“You can’t be left alone with Spitaleri!”
“I won’t be alone, if you’re there 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 myself,” Montalbano cut in.
Silence fell over the three of them.
“If we take all the necessary precautions,” the inspector said a moment later, “maybe we could pull it off.”
“Chief, can 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 around with a knife in his pocket, and the man is capable of anything.”
“But if Salvo is also there, 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 that way.”
They discussed things for another half hour. In the end, it was Montalbano who decided.
“We’re going to do what Adriana suggested. For additional security, you’ll be in the vicinity, too, Fazio, perhaps with another one of our men.”
“Whatever you say, sir,” said Fazio, surrendering.
He stood up, said good-bye to Adriana, and headed towards the door, with the inspector following behind him. But before leaving, 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 realized it.
In his lonely bed, between sweat-dampened sheets, Montalbano had a wretched night, feeling one minute like an utter fool, the next minute like San Luigi Gonzaga or Sant’Alfonso de’ Liguori, somebody like that.
Adriana’s first phone call to Montalbano came into the station around five o’clock in the afternoon the following day.
“I got the keys from Callara. He’s thrilled about selling right away. He must be rather greedy, because when he heard that we would absorb all the costs of the amnesty, he practically got down on his knees in thanks.”
“Did he tell you about Spitaleri?”
“He even showed me the contract he made with Speciale, and gave me Spitaleri’s cell phone number into the bargain.”
“Have you called him?”
“Yes. I spoke directly with him. We made an appointment to meet at the house tomorrow evening at seven. So, where do we stand with our plans?”
“We’ll meet at the house tomorrow around five P.M. That should give us enough time to organize everything well.”
Her second call, on the other hand, was to Marinella, around ten o’clock that evening.
“The nurse just arrived. She’s going to spend the night. Can I come see you?”
What did it mean? Did she want to spend the night with him?
Was she joking? He couldn’t handle another night playing the part of Saint 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 nighttime swim. Come on.”
“Why don’t you just go to bed? Tomorrow will be a hard day.”
She giggled.
“No problem, I’ll bring my bathing suit.”
“Oh, all right.”
Why had he given in? Weariness? Because of the heat, which killed the will? Or simply because he himself, really and truly, 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 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 farther and flipped over to do the dead man’s float. She came back and floated right beside him.
“Where did you learn how to swim?”
“I took a lot of lessons when I was little. When I come here in the summer I spend the whole day in the water. In Palermo I go to the pool twice a week.”
“Do you do a lot of sports?”
“I go often to the gym. I can even shoot a gun.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I used to have a . . . well, let’s call him a boyfriend, who 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 back. Neither of them 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 breath and the occasional moments of contact.
Then, about two or three yards from the shore, 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 asshole had thrown into the water, and fell forward. Instinctively, Montalbano gripped her hand, but then, perhaps because he lost his balance, he fell in turn, right on top of the girl.
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 underwater, still in each other’s arms. They emerged even more tightly embraced, and then drowned themselves once and for all in other waters.
When, much later, Adriana finally left, another nasty night began for Montalbano, who spent it thrashing back and forth, tossing and turning and burning up.
The heat, naturally. And a feeling of guilt, of course. Perhaps even a sense of 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? And the answer could only be:Yes, I would have been able to say no. After all, I’d done so before.
So then why did you give in to a part of yourself that you’ve always been able to keep in line?
Because I’m not as strong as before. And I knew it.
So it was the very awareness of your 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 sick?”
“I didn’t sleep, Cat. Get me Fazio.”
Fazio’s face 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 starting now. I wouldn’t want some idiot entering the illegal apartment and screwing everything up.Then have him go off at five, since by that time we’ll be there. Also, get your hands on a twenty-yard extension cord with a three-outlet adapter, 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 material for?”
“We’ll hook into the power from the outlet next to the front door and bring it down into the illegal apartment, the way Callara did when he brought that builder there. We’ll plug the three mechanic’s lamps into the adapter, two of which will go in the living room. At least there’ll be some light.”
&nb
sp; “But won’t all this getup make Spitaleri suspicious?”
“Adriana can always tell him it was Callara who suggested it.Who you going to bring along?”
“Galluzzo.”
