The Patience of the Spider

by Andrea Camilleri

  Di Bartolo approaches the bed and looks at him with interest.

  “I’m glad to see that, despite my colleagues’ efforts, you can still understand and know what you want.”

  He makes a gesture and Strazzera appears beside him and hands him the test results. Di Bartolo barely glances at the first sheet and then tosses it onto the bed, does the same with the second, ditto the third and the fourth. In a matter of seconds, Montalbano’s head and torso disappear under the paper. In the end he hears the doctor’s voice but can’t see him because the photos of the telecardiogram are over his eyes.

  “Mind telling me why you called me here?”

  The bleat sounds rather irritated. Apparently the goat is getting ornery.

  “Well, Doctor,” Strazzera’s voice hesitantly begins, “the fact is, one of the inspector’s men told us that a few days ago he’d had a serious episode of…”

  Of what? Montalbano can no longer hear Strazzera. Maybe he’s telling the next installment in Di Bartolo’s ear. Installment? This isn’t some soap opera. Strazzera said “episode.” But isn’t a soap opera installment called an episode?

  “Pull him up for me,” orders Dr. Di Bartolo.

  They remove the sheets of paper covering him and gently lift him up. A circle of doctors in white surround the bed, religiously silent. Di Bartolo applies the stethoscope to Montalbano’s chest, moves it a few centimeters, then moves it a few more centimeters and stops. Seeing his face so close, the inspector notices that the doctor’s jaws are moving continuously, as if he were chewing gum. All at once, he understands. The doctor is ruminating. Dr. Di Bartolo actually is a goat. Who now hasn’t moved for a long time. He’s listening, immobile. What do his ears hear in there? Montalbano wonders. Buildings collapsing? Fissures suddenly opening up? Subterranean rumbles? Di Bartolo keeps listening interminably, not moving one millimeter from the spot he’s singled out. Doesn’t it hurt his back to stay bent over like that? The inspector begins to sweat from fear. The doctor straightens up.

  “That’s enough.”

  The other doctors set Montalbano back down.

  “In my opinion,” the luminary concludes, “you could shoot him another three or four times, extract the bullets without anesthesia, and his heart would definitely stand up to it.”

  Then he leaves, without saying goodbye to anyone.

  Ten minutes later, the inspector’s in the operating room. There’s a bright white light. A man stands over him, holding a kind of mask in his hand, which he places over Montalbano’s face.

  “Breathe deeply,” he says.

  He obeys. And can’t remember anything else.

  How is it, he asks himself, they haven’t yet invented an aerosol cartridge for when you can’t sleep? Something you stick it in your nose and push, and the gas or whatever it is comes out, and you fall asleep right away?

  That would be handy, an anti-insomnia anesthesia. He suddenly feels thirsty, gets out of bed gingerly, to avoid waking Livia, goes into the kitchen, and pours himself a glass of mineral water from an already open bottle. Now what? He decides to exercise his right arm a little, the way the physical therapist taught him. One, two, three, and four. One, two, three, and four. The arm works fine. Well enough for him to drive with ease.

  Strazzera was absolutely right. Except that sometimes his arm falls asleep, the way your leg does when you stay in the same position for too long without moving and the whole limb feels full of pins and needles. Or armies of ants. He drinks another glass of water and goes back to bed. Feeling him slip under the covers, Livia murmurs something and turns her back to him.

  “Water,” he implores, opening his eyes.

  Livia pours him a glass, holding his head up with her hand at the base of the skull so he can drink. Then she puts the glass back on the nightstand and disappears from the inspector’s field of vision. He manages to sit up a little in bed. Livia’s standing in front of the window, and Dr. Strazzera is beside her, talking to her at great length. Montalbano hears a little giggle come from Livia. What a witty guy, this Dr. Strazzera! And why is he hanging all over Livia? And why doesn’t she feel the need to take a step back? Okay, I’ll show them.

  “Water!” he yells in rage.

  Livia jumps, startled.

  “Why is he drinking so much?” Livia asks.

