The Dance of the Seagull

13

“Do you have any problems about dinner?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you eat everything, or are you on a diet?”

“I eat everything and always have a good appetite.”

“Do you like fish?”

“I love fish.”

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No. In fact, I’d like one myself.”

“What time are you going to work tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I’m on the afternoon-evening shift.”

“So you can stay out late tonight.”

“Absolutely.”

She gave a hint of a smile.

“I seem to have the impression you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I did until a few days ago.”

She said it in a tone of voice that made Montalbano prick his ears up.

“Who broke it off?”

“He did.”

“How did he have the courage?”

“I don’t understand.”

“It would take a lot of courage to leave a girl like you. Were you in love with him?”

“Yes.”

“But he wasn’t in love with you.”

“But he was!”

“So why did you break up?”

She clearly wasn’t too keen on discussing the subject. Montalbano realized he’d touched a sore spot.

“Things don’t . . .” she began.

“Go on.”

“Things don’t always depend on what we want.”

He had to press on.

“You mean he was forced in some way to leave you?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you do anything to change his mind?”

“He can’t change his mind.”

“You must insist!”

“But you don’t understand . . .”

She said it with a note of desperation in her voice. He’d been right on target. But he tried to make it look like he’d missed the mark.

“Did he marry another girl?”

“I wish! Please, let’s talk about something else.”

“You’re crying! I’m so sorry, please forgive me. I had no idea . . .”

He was an utter swine. He’d forced her to tears and was now pretending not to have realized the sort of result his questions would have.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To a seaside restaurant where they give you so much seafood appetizer that I advise you to skip the first course.”

“Sounds fantastic! How far away is it?”

“Another half hour and we’ll be there.”

“Is it near your house?”

“About a ten-minute drive.”

“Do you have a beautiful house?”

“It’s the location that’s beautiful. There’s a veranda that gives on to the beach, and I like to spend hours on end just sitting there.”

“Will you take me to see it, afterwards?”

“If you like.”

“We can have a whisky on the veranda.”

“I’m sorry about your friend, Officer Fazio, but I’m glad it gave us the opportunity to meet each other. How’s he doing?”

“He’s getting better by the minute.”

Your move, Angela.

“They said he lost his memory. Is that true?”

Not bad for an opening gambit.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Back to you, Angela.

“Is he getting it back?”

Sharp move.

“Well, that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s starting to remember things, but in a confused manner, and very slowly. For example, he still can’t figure out why he was at the port when he was shot.”

“Poor man! So what do you talk about with him when you go to see him?”

“We talk about the little he can remember. His memory is functioning strangely. He can recall certain acts and situations, but has forgotten people’s names and what they looked like.”

“What does Dr. Bartolomeo say?”

“That it’s going to take a long time.”

“Why did you have him moved to the attic?”

Bad move. A question you should never have asked, Angela.

“The commissioner asked for maximum protection for my friend. He’s afraid someone may be trying to kill him.”

“But he can’t remember anything!”

Excellent imitation of surprise.

“Yeah, but the problem is that the people who want to kill him don’t know that.”

“What a beautiful place! Let’s sit as close to the sea as possible.”

“I hope I’m not making too bad an impression on you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m eating like a . . . But I just can’t resist these antipasti.”

“I like women who like to eat. Shall I order another bottle?”

“Yes.”

“. . . to say nothing of what happens at the hospital! There used to be a doctor in the emergency room—fortunately he’s gone now—who never gave me a moment’s rest! Once he actually grabbed me without warning and wanted to make love in front of a dying patient . . . he said the situation excited him . . . Another time it was a recovering patient, a senior judge, came up behind me as I was bending over and . . .”

“No, I didn’t want to become a nurse, I wanted to get a medical degree, but then my father died, and his pension was barely enough for my mother and me, and so . . . I already said it, didn’t I? That sometimes we’re forced to do things we don’t want to do . . .”

“And have you had to do so often?”

Here’s where we play rough, Angela.

“Had to do what?”

You know exactly what I mean. You’re just stalling.

“Do things you didn’t want to do.”

“Well, a few times, I guess.”

“And have you ever had to do something against your will that in the end turned out to be pleasant?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She realized that her answer would be important.

“Two or three times.”

On to the frontal attack.

“What about tonight?”

“I don’t understand.”

Still stalling, Angela?

“Do you think it will turn out to have been pleasant?”

“Ask me again when it’s over.”

She’d stopped laughing a while back. She continued:

“For now, though, everything’s very pleasant indeed.”

Montalbano didn’t say a word. She resumed.

“At any rate, nobody forced me to come out with you.”

That detail came slightly after the clock had run out.

“Shall we go?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I drive you back to Fiacca?”

“No.”

“Want to come to my place?”

“Yes.”

Montalbano started up the car, but didn’t drive off at once. He bent down inside the car as if he couldn’t find something.

“What are you looking for?”

“I thought I’d . . .”

And they were off like a rocket, so fast that Angela was thrown back against her seat. In the rearview mirror Montalbano saw the same metallic-finish car that had been following them since Fiacca hurry out of the parking lot in pursuit of them. Everything was falling into place. He started to slow down.

When driving past the Scala dei Turchi, he slowed down even more. By this point he was going barely twenty-five kilometers an hour, and every car that passed him had a few nasty things to say to him. The poor metallic car, with its powerful engine, must have been suffering terribly to have to keep behind him at that slow pace. Angela kept her head turned towards the sea and had stopped talking. Without warning Montalbano took his right hand off the steering wheel and laid it on the girl’s left thigh. She didn’t move. A few moments later the hand began to find its way between her legs, which Angela held tightly together. This time, too, she didn’t breathe a word.

The moment they were inside the house, without a word Montalbano grabbed her by the waist with both hands and held her tightly against him. She didn’t return his embrace, but let her body be pressed up against his.

When Montalbano sought out her lips, however, she jerked her head away.

“You don’t want me to kiss you?”

“Yes, but not on the lips, please.”

“As you wish,” said Montalbano, starting to caress her breasts.

A moment later she asked:

“Could we have that whisky on the veranda?”

“I could sit here like this all night.”

She was on her second whisky. Sitting on the little bench next to Montalbano, she was resting her head on his shoulder. The sky was crisp, polished clean, with more stars than the inspector ever saw except on rare occasions. A man in a hat walked slowly by along the water’s edge. The two of them on the veranda were lit up as though on a stage, and yet the man didn’t once turn his head to look at them.

You’re an idiot, thought Montalbano. Any normal passerby would have looked.

Was he the man driving the metallic car, or was he the one in the passenger’s seat?

“Shall we go inside?”

“Could I have another whisky first?”

“A third glass? No. After all the wine you drank this evening, you’ll get drunk.”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t like making love to a drunken woman.”

Angela heaved a long sigh.

“All right, then, let’s go inside.”

As they were getting up, a second man, without a hat, walked slowly past along the water’s edge. My, what a lot of traffic there was on the beach tonight! Unlike the first one, however, this second man stopped and looked at them.

“This is the bedroom and the bathroom is there.”

He heard his cell phone ring. He’d left it on the dining room table.

“I’m going to answer that. Meanwhile, get undressed.”

He ran a hand lightly across her buttocks and went out.

He took the phone out onto the veranda before answering.

“Hello?”

“Fazio here, Chief.”

“At this hour?”

“You told me I could call no matter the hour.”

“I meant that for your sake. How come you’re not asleep?”

“I can’t fall asleep.”

“All right, what did you want to tell me?”

“I remembered Manzella’s address. Via Bixio 22.”

“Thanks. Now try to get some sleep.”

The man on the beach hadn’t moved and was still watching. Montalbano turned off the outdoor light and locked the French door.

She hadn’t got undressed. She merely sat at the edge of the bed, staring at her shoes.

“Would you prefer I undressed you myself?”

“You won’t get upset if I tell you something?”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t feel like it anymore.”

“All right, then, I’ll call a cab.”

She balked. She hadn’t expected Montalbano to give up so quickly. Then she recovered and said:

“Couldn’t I stay here a little while longer?”

She couldn’t leave the house too early. To those waiting for her, it would mean she’d failed.

“Not here. Let’s go back onto the veranda.”

“No. I feel cold outside.”

Sitting back down on the veranda, with that guy still looking on, would mean that she hadn’t accomplished anything.

“Listen, if we remain in the bedroom, the situation becomes harder and harder for me. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“We could make an agreement.”

“What do you mean?”

Come on, Montalbano, say it. The more vulgar you are, the more quickly she’ll cave in.

“Just give me a blow job and I’ll let you go.”

“No!”

“Would you please tell me why you’ve been so available? In fact, it was you who suggested we come to my place. And now, suddenly”—even more vulgar, Montalbano—“and now you don’t want to pull down your panties and spread your legs?”

She gave a start and put a hand on her left cheek, as if she’d been slapped.

“I don’t feel like it anymore, I’ve already told you.”

That’s a lame excuse, Angelina. But let’s pretend it works.

“Listen, tell you what. I’ll drive you back to Fiacca.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Couldn’t we wait . . . an hour or so?”

“Just long enough so people will think we fucked?”

She shot to her feet.

“What are you talking about? Who will think?”

“Sit down.”

“No.”

He grabbed her by the arm and threw her down on the bed. She sat up, propping herself up with arms tensed and fists clenched.

“All right, this is where the gloves come off. Either you do what I say or I’ll make you do it.”

“Please . . .”

“So you eat an’ drink on my nickel, an’ now you say you don’ feel like it no more? Thought you could fuck around wit’ me, eh? I can play this old fart like a fiddle! Izzat whatchoo was thinkin’, li’l bitch? Well, think again, ’cause I’m gonna show you a thing or two!”

It wasn’t so much the tone as the fact that he’d suddenly switched to dialect that seemed to terrify Angela. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“I thought you were . . . different.”

“You was wrong!”

In the twinkling of an eye, he furiously tore off his jacket and shirt and stood there barechested. He felt ridiculous, and probably looked it. Though ashamed of what he was doing, he had to continue the charade until she broke.

“Take off your blouse and bra.”

Still on the bed, she obeyed. For a second, Montalbano was spellbound by the sight of the girl’s beautiful breasts.

“Now the rest, baby. C’mon!”

She stood up and, turning her back to him, took off her jeans.

For a second, Montalbano felt like Saint Anthony’s twin brother.

“Now the panties.”

As soon as she took them off, Montalbano came up behind her and pulled down his zipper, making as much noise as possible. Then he grabbed Angela by the hips.

“Bend over.”

She leaned against the back of a chair. His hands felt her shudder all over, and then she made a strange sound with her mouth, as if she’d been about to throw up and had strained to hold it in.

“Now get dressed,” he said, going and sitting on the edge of the bed.

As she was putting her jeans back on, the inspector saw her shoulders heave with sobs.

“Shall we drop the pretense now, and start talking seriously?”

“Okay,” said Angela, sniffling like a little girl.

“I already realized something wasn’t right the first time we met. You made a big mistake.”

“What?”

“You asked me who I was looking for. And I replied that I wanted to visit a friend named Fazio who’d had an operation on his brain. And you took me immediately to the fourth floor.”

“Where else was I supposed to take you? You know how hospitals are organized! Into wards. If you tell me your friend has had a brain operation, I already know he’s on the fourth floor, on Dr. Bartolomeo’s ward.”

“Of course. But how did you know he was in room six? You didn’t ask anybody, you didn’t look at any lists, you just took me straight to the right door. Do you want me to believe that you know the room numbers of all three hundred patients in the hospital?”

The girl bit her lip and said nothing.

They were sitting in the dining room, with the French door closed.

Angela had gone to the bathroom and freshened herself up a little. And the inspector had put his shirt back on and then washed his own face in turn, as he had worked up a sweat during the performance.

“That same day, in the afternoon, I came back in my car, not the squad car I’d taken that morning. But you somehow knew I’d come in my own car. You alluded to this when we decided we’d come here to Vigàta. How did you happen to know? The visitors’ parking lot is far from the hospital, you can’t see it from the windows, and so someone must have told you. Isn’t that right?”

Angela nodded yes.

“Another mistake: the elderly woman at the information desk didn’t know that Fazio had been transferred. Whereas you, right before my eyes, went to ask her, then came back and took me straight to the elevator that led to the attic. Therefore you already knew where Fazio had been taken and had just done a little playacting to make me think it was the old lady at the desk who’d told you. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“One final mistake, much bigger than the rest. When I gave you the keys to my car, which I’d parked in a spot not easy to find, I gave you a license plate number totally different from the real one. Still, when I came out later, there you were, in my car. Which meant that you knew my car so well from the description they’d given you, that you didn’t even look at the license plate.”

Montalbano poured himself a little whisky.

“Let me have a little of that too. I assure you I’m no longer in a state to get drunk,” said Angela.

The inspector gave her some.

“So how did they drag you into this mess?”