IM8 The Patience of the Spider (2007)

by Andrea Camilleri

  You cant park here.

  I cant? Why not?

  Cant 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 Cosimos shop to buy

  You cant.

  Is it also forbidden to go to Don Cosimos shop? said Montalbano, at a loss.

  Its not forbidden, the traffic cop said. Its just that the shop is closed.

  And when will it reopen?

  I dont 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 Mimugello said that Susannas backpack had been found, hed specified that theyd 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 Mimad 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 didnt need to cross the road to read what it said.

  He got back in the car and left.

  What was it Adelina often said? Lomu 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.

  At seven-thirty he turned on the television to watch the eve- nings 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 didnt 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 stations news broadcast, at eight, repeated the same things, but in a different order. First came the report of the engineers 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.

  The telephone rang, just as he was about to go out to eat. He had a hearty appetite. Hed eaten hardly anything at midday, and Angelas fresh egg had tasted to him like an hors doeuvre.

  Inspector? This...this is Francesco.

  He didnt recognize the voice. It was hoarse, hesitant.

  Francesco who? he asked gruffly.

  Francesco Li . . . Lipari.

  Susannas boyfriend. Why was he talking like that?

  Whats 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. Im...Im ...sorr... Calm down, Francesco. Do you want to come over to

  my place? No ...no thanks ...Im not ...Ive been drin... drinking. Shesaidshe didnt want to ...tosee me anymore.

  Montalbano felt his blood run cold, perhaps colder than Francescos. 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 isnt anybo ...anybody else. She made a vow, a

  decision, when she was being held prisoner. Is she religious? No. Its 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. Shes giving up her studies, giving up getting

  married, having children. Sh-shes giving up everything. To do what? To make herself useful. That exactly what she said: Im

  finally going to make myself useful. Shes going away with some volunteer organization. And you know what? Shed 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 wasnt any other man. And it all made sense. Even more than before.

  Do you think she may change her mind?

  No, Inspector. If youd heard her voice ...And anyway, I know her well.When shes 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 couldnt answer Francescos 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.

  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 repudiatingin the eyes of his superiors, in the eyes of the law itselfthe principles by which he had abided for so many long years? But had he in fact always respected these principles?

  Didnt 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 thats written down in books, or with ones 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 couldnt 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 adje
ctives, rested, serene, revived, are not your own. Youre 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 Sciascias Council of Egypt, and leafed through it. There it was, on page 122 of the first edition from 1966, the one hed read at age sixteen and had always carried around with him, to read from time to time.

  On that extraordinary page, the abbella 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 abbella 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, howeverwhich was not in Sciascias bookwas missing: sated.

  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 youre in good form again.

  Thanks. Would you do me a favor, Enzo? Could you

  look up Dr. Mistrettas 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 doc

  tor, he said. And what are they saying? That this morning he went to the notarys to do the pa

  perwork for donating the villa he lives in. Hes going to move in with his brother, the geologist, now that his wife has passed away.

  Whos he donating the villa to? Oh, apparently some orphanage in Montelusa. From the restaurant phone, Montalbano called first Dr.

  Mistrettas office, then his home. There was no answer. No doubt the doctor was at his brothers 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 doctors 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. Youre aware that the funeral is tomorrow?

  Yes.

  Will it take very long?

  I cant say.

  Where do you want to meet?

  Ill be over in twenty minutes, maximum.

  Exiting the trattoria, he noticed that the weather had changed. Heavy rain clouds were approaching from the sea.

  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 inspec- tors 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 womans 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. Ive 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-laws room.

  Who knows whether theyd 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 Im 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 Im not here in an official capacity. But I can be if I want.

  I dont 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 eyesthe doctor couldnt see, anywayand 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. Lomu ceccu di consiguenza. And you, that night in your SUV, with your heart racing madly, your blood pressure soaring because of what you were doingsince you had to

  deposit the helmet and backpack in two different placeswhat roads did you take? The ones you knew best! It was almost as though you werent driving the car, but it was driving you...

  I just wanted to point out to you that Susannas helmet was found near the path leading to your patients 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 dont 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 didnt say where. And you know why? Because you didnt ask me.

  And that was the snag which at the time the inspector had perceived as a kind of hesitation and couldnt immediately explain. It was a perfectly natural question, but it hadnt been asked, and actually stopped the flow of the discussion, like a line omitted from a printed page. Even Livia had asked him where hed 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 didnt 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 youre 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, shes already told me about it.

  Its a touchy subject. Im 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 hed 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 didnt reach that far, one could only barely make out her hair, a slightly less dense point of darkness. She didnt greet them. Montalbano decided to continue as though she wasnt there.

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

  The doctor became agitated, uneasy.

  You have no right ...And anyway, whats that got to do with your investigation? he said with irritation.

  Its 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 nieces sexual behavior has to do with any of this. And I wonder if you know what youre saying or are simply raving. So Ill 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 dont believe in premonitions. It was something else.

  And what, in your opinion, was it? the doctor asked sarcastically.

  A farewell.

  What had Livia said the evening before her departure? These are our last hours together, and I dont want to spoil them. Shed 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 shed 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, dont you think youre abusing

  Im warning you, Montalbano said icily. Youre 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.