the time the inspector had perceived as a kind of hesitation and couldn’t immediately explain. It was a perfectly natural question, but it hadn’t been asked, and actually stopped the flow of the discussion, like a line omitted from a printed page. Even Livia had asked him where he’d found the Simenon novel! And the oversight was due to the fact that the doctor knew perfectly well where the helmet and backpack had been found.

“But . . . but Inspector! There could be dozens of possible explanations for why I didn’t ask you! Do you realize what kind of state I was in at the time? You want to construct God-knows-what out of the flimsiest of—” “—the flimsiest of spiderwebs, perhaps? You have no idea how apt the metaphor is. Just think, initially my construction rested on an even flimsier thread.”

“Well, if you’re the first to admit it . . .”

“Indeed I am. And it concerned your niece. Something Francesco, her ex-boyfriend, said to me. Do you know Susanna has left him?”

“Yes, she’s already told me about it.”

“It’s a touchy subject. I’m a bit reluctant to broach it, but—”

“But you have to do your job.”

“Do you think I would act this way if I was doing my job? What I was going to say was: But I want to know the truth.”

The doctor said nothing.

At that moment a female figure appeared on the threshold of the French window, took a step forward, and stopped.

Jesus, the nightmare was coming back! It was a bodiless head, with long blond hair, suspended in air! Just as he’d seen at the center of the spiderweb! Then he realized that Susanna was wearing all black, to mourn her mother, and her clothes blended in with the night.

The girl resumed walking, came towards them, and sat down on a bench. As the light didn’t reach that far, one could only barely make out her hair, a slightly less dense point of darkness. She didn’t greet them. Montalbano decided to continue as though she wasn’t there.

“As often happens between lovers, Susanna and Francesco had intimate relations.”

The doctor became agitated, uneasy.

“You have no right . . . And anyway, what’s that got to do with your investigation?” he said with irritation.

“It’s got a lot to do with it. You see, Francesco told me he was always the one to ask, if you know what I mean. Whereas, on the day she was kidnapped, it was she who took the initiative.” “Inspector, honestly, I do not understand what my niece’s sexual behavior has to do with any of this. And I wonder if you know what you’re saying or are simply raving. So I’ll ask you again, what is the point?” “The point is that when Francesco told me this, he said Susanna may have had a premonition . . . But I don’t believe in premonitions. It was something else.”

“And what, in your opinion, was it?” the doctor asked sar-castically.

“A farewell.”

What had Livia said the evening before her departure?

“These are our last hours together, and I don’t want to spoil them.” She’d wanted to make love. And to think that theirs was to be only a brief separation. What if it had been a long and final goodbye? Because Susanna was already thinking that regardless of whether her plans came to a good or bad end, they inevitably spelled the end of their love. This was the price, the infinitely high price, that she had to pay.

“Because she’d put in her request to go to Africa two months before,” the inspector continued. “Two months. Which was surely when she got that other idea.”

“What other idea? Listen, Inspector, don’t you think you’re abusing—”

“I’m warning you,” Montalbano said icily. “You’re giving the wrong answers and asking the wrong questions. I came here to lay my cards on the table and reveal my suspicions . . .

or rather, my hopes.”

Why had he said “hopes”? Because hope was what had tipped the scales entirely to one side, in Susanna’s favor. Because that word was what had finally convinced him.

The word completely flummoxed the doctor, who wasn’t able to say anything. And for the first time, out of the silence and darkness came the girl’s voice, a hesitant voice, as though laden, indeed, with hope: the hope of being understood, to the bottom of her heart.

“Did you say . . . hope?”

“Yes. The hope that a great capacity for hatred might turn into a great capacity for love.”

From the bench where the girl was sitting he heard a kind of sob, which was immediately stifled. He lit a cigarette and saw, by the lighter’s glow, that his hand was trembling slightly.

“Want one?” he asked the doctor.

“I said no.”

They were firm in their resolutions, these Mistrettas. So much the better.