  “It must be an effect of the anesthetic,” says Strazzera. And he adds: “But, you know, Livia, the operation was child’s play. I was even able to make it so that the scar will be practically invisible.”

  Livia gives the doctor a grateful smile, which infuriates the inspector even more.

  An invisible scar! So he won’t have any problem entering the next Mr. Muscle competition.

  Speaking of muscle, or whatever you want to call it…He slides over, ever so gently, until his body is pressed up against Livia’s back. She seems to appreciate the contact, to judge by the way she moans in her sleep.

  Montalbano extends a cupped hand and places it over one of her tits. As if by conditioned reflex, Livia puts her hand over his. But here the operation grinds to a halt. Because Montalbano knows perfectly well that if he proceeds any further, Livia will put an immediate stop to it. It’s already happened once, on his first night back from the hospital.

  “No, Salvo. Out of the question. I’m afraid you might hurt yourself.”

  “Come on, Livia. It’s my shoulder that was injured, not my—”

  “Don’t be vulgar. Don’t you understand? I wouldn’t feel comfortable, I’d be afraid to…”

  But his muscle, or whatever you want to call it, doesn’t understand these fears. It has no brain, is not used to thinking. It refuses to listen to reason. So it just stays there, bloated with rage and desire.

  Fear. Terror. He begins to feel this the second day after the operation, when, around nine in the morning, the wound starts to throb painfully. Why does it hurt so much? Did they forget a piece of gauze in there, as so often happens? Or maybe not gauze, but a ten-inch scalpel? Livia notices at once and calls Strazzera. Who comes running, probably leaving in the middle of some open-heart surgery. But that’s how things are now: The moment Livia calls, Strazzera comes running. The doctor says the reaction was to be expected, there’s no reason for Livia to be alarmed. And he sticks another needle into Montalbano. Less than ten minutes later, two things happen: first, the pain starts to subside; and second, Livia says:

  “The commissioner’s here.”

  And she leaves. Bonetti-Alderighi enters the room accompanied by the chief of his cabinet, Dr. Lattes, whose hands are folded in prayer, as if he were at a dying man’s bedside.

  “How are you? How are you?” asks the commissioner.

  “How are you? How are you?” Lattes echoes him, as in a litany.

  The commissioner begins to speak, but Montalbano hears only scraps of what he’s saying, as if a strong wind were carrying away his words.

  “…and therefore I’ve recommended you be given a solemn citation…”

  “…solemn citation…” echoes Lattes.

  “La-de-da-de-da-de-ation,” says a voice in Montalbano’s head.

  Wind.

  “…while awaiting your return, Inspector Augello…”

  “Oh good fellow, good fellow,” says the same voice in his head.

  Wind.

  Eyelids drooping, inexorably closing.

  Now his eyelids are drooping. Maybe he can finally fall asleep. Just like this, pressed up against Livia’s warm body. But there’s that goddamn shutter that keeps wailing with every gust of wind.

  What to do? Open the window and try to close the shutter more tightly? Not a chance. It would surely wake Livia up. But maybe there is a solution. No harm in trying. Instead of fighting the shutter’s wail, try to echo it, incorporate it in the rhythm of his own breathing.

  “Iiiih!” goes the shutter.

  “Iiiih!” goes the inspector, softly, lips barely open.

  “Eeeeh!” goes the shutter.

  “Eeeeh!” ech
oes the inspector.

  That time, however, he didn’t keep his voice down. In a flash, Livia opens her eyes and sits up in bed.

  “Salvo! Are you unwell?”

  “Why?”

  “You were moaning!”

  “I must have been doing it in my sleep. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

  Goddamned window!

  2

  A gelid blast is blowing in through the wide-open window. It’s always that way in hospitals. They cure your appendicitis and then make you die of pneumonia. He’s sitting in an armchair. Only two days left, and he can finally go back to Marinella. But since six o’clock that morning, squads of women have been cleaning everything: corridors, rooms, closets, windows, doorknobs, beds, chairs. It’s as if a great cloud of clean-up mania had descended on the place. Sheets, pillowcases, blankets are changed, the bathroom sparkles so brightly it’s blinding; you need sunglasses to go in there.

  “What’s going on?” he asks a nurse who’s come to help him get back in bed.

  “Some big cheese is coming.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Listen, couldn’t I just stay in the armchair?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  A little while later, Strazzera shows up, disappointed not to find Livia in the room.

  “I think she might drop in later,” Montalbano sets his mind at rest.

  But he’s just being mean. He said “might” just to keep the doctor on tenterhooks. Livia assured him she’d be there to see him, only a little late.

  “So who’s coming?”

  “Petrotto. The undersecretary.”

  “What for?”

  “To congratulate you.”

  Fuck. That’s all he needs. The honorable Gianfranco Petrotto, former chamber deputy, now undersecretary of the interior, though once convicted for corruption, another time for graft, and a third time let off the hook by the statute of limitations. An ex-Communist and ex-Socialist, now a triumphant member of the party in power.

  “Couldn’t you give me a shot to knock me out for three hours or so?” he implores Strazzera.

  The doctor throws his hands up and goes out.

  The honorable Gianfranco Petrotto arrives, preceded by a powerful roar of applause that echoes through the corridor. But the only people allowed to enter the room with him are the prefect, the commissioner, the hospital superintendent, and a deputy from the politico’s retinue.

  “Everyone else, wait outside!” he commands with a shout.

  Then his mouth opens and closes, and he begins to talk. And talk. And talk. He doesn’t know that Montalbano has plugged his ears with surgical cotton to the point where they feel like they’re about to explode and can’t hear the bullshit he’s saying.

  It’s been a while now since the shutter stopped wailing. He barely has time to look at the clock—four forty-five—before he falls asleep at last.

  In his sleep he could faintly hear the telephone ringing and ringing.

  He opened one eye, looked at the clock. Six o’clock. He’d slept barely an hour and fifteen minutes. He got up in a hurry, wanting to stop the ringing before it reached Livia in the depths of her sleep. He picked up the receiver.

  “Chief, whadd I do, wake you up?”

  “Cat, it’s six in the morning. On the dot.”

  “Actually my watch gots six oh tree.”

  “That means it’s a little fast.”

  “You sure ’bout that, Chief?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, so I’ll put it tree minutes slow. Tanks, Chief.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Catarella hung up. Montalbano did likewise, then headed back to the bedroom. Halfway there, he started cursing. What kind of goddamn phone call was that? Catarella calls him at the crack of dawn to find out if his watch has the right time? At that moment the phone rang again. The inspector quickly picked up the receiver after the first ring.

  “Beck y’pardin, Chief, but that bizniss ’bout the time made me forget to tell you the real reason for the phone call I jes phoned you about.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Seems some girl’s motorbike’s been seized.”

  “Seized or robbed?”

  “Seized.”

  Montalbano fumed. But he had no choice but to smother his urge to yell.

  “And you wake me up at six in the morning to tell me the Carabinieri or Customs police have impounded a motorbike? To tell me? Pardon my French, but I don’t give a fuck!”

  “Chief, you kin speak whichever langwitch ya like wit-tout beckin my pardin, though, beckin y’pardin, it sounds a lot to me like a ’talian,” Catarella said respectfully.

  “And furthermore, I’m not on duty, I’m still convalescing!”

  “I know, Chief, but it wasn’t neither the Customs or the Canabirreri that had the seizure.”

  “Well, then who was it?”

  “’Ass just it, Chief. Nobody knows. Ann’ass why they tol’ me to call you poissonally in poisson.”

  “Listen, is Fazio there?”

  “No, sir, he’s at the scene.”

  “How about Inspector Augello?”

  “Him too.”

  “So who’s left there at the station?”

  “For the moment, Chief, ’s jes me holdin’ down the fort. Mr. Inspector Augello axed me to do ’is doody for ’im, so ’ass what I’m doin.”

  Good God! A danger to be avoided as quickly as possible. Catarella was capable of triggering a nuclear war with a simple purse-snatching. But was it possible Fazio and Augello would go to all this trouble for a routine seizure of a motorbike? And why did they have Catarella call him?

  “Listen, I want you to do something. Get ahold of Fazio and tell him to phone me at once here in Marinella.”

  He hung up.

  “What is this, Termini Station?” said a voice behind him.

  He turned around. It was Livia, eyes flashing with anger. When she’d got up she’d slipped on Montalbano’s shirt from the day before instead of her dressing gown. Seeing her thus attired, the inspector felt an overwhelming desire to embrace her. But he held himself back, knowing that Fazio would be calling at any moment.

  “Livia, please, my job…”

  “You should do your job at the station. And only when you’re on active duty.”

  “You’re right, Livia. Now come on, go back to bed.”

  “Bed? I’m awake now, thanks to you! I’m going to go make some coffee,” she said.

  The telephone rang.

  “Fazio, would you be so kind as to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Montalbano asked in a loud voice, since there was no longer any need for precaution. Livia was not only awake, but pissed off.

  “Stop using obscenities!” Livia screamed from the kitchen.

  “Didn’t Catarella tell you?”

  “Catarella didn’t tell me a goddamn thing—”

  “Are you going to stop or not?” yelled Livia.

  “—all he told me was something about a motorbike being seized, but not by the Carabinieri or the Customs police. Why the fuck—”

  “Knock it off, I said!”

  “—are you guys bothering me with this stuff? Go see if it was the traffic police!”

  “No, Chief. If anything was seized, it was the girl who owned the motorbike.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s been a kidnapping, Chief.”

  A kidnapping? In Vigàta?

  “Tell me where you are and I’ll come right over,” he said without thinking.

  “Chief, it’s too complicated to find your way out here. If it’s all right with you, a squad car’ll be at your place in about an hour. That way you won’t have to tire yourself out by driving.”

  “Okay.”

  He went in the kitchen. Livia had put the coffeepot on the burner and was now spreading the tablecloth over the small kitchen table. To smooth it out, she had to bend all the way forward, so that the inspec
tor’s shirt she was wearing became too short.

  Montalbano couldn’t restrain himself. He took two steps forward and embraced her tightly from behind.

  “What’s got into you?” Livia asked. “Come on, let go! What are you trying to do?”

  “Guess.”

  “You might hurt yo—”

  The coffee rose in the pot. Nobody turned off the flame. The coffee burned. The flame remained lit. The coffee started boiling. Nobody bothered with it. The coffee spilled out of the pot, extinguishing the flame on the burner. The gas continued to flow.

  “Doesn’t it smell strangely of gas?” Livia asked languidly a bit later, freeing herself from the inspector’s embrace.

  “I don’t think so,” said Montalbano, whose nostrils were filled with the scent of her skin.

  “Oh my God!” Livia exclaimed, running to turn off the gas.

  Montalbano had scarcely twently minutes to shower and shave. His coffee—a fresh pot had been made in the meantime—he drank on the run, as the doorbell was already ringing. Livia didn’t even ask where he was going or why. She’d opened the window and lay stretched out, arms over her head, basking in the sunlight.

  In the car Gallo told the inspector what he knew about the situation. The kidnapped girl—since there was no longer any doubt that she had in fact been kidnapped—was named Susanna Mistretta. A very pretty girl, she was enrolled at Palermo University and getting ready to take her first exam. She lived with her father and mother in a country villa about three miles outside of town. That was where they were heading. About a month earlier, Susanna had started going to a girlfriend’s house in the early evening to study, usually driving home on her moped around eight.

  The previous evening, when she didn’t come home at the usual time, her father had waited about an hour before calling the girl’s friend, who told him that Susanna had left as usual at eight o’clock, give or take a couple of minutes. Then he’d phoned a boy whom his daughter considered her boyfriend, and the kid seemed surprised, since he’d seen Susanna in the afternoon in Vigàta, before she went to study with her friend, and the girl had told him she wouldn’t be coming with him to the movies that evening because she had to go home to study.