August Heat

by Andrea Camilleri

  Even though Catarella had opened the doors, the car was like a furnace. But he didn't feel up to walking all the way to Enzo's, especially as he was already late.

  In front of the trattoria, which was closed, Adriana stood in the scorching sun, beside a Fiat Punto. He'd forgotten that Enzo celebrated the 15 August holiday by closing the restaurant. 'Follow me,' he said to the girl.

  Near the bar in Marinella there was a trattoria he'd never tried. But, driving past in his car, he'd noticed that the tables outside were always in shade, protected by a very dense pergola. It took them ten minutes to get there. Despite the holiday, there weren't many people at the restaurant, and they were able to choose a table more isolated than the rest.

  'Did you change and douse yourself with cologne for my sake?' Adriana asked mischievously.

  'No, for my own. As for the cologne, the bottle spilled all over me,' he said gravely. He would probably have been better off smelling of sweat.

  They sat in silence until the waiter appeared and recited the litany. 'An' we got spaghetti wit' tomata sauce, spaghetti in squid ink, spaghetti wit' sea urchin, spaghetti wit' clam sauce, spaghetti—'

  'I'll have it with the clam sauce,' Montalbano interrupted him. 'And you?'

  'With sea urchin.'

  The waiter then began a different litany.

  'For mains we got salt-baked mullet, baked gilthead, sea bass in sauce, grilled turbot—'

  'You can tell us later,' said Montalbano.

  The waiter looked offended. He returned a few minutes later with cutlery, glasses, water, and wine, white and ice-cold.

  'Would you like some?' 'Yes.'

  Montalbano poured her half a glass and the same for himself.

  'It's good,' she said.

  'Would you believe I can't remember where we left off?'

  'You were asking me if Spitaleri and Rina had crossed paths on any other occasions, and I said yes.'

  'Ah, yes, right. What did your sister say about that?'

  'She said that after that time with Ralf, Spitaleri was hovering over her a bit too much.'

  'In what sense?'

  'Rina had the impression that he was spying on her. She would bump into him a little too regularly. For example, if she took the bus into town, on the way back Spitaleri would appear and offer her a lift home. And this, up until a week before.'

  'A week before what?'

  'Before the twelfth of October.'

  'And Rina would let him drive her home?'

  'Sometimes.'

  'And did Spitaleri always behave?' 'Yes.'

  'And what happened a week before your sister disappeared?'

  'Something unpleasant. That evening, it was already dark, and Rina accepted the lift. But just after they turned on to the little road for Pizzo, in front of the house that belongs to that peasant who was later arrested, Spitaleri stopped the car and put his hands all over her. Just like that, out of the blue, according to Rina.' 'What did your sister do?'

  'She screamed so loudly that the peasant came running outside. Rina saw her chance and took refuge in the man's house. Spitaleri was forced to leave.'

  'How did Rina get home?'

  'On foot. The peasant walked her back.'

  'You said he was arrested?'

  'Yes, poor thing. When police began looking for her, they searched his house as well. And, as luck would have it, they found one of my sister's earrings under a piece of furniture. Rina thought it had fallen off in Spitaleri's car, but in fact she'd lost it there. And I decided to tell the police what had happened with Spitaleri. But it was useless. You know how the police can be, don't you?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'The poor man was persecuted for months.'

  'Do you know if they questioned Spitaleri?'

  'Of course. But Spitaleri told them that on the morning of the twelfth he'd left for Bangkok. It couldn't have been him.'

  The waiter arrived with the spaghetti.

  Adriana brought the first forkful to her mouth, tasted it, then said. 'It's good. Would you like to try some?'

  'Why not?'

  Montalbano reached over, armed with a fork, and wound some spaghetti on to it. The food wasn't comparable with Enzo's, but it was edible. 'You try mine.'

  Adriana did as he had.

  They didn't speak again until they had finished. Every now and then they looked at each other and smiled.

  Something strange had occurred. It was as if the familiarity of sticking one's fork into the other's dish had established a sort of mutual confidence, an intimacy, that hadn't existed before.

  FOURTEEN

  They had finished eating for some time, but still weren't talking. As they each sipped a cold, digestive limoncello, Montalbano could feel her observing him, just as he had observed her at the station. Just to appear nonchalant — since it was hard to pretend nothing was happening, with those eyes the colour of the sea resting on him — he lit a cigarette.

  'Could I have one, too, please?'

  He held out the packet, she extracted a cigarette, put it between her lips, and half stood up, bending well forward for him to light it.

  Don't forget she could be your daughter! the inspector admonished himself.

  What he was seeing, thanks to the girl's position, made his head spin wildly. And the skin under his moustache was wet with sweat.

  There was no way she didn't know that, by leaning forward in that manner, he was forced to look down her blouse. So why had she done it? To provoke him? But Adriana didn't seem the type to resort to such manipulation.

  Or had she done it because she thought he had already reached an age where one no longer paid much attention to women? Yes, that must be it.

  He didn't have time to feel sorry for himself before the girl, after she had taken two puffs, suddenly laid her hand on his.