He was unable to do anything. He took no calls, signed no papers. He kept his head close to the minifan. 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 there was no way. 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 colorful rockets burst in the sky and the most powerful booms explode; in the same way, August, during its final 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 got all the material.
“It’s murder out there, Chief.”
They reconfirmed the plan to meet at the house at five.
The inspector didn’t feel like leaving the office to go eat. He didn’t even feel hungry.
“Catarella, don’t put any calls through and don’t let anyone into my office.”
Like the other time, he locked his door, took off his clothes, pointed the minifan at the armchair, which he had pulled up to the desk, and sat down in his underpants.A little while later he nodded off.
When he woke up it was four o’clock. He went into the bathroom, stripped down naked, washed himself with water so warm it felt like piss, put his clothes back on, went out, got in his car, and headed for Pizzo.
Adriana’s and Fazio’s cars were parked in front of the house. Before getting 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 the door when Adriana came over and hugged Montalbano.
“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 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 him.
“Chief, want to come and have a look?”
He went out on 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, whereas people’s faces were like frightening masks: the eyes disappeared, the mouths were 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 underwater.
“Okay,” said Montalbano. “Let’s go.”
Once outside, he said:
“Let’s get those cars out of here immediately. 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 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, you, Fazio, will warn me with one ring on my cell 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 that it was better this way.At a certain point the inspector looked at his watch.
“Just ten minutes more. Maybe we’d better go downstairs.”
Adriana grabbed the bag with the documents to the house and slung it across her chest.
When they were in the living room, Montalbano immediately tried hiding behind the stack of 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 teetering 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 so afraid, so afraid.”
She seemed very upset. Montalbano was calling himself a fool and an idiot. 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 purse.”
Montalbano pulled out the weapon, but didn’t hand it over. He was undecided.
“Adriana, you have to realize that—”
At that moment they heard Spitaleri’s voice nearby:
“Signorina Morreale? Are you here?”
He must have been calling from the window of the small bathroom. Why hadn’t the inspector’s cell phone worked? Were they out of range down there? With one swift motion Adriana took the gun from his hand and put it in her purse.
“I’m here, Signor Spitaleri,” she said, suddenly calm, her voice sounding almost cheerful.
Montalbano barely had time to hide.
He heard Spitaleri’s steps 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 all broken apart, like pieces of glass falling to the floor. Was it Adriana who was laughing that way? Then, finally, Spitaleri’s voice.
“You . . . you’re not . . . ?”
“Want to try again with me? Hmm? Go ahead and try, 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 leapt out.Adriana had torn open her blouse, her tits hanging out. Spitaleri, knife in hand, was advancing towards her. He was walking stiffly, like a mechanical puppet.
“Stop!” the inspector shouted.
But Spitaleri didn’t even hear him. He took another step, and Adriana fired.A single shot. Straight to the heart, as she’d practiced at the Poligono. As Spitaleri fell onto the trunk, Montalbano ran up to Adriana and grabbed the pistol from her hand. 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 up 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, once outside the illegal apartment, started running as if being chased. He raced down the s
tone staircase, two steps at a time, to the beach, where, all at once, he tore off all 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 phony “I love you,” the phony passion, the phony fear, she had led him step by step where she wanted to go. He had been a puppet in her hands.
All theater. 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
2 her Joyful and not-so-Joyful Mysteries: The Joyful Mysteries represent five of the traditional fifteen Mysteries of the Rosary, the other ten being 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.
31 “I don’t want the media finding out. I don’t want another Vermicino”: Montalbano is alluding to the harrowing three-day ordeal of Alfredino Rampi, a six-year-old boy who fell into an artesian well only 30 centimeters (about 1 foot) wide and 80 meters (about 90 yards) deep in the township of Vermicino near Rome in June of 1981. The event was covered nonstop for eighteen hours by the three national RAI television stations and ended in tragedy. After two failed rescue attempts, in which the boy fell farther down into the well, Alfredino was found dead upon the third attempt, probably from injuries sustained in his repeated falls.
39 “this government has granted one amnesty after another”: The fire chief is alluding to certain policies of the government of media tycoon Silvio Berlusconi, which granted amnesty on a variety of fiscal and other violations, including those of tax dodgers who had parked vast sums of money in financial havens abroad and those of builders who had ravaged much of the landscape, especially in the south, with illegal constructions in violation of zoning codes.
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