The Patience of the Spider

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Out of town,” the secretary cut him off coldly, sounding a bit miffed.

  “When will he be back?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “To Palermo.”

  “Do you know where he’s staying?”

  “At the Excelsior.”

  “Has he got a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please give me the number.”

  “I really don’t know if—”

  “Okay, you know what I’m going to do?” Montalbano said in the sinister tone of someone unsheathing a dagger in the shadows. “I’m going to go there and ask him for it myself.”

  “No! Okay, here it is.”

  He wrote it down and phoned the hotel.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Peruzzo is not in his room.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Actually, he wasn’t even here last night.”

  The cell phone was turned off.

  “Well, what do we do now?” asked Minutolo.

  “We jerk off big-time,” said Montalbano, still on edge.

  At that moment Fazio appeared.

  “The whole town’s abuzz with rumors! Everybody’s talking about Engineer Peruzzo, the girl’s uncle. Even though they didn’t say his name on TV, everyone knew they meant him. Two factions have formed; one group says the engineer has got to pay the ransom, and the other says he’s under no obligation to his niece. But the first group’s a lot bigger. They almost came to blows at the Café Castiglione.”

  “Well, they’ve managed to screw Peruzzo,” was Montalbano’s comment.

  “I’m going to have the phones bugged,” said Minutolo.

  It didn’t take long for the rain falling from heaven onto Antonio Peruzzo to turn into the Great Flood. And this time, the engineer hadn’t had enough time to build himself an ark.

  To all the faithful who went to the church to ask him his opinion, Father Stanzillà, the oldest and wisest priest in town, said there was no doubt about it, human or divine: The uncle must pay the ransom, since he was made the child’s godfather at her baptism. Moreover, by shelling out the money the kidnappers were asking, he would only be repaying the girl’s mother and father the huge sum he had pried away from them by deceit. And the priest told everyone about the two-billion-lire loan, a matter he knew all about, down to its finest details. In short, he added a good dose of fuel to the fire. It was a good thing for Montalbano that Livia didn’t have any churchgoing girlfriends who could tell her what Father Stanzillà thought of the whole affair.

  On the Free Channel News, Nicolò Zito announced to one and all that Antonio Peruzzo, in the face of this specific obligation, was suddenly nowhere to be found. Once again, the engineer had behaved true to form. This flight from a life-and-death matter, however, not only did not absolve him of his responsibility, it made it weigh all the more heavily upon him.

  On TeleVigàta, Pippo Ragonese proclaimed that since Peruzzo was a victim of the communist judiciary who had managed to remake his fortune thanks to the new government’s initiatives to spur private enterprise, it was his moral duty to show that the confidence the banks and institutions had placed in him was well-founded. Especially since rumor had it—and it was certainly no secret—that he was considering running for public office among the ranks of those currently renovating Italy. Any gesture that could be interpreted as a rejection of public opinion on his part could have fatal consequences for his political aspirations.

  Titomanlio Giarrizzo, venerable former presiding judge of the Court of Montelusa, declared in an unwavering voice to his associates at the local chess club that if the kidnappers had appeared before his bench, he would have condemned them to the harshest of punishments but also praised them for having exposed the true face of that notorious scallywag, “Engineer” Antonio Peruzzo.

  And Signora Concetta Pizzicato, who had a stand at the fish market with a sign that read CUNCETTA THE CLAIRVOYANT FORTUNE-TELLER’S LIVE FISH, replied to any and all who asked if Peruzzo would pay the ransom: “Cu al sangu sò fa mali / mori mangiatu da li maiali,” or “He who harms his own flesh and blood/ shall be eaten by pigs and die.”

  “Hello? Progresso Italia? This is Inspector Montalbano. Have you heard from Engineer Peruzzo, by any chance?”

  “No. No news.”

  It was the same girl as before, except that now there was a shrill, almost hysterical tone to her voice.

  “I’ll call back.”

  “No, please, look, it’s useless. Mr. Nicotra has ordered all telephones to be cut off in ten minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re getting dozens and dozens of calls…full of insults…obscenities.”

  The girl was about to burst into tears.

  11

  Around five in the afternoon Gallo reported to Montalbano that a nasty rumor had spread about town which, if there was still any need, turned everyone against Antonio Peruzzo. The gossip had it that the engineer, to get out of paying the ransom, had asked a judge to freeze his assets. And that the judge had refused. The story didn’t seem to hold water, but the inspector decided to check it out anyway.

  “Minutolo? Montalbano here. Do you know, by any chance, what the judge intends to do about Peruzzo?”

  “Look, he just called me up and was beside himself. Somebody told him there was a rumor—”

  “I’ve already heard.”

  “Well, he told me he’s had no contact of any sort, either direct or indirect, with Peruzzo. And that, for the moment, at least, he’s not authorized to freeze the assets of any of the Mistrettas’ family, friends, acquaintances, or neighbors…He went on and on, like a river overflowing its banks.”

  “Listen, have you still got Susanna’s photo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you lend it to me till tomorrow? I want to have a better look at it. I’ll send Gallo for it.”

  “Still fixated on that business about the light?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a lie. The point wasn’t the light, but the shadow.

