'And you think that when he sees the twin sister of the girl he killed standing in front of him he'll crack and confess?'
'I'm hoping that's what he'll do.'
Fazio pursed his lips.
'Not convinced?'
'Chief, the man's a crook. He's got skin thicker than an armadillo's. The moment you call him in for questioning, he'll go on the defensive and put on his armour because he'll expect the works from you. Even if he sees the girl and has a heart attack, I'm sure he won't let it show.'
'So you think it'd be pointless for Adriana to appear?'
'No, I think it might be useful, but that it would be a mistake for it to happen at the police station.'
Adriana, who'd been silent up until then, finally spoke. 'I agree with Fazio. It's the wrong setting.'
'What would be the right one, in your opinion?'
'The other day I suddenly realized that after the amnesty is granted other people will move into that house and live there. And it didn't seem right to me. The idea that others might ... I don't know ... laugh and sing ... in the same living room where Rina had her throat slashed...'
She made a sort of sobbing sound. Instinctively Montalbano put his hand on hers. Fazio noticed, but showed no surprise.
Adriana pulled herself together. I've decided to talk to Papa about it.'
'What do you want to do?'
'I'll suggest that he should sell our house and buy the one in which Rina died. Then the illegal apartment will never be lived in by anyone, and my sister's memory will remain free.'
'And what do you expect to achieve by this?'
'You mentioned the exclusive contract Spitaleri has for refurbishing the house. Well, tomorrow morning I'm going to that agency to tell that man— What's his name?'
'Callara.'
'I'm going to tell Callara we want to buy the house, even before the amnesty is granted. We'll deal with the paperwork and cover the amnesty. I'll explain to him why, and let him know that we're willing to pay well for it. I'll convince him, I'm sure. Then I'll ask him to give me keys to the upstairs apartment and to recommend somebody to handle the renovation downstairs. At which point Callara will give me Spitaleri's name. I'll get the phone number and then—'
'Wait a minute. What if Callara wants to come with you?'
'He won't if I don't tell him exactly when I'm going. He can't remain at my disposal for two whole days. Anyway, I think the fact that we own a house just a few yards away from his will work in my favour.'
'And then what?'
'I'll phone Spitaleri and ask him to come out to Pizzo. If I can manage to be downstairs, in the living room where he murdered Rina, at the moment he arrives, and he sees me there for the first time—'
'You can't be left alone with Spitaleri!'
'I won't be alone if you're hiding behind that stack of window frames.'
'How do you know there are frames in the living room?' asked an alert Fazio, like the smart cop he always was, even in friendly surroundings.
'I told her,' Montalbano cut in.
Silence fell over the three.
'If we take all the necessary precautions,' the inspector said a moment later, 'we could maybe pull it off.' 'Chief, may I speak freely?' Fazio asked. 'Of course.'
'With all due respect to the young lady, I don't like the idea.'
'Why not?' asked Adriana.
'It's extremely dangerous, miss. Spitaleri always goes about with a knife in his pocket, and the man is capable of anything.'
'But if Salvo is there too, it seems to me—'
Fazio didn't show any surprise at that 'Salvo' either.
'I still don't like it. It's not right for us to put you in danger.'
They discussed things for another half-hour. In the end, it was Montalbano who decided. 'We'll do as Adriana suggested. For additional security, you'll be in the vicinity, too, Fazio, perhaps with another of our men.'
'Whatever you say, sir,' said Fazio, surrendering.
He stood up, said goodbye to Adriana and headed for the door, with the inspector following. But before he left, he looked Montalbano in the eye. 'Chief, think long and hard about it before you give the final go-ahead.'
'Come and sit down,' Adriana said, when Montalbano returned.
'I'm a little tired,' he said.
Something had changed, and the girl knew it.
In his lonely bed, between sweat-dampened sheets, Montalbano had a wretched night, feeling one minute like an utter fool, the next like San Luigi Gonzaga or Sant'Alfonso Maria de' Liguori, someone like that.
Adriana's first call to Montalbano came into the station at around five o'clock the next afternoon. 'I got the keys from Callara. He's thrilled about selling. He must be rather greedy because when he heard that we'd absorb all the costs of the amnesty he practically got down on his knees to thank me.'