  Since Adriana showed no sign of feeling the heat — in fact, she looked as fresh as the proverbial daisy — the inspector was amazed to find she had such a burning touch. Was it the combination of their body heat, his and hers, that made the temperature increase? And, if not, just how hot was the blood circulating inside her?

  'She was raped, wasn't she?'

  It was the question that Montalbano, at every moment, had been expecting, fearing. He had prepared a good, articulate answer in advance, which he now completely forgot. 'No,' he said.

  Why had he said that? So that he wouldn't have to see the light of beauty go out before him?

  'You're not telling me the truth.'

  'Believe me, Adriana, the post-mortem revealed that —'

  ' — she was a virgin?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's even worse,' she said. 'Why?'

  'Because in that case the violence was even more horrific.'

  The pressure from her hand, which now was scalding, increased.

  'Could we drop the formalities?'

  'If you like.'

  'I want to tell you something in confidence.'

  She let go of his hand, which suddenly felt cold, stood up, grabbed her chair, put it next to Montalbano's and sat down. Now she could speak softly, whisper. 'She most certainly was raped. I'm sure of it. When we were at the station I didn't want to tell you in front of that other man. But with you, it's different.'

  'You mentioned that a few minutes before you had the pain in your throat you'd felt something else.'

  'Yes. A sense of total, utter panic. A terror for my very existence. It had never happened to me before.'

  'Try to explain it to me.'

  'All of a sudden, as I was standing near the armoire, I saw my sister's image reflected in the mirror. She was upset, terrified. One second later I felt myself plunged into total darkness. Horrifying. It was as if I was enveloped in something slimy, without light or air, something malignant. A place — well, not really a place, but where every sort of horror or outrage became possible. Then, like what happens in nightmares, I tried to scream, but my voice made no sound. I also know I went blind for a few secon
ds, I groped around in the emptiness, then leaned against a wall so I wouldn't fall. And that was when—'

  She stopped. Montalbano didn't say a word, didn't move. Sweat was dripping down his forehead.

  'That was when I felt robbed.'

  'How?' the inspector couldn't help but ask.

  'Robbed of myself. It's hard to put into words. Someone was violently, ferociously taking possession of my body, separating it from me, to abuse it, humiliate it, annihilate it, to make it an object, a thing...' Her voice cracked.

  'That's enough,' said Montalbano. And he took her hands in his.

  'Is that what happened?' she asked. 'We think so.'

  But why wasn't she crying? Her eyes had turned a darker blue, the lines at the corners of her mouth had deepened, but she wasn't crying.

  What was it that gave her such strength, such inner toughness? Was it perhaps that she had known at the very moment she was killed Rina had died, while her mother and father had kept hoping their daughter was still alive?

  And perhaps, over all these years, the pain, the sorrow, the tears had clotted into a kind of solid mass, a stony lump that would never again dissolve into an expression of pity for Rina or herself. 'A minute ago you said you saw your sister's image in the mirror. What did you mean?'

  She smiled ever so slightly. 'It began as a game when we were five years old. We would stand in front of the mirror and talk. But not directly. We would each turn towards the other's reflection. We kept doing it, even as teenagers. When we had something really serious or secret to tell, we would go and stand in front of the mirror.'

  The girl rested her head on Montalbano's shoulder for a moment. And he realized that it was not to seek comfort, but to alleviate the profound weariness she must have felt from speaking to a stranger about something so intimate, so secret.

  Then she stood up decisively and looked at her watch. 'It's already three thirty. Shall we go?' 'If you want.'

  But hadn't she said she could stay out until five?

  Montalbano got up, feeling a little disappointed, and the waiter prepared the bill.

  'Let me pay for this,' said Adriana, and she pulled some money out of the pocket of her jeans.

  But when they were in the car park, she made no move towards her car. Montalbano gave her a puzzled look.

  'Let's take yours,' she said.

  'Where to?'

  'If you've understood me, you've also understood where I want to go. I don't need to tell you.'

  He had, of course, understood. He'd understood perfectly. But he was behaving like the soldier who doesn't want to go to war. 'Do you think it's appropriate?'

  She didn't answer, just kept looking at him.

  Montalbano realized that in the end he would not be able to say no to her. The soldier would go to war; there were no two ways about it. And, anyway, the sun was beating down on them like a sledgehammer in the car park. It was impossible to remain out in the open one moment longer.

  'All right, get in.'

  Getting into the car was like lying down on a grill. Montalbano regretted not bringing his mini-fan. Adriana opened all the windows. For the duration of the drive, she sat with her head leaning out the window, eyes closed.

  The inspector, on the other hand, had a nagging question boring into his brain: wasn't he doing something incredibly stupid? Why had he agreed to go? Simply because the heat in the car park made it impossible to discuss things? But that was only an excuse. The truth was that he rather liked helping this girl, who—

  Who could be your own daughter! his conscience interrupted.

  You keep out of this! Montalbano replied angrily. I was thinking of something entirely different, which is that this poor girl has been carrying a terrible weight inside her for six years, the exact intuition of what happened to her sister, and only now is she finding the strength to talk about it and unburden herself. It's only right to help her.

  You're a hypocrite, worse than Tommaseo, said the voice of his conscience.

  As soon as they turned on to the track to Pizzo,

  Adriana opened her eyes. When they were passing her house, she said, 'Stop!' She didn't get out, just looked at it from the car.

  'We've never gone back since then. I know that from time to time Papa sends a woman to clean it and keep it in order, but we haven't had the courage to come here in the summer, like we used to do ... Okay, we can go now.'

  When Montalbano pulled up in front of the last house, she was already opening the car door. 'Do you really have to do this, Adriana?'

  'Yes.'

  He left the car open, the keys in the ignition — there wasn't a living soul around.

  Once out of the car, Adriana took his hand and brought it to her lips, resting them there for a moment, then continued holding it tightly. He led her to the side of the house where one could gain access to the illegal apartment. Forensics had placed two planks there to facilitate entry. The window to the small bathroom was covered with ribbons of coloured plastic of the sort that were used at roadworks. From one of these strips dangled a sheet of paper with stamps and signatures. It was the official seal. The inspector removed it all and went in first, telling the girl to wait for him. He turned on the torch he'd brought with him and checked all the rooms. The few minutes it took to walk round the apartment sufficed to drench him yet again in sweat. There was a sort of viscous humidity in those underground rooms, and it felt grimy, dirty; the heavy, stale air burned the eyes and throat.

  He went back and helped the girl climb through the window.

  Once inside, Adriana took the torch from him and headed straight for the living room.

  As if she'd been there before, the inspector thought, bewildered, as he followed her.

  She stopped in the doorway and shone the torch beam on the walls, the pile of frames wrapped in plastic, and the trunk. She appeared to have forgotten that Montalbano was beside her. She said nothing, but was breathing heavily...

  'Adriana...'

  The girl didn't hear him, only continued her personal descent into hell.

  She started walking, but slowly, as though uncertain. She turned slightly to the left, towards the trunk, then to the right, took three steps and stopped.

  As she was moving about in this manner Montalbano, who ended up almost in front of her, noticed her eyes were closed. She was looking for an exact spot, not with her eyes but with some other, unknown, sense that she alone must possess.

  Having arrived to the left of the french windows, she placed her hands on the wall as though bracing herself, her legs spread apart.

  'Matre santa!' Montalbano said in terror. Was he witnessing a sort of re-enactment of what had happened in that room? Was Adriana perhaps possessed by Rina's spirit?

  All at once the torch fell to the floor. Luckily it didn't go out.

  Adriana was standing in the exact spot that Forensics had placed the pool of blood. She was shaking all over.

  It's not possible, it's not possible! Montalbano said to himself.

  His rational mind refused to believe what he saw.

  Then he heard a sound that paralysed him. Not weeping, but a kind of wail. Like that of a mortally wounded animal, long, sustained, soft. It was coming from Adriana.

  Montalbano sprang, bent down, picked up the torch, grabbed the girl by the hips and pulled. But she resisted. It was as though her hands were glued to the wall. The inspector worked his way between her arms and the wall, shot the beam of the torch into her face, but the girl's eyes were still closed.

  From her twisted, half-open mouth came the distressing wail, and now there was a thread of drool as well. Dismayed, he slapped her hard twice, with the front and the back of his hand.

  Adriana opened her eyes, looked at him, then embraced him with all her might, pressing her body firmly against him and pushing him up against the wall. Then she kissed him hard, biting his lips. Montalbano felt the ground go from under his feet and clutched her as if to stop himself falling, as her kiss went on and on.
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  Then the girl let him go, ran to the bathroom window and climbed through it. Montalbano followed fast behind her, having no time to put the seals back up.

  Adriana raced to his car, got into the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. Montalbano barely managed to get in on the other side before the car was pulling away.

  Adriana stopped in front of her house, got out, ran to the door, searched in her pockets, found the key, opened the door and went in, leaving it open behind her.

  By the time Montalbano was inside, she had gone.

  What should he do now? He heard her vomiting somewhere.

  He went outside and slowly walked round the house. The silence was total. Except for the thousands of cicadas, that was. At one time there must have been a field of wheat behind the house, because he saw a pagliaro there, a tall, narrow hut made of straw and wildflowers.

  Under a clump of long-yellowed weeds, a sparrow was rolling around in the earth, cleaning itself in the absence of water.

  He felt like doing the same. He, too, needed to clean himself — of the filth that had stuck to his skin when he was in the underground apartment.

  Then, without realizing what he was doing, he did something he had done as a little boy. He took off his shirt, trousers and underwear and, naked, pressed his body against the pagliaro.

  Then he opened his arms as wide as he could and embraced the hut, trying to stick his head as far inside as possible. He was forcing his way into the pagliaro, thrusting all of his bodyweight forwards, moving it first to the right, then to the left. And when, at last, he could smell the clean, dry odour of old straw, he breathed it in deep, and deeper still, until he detected a scent that surely existed only in his imagination, that of the sea breeze, which had managed to wend its way into the dense web of dried stalks and remain trapped therein. A sea breeze with a slightly bitter aftertaste, as if burned by the August heat.