“Makes sense.”
“So, in your opinion, what should I do now?”
“What do you mean, what should you do? Tomorrow morning you go to Prosecutor Tommaseo, you tell him the whole story and—”
“And I take it you know where.”
“Why?”
“Because, since it involves somebody with connections like Spitaleri’s, Tommaseo will proceed as if he’s walking on eggshells. Not only. He’ll find himself confronted by lawyers who’ll eat him raw. Laying hands on Spitaleri means making life unpleasant for too many people: mafiosi, MP’s, mayors. Everyone around him’s on the take.”
“Chief, Tommaseo may have a habit of losing his head around women, but when it comes to integrity—”
“But Tommaseo will be surrounded! If you like, I’ll give you a little preview of Spitaleri’s line of defense:
“‘But on the morning of the twelfth, my client left Palermo on an earlier flight than the one that had the breakdown.’
“‘But Spitaleri’s name does not appear in any of the manifests of the earlier flights!’
“‘Yes, but Rossi’s does!’
“‘And who is this Rossi?’
“‘A passenger who gave up his seat, allowing Spitaleri to leave earlier to catch the flight to Bangkok.’”
“Can I do Tommaseo’s part?” asked Fazio.
“Sure.”
“‘So how do you explain the telephone call from a stopover that never occurred?’”
After asking the question, he eyed the inspector with a look of triumph on his face. Montalbano laughed.
“You know how the lawyer will respond? Like this:
“ ‘But my client called from Rome! The Thai flight that day took off at six-thirty P.M, not at two-fifteen!’”
“Is that really when it left?” asked Fazio.
“Yes. Except that Spitaleri didn’t know there would be a delay. He thought the flight was already on its way to Bangkok.”
Fazio twisted his face up in doubt.
“Of course, when you put it that way . . .”
“Don’t you see I’m right? Our case risks ending up like the Arab mason’s.”
“So, what do think we should do?”
“We absolutely have to obtain a confession.”
“Easy to say!”
“Look, there’s no guarantee that we’ll succeed in sending him to prison even with a confession. He’ll say we tortured and beat him into confessing. A confession is the minimum we need just to take him to court.”
“Okay, but how?”
“I’ve got a vague idea.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to talk about it here. Could we meet at my place tonight, around ten-thirty?”
It was eight o’clock when he got back to Marinella.The first thing he did was go out on the veranda.
There wasn’t a breath of wind. The air felt like a heavy mantle that had been cast over the earth.The heat absorbed by the sand during the day was only now beginning to rise in a vapor, making the atmosphere feel hotter and more humid. The sea seemed dead, the white foam of the surf a kind of drool.
His agitation over Adriana’s visit and the things he would have to ask her made him sweat as if he were in a sauna.
He took off his clothes and went to the refrigerator in only his underpants. He was dumbstruck. He remembered that he hadn’t looked inside the fridge since Adelina told him she was going to make him enough food for two days.
What he was looking at wasn’t the inside of a refrigerator, but a corner of LaVuccirìa, the great Palermo market. He inhaled the scent of dish after dish, and it was all still fresh.
He set the table on the veranda. He brought out green olives, cured black passuluna olives, celery, caciocavallo cheese, and six dishes, one with fresh anchovies, one with calamaretti, another with purpiteddri, another with squid, another with tuna, and another with sea snails. Each was dressed in a different manner, and there were still other things to eat in the fridge.
Afterwards he took a shower, changed his clothes, and decided to call Livia. He needed to hear her voice at the very least. Perhaps to steel himself for Adriana’s imminent visit? He was greeted by the same recording of a woman’s voice telling him that the telephone of the person he’d called was either turned off or unreachable.
Unreachable! What the hell was that supposed to mean?
But why was Livia making herself unavailable at the very moment he needed her most? Was it possible she couldn’t hear the silent SOS he was sending her? Was the young lady perhaps too distracted by the diversions, indeed the entertainments, being provided by cousin Massimiliano?
As he grew more and more furious, not knowing whether the cause was a bout of jealousy or wounded pride, the doorbell rang. He was unable to move. A second ring, longer this time.
He finally went to open the door, walking like a combination of a condemned man on his way to the electric chair and a fifteen-year-old on his first date, already drenched in sweat.
Adriana, wearing jeans and a blouse, kissed him lightly on the lips, as if they’d long been intimate, and entered the house, brushing against him.
How could it be that in this terrible heat the girl always smelled so cool and fresh?