'Did he tell you about Spitaleri?'
'He even showed me the contract he'd made with Speciale, and gave me Spitaleri's mobile-phone number into the bargain.'
'Have you rung him?'
'Yes. We made an appointment to meet at the house tomorrow evening at seven. So, where do we stand with our plan?'
'We'll meet at the house tomorrow around five p.m. That should give us enough time to get everything set up.'
Her second call, on the other hand, was to Marinella, around ten o'clock that evening.
'The nurse has just arrived. She's going to stay the night. Can I come and see you?'
What did that mean? Did she want to spend the night with him? Was she joking? He couldn't handle another night playing the part of St Anthony being tempted by demons in the desert, 'Look, Adriana, I—'
'I feel extremely nervous and need some company.'
'I understand perfectly. I'm nervous too.'
'I'll just come for a midnight swim. Come on.'
'Why don't you go to bed? Tomorrow will be a hard day.'
She giggled. 'No problem, I'll bring my swimsuit.'
'Oh, all right.' Why had he given in? Weariness? Because of the heat, which killed the will? Or simply because, really and truly, he felt like seeing her?
The girl swam like a dolphin. And Montalbano experienced a new, troubling pleasure, feeling that young body beside his, making the same movements as if it was long accustomed to swimming with him.
Adriana, moreover, had so much stamina she could have swum all the way to Malta. At a certain point, Montalbano couldn't go any further and flipped over to do the dead man's float. She came back and floated beside him.
'Where did you learn to swim?'
'I had a lot of lessons when I was little. When I come here in the summer I spend all day in the water. In Palermo I go to the pool twice a week.'
'Do you do a lot of sport?'
'I go to the gym. I can even shoot.'
'Really?'
'Yes. I used to have a ... well, let's call him a boyfriend. He was a fanatic. He used to take me to the Poligono.'
A pang, ever so slight. Not of jealousy, but of envy for the boy, her former, well, let's call him her lover, who was the right age and could enjoy her company without complications.
'Shall we go back?' said Adriana.
They took their time swimming to the shore. Neither wanted to break the sort of spell that had fallen over their bodies, which they couldn't see in the darkness but could therefore feel all the more through their breathing and the occasional moments of contact.
Then, about two or three yards from the beach, where the water was waist-deep, Adriana, who was holding Montalbano's hand as she walked, slammed her foot against a metal jerry-can that some idiot had thrown into the water, and fell forward. Instinctively, Montalbano gripped her fingers, but then, perhaps because he lost his balance, he fell in turn, right on top of her.
They resurfaced in each other's clutches as though wrestling, and breathless as if after a long submersion. Adriana slipped again, and they both collapsed under water, still in each other's arms. They emerged even more tightly embrace
d, then drowned themselves once and for all in other waters.
When, much later, Adriana finally left, another nasty night began for Montalbano. He spent it thrashing back and forth, tossing and turning, burning up.
The heat, naturally. And guilt, of course. Perhaps even shame. A hint of self-loathing as well. And throw in a pinch of remorse.
Above all, however, a deep melancholy over a question that had treacherously caught him off-guard:
If you hadn't been fifty-five years old, would you have been able to say no? Not to Adriana, but to yourself ? To which the answer could only be: Yes, I would have been able to say no. After all, I've done so before.
So why did you give in to a part of yourself that you've always been able to control?
Because I'm not as strong as I was. And I knew it.
So it was the very awareness of approaching old age that made you weak in front of Adriana's youth and beauty?
And this time, too, the bitter answer was yes.
Chief, wha'ss wrong?' 'Why?'
'Y'oughta see your face! You feel ill?'
'I didn't sleep, Cat. Get me Fazio.'
Fazio didn't look too pretty either. 'Chief, I didn't sleep a wink all night. Are you sure about what we're doing?'
'I'm not sure about anything. But it's the only way.' Fazio threw up his hands.