  “Okay, Montalbano, but don’t lose it. I mean it. Otherwise, who’s going to deal with the judge?”

  “Here’s the photo,” said Gallo half an hour later, handing him an envelope.

  “Thanks. Send Catarella in here.”

  Catarella arrived in a flash, tongue hanging out, like a dog responding to his master’s whistle.

  “Your orders, Chief!”

  “Listen, Cat, that trusty friend of yours…the guy who’s really good with photographs and can blow them up…what’s his name?”

  “His name’s Cicco De Cicco his name is, Chief.”

  “Is he still at Montelusa Central?”

  “Yessir, Chief. Still posted at his post.”

  “Excellent. Have Imbrò man the switchboard and go take this photo to him. Let me explain exactly what I want him to do.”

  “There’s some kid wants to talk to you. His name’s Francesco Lipari.”

  “Let him in.”

  Francesco had lost weight. The dark circles under his eyes now took up half his face. He looked like the Masked Man of comic book fame.

  “Have you seen the photo?” he asked without saying hello.

  “Yes.”

  “How is she?”

  “Look, to begin with, she wasn’t in chains, as that asshole Ragonese claimed. And she’s not in a well, but inside an empty cistern at least ten feet deep. Given the circumstances, she looked like she was doing all right.”

  “Could I see the picture?”

  “If you’d come earlier…I just sent it to Montelusa for an analysis.”

  “What kind of analysis?”

  He couldn’t very well tell Francesco everything he had in mind.

  “It’s not about Susanna, but the place where they’re keeping her.”

  “Can you tell if…if they’ve hurt her?”

  “I really don’t think so.”

  “Could you see he
r face?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did her eyes look?”

  This kid was going to make a really good cop.

  “She wasn’t scared. That’s probably the first thing I noticed. In fact, her expression looked very…”

  “Determined?” said Francesco Lipari.

  “Exactly.”

  “I know her. It means she’s not giving in to her situation, and that sooner or later she’s going to try to escape. The kidnappers will have to watch her very closely.” He paused. Then he asked: “Do you think Peruzzo will pay up?”

  “The way things are going, he’s got no choice but to cough up the money.”

  “Did you know that Susanna never said anything to me about this business between her mother and her uncle? I felt sort of bad when I heard about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I felt like she couldn’t confide in me.”

  When Francesco left the office, feeling a little more relieved than when he’d entered, Montalbano sat there thinking about what the kid had just told him. There was no question that Susanna was courageous, and her look in the photo confirmed this. Courageous and resolved. Then why had her voice sounded so desperate when she asked for help in that first phone call? Was there not a contradiction between the voice and the image? Perhaps only an apparent contradiction. The telephone recording was probably made only a few hours after she’d been kidnapped, when Susanna hadn’t yet regained control of herself and was still suffering from severe shock. One can’t be courageous nonstop, twenty-four hours a day. This was the only possible explanation.

  “Chief, Cicco De Cicco says he’s gonna get on it straightaway and so the pitchers’ll be ready round nine aclack t’morrow morning.”

  “I want you to pick them up yourself.”

  Catarella suddenly assumed a mysterious manner, leaned forward, and said in a low voice:

  “Are wese the only twos that knows about this, Chief?”

  Montalbano nodded, and Catarella walked out of the office stiff-legged, knees straight, arms swinging out from his sides with fingers spread. The pride of sharing a secret with his boss had changed him from a dog into a strutting peacock.

  The inspector got in his car to go home, lost in thought. But could that confused tangle of meaningless words and indefinable images that passed now and then through his head be really called thought? His mind seemed to have gone awry like a television set when the picture breaks apart into a sort of grainy zigzag of muddled interference that prevents you from watching what you want to watch and at the same time gives you a faded image of another simultaneous program, and you’re forced to fiddle with the settings, trying to find the cause of the disturbance and to make it go away.

  Suddenly Montalbano no longer knew where he was. He no longer recognized the habitual landscape along the road to Marinella. The houses were different, the shops were different, the people were different. Jesus, where had he ended up? He must certainly have made a wrong turn. But how was that possible, since he’d been taking this road at least twice a day for years?

  He pulled over, stopped, had a look around, and then understood. Without realizing or wanting to, he’d taken the road to the Mistrettas’ villa. For a brief moment, his hands on the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals had acted on their own, without his taking the slightest notice. This happened to him sometimes. That is, his body would do things quite independently, as though not connected to his brain. And when it did this, there was no point in opposing it, because there always turned out to be a reason.

  What to do now? Turn around or continue? Naturally, he continued.

  When he entered the living room, there were seven people there listening to Minutolo. They were standing around a big table that had been moved from its corner to the middle of the room. Spread out on the table was a giant map of Vigàta and surroundings, a military sort of map that showed everything down to the street lamps and back alleys where only dogs and goats went to pee.

  From his headquarters, Commander-in-Chief Minutolo ordered his men to conduct more intensive, and hopefully fruitful, searches. Fazio was in his usual place. By this point he had merged with the armchair in front of the little table holding the telephone and its related contraptions. Minutolo looked surprised to see Montalbano. Fazio made as if to get up.

