The Track of Sand

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Tell me, if you would.”

  “Of course I’ll tell you. If and when the body of Rudy, my horse, is found, it probably will have been killed in the same manner.This is a vendetta, Inspector.”

  “And did you present this hypothesis of yours to my colleagues in Montelusa?”

  “No. Just as you, from what I’ve heard, haven’t yet told your colleagues in Montelusa that you found Rachele’s horse.”

  Touché. Lo Duca certainly knew how to fence.

  The inspector had to proceed carefully.

  “A vendetta, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you be a little more precise?”

  “Yes.Three years ago I had a heated argument with one of the men who used to tend my horses, and in a fit of anger, I struck him in the head with an iron rod. I didn’t think I had hurt him too badly, but it left him disabled. Naturally I took care of all the medical expenses, but I also give him a monthly stipend equal to the pay he used to receive.”

  “But, if that’s the way it is, why would this man want—”

  “Well, it’s been three months since his wife has had any news of him. He was no longer right in the head. One day he left muttering threats against me and hasn’t been seen since.There are rumors he has taken up with criminals.”

  “Mafiosi?”

  “No, just common criminals.”

  “But why didn’t this man limit himself to stealing and killing your horse? Why did he also take Signora Esterman’s horse?”

  “I don’t think he knew that the horse wasn’t mine, when he was stealing it. He probably realized it afterwards.”

  “And you didn’t mention this to my colleagues in Montelusa, either?”

  “No. And I don’t think I will.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I feel it would be hounding an unlucky wretch whose mental infirmity I am responsible for.”

  “So why did you bring it up with me?”

  “Because I’ve been told that when you want to get to the bottom of something, you do.”

  “Well, since I’m someone who gets to the bottom of things, as you say, could you tell me this person’s name?”

  “Gerlando Gurreri. But could I have your word that you will not mention this name to anyone?”

  “No need to worry. However, you’ve given me the motive, but you haven’t told me why they removed the horse’s carcass.”

  “As I said, I believe that when Gurreri stole the two horses, he believed they were both mine. Then one of his accomplices must have pointed out to him that one of them belonged to Rachele. So they killed it and then removed the carcass, leaving me to stew in my doubts.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Inspector, how can you be so sure that the horse you found dead on the beach was Rachele’s and not mine? When they took away the remains, they made it impossible to identify the animal. So, by leaving me in a state of uncertainty, they are making me suffer even more. Because I was very attached to my Rudy.”

  The argument made a certain sense.

  “Tell me something, Mr. Lo Duca. Who was it that informed Signora Esterman that her horse had been stolen?”

  “I thought I did. But apparently someone beat me to it.”

  “Who?”

  “I dunno, maybe one of the two men who tend the horses. Rachele, morever, had given the watchman the telephone numbers where she could be reached.The watchman kept that piece of paper with the telephone numbers pinned inside the front door of his house. It’s still there, in fact. Is that of any importance?”

  “Yes, it’s very important.”

  “How so?”

  “You see, Mr. Lo Duca, if nobody from the stable called Signora Esterman, it means that it was Gerlando Gurreri.”

  “And why would he do it?”

  “Maybe because he thought that you would wait as long as possible before informing Signora Esterman of the theft of her horse, in the hopes of recovering it quickly, perhaps by paying a big ransom.”

  “In other words, to make me lose face and embarrass me in the eyes of everyone?”

  “It’s a possibility, don’t you think? But if you tell me that Gurreri, who you say is a bit off his rocker, is not in any condition to reason so subtly, then my hypothesis crumbles.”

  Lo Duca paused to think about this.

  “Well,” he said after a brief moment.“I suppose it’s possible that it wasn’t Gerlando who cooked up the scheme of the telephone call, but one of the crooks he’s fallen in with.”

  “That, too, is quite likely.”

  “Salvo? Where are you?”

  Ingrid was calling him.

  8

  Saverio Lo Duca stood up. Montalbano likewise.

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you for so long, but, as I am sure you realize, I didn’t want to miss this precious opportunity.”