'Post a guard at the house. I wouldn't want some idiot entering the illegal apartment and screwing everything up. Tell him to leave at five, since by that time we'll be there. Also, get your hands on a twenty-yard extension cable with a three-outlet adaptor, and buy three mechanic's lamps from the repair shop. You know the kind that have a protective grating for the bulb?'
'Yessir. But what's all this for?'
'We'll hook into the power from the socket next to the front door and bring it down into the illegal apartment, as Callara did when he took that builder there. We'll plug the three mechanic's lamps into the adaptor, two of which will go in the living room. At least there'll be some light.'
'But won't all this make Spitaleri suspicious?' 'Adriana can always tell him Callara suggested it. Who you going to bring with you?' 'Galluzzo.'
He was unable to do anything. He took no calls, signed no papers. He kept his head close to the mini-fan. At moments, images of himself and Adriana from the night before came into his mind, and he immediately blotted them out. He wanted to concentrate on what might happen with Spitaleri, but he couldn't. Above all else, the sun that day would have roasted a lizard. It was like when, towards the end of a fireworks display, the most colourful rockets burst in the sky with the most powerful explosions; in the same way August, during its later phase, was firing its most torrid, scorching days at them.
After he didn't know how long, Fazio came in and told him he had everything. 'It's deadly outside, Chief.'
They reconfirmed their plan to meet at the house at five.
The inspector didn't feel like leaving the office to eat. He wasn't even hungry. 'Catarella, don't put any calls through and don't let anyone into my office.'
Once more, he locked his door, took off his clothes, pointed the mini-fan at the armchair, which he had pulled up to the desk, and sat down. A little later he nodded off.
When he woke it was four o'clock. He went into the bathroom, stripped naked, washed himself with water so warm it felt like piss, put his clothes back on, went out, got into his car and headed for Pizzo.
Adriana and Fazio's cars were parked in front of the house. Before he got out, he opened the glove compartment, took out his pistol and slipped it into the back pocket of his trousers.
They were all in the living room. Adriana smiled and shook hands with him. This time her hand was ice cold, a relief. Was the formality for Galluzzo's benefit?
'Fazio, did you bring the equipment?'
'Yessir.'
'Hook up the lights at once.'
Fazio and Galluzzo left. They were barely out of the door when Adriana came over and hugged him. 'I love you even more today.' And she kissed him.
He managed to resist, gently pushing her away. 'Adriana, try to understand. I have to be lucid.'
Slightly disappointed, the girl went out on to the terrace. He rushed into the kitchen. Luckily there was a bottle of cold water in the refrigerator. To avoid complications, he didn't move from that spot. A few minutes later, he heard Galluzzo calling, 'Chief, come and have a look.'
He went out on to the terrace. 'Come with me,' he said to Adriana.
Fazio had placed a lamp just outside the small bathroom and the other two in the living room. The light barely sufficed to let one see where one was stepping, and people's faces were like frightening masks: the eyes disappeared, the mouths were like black holes, the shadows on the walls loomed large and menacing. Just as on the set of a horror film. It was stifling down there — one could barely breathe. It was like being in a submarine that had long been under water.
'Okay,' said Montalbano. 'Let's go.'
Once outside, he said, 'Let's move the cars. Only the young lady's car should be in front of the house. Adriana, give me the keys to your house.'
He took them and gave them to Fazio. Then he pulled out the keys to his car and handed them to Galluzzo. 'You take mine. Park them behind Adriana's house so that they can't be seen from the road. Then go inside and watch for Spitaleri's car from two different windows. As soon as you see it, Fazio will warn me with one ring on my mobile phone and come running. Is that clear? By the time Spitaleri goes downstairs, both of you should already be here and positioned in such a way that, no matter what happens, he can't escape. Is that clear?'
'Perfectly’ said Fazio.
They sat on the sofa in each other's arms and didn't say a word. Not because they had nothing to say to one another, but because they felt it was better so. At a certain point the inspector glanced at his watch. 'Just ten more minutes. Maybe we'd better go downstairs.'
Adriana grabbed her bag, with the house documents inside, and slung it across her chest.