  “What is it? Did something happen?” asked Minutolo.

  “No, no, it’s nothing,” said Montalbano, who was just as surprised to find himself there.

  Some of those present greeted him, and he replied vaguely.

  “I’m giving out orders for—” Minutolo began.

  “I can see that,” said Montalbano.

  “‘Did you wish to say something?” Minutolo politely invited him.

  “Yes. No shooting. For any reason.”

  “May I ask why?”

  The question had been asked by a young guy, an up-and-coming assistant inspector, well-dressed, quick-tongued, and well-toned, with a lock of hair falling rakishly onto his forehead. He looked like a social-climbing business type. One saw so many of his ilk nowadays. A rapidly proliferating race of assholes. Montalbano took an immediate dislike to him.

  “Because once, somebody like you shot and killed some wretch who had kidnapped a girl. The search went on, but in vain. The only person who could say where the girl was being held could no longer speak. She was found a month later, bound hand and foot, dead of starvation and dehydration. Satisfied?”

  A heavy silence descended. Why the hell had he come back to the villa? Was he, the old cop, merely turning uselessly round and round like a screw stripped of its threads?

  He needed a sip of water. There had to be a kitchen somewhere in there. He found it at the end of a corridor. In the kitchen was a nurse, fiftyish and chubby, with an open, friendly face.

  “You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? Would you like something?” she asked with a sympathetic smile.

  “Yes, a glass of water, please.”

  The woman poured him a glass of mineral water from a bottle she’d extracted from the refrigerator. As Montalbano drank, she filled a hot-water bottle with steaming water and made as if to leave.

  “Just a minute,” the inspector said. “Where’s Mr. Mistretta?”

  “He’s sleeping. It’s what the doctor wanted. And he’s right. I gave him some tranquilizers and sleeping pills, as he told me.”

  “And Mrs. Mistretta? Is she better? Worse? Any news?”

  “The only news we’ll ever hear of that poor woman is when she dies.”

  “Is she in her right mind?”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But even when she seems to understand, in my opinion she doesn’t.”

  “Could I see her?”

  “Follow me.”

  Montalbano felt apprehensive. But he knew well that it was a false apprehension, dictated by his desire to postpone an encounter that would be very hard for him to bear.

  “What if she asks who I am?”

  “Are you kidding? That would be a miracle.”

  Halfway down the corridor there was a broad, comfortable staircase leading upstairs, where there was another corridor, this one with six doors.

  “That’s Mr. Mistretta’s bedroom; that’s the bathroom, and that’s the lady’s bedroom. It’s easier for the help if she sleeps alone. Those doors across the hall are the girl’s room—poor thing!—another bathroom, and a guest room,” the nurse explained.

  “Could I see Susanna’s room?”

  “Certainly.”

  He opened the door, poked his head in, and turned on the light. A small bed, armoire, two chairs, a small table with books, a bookcase. All in perfect order. And almost totally anonymous, like a hotel room only temporarily inhabited. Nothing personal, no posters, no photographs. Like the cell of a lay nun. He turned off the light and closed the door. The nurse gently opened the other door. At the same moment, the inspector’s forehead and palms broke into a heavy sweat. An uncontrollable terror alway
s came over him whenever he found himself face to face with a dying person. He didn’t know what to do. He had to give strict orders to his legs to prevent them from running away of their own accord and dragging him along with them. A dead body didn’t frighten him. It was the imminence of death that shook him to the depths of his soul.

  He managed to get hold of himself and cross the threshold. Then began his personal descent into hell. He was immediately assailed by the same unbearable odor he had smelled in the room of the legless man, the husband of the woman who sold eggs. Except that here the odor was denser. It stuck to one’s skin like a very fine film. It was, moreover, brownish-yellow in color, with streaks of fiery red. A color in motion. This had never happened before. The colors evoked by smells had always seemed as though painted on canvas. They held still. Now, however, the red streaks were starting to form a whirlpool. By this point the sweat had drenched his shirt. The woman’s regular bed had been replaced by a hospital bed whose whiteness sliced through Montalbano’s memory and tried to pull him backwards, to the days of his recovery. Beside the bed were oxygen canisters, an I.V. stand, and some complicated paraphernalia on a small table. A small cart (also white, for Christ’s sake!) was literally covered with vials, small bottles, gauze, measuring glasses, and other containers of varying size. From where he had stopped, barely two steps inside the door, the bed looked empty to him. No human contour could be seen under the taut covers. Even the two pointed mounds formed by the feet when one lies supine were missing. And that sort of strange grey ball forgotten on the pillow was too small to be a head; perhaps it was a large rubber enema syringe whose color had faded. He advanced another two steps and froze in horror. That thing on the pillow was indeed a human head that had nothing human about it, a hairless, dried-up tangle of wrinkles so deep they looked like they’d been carved with a drill bit. Its mouth was open, a black hole without so much as a hint of white teeth. He had once seen something similar in a magazine, the handiwork of headhunters, practiced on their prey. As he stood there staring, unable to move and almost not believing his eyes, out of the hole that was the mouth came a sound created only by the dry, burnt-up throat: