IM8 The Patience of the Spider (2007)

by Andrea Camilleri

  Bah, said Montalbano, flipping the photo over.

  to the person concerned

  Written in block letters with a ballpoint pen by someone clearly accustomed to writing in Italian. Still, there was something odd, something forced, about the handwriting.

  I also noticed, said Minutolo. He didnt try to falsify his handwriting. It looks rather like somebody left-handed trying to write with his right hand.

  To me it looks like it was written slowly.

  What do you mean?

  I cant really explain it. Its as though somebody with bad, almost illegible handwriting had forced himself to trace every letter clearly, and thus had to slow down his normal writing speed. Then theres another thing. The letter T beginning the word the is written over something, as if to correct it. One can clearly see that a W was written there first. Hed probably intended to write To whom it may concern, then changed it to To the person concerned. Which is more precise. The person who kidnapped Susanna or masterminded the operation is not just any old thug but someone who understands the importance of words.

  You really are very good, said Minutolo. But as things stand now, where do your deductions lead us?

  As things stand now, nowhere.

  Then shall we try to think about what we need to do? In my opinion, the first thing is to get in touch with Antonio Peruzzo. Do you agree?

  Absolutely. Have you got his number?

  Yes. While I was waiting for you, I did a little research. At present Peruzzo has three or four businesses that are subsidiary to a kind of central office in Vig, called Progresso Italia.

  Montalbano sneered.

  Whats wrong?

  How could it be otherwise? In perfect keeping with the times. Italys progress is in the hands of a crook!

  Youre wrong, because officially everythings in his wifes name, Valeria Cusumano. Although Im convinced the lady has never set foot in that office.

  Okay, call him up.

  No, you call him. Set up an appointment and go talk to him. Heres the number.

  The scrap of paper Minutolo handed him had four phone numbers on it. The inspector chose to dial the one for Senior Management.

  Hello? This is Inspector Montalbano. I need to speak with Antonio Peruzzo.

  Mr. Peruzzos out.

  Montalbano felt his nerves begin to fray.

  Outof the office? Outof town? Outof his mind?Out of

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

  When will he be back?

  I wouldnt know.

  Where did he go?

  To Palermo.

  Do you know where hes staying?

  At the Excelsior.

  Has he got a cell phone?

  Yes.

  Please give me the number.

  I really dont know if

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

  No! Okay, here it is.

  He wrote it down and phoned the hotel.

  Im sorry, Mr. Peruzzo is not in his room.

  Do you know when hell be back?

  Actually, he wasnt 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 towns abuzz with rumors! Everybodys talking about Engineer Peruzzo, the girls uncle. Even though they didnt 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 hes under no obligation to his niece. But the first groups a lot bigger. They almost came to blows at the Cafastiglione.

  Well, theyve managed to screw Peruzzo, was Montal- banos comment.

  Im going to have the phones bugged, said Minutolo.

  It didnt take long for the rain falling from heaven onto Antonio Peruzzo to turn into the Great Flood. And this time, the engineer hadnt had enough time to build himself an ark.

  To all the faithful who went to the church to ask him his opinion, Father Stanzillthe 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 childs godfather at her baptism. Moreover, by shelling out the money the kidnappers were asking, he would only be repaying the girls

  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, headdedagooddoseof fuel to thefire.Itwasagood thing for Montalbano that Livia didnt have any churchgoing girlfriends who could tell her what Father Stanzillhought of the whole affair.

  On the Free Channel News, Nicolto 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 TeleVig, Pippo Ragonese proclaimed that since Peruzzo was a victim of the communist judiciary who had managed to remake his fortune thanks to the new governments 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 itand it was certainly no secretthat 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-tellers live fish, replied to any and all who asked if Peruzzo would pay the ransom: Cu al sangu s 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.

  Ill call back.

  No, please, look, its useless. Mr. Nicotra has ordered all telephones to be cut off in ten minutes.

  Why?

  Were 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 didnt 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

  Ive already heard.

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

  Listen, have you still got Susannas photo?

  Yes.

  Could you lend it to me till tomorrow? I want to have a better loo
k at it. Ill send Gallo for it.

  Still fixated on that business about the light?

  Yes.

  It was a lie. The point wasnt the light, but the shadow.

  Okay, Montalbano, but dont lose it. I mean it. Otherwise, whos going to deal with the judge?

  Heres 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 masters whistle.

  Your orders, Chief!

  Listen, Cat, that trusty friend of yours...the guy whos really good with photographs and can blow them up ...whats his name?

  His names Cicco De Cicco his name is, Chief.

  Is he still at Montelusa Central?

  Yessir, Chief. Still posted at his post.

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

  Theres some kid wants to talk to you. His names 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 wasnt in chains, as that asshole Ragonese claimed. And shes 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 youd come earlier...I just sent it to Montelusa for an analysis.

  What kind of analysis?

  He couldnt very well tell Francesco everything he had in mind.

  Its not about Susanna, but the place where theyre keeping her.

  Can you tell if ...iftheyve hurt her?

  I really dont think so.

  Could you see her face?

  Of course.

  How did her eyes look?

  This kid was going to make a really good cop.

  She wasnt scared. Thats probably the first thing I noticed. In fact, her expression looked very . . .

  Determined? said Francesco Lipari.

  Exactly.

  I know her. It means shes not giving in to her situation, and that sooner or later shes 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, hes 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 couldnt confide in me.

  When Francesco left the office, feeling a little more relieved than when hed 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 shed been kidnapped, when Susanna hadnt yet regained control of herself and was still suffering from severe shock. One cant be courageous nonstop, twenty-four hours a day. This was the only possible explanation.

  Chief, Cicco De Cicco says hes gonna get on it straightaway and so the pitchersll be ready round nine aclack tmorrow 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 youre 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 hed 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, hed 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 Vig 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, its nothing, said Montalbano, who was just as surprised to find himself there.

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

  Im 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 some- whereinthere.Hefound it at theend of acorridor. In the kitchen was a nurse, fiftyish and chubby, with an open, friendly face.

  Youre Inspector Montalbano, arent 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 shed 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 i
nspector said. Wheres Mr. Mistretta?

  Hes sleeping. Its what the doctor wanted. And hes

  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 well 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 doesnt.

  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.

  Thats Mr. Mistrettas bedroom; thats the bathroom, and thats the ladys bedroom. Its easier for the help if she sleeps alone. Those doors across the hall are the girls roompoor thing!another bathroom, and a guest room, the nurse explained.

  Could I see Susannas 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 inspectors forehead and palms broke into a heavy sweat. An uncontrollable terror always came over him whenever he found himself face to face with a dying person. He didnt 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 didnt 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 ones 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 womans regular bed had been replaced by a hospital bed whose whiteness sliced through Montalbanos 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 Christs 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