“I know there was no kidnapping. That evening, you, Susanna, took a different road home, a little-used dirt road, where your uncle was waiting for you in his SUV. You left your motorbike there, got in the car, and crouched down in back. And your uncle drove off to his villa. There, in the building next to the doctor’s villa, everything had been prepared some time before: a bed, provisions, and so on. The cleaning woman had no reason whatsoever to set foot in there. Who would ever have thought of looking for the kidnap victim at her uncle’s house? And that was where you recorded the messages. Among other things, you, Doctor, in your disguised voice, spoke of billions. It’s hard for people over a certain age to get used to thinking in euros. That was also where you shot your Polaroids, on the back of which you wrote some words, trying your best to make your handwriting legible, since, like all doctors’ handwriting, yours is indecipherable. I’ve never been inside that building, Doctor, but I can say for certain that you had a new telephone extension installed—” “How can you say that?” asked Carlo Mistretta.

“I know because the two of you came up with a truly brilliant idea for averting suspicion. You seized an opportunity on the fly. After learning that I was coming to the villa, Susanna called in the second recorded message, the one specifying the ransom amount, as I was speaking with you. But I heard, without understanding at first, the sound a phone makes when the receiver on an extension is picked up. Anyway, it wouldn’t be hard to get confirmation. All I need to do is call the phone company. And that could constitute evidence, Doctor. Shall I go on?” “Yes.”

It was Susanna who’d answered.

“I also know, because you told me yourself, Doctor, that there is an old winepress in that building. Thus there must be an adjacent space with the vat for the fermentation of the must. I am willing to bet that this room has a window. Which you, Doctor, opened when you took the snapshot, since it was daytime. You also used a mechanic’s lamp to better illuminate the inside of the vat. But there’s one detail you neglected in this otherwise elaborate, convincing production.” “A detail?”

“Yes, Doctor. In the photograph, right below the edge of the vat, there’s what appears to be a crack. I had that detail enlarged. It’s not a crack.”

“What is it?”

The inspector could feel that Susanna had been about to ask the same question. They still couldn’t figure out where they’d made a mistake. He sensed the motion of the doctor’s head as it turned toward Susanna, the questioning look in his eyes, even though these things were not visible.

“It’s an old fermentation thermometer. Unrecognizable, covered with spiderwebs, blackened, and so encrusted into the wall that it looks like it’s part of it. And therefore you couldn’t see it. But it’s still there. And this is the conclusive proof. I need only get up, go inside, pick up the phone, have two of my men come and stand guard over you, call the judge for the warrant, and begin searching your villa, Doctor.” “It would be a big step forward for your career,” Mistretta said mockingly.

“Once again, you’re entirely wrong. My career has no more steps to take, neither forward nor backward. What I’m trying to do is not for you, Doctor.”

“Are you doing it for me?”

Susanna sounded astonished.

Yes, for you. Because I’ve been spellbound by the quality, the intensity, the purity of your hatred. I am fascinated by the fiendish nature of the thoughts that come into your head, by the coldness and courage and patience with which you carried out your intentions, by the way you calculated the price you had to pay and were ready to pay it. And I’m also doing it for myself, because it’s not right that there’s always someone who suffers and someone who benefits from the other’s suffering, with the approval of the so-called law. Can a man, having reached the end of his career, rebel against a state of things he himself has helped to maintain?

Since the inspector wasn’t answering, the girl said something that wasn’t even a question.

“The nurse told me you wanted to see Mama.” I wanted to see her, yes.To see her in bed, wasted away, no longer a body but almost a thing, yet something that groaned, that suffered horribly . . . Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I wanted to see where your hatred had first taken root and grown uncontrollably with the stench of medications, excrement, sweat, sickness, vomit, pus, and gangrene that had devastated the heart of that thing lying in bed.The hatred with which you infected those close to you . . . But not your father—no, your father never knew a thing, never knew that it was all a sham . . . He anguished terribly over what he believed was a real kidnapping . . . But this, too, was a price you were willing to pay, and to have others pay, because true hatred, like love, doesn’t balk at the despair and tears of the innocent.

“I wanted to understand.”

It began to thunder out at sea. The lightning was far away, but the rain was approaching.

“Because the idea of taking revenge on your uncle was first born in that room, on one of those terrible nights you spent taking care of your mother. Isn’t that so, Susanna? At first it seemed like an effect of your fatigue, your discourage-ment, your despair, but soon it became harder and harder to get that idea out of your head. And so, almost as a way to kill time, you started thinking of how you might make your ob-session a reality. You drew up a plan, night after night. And you asked your uncle to help you, because . . .” Stop.You can’t say that. It just came to you now, this very moment.You need to think it over before—“Say it,” the doctor said softly but firmly. “Because Susanna realized that I had always been in love with Giulia. It was a love without hope, but it prevented me from having a life of my own.” “And therefore you, Doctor, on impulse, you decided to collaborate on the destruction of Antonio Peruzzo’s reputation. By manipulating public opinion to perfection. The coup de grâce came when you replaced the money-filled suitcase with the duffel full of scrap paper.” It began to drizzle. Montalbano stood up.

“Before leaving, to set my conscience at rest . . .” His voice came out too solemnly, but he was unable to change it.

“To set my conscience at rest, I cannot allow those six billion lire to remain in—”

“In our hands?” Susanna finished his sentence. “The money is no longer here. We didn’t even keep the money that was lent by Mama and never given back. Uncle Carlo took care of it, with the help of a client of his, who will never talk.

It was divided up, and by now most of it has already been transferred abroad. It’s supposed to be sent anonymously to about fifty different humanitarian organizations. If you want, I can go in the house and get the list.” “Fine,” said the inspector. “I’m leaving.” He indistinctly saw the doctor and the girl stand up as well.

“Are you coming to the funeral tomorrow?” asked Susanna. “I would really like—”

“No,” said the inspector. “My only wish is that you, Susanna, do not betray my hope.”

He realized he was talking like an old man, but this time he didn’t give a damn.

“Good luck,” he said in a soft voice.

He turned his back to them, went out to his car, opened the door, turned on the ignition, and drove, but had to stop almost at once in front of the closed gate. He saw the girl come running under the now driving rain, her hair seeming to light up like fire when caught in the glare of the headlights. She opened the gate without turning around to look at him. And he, too, looked away.

o o o

On the road back to Marinella, the rain started falling in buckets. At a certain point he had to pull over because the windshield wipers couldn’t handle it. Then it stopped all at once. Entering the dining room, he realized he’d left the French door to the veranda open, and the floor had got all wet. He would have to mop it up. He turned on the outdoor light and went outside. The violent rainstorm had washed away the spiderweb. The shrub’s branches were sparkling clean and dripping wet.

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AU T H O R ’ S N OT E

This story is invented from top to bottom, at least I hope it is.

Therefore the names of the characters and business, and the situations and events of the book, have no connection to reality.

If anyone should find some reference to real events, I can assure you this was not intentional.

A. C.

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N OT ES

5 he couldn’t bring himself to go see the notary: In Italy a notary (notaio) performs functions of probate and contract law, among other things.

7 The poor man, not knowing how much he’d bled, keptb> on fighting when in fact he was dead: Il pover’uom, che non se n’era accorto,/ andava combattendo ed era morto. Two lines from a tradi-tional Italian song.

16 a triumphant member of the party in power: I.e., the party called Forza Italia, the right-wing political entity created by media tycoon Silvio Berlusconi, who was still in power when this book was written.

19 “Go see if it was the traffic police!”: In Italy the jurisdiction of the Vigili Urbani (the “municipal police”), which includes the traffic police, is separate from that of the Commissariato di Pubblico Sicurezza (“Commissariat of Public Safety”), the branch of the police for which Montalbano works. The Carabinieri (the national police), the Guardia di Finanza (here translated as “Customs police”), and the Polizia Stradale (or “road police”) also have separate jurisdictions, which often leads to petty rivalries and bureaucratic confusion.

32 Matre santa!: Holy mother! A Sicilian invocation of the Blessed Virgin.

38 “will be handled by Inspector Minutolo, who, being a Calabrian . . .”—What? Minutolo was from Alì, in Messina province—: Messina is in Sicily, not Calabria. The region of Calabria, across the Strait of Messina from Sicily, is notorious for its kidnappings.

38-39 “that would make him the Po, whereas I would be the Dora, the Riparia or the Baltea . . .”: The Po is a major river in the north of Italy, of which the Dora, Riparia, and Baltea are tributaries.

39 the Valley of the Temples: Probably the finest group of Ancient Greek ruins in Sicily (and there are many), the Valley of the Temples is just outside of Agrigento, the city on which the fictional Montelusa is based.

39 The number you have reached does not exist: The recorded response for nonworking numbers in Italy indeed says “Il numero se-lezionato da lei è inesistente.”

61 cornuto: Italian for “cuckold,” cornuto is a common insult throughout the country, but a special favorite among southerners, Sicilians in particular.

78 the private television station where Nicolò Zito worked: In Italy there are three state-owned television stations, Rai Uno, Rai Due, Rai Tre and their local subsidiaries, and countless private stations.

82 a cacocciola: Sicilian expression used to denote the interrogative gesture, common throughout Italy, where one holds the hand palm-up, fingertips and thumb gathered together and pointing upward, and shakes it lightly. Cacocciola is Sicilian for “artichoke” ( carciofo in Italian).

85 Totò and Peppino: Totò was the stage and screen name of Antonio de Curtis (1898–1967), perhaps the most celebrated comic actor of the twentieth century in Italy. Also a poet and writer of Neapolitan songs, he was born a marquis and later granted a whole series of noble titles, including Count Palatine, Exarch of Ravenna, Duke of Macedonia and Illyria, and Prince of Constantinople. He was known affectionately as the Principe della Risata, or the “Prince of laughter.” Peppino de Filippo (1903–1980) was a Naples-born comic actor of the screen and stage and brother of comic playwright and actor Eduardo de Filippo. He teamed up with Totò in the early 1950s on a series of madcap comic films that became wildly popular.

91 spaghetti all’aglio e olio: That is, with “garlic and oil,” and usually a bit of hot pepper and parsley. Because it’s considered a light dish, spaghetti all’aglio e olio is often served to people who aren’t feeling well.

91 aiole: Aiola is the Sicilian name for a kind of sea-bream ( Pagellus mormyrus or Lithognathus mormyrus) common to Sicilian waters. In Italian it’s called mormora.

99 Madonna biniditta!: Blessed Virgin! (Sicilian dialect).

103 “he’s liable to have us searching all the way to the Aspromonte”: The Aspromonte (literally, “harsh mountain”) is in Calabria, the last stretch of the so-called Calabrian Alps, which are a continuation of the Apennine chain that runs down the Italian penin-sula. Augello’s quip is predicated on the commissioner’s confusion of parts of Sicily with Calabria (see note to page).

114 “that class of shopkeepers who think a thousand lire’s the same as a euro”: To the great dismay of many consumers, when the Italian currency was changed from the lira to the euro in 2002, many shops, restaurants, and other small businesses began charging a whole euro for what had previously cost one thousand lire, which in fact was equivalent to barely more than half a euro. Thus a hotel room that had previously cost 100,000 lire (about $50) now cost 100 euros (about $100, at the time of the conversion), and a plate of pasta that had gone for 12,000 (about $6) suddenly went for 12 euros. By merely moving the decimal point over three places on their prices, many businesses ended up charging their customers twice as much as before.

120 “Operation Clean Hands”: “Clean Hands” is English for Mani Pulite, the name given by journalists to a nationwide judicial and police investigation in the early 1990s that exposed the endemic corruption of the Italian political system as well as the vast web of collusion between certain politicians, business leaders, intelligence organizations, organized crime, and extremist right-wing groups. After a rash of indictments of political and business leaders, and even a few suicides, Mani Pulite ulti-mately led to the demise and dissolution of the Christian Democratic Party, which had governed Italy since the end of the Second World War.

The Italian Socialist and Social Democratic parties were also dissolved before being reconstituted in other political formations. Unfortunately many of the legal reforms institued during Mani Pulite have since been reversed under the rule of Silvio Berlusconi’s Forza Italia Party.

123 Then, with the new law, he brought it back in, paid his percentage, and put his affairs in order: Former prime minister Silvio Berlusconi’s ruling party passed a law that allowed money that had been illegally taken out of the country to be repatriated upon payment of a relatively light fine. The law amounted to an amnesty for the sort of corrupt activities that Mani Pulite had attempted to eradicate.