When they were in the illegal living room, Montalbano tried to hide behind the window frames. There wasn't much room — they were too close to the wall. Sweating and cursing, he pushed them forward, making them lean a bit. He tried again and felt more comfortable; he could move without hindrance. 'Can you see me?' he asked Adriana.
No answer. He stuck his head out and saw the girl swaying in the middle of the room, like a tree in the wind. He realized that, at the last minute, Adriana had been seized by a fit of panic. He ran to her and she embraced him, trembling. 'I'm afraid, so afraid.'
She seemed very upset. Montalbano was calling himself a fool. He hadn't thought of the effect that being in that place would have on the girl's nerves. 'Let's drop everything and leave.'
'No,' she said. 'Wait.'
She was making an enormous effort to control herself, and it showed.
'Give me ... give me your gun.' 'Why?'
'Let me hold it. It'll make me feel safer. I'll put it in my bag.'
Montalbano pulled out the weapon, but didn't hand it over. He was undecided. 'Adriana, you must realize that—'
At that moment they heard Spitaleri's voice nearby: 'Miss Morreale? Are you here?'
He must have been calling from the window of the small bathroom. Why hadn't the inspector's mobile phone worked? Were they out of range down there? With one swift motion Adriana took the gun from his hand and put it into her bag.
'I'm here, Mr Spitaleri,' she said, suddenly calm, her voice sounding almost cheerful.
Montalbano had barely time to hide. He heard Spitaleri's footsteps as he entered the living room. And again Adriana's voice, this time transformed, silvery, like that of the adolescent she'd once been. 'Come, Michele.'
How did she know Spitaleri's first name? Had she read it in the documents Callara had given her? And why such familiarity?
Then there was silence. What was happening? And, suddenly, a laugh, but broken, like pieces of glass falling to the floor. Was it Adriana's? The
n, finally, Spitaleri's voice: 'You ... you're not... ?'
'Do you want to try again? Hm? Go ahead, Michele. Look. How do you like me?'
Montalbano heard a sound of ripping fabric. Matre santa, what was Adriana doing?
Then Spitaleri bellowed, 'I'll kill you too.' Slut! You're an even bigger whore than your sister!'
Montalbano leaped out. Adriana had torn open her blouse and her breasts were hanging out. Spitaleri, knife in hand, was advancing towards her, walking stiffly, like a mechanical puppet.
'Stop!' the inspector shouted.
But Spitaleri didn't hear him. He took another step, and Adriana fired. A single shot. Straight to the heart, as she'd practised at the Poligono. As Spitaleri fell onto the trunk, Montalbano ran to Adriana and grabbed the pistol from her. Face to face, they eyed one another. And, feeling the ground give way under his feet, the inspector understood.
Fazio and Galluzzo came running in, weapons in hand, and froze.
'He tried the same thing with her,' said Montalbano, as Adriana was trying to cover her breasts with her torn blouse, 'so I was forced to shoot him. Look, he's still holding the knife.'
Throwing the gun to the floor, he left the room and, outside the illegal apartment, started running as if he was being chased. He raced down the stone staircase, two steps at a time, to the beach, where, all at once, he tore off his clothes, not giving a damn about the couple staring at him in shock, and dived into the sea.
He swam and he wept. Out of anger, humiliation, shame, disappointment, wounded pride.
For not having realized that Adriana was using him to achieve her end, which was to kill with her own hands the man who had slashed her sister's throat.
With the phoney 'I love you', the phoney passion, the phoney fear, she had led him step by step where she wanted to go. He had been a puppet in her hands.
All theatre. All make-believe.
While he, dazzled by beauty and lost in pursuit of intoxicating youth, had fallen for it, at fifty-five years of age and more, like a child.
He swam and he wept.
NOTES
Page 3 — ... her Joyful and not-so-Joyful Mysteries — the Joyful Mysteries represent five of the traditional fifteen Mysteries of the Rosary, with the other ten consisting of the five Sorrowful Mysteries and the five Glorious Mysteries. In 2002 Pope John Paul II added five new 'optional' Mysteries, the Luminous Mysteries. The Joyful Mysteries concern the early episodes in the life of Christ and the Virgin Mary, namely the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Nativity, the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, and the Finding of Jesus in the Temple.
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