“It took some doing,” she said, “but I finally made it here! Would you believe I feel sort of moved? Let me see.”
“See what?”
“Your house.”
She had a careful look around, room after room, as if she was going to buy it.
“What side do you sleep on?” she asked, standing at the foot of the bed.
“Over there.Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Livia.”
“Where’s she from?”
“Genoa.”
“Let me see the picture.”
“Of what?”
“Your girlfriend, what else?”
“I haven’t got one.”
“Come on, I won’t eat it.”
“It’s true, I haven’t got any.”
“Why not?”
“Dunno.”
“Where’s she now?”
“She’s unreachable.”
It had slipped out. Adriana gave him a confused look.
“She’s on a boat with other friends,” he explained.
Why hadn’t he told her the truth?
“Everything’s ready on the veranda, come,” he said, to steer her away from that delicate subject.
Seeing the table set, Adriana balked.
“It’s true I like to eat, but all this stuff . . . God, it’s so beautiful here!”
“You sit down first.”
Adriana sat down on the bench but slid over only a little, so that in order for Montalbano to sit down, he practically had to press against her.
“I don’t like this,” said Adriana.
“You don’t like what?”
“Sitting this way.”
“You’re right, it’s too tight. If you would just slide over a little . . .”
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t like eating without looking at you.”
Montalbano went to get a chair and sat down in front of her.
He, too, felt better with a little distance between them.
But how was it that, even as the night progressed, the heat remained so intense?
“Could I have a little wine?”
He took out a strong, chilled white. It went down the throat like a dream.There were two more bottles of it in the fridge.
“Before I begin, I have to ask you something I’m anxious to know.”
“I haven’t got a boyfriend. And right at this moment I’m not with anyone.”
The inspector felt embarrassed.
“That’s not what . . . I didn’t mean . . . Do you know Spitaleri personally?”
“The builder? The one who saved Rina from Ralf ? No, we were never introduced.”
“How com
e? After all, you and your sister lived just a few yards away from his worksite.”
“True. But, you see, during that period I was living more with my aunt and uncle in Montelusa than with my parents in Pizzo. I never met him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What about afterwards? During the search for Rina?”
“My aunt and uncle took me back to Montelusa almost immediately. My parents were too involved with the search, they couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. My aunt and uncle wanted to take me away from that stressful atmosphere.”
“More recently?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t go to the funeral, I stayed away from the television interviews. Only one newspaper wrote that Rina had a sister, but they didn’t specify that we were twins.”
“Shall we start eating?”
“Gladly.Why did you ask me about Spitaleri?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“You’d said earlier there was some news.”
“We’ll talk about that later, too.”
They were eating in silence, occasionally looking each other in the eye, when all of a sudden Montalbano felt one of Adriana’s knees press against his. He spread his legs slightly, and the girl’s leg slid between them.Then, with her other leg, Adriana took one of his prisoner, squeezing it hard.
It was a miracle the inspector kept the wine from going down the wrong way. But he felt his face blushing red and got angry with himself.
Later, Adriana gestured towards the sea snails.
“How is one supposed to eat those?”
“You have to pull them out with a big sort of hairpin that I put among the silverware at your place.”
Adriana tried opening one but didn’t succeed.
“You do it for me,” she said.
Montalbano used the pin, and she opened her mouth and let him feed her.
“Mmm. It’s good. More.”
Each time she opened her mouth for the snail, Montalbano nearly had a heart attack.
The bottle of wine was emptied in a flash.
“I’ll go open another.”
“No,” said Adriana, squeezing his imprisoned leg, but she must have immediately noticed his anxiety. “Okay,” she said, liberating him.
Returning with the opened bottle, the inspector didn’t sit back down in the chair, but on the bench, beside Adriana.
When they had finished eating, Montalbano cleared the table, leaving the bottle and glasses. As he sat back down, Adriana tucked herself under his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Why do you keep running away?”
Had the moment come to talk seriously? Perhaps that was best, to confront the question head-on.
“Adriana, believe me, I have no desire whatsoever to run away from you. I like you in a way that has rarely happened to me. But do you realize that there’s a thirty-three-year age difference between us?”
“I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“Okay, but it’s the same thing. I’m practically an antique, and it really doesn’t seem right to me that . . . Someone the right age, on the other hand . . .”
“But what’s the right age, anyway? Twenty-five? Thirty? Have you seen the men that age? Have you heard them speak? Do you know how they act? They have no idea what women are about!”
“Listen, to you I’m just a passing desire, but for me, you risk becoming something else entirely. At my age—”
“Enough of this age stuff. And don’t imagine I want you the way I might want an ice cream cone. Speaking of which, have you got any?”
“Ice cream? Yes.”
He took it out of the freezer, but it was so hard he was unable to cut into it. He brought it out on the veranda.
“Custard and chocolate. Sound okay to you?” asked Montalbano, sitting back down as before.
And, as before, she tucked herself under his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.
Five minutes were enough to make the ice cream edible. Adriana ate hers in silence, without changing position.
Then, as Montalbano was pushing away her empty plate, he realized the girl was crying. The sound of it wrung his heart. He tried to make her raise her head from his shoulder so he could look her in the eye, but she resisted.
“There’s another thing you have to consider, Adriana. That for years I’ve been with a woman I love.And I’ve always tried as best I can to remain faithful to Livia, who is—”
“Unreachable,” said Adriana, raising her head and looking him in the eye.
The same thing must have happened to men in castles under siege during the wars of yesteryear. They would hold out a long time against hunger and thirst, pour boiling oil to repel those climbing the walls, and the castle would seem impregnable. And then a single shot of the catapult, precise and well-aimed, would knock down the iron door, and the besiegers would burst in, encountering no more resistance.
Unreachable. That was the key word Adriana had used. What had the girl heard in that word when he’d used it? His anger? His jealousy? His weakness? His loneliness?
Montalbano embraced her and kissed her. Her lips tasted of custard and chocolate.
It was like plunging into the great August heat.
Then Adriana said:
“Let’s go inside.”
They stood up, still embracing, and at that moment the doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” asked Adriana.
“It’s . . . it’s Fazio. I told him to come. I’d forgotten all about it.”
Without a word, Adriana went and locked herself in the bathroom.
As soon as he set foot on the veranda, Fazio, seeing the two glasses and the two small dishes streaked with ice cream, asked:
“Is there another person here?”
“Yes, Adriana.”
“Ah. And is she leaving now?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
“Like a glass of wine?”
“No, sir, thanks.”
“A bit of ice cream?”
“No, sir, thanks.”
Clearly he felt irritated by the girl’s presence.
19
They’d been sitting on the veranda for nearly an hour, but even as the night advanced, it brought no relief. In fact, the heat seemed more rabid than ever, as if there wasn’t a half-moon in the sky but the midday sun.
When he’d finished talking, he looked inquisitively at Fazio.
“What do you think?” he said.
“So you would like to call Spitaleri in to the station for questioning, subject him to one of those interrogations that last a day and a night, and then, when he’s reduced to the state of a doormat, have Miss Adriana, who he’s never seen before, suddenly appear before him. Is that what you’re saying?”
“More or less.”
“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?”
“At least I’m hoping that’s what he’ll do.”
Fazio twisted up his mouth.
“Not convinced?”
“Chief, the guy’s a crook. He’s got thicker skin than an armadillo.The moment you call him in for questioning, he’s gonna go on the defensive and put on his armor, because he’ll expect the works from you. So even if he sees the girl and has a heart attack, I’m sure he won’t let it show.”
“So you think it’s useless to have Adriana appear by surprise?”
“No, I think it could be useful, but I think it would be a mistake to have it take place at the police station.”
Adriana, who’d been silent up until then, finally spoke.
“I agree with Fazio. It’s not the right setting.”
“What would be the right one, in your opinion?”
“The other day I suddenly realized that after 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 dunno, 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 about it with Papa.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to suggest that he should sell our house and buy the one in which Rina died. That way 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 just mentioned the exclusive contract Spitaleri has for refurbishing the house.Well, tomorrow morning, I’m going to that agency and I’m going to tell that man, what’s his name . . .”
“Callara.”
“I’m going to tell Callara we want to buy the house, even before amnesty is granted.We’ll take care of all the paperwork and cover all the expenses for 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 of it.Then I’ll ask him to give me keys to the upstairs apartment and to recommend somebody to handle the renovation of the downstairs. At which point Callara will surely give me Spitaleri’s name. I’ll get the phone number, and then—”
“Wait a minute. What if Callara wants to come along with you?”
“He won’t if I don’t tell him exactly when I’m going to go. 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 favor.”
“And then what?”
“Then I’ll phone Spitaleri and have him 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—”
IM10 August Heat (2008) Page 19