129 It was as if the inspector had spoken to crows: The Sicilian expression parlare con le ciaùle (or ciavule), i.e., “to speak to crows,” means to be privy to information unknown to most people. Ciaùla (or ciavula) can also refer to a very talkative woman.

138 since Peruzzo was a victim of the communist judiciary: In attempting to discredit the many judicial inquiries into his and others’ corrupt business dealings and the conflicts of interest between their private holdings and their public offices, (former) Prime Minister Berlusconi has repeatedly and speciously claimed that the magistrates behind these investigations are motivated not by any desire to enforce the law but by communist ideology and sympathies, which would make them the natural enemies of the free-enterprise system of which Il Cav-aliere presents himself as the champion. Thus any similar investigation into shady financial maneuvers such as Peruzzo’s must have the same motivations behind it.

148 Except that here the odor was denser. [ . . . ] It was, moreover, brownish-yellow in color, with streaks of fiery red.: As seen in many of the prior novels in this series, Montalbano has a synaesthetic sense of smell, whereby he perceives odors as colors.

172 “says he’s the moon”: Luna means “moon” in Italian.

173 “Pay them no mind, but look and move on, ” as the poet says: Mr. Luna is making the same mistake as many other Italians in attributing this line— “Non ti curar di lor, ma guarda e passa” —to Dante (“the poet”). In fact it is from the Emilio De Marchi transla-tion of La Fontaine’s Fables (in the story of “The Lion, the Monkey, and Two Donkeys”). It must be said, however, that in translating in this fashion the line “mais laissons là ces gens” (which simply means “but let us leave those people there”), De Marchi (1851–1901) was purposely echoing Dante’s line ( Inferno 3, 1. 51), “Ma non ragionam di lor, ma guarda e passa” (“Let us talk not of them, but look and move on”).

174 L’Osservatore Romano: The official daily newspaper of the Vatican.

175 Junior Woodchucks’ Guidebook: The Junior Woodchucks is a scout organization in the fictional town of Duckburg, the setting for the Donald Duck comic-book and cartoon stories. Donald’s nephews Huey, Dewey, and Louie are all Junior Woodchucks, and Scrooge Mc-Duck provides the financial support for the organization. The Junior Woodchucks’ Guidebook is the all-important manual that tells them how to proceed in certain difficult situations, such as pulling people out of quicksand, crossing a river full of crocodiles, or using pepper to make dragons sneeze. Only Junior Woodchucks are allowed to use the Guidebook, though an exception is made for Scrooge.

178 a kind of autostrada: The autostrada (like the German autobahn and the French autoroute) is a high-speed superhighway.

178 ninety miles an hour: The Berlusconi government indeed raised the maximum speed on the autostrada to 150 km/hr, roughly 90

mph.

181 Smoking makes you die of cancer: Cigarette packs in Europe have much more dire warnings than their counterparts in the United States, perhaps because Europeans still smoke more than Americans.

186 cavatuna [ . . . ] caponata: Cavatuna are a kind of handmade pasta crushed with a fork or one’s thumb against a grater, so they remain scored on the outside. The crushing makes them concave or hollow on one side, hence the name ( cavato means “hollow” or “carved out”). Caponata is a kind of ratatouille of eggplant, tomato, green pepper, garlic, onion, celery, black olives, vinegar, olive oil, and anchovies. It is sometimes served as a side dish, sometimes as a main course, and here serves as the base for coniglio all’agrodolce.

205 giuggiulena: Sicilian for sesame.

205 Trapanese pesto: Pesto alla trapanese, like its cousin, pesto alla genovese, is a sauce for pasta with ground or finely chopped basil as its foundation. The Trapanese version (from the Sicilian city of Trapani), however, uses finely chopped and toasted blanched almonds instead of pine nuts, as well as several finely chopped, uncooked tomatoes, which are ground into the blend with garlic, olive oil, and black pepper. Finally, after it served on the pasta one adds a sprinkling of toasted bread crumbs in the place of cheese.

231 But I heard, without understanding at first, the sound a phone makes when a receiver on an extension is picked up: In Italy, a phone will give an ever so slight ring when the receiver on an extension is either picked up or hung up.

Notes by Stephen Sartarelli

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