The Track of Sand

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I apologize for a few minutes ago,” said Rachele. “I got up and walked away without saying anything. It’s just that . . . I didn’t want to start crying in front of you.”

  Montalbano didn’t open his mouth.

  “It happens to me sometimes,” she continued,“but not very often, unfortunately.”

  “Why do you say ‘unfortunately’?”

  “You know, Salvo, it’s very hard for me to cry when something bad or something sad happens. It all stays inside me.That’s just the way I am.”

  “I saw you cry at the police station.”

  “That was only the second or third time in my life. Whereas—and this is what’s so strange—I often weep uncontrollably in moments of . . . well, I wouldn’t say happiness, that’s too big a word. It would be more accurate to say that it’s when I have a feeling of great calm inside me, when all the bumps are smoothed over, all the—But that’s enough; I don’t want to bore you with descriptions of my inner life.”

  This time, too, Montalbano said nothing.

  But he was wondering how many Racheles there were inside Rachele.

  The one he had met the first time at the station was an intelligent, rational woman, ironic and very much in control of herself.The one he had dealt with in Fiacca was a woman who had lucidly obtained what she wanted while managing, at the same time, to let go of herself completely in an instant, losing all lucidity and self-control.And the one who was sitting in front of him now was instead a vulnerable woman who had told him, without saying so directly, how unhappy she was, how rare were the moments of serenity in which she felt at peace with herself.

  On the other hand, what on earth did he know about women?

  Madamina, il catalogo è questo.And the list was a miserable one: one relationship before Livia; Livia; the twenty-year-old girl he didn’t even want to name; and now Rachele.

  And what about Ingrid? But Ingrid was a case apart. In their relationship, the line of demarcation between friendship and something else was very, very fine.

  Of course, he’d met women, plenty of them, over the course of his many investigations, but they were all acquaintances made in very specific circumstances, in which the women all had a stake in presenting themselves as different from how they really were.

  The waiter brought the salads. Which refreshed the tongue, the palate, and the mind.

  “Would you like a whisky?”

  “Why not?”

  They ordered the drinks, which arrived at once. Now the moment had come to discuss the matter of most concern to Rachele.

  “I brought a magazine with me, but I left it in the car,” Montalbano began.

  “What magazine?”

  “The one featuring photos of Lo Duca’s horses. I mentioned it to you over the phone.”

  “Oh, yes. And I think I told you that mine had a white spot shaped like a star on its flank. Poor Super!”

  “How did you develop this passion for horses?”

  “I got it from my father. I guess you don’t know I was once champion of all Europe.”

  Montalbano’s jaw dropped.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I also twice won the Piazza di Siena competition, I’ve won in Madrid, and at Longchamp, too . . . Past glories.”

  There was a pause. Montalbano decided to lay his cards on the table.

  “Why were you so insistent about seeing me?”

  She gave a start, perhaps because of the directness of the attack, which she hadn’t expected.Then she sat up straight, and Montalbano understood that he now had before him the same Rachele as the first time at the station.

  “For two reasons.The first is strictly personal.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Since I don’t think that, after I leave, we’ll ever see each other again, I wanted to explain my behavior the other night in Fiacca. So you won’t have a distorted memory of me.”

  “There’s no need for explanation,” said Montalbano, suddenly feeling uncomfortable again.

  “Yes there is. Ingrid, who knows me well, should have warned you that I . . . well . . . I don’t quite know how to put it ...”

  “If you don’t know how to say it, don’t say it.”

  “If I like a man, I mean, if I really like a man, deep down, which doesn’t happen to me very often, I can’t help but . . . start things out with him in a way that for other women is the point of culmination. There. I don’t know if I—”

  “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”

  “Afterwards, two things can happen. Either I no longer want to hear even the slightest mention of the person, or else I try, in every way possible, to keep him close to me, as a friend, or lover ...And when I said I enjoyed you—and, incidentally, Ingrid told me you were upset about that—I wasn’t thinking about what had just happened between us, but about what you are like, the way you act . . . in short, you as a man, taken all together. I realize my statement could be taken the wrong way. But I wasn’t mistaken, since you’re giving me the gift of an evening like this. End of discussion.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “It’s to do with the stolen horses. But I’ve thought it over again and I’m no longer sure there’s any point in talking to you about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you said you’re not handling the case. I don’t want to tell you things that might just be a bother to you, on top of all the others you’ve already got.”

  “You can talk to me about it anyway, if you want.”

  “The other day I went with Chichi to the stables, and we ran into the veterinarian who was there to do his routine checkups.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Mario Anzalone. He’s very good.”

  “I don’t know him. So what happened?”

  “Well, when talking to Lo Duca, the veterinarian said he didn’t understand why the thieves took Rudy and not Moonbeam, the horse I rode in the race at Fiacca.”

  “Why?”

  “He said that if there had been an expert among the thieves, he would surely have preferred Moonbeam to Rudy. In the first place, because Moonbeam was a far better horse than Rudy, and secondly, because it was clear that Rudy was sick and couldn’t be easily cured. In fact, for this reason, he himself had suggested that we put him down, to spare him the suffering.”

