Montalbano couldn’t move. He looked like he’d turned into a puppet without strings. To his bewilderment, he noticed a strange phenomenon. The girl before him had started to evaporate. A cloud of steam was enveloping her. Tina was melting like a pat of butter in the summer sun. The girl then extended a sweaty hand, grabbed the inspector by the wrist, pulled him inside, and closed the door. Then she stood there in front of him, speechless and ecstatic, face red as a ripe watermelon, hands joined in prayer, eyes glistening. For a brief moment, Montalbano felt exactly like the Blessed Virgin of Pompeii.
“I would like—” he ventured.
“Of course! I’m so sorry! Come!” said Tina, rousing herself from her ecstasy and leading him into the inevitable sitting room. “Boy, the moment I saw you there before me in the flesh, I nearly fainted! How are you? Have you recovered? This is amazing! I always see you when you appear on TV, you know. And I read a lot of detective novels, I just love them, but you, Inspector, you’re a lot better than Maigret, or Poirot, or…You want a coffee?”
“Who?” asked Montalbano, dazed.
Since the girl had spoken almost without interruption, the inspector had heard only something like “Uwanakafi,” thinking this might be the protagonist detective of some African writer with whom he was unfamiliar.
“So, will you have some coffee?”
Maybe it was just the thing.
“Yes, if it isn’t a bother…”
“Not at all! Mama went out shopping about five minutes ago and I’m all alone because the housekeeper’s not coming today, but I can have it ready for you in a jiffy!”
She disappeared. So they were alone in the house? The inspector got worried. This girl was capable of anything. From the kitchen he heard a clinking of demitasses and saucers and a sort of low murmur. Who was she talking to, since she’d said there was nobody else in the house? Herself? He got up and went out of the living room. The kitchen was the second door on the left. He approached slowly, on tiptoe. Tina was talking in a low voice on her cell phone.
“…he’s here, I tell you! I’m not kidding! All of a sudden, there he was, right in front of me! If you can get here within ten minutes, he’ll still be here, I promise. Oh and, listen, Sandra, be sure to tell Manuela, I’m sure she’ll want to come, too. And bring a camera, so we can all take our pictures with him.”
Montalbano retraced his steps. This was all he needed! Three twenty-year-old girls attacking him like some rock star! He decided he would shake free of Tina in less than ten minutes. He drank the coffee boiling hot, scalding his lips, and began his questioning. But the element of surprise hadn’t worked, and the inspector gained little or nothing from the conversation.
“No, I wouldn’t say friends as in real friends. We met at the university, and when we found out we both lived in Vigàta, we decided to study together for our first exam, and now for the last month or so she’s been coming to my house every evening from five to eight…”
“Yes, I think she’s very fond of Francesco…”
“No, she never mentioned any other boys to me…”
“No, she never said anything to me about any other guys coming on to her…”
“Susanna is generous and sincere, but I wouldn’t say she’s very expansive. She tends to hold everything inside…”
“No, yesterday she went away like every other day. And we agreed to meet again today at five…”
“Lately she’s been the same as usual. Her mother