  “Salvo? Where are you?” Ingrid called again.

  “Oh, not at all!” said the inspector.“In fact, I’m sincerely grateful for what you’ve been so kind to reveal to me.”

  Lo Duca gave a hint of a bow. Montalbano as well.

  Not even in the nineteenth century could a more polished and elegant dialogue—say, between the Viscount of Castelfrombone (a descendant of de Bouillon) and the Duke of Lomantò, of Quartetto Cetra fame—have taken place.

  They turned the corner. Ingrid, looking quite chic, was standing in front of one of the French doors, looking around.

  “Here I am,” said the inspector, waving an arm.

  “I’m sorry to abandon you, but I need to meet with . . .” said Lo Duca, picking up his pace and walking away without ever saying who it was he was supposed to meet.

  At that moment, the peal of a powerful gong rang out. Perhaps they had put a microphone in front of it.Whatever the case, it sounded like the start of an earthquake. And an earthquake it was.

  From the interior of the villa, a disorderly chorus thundered:

  “The gong! The gong!”

  Everything that followed was exactly like an avalanche or a river bursting its banks.

  Pushing and shoving, tripping and colliding, a surge of shouting women and men crashed through the three French doors and poured out onto the broad lane. In an instant, Ingrid receded from sight, caught in the middle and irresistibly swept downstream.Turning around towards him, she opened her mouth and said something, but the words were incomprehensible. It was like the ending of a tragic film. Bewildered, Montalbano had the impression that a terrible blaze had broken out inside the villa, but the cheerful faces of everyone in the wild stampede told him that he was mistaken. Getting out of the way to avoid being bowled over, he waited for the flood to pass.The gong had announced that dinner was ready. Why was it that these aristos, entrepreneurs, and businessmen were always so hungry? They had already polished off two long tablefuls of antipasti, and still they acted as though they hadn’t eaten for a week.

  When the flood subsided into a little rivulet of three or four stragglers running like hundred-meter sprinters, Montalbano ventured to step back onto the broad lane. Good luck finding Ingrid! But what if, instead of going to eat, he were to ask the ex-con for the car keys, slip inside, and take a two-hour nap? He thought this seemed like an excellent idea.

  “Inspector Montalbano!” he heard a woman’s voice call.

  He turned towards the salon and saw Rachele Esterman coming out. At her side was a fiftyish man dressed in a dark gray suit, the same height as she, with very little hair and the face of a spy.

  By “the face of a spy” the inspector meant an utterly anonymous face, one of those you could have before you for an entire day but still not remember the following day. Faces like James Bond’s are not spy faces, because once you’ve seen them you never forget them, and thus the danger of recognition by the enemy is all the greater.

  “Guido Costa, Inspector Montalbano,” said Rachele.

  The inspector had to make a considerable effort to stop looking at Rachele and tu
rn his gaze towards Costa. The moment he had seen her, he was spellbound. She was wearing a sort of black sack held up by her very slender shoulders and hanging down to her knees. Her legs were longer and more beautiful than Ingrid’s. Hair loose and brushing her shoulders, a ring of precious stones around her neck. In her hand she held a shawl.

  “Shall we go?” said Guido Costa.

  He had the voice of a dubber of porn flicks, one of those warm, deep voices that are used in these to whisper lewd things into women’s ears. Perhaps the insignificant Guido had some hidden qualities.

  “Who knows if we’ll ever find a place to sit down,” said Montalbano.

  “Not to worry,” said Rachele. “I’ve reserved a table for four. But it’s going to be a challenge to find Ingrid.”

  It wasn’t. Ingrid was waiting for them, standing, at the reserved table.

  “I ran into Giogiò!” Ingrid said cheerfully.

  “Ah, Giogiò!” said Rachele with a little smile.

  Montalbano intercepted a complicit look between the two women and understood everything. Giogiò must have been an old flame of Ingrid’s.And whoever said that reheated soup isn’t good might well be mistaken in this case.The inspector shuddered in terror at the thought that Ingrid might decide to spend the night with the long lost Giogiò, leaving him to sleep in the car until morning.

  “Would you mind if I went and sat at Giogiò’s table?” Ingrid asked the inspector.

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re an angel.”

  She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

  “On the other hand . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll come and get you after dinner, and we’ll drive back to Vigàta together.”

  The headwaiter, who had witnessed the whole scene, came forward and removed Ingrid’s table settings.

  “Is the placement all right, Signora Esterman?”

  “Yes, Matteo, thank you.”

  And as the headwaiter walked away, she explained to Montalbano:

  “I asked Matteo to reserve us a table at the edge of the lighted area. It’s a bit dark for eating, but to make up for that, we’ll be spared the mosquitoes, at least up to a point.”

  All across the lawn were dozens and dozens of tables of various sizes, with four to ten places, under the violent glare of several floodlights mounted on four iron scaffolds. Surely swarms of millions and millions of mosquitoes from Fiacca and neighboring towns were cheerfully converging towards this immense light source.

  “Guido, if you would be so kind, I forgot my cigarettes in my room.”

  Without a word, Guido got up and headed towards the villa.

  “Ingrid told me you bet on me. Thanks. I owe you a kiss.”

  “You ran a good race.”

  “If I’d had my poor Super, I would surely have won. Speaking of which, I’ve lost track of Chichi—I’m sorry, I mean Lo Duca. I wanted to introduce you to him.”

  “We’ve already met, and we even talked.”

  “Oh, really? Did he tell you his theory about the two stolen horses and why they killed mine?”

  “You mean the vendetta hypothesis?”

  “Yes. Do you think it’s possible?”

  “Why not?”

  “Chichi has been a real gentleman, you know. He wanted at all costs to reimburse me for the loss of Super.”

  “You refused?”

  “Of course. What fault is it of his? Oh, indirectly, I suppose . . . But, the poor man . . . He’s been so mortified by all this ...I even kidded him a little about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, you see, he likes to brag that he has the respect of everyone in Sicily, and he goes around saying that no one would ever dare do anything to harm him.Whereas—”

  A waiter appeared with three dishes, set them down at each place, and left.

  In them was a thin, yellowish soup with greeny little streaks, the smell of which was a cross between beer gone sour and turpentine.

  “Shall we wait for Guido?” Montalbano asked. Not out of politeness, but merely to stall, so he could summon the courage needed to put that first spoonful in his mouth.

  “Of course not. It’ll get cold.”

  Montalbano filled the spoon, brought it to his lips, closed his eyes, and swallowed. He was hoping that it would have at least the same taste/nontaste as soup-kitchen soups, but it turned out to be worse. It burned the throat. Maybe they’d seasoned it with hydrochloric acid. At the second spoonful, which was half air, he opened his eyes and realized that, in a flash, Rachele had eaten all of hers, since the dish in front of her was completely empty.

  “If you don’t like it, give it to me,” said Rachele.

  But how could she possibly like that disgusting swill? He passed her his dish.

  She took it, leaned down slightly to one side, emptied it out on the grass, and handed it back to him.

  “This is one advantage of a poorly lit table.”

  Guido returned with the cigarettes.

  “Thank you. Eat your soup, dear, before it gets cold. It’s delicious. Don’t you think, Inspector?”

  Surely the woman must have a sadistic streak. Obediently, Guido Costa ate all his soup in silence.

  “It was good, wasn’t it, dear?” Rachele asked.

  And under the table, her knee knocked twice against Montalbano’s in understanding.

  “It wasn’t bad,” the poor bastard replied, voice suddenly cracking.

  The hydrochloric acid must have burnt his vocal cords.

  Then, for a moment, a cloud seemed to have passed in front of the floodlights.

  The inspector looked up. It was a cloud all right—of mosquitoes. A minute later, amid the voices and laughter one began to hear a chorus of whacks. Men and women were slapping themselves, smacking themselves on the neck, forehead, and ears.

  “So where has my shawl ended up?” asked Rachele, looking under the table.

  Montalbano and Guido also bent down to look. They didn’t find it.

  “I must have dropped it on the way here. I’m going to go get another; I don’t want to be eaten up by mosquitoes.”

  “I’ll go,” said Guido.

  “You’re a saint.You know where it is? Probably in the large suitcase. Or else in one of the drawers of the armoire.”

  So there was no longer any doubt that they slept together. They were too intimate for this not to be the case. But then why did Rachele treat him this way? Did she like having him as her servant?

  As soon as Guido left, Rachele said:

  “Excuse me.”

  She stood up.And Montalbano was flummoxed, because Rachele then blithely picked up the shawl, which she had been sitting on, wrapped it around her shoulders, smiled at the inspector, and said:

  “I have no desire to keep eating this slop.”

  She took barely two steps before disappearing into the darkness just behind the table. Should he follow her? But she hadn’t asked him to follow her.Then he saw the flame of a cigarette lighter in the darkness.

  Rachele had lit up a cigarette and was smoking, standing a few yards away. Maybe she felt suddenly in a bad mood and wanted to be alone.

  The waiter arrived, again with three plates. This time it was fried mullet.

  The unmistakable stink of fish that had been dead for a week wafted into the terrified inspector’s nostrils.

  “Salvo, please come here.”

  He didn’t so much obey Rachele’s call as genuinely flee the mullet on his plate. Anything was better than eating it.

  He drew near to her, guided by the little red dot of her cigarette.

  “Stay with me.”

  He enjoyed watching her lips appear and then disappear with each drag she took.

  When she had finished, she threw the butt onto the ground and crushed it with her shoe.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  Montalbano turned around to go back to their table, then heard her laugh.

  “Where are you going? I want to
go say goodbye to Moonbeam.They’ll be coming to pick him up early tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry, but what about Guido?”

  “He’ll wait.What did they serve as the main course?”

  “Mullet caught at least eight days ago.”

  “Guido won’t have the nerve not to eat it.”

  She took his hand.

  “Come.You don’t know your way around here. I’ll be your guide.”

  Montalbano’s hand felt comforted in that soft, warm nest.

  “Where are the horses?”

  “On the left side of the racing fence.”

  They were in a sort of thicket, in complete darkness. He couldn’t find his way, and this bothered him. He risked knocking his head against a tree. But the situation immediately improved when Rachele moved Montalbano’s hand onto her hip and then rested her own on top, so that they continued walking in each other’s embrace.

  “Is that better?”

  “Yes.”

  Of course it was better. Now Montalbano’s hand was doubly comforted: by the heat of the woman’s body, and by the heat of the hand she kept on top of his. All at once the thicket came to an end, and the inspector saw before him a large, grassy clearing, at the far end of which a dim light glowed.

  “See that light up ahead? That’s where the stalls are.”

  Now that he could see better, Montalbano began to retract his hand, but she was ready and squeezed it harder.

  “Leave it like that. Do you mind?”

  “N ...no.”

  He heard her giggle. Montalbano was walking with his head down, looking at the ground, afraid to misstep or bump into something.

  “I don’t understand why the baron had this gate put here. It makes no sense. I’ve been coming here for years, and it’s always the same,” Rachele said at a certain point.

  Montalbano looked up. He caught a glimpse of a cast-iron gate that was open.

  There was nothing around it, neither a wall nor a fence. It was a perfectly useless gate.

  “I cannot understand what its purpose could be,” Rachele repeated.

  Without knowing why, the inspector felt overwhelmed by a sense of uneasiness. Like when you find yourself in a place where you know you’ve never been, and yet you feel like you’ve been there before.

  When they arrived in front of the stalls, Rachele let go of Montalbano’s hand and slipped out of his embrace. Out of one of the stalls popped the head of a horse that had somehow sensed her presence outside. Rachele went up to it, brought her mouth to the animal’s ear, and started talking to it in a soft voice. She stroked its forehead for a long while, left off, then turned towards Montalbano, walked up to him, embraced him, and kissed him—a long, deep kiss, with her entire body pressed up against his. To the inspector it seemed as if the ambient temperature had spiked by about twenty degrees.Then she stepped back.