  “And how did Lo Duca react? Did you notice?”

  “Yes, I did. He replied that he was too fond of that horse.”

  “What was it sick with?”

  “Viral arteritis. It creates lesions in the artery walls.”

  “So, it is as if the thieves had entered a luxury auto showroom and stolen one very expensive car, and a broken-down Fiat 500.”

  “More or less, yes.”

  “Is the illness contagious?”

  “Well, yes. In fact, during the ride back to Montelusa, I got upset at Chichi.What is this? I said.You said you would be happy to lodge my horse, and you put him right next to a sick horse?”

  “Where did you keep him the other times you came here?”

  “In Fiacca, with Baron Piscopo.”

  “And how did Lo Duca defend himself ?”

  “He said that his horse’s illness was already past the contagious stage. And he said that if I wanted—even though at this point it would have been completely pointless—I could phone the veterinarian, who would surely confirm what he’d said.”

  “The horse, however, was dying.”

  “Right.”

  “So why bother to steal it?”

  “That’s why I wanted to see you. I asked myself the same thing, and came to a conclusion that contradicts what Chichi told you in Fiacca.”

  “Namely?”

  “That they wanted to steal and kill only my horse, and that, since Rudy looked almost exactly like Super, they couldn’t figure out which one was mine, and so they took both.They wanted Chichi to look bad, and it worked.”

  This was a hypothesis they had already considered at the sta
tion.

  “Did you read the newspaper yesterday?” Rachele continued.

  “No.”

  “The Corriere dell’Isola devoted a great deal of space to the theft of the two horses. The reporters, however, seem not to know that mine was killed.”

  “How could they have known?”

  “But everyone in Fiacca saw me ride a horse that wasn’t mine! And surely some people would have asked some questions. Super was a horse that had won many important races; he was very well known in equestrian circles.”

  “Always ridden by you?”

  Rachele laughed in her way.

  “I wish!”

  Then she stopped and asked:

  “Tell me something: Have you ever actually witnessed a proper horse race, or a horse show?”

  “Fiacca was the first time.”

  “Are you a soccer fan?”

  “When the national team plays, I’ll usually watch a few matches. But I prefer Formula 1 races, maybe because I’ve never been a very good driver.”

  “But Ingrid told me you swim a lot.”

  “Yes, but not for sport.”

  They finished their whiskies.

  “Has Lo Duca inquired at Montelusa Central on the progress of the investigation?”

  “Yes.They told him there were no new developments. And I fear there are not going to be any.”

  “You never know.Want another whisky?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”

  “Feeling sleepy?”

  “No. I just want to get into bed and curl up for a long time with my memories of this evening.”

  When it came time to say goodbye in the parking area of the Marinella Bar, they both very naturally embraced and kissed.

  “Are you going to be staying much longer?”

  “Another three days, at least. I’ll give a ring tomorrow to say goodbye. Is that all right?”

  “Of course.”

  14

  When he opened his eyes, it was already broad daylight. But that morning he didn’t feel like closing them immediately, in rejection of the day ahead. Perhaps because he’d had a good night’s sleep, straight through from the moment he fell asleep to the moment he woke up, the rarest of things in recent times.

  He remained in bed, watching the endlessly varying play of light and shadow that the sun’s rays, passing through the slats in the blind, projected onto the ceiling.A man walking on the beach became a Giacometti-like figure, looking as if he were made of interwoven strands of yarn.

  He remembered how, as a little boy, he could keep his eye glued for a whole hour to a kaleidoscope his uncle had bought for him, spellbound by the continually changing forms and colors. His uncle had also bought him a tin revolver, whose bullets were caps, dark red strips with little black dots that passed under the hammer and went pop! pop! when struck.

  This memory called to mind the shoot-out between Galluzzo and the two men who tried to burn down his house.

  It occurred to him how strange it was that those people, who wanted something from him but didn’t say what, had let twenty-four hours pass without giving another sign of themselves. And to think they were in such a hurry! How could they suddenly let go of the reins around his neck?

  Upon asking himself this question, he started laughing, because never before would he have thought of such a thing in terms relating to horses.

  Was this due to the case he was investigating, or was it because, deep down, the evening he’d spent with Rachele was still on his mind?

  No doubt about it, Rachele was a woman who—

  The phone rang.

  Montalbano leapt out of bed, more to escape the thought of Rachele at once than out of any anxiousness to answer the phone.

  It was six-thirty.

  “Ahh Chief, Chief! Iss Catarella!”

  The inspector felt like screwing around.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” he said, altering his voice.

  “Iss Catarella, Chief !”

  “This is Fire Station Number 2373. If you want to speak with the fire chief, you’ll have to call the fire department, during regular hours, of course.”

  “O matre santa! I mussa gotta wrong number. Beckin’ y’ pardon, sir.”

  He called right back.

  “Hallo! Izz ’iss Fire Station 3723?”

  “No, Cat. It’s Montalbano. Wait just a second, I’ll look up the fire station’s number for you.”

  “No no no, Chief, I don’t want no fire station!”

  “So why are you trying to phone them?”

  “I donno. Sorry, Chief, I’m confused. Wanna hang up so’s I can start all over again?”

  “All right.”

  He rang a third time.

  “Zzatt you, Chief ?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Wha’, was you asleep?”

  “No, I was dancing the jitterbug.”

  “Rilly? You know how to do that?”

  “Cat, just tell me what’s up.”

  “They found a corpus.”

  How could you go wrong? If Catarella called at the crack of dawn, it always meant death in the morning.

  “Male or female?”

  “Iss o’ the male persuasion.”

  “Where’d they find it?”

  “In Spinoccia districk.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Dunno, Chief. But Gallo’s on ’is way.”

  “Where? To go look at the corpse?”

  “No, Chief, sir, ’e’s comin’ a get you, poissonally in poisson. ’E’s gotta car an’s gonna betake you onna primisses, which’d be in Spinoccia districk.”

  “But couldn’t Augello go instead?”

  “Nossir, in as far as atta moment when that I made ’im the tiliphone call, ’is wife said as how he was outta the house.”

  “But doesn’t he have a cell phone?”

  “Yessir, ’e does. But iss ixtinguished.”

  Like Mimì’s going to be out of the house at six in the morning! Obviously he was sleeping like a baby. And he’d told Beba to lie.

  “And where’s Fazio?”

  “’E’s already gone wit’ Galluzzo to the beforesaid allocation.”

  When Gallo knocked at the door, the inspector had shaving cream all over his face.

  “Come on in. I’ll be ready in five minutes. Where the hell is this Spinoccia, anyway?”

  “In heaven, Chief. Out in the country, about six miles before Giardina.”

  “Got any idea who was killed?”

  “None, Chief. Fazio just phoned me and told me to come pick you up, so I came.”

  “But do you know how to get there?”

  “In theory, yes. I had a look at a map.”

  “Look, Gallo, we’re on a dirt road, not on the racetrack at Monza.”

  “I know, Chief.That’s why I’m going slow.”

  Five minutes later:

  “Gallo, I told you not to speed!”

  “I’m going extremely slow, Chief !”

  To Gallo, going extremely slowly, on a stinking dirt road full of potholes, crags, trenches, craters that looked like they’d been made by bombs, and dust galore, meant maintaining a speed of about fifty mph.

  They were passing through desolate country, parched and yellow, with a few rare, scraggly trees. It was a landscape Montalbano was quite fond of.They had already left the last little white cube of a house behind them, about a mile back. All they had run across were a little pushcart climbing up towards Giardina from Vigàta, and a peasant with his mule, coming down in the opposite direction.

  Rounding a bend, they saw the squad car in the distance and a donkey beside it. The ass, who was well aware that there was nothing to eat for miles around and just stood there, discouraged, looked at them with scant interest.

  Gallo then launched the car off the dirt road with a swerve so sudden that the inspector lurched totally sideways, despite the seat
belt, and felt his head come detached from the rest of his body. He started cursing.

  “Couldn’t you stop the car a little further ahead?!”

  “I’m stopping here to leave room for the other cars when they get here.”

  When they got out of the car, they noticed that, beyond the squad car, on the left-hand side of the dirt road, near a clump of sorghum, Fazio, Galluzzo, and a peasant were sitting on the ground, eating. The peasant had taken a loaf of wheat bread and a round of tumazzo cheese from his haversack and divided them up.

  They made an idyllic, bucolic foursome, a sort of Sicilian déjeuner sur l’herbe.

  Since the sun was already beating down hard, they were all in shirtsleeves.

  As soon as Fazio and Galluzzo saw the inspector approaching, they stood up and put their jackets on.The peasant remained seated. But he brought a hand to his cap, giving a sort of military salute. He must have been at least eighty years old.

  The dead man, wearing only a pair of underpants, was lying facedown, parallel to the road. Clearly visible just under the left shoulder blade was one gunshot wound, with a little bit of blood around it. A chunk of flesh was missing from the right arm, the result of an animal bite. A hundred or so flies swarmed around the two wounds.

  The inspector bent down to look at the bitten arm.

  “’Zwas dogs,” said the peasant, swallowing his last mouthful of bread and tumazzo.Then he extracted a bottle of wine from the haversack, pulled out the cork, sucked on it once, and put everything back.

  “Did you find the body yourself ?”

  “Yessir. This mornin’ when I’s passin’ by with my donkey,” said the peasant, standing up.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Giuseppe Contrera, ’n’ my papers ’re spotless.”

  He was keen to tell the cop that he had a clean record. But how had he been able to alert the police station from that desert? Via carrier pigeon?

  “Was it you who phoned us?”

  “Nossir, my son.”

  “And where’s your son?”

  “At home, in Giardina.”

  “But was he with you when you discovered—”

  “Nossir, he warn’t. He was at his home. He was still asleep, the little gent. He’s ’n accountant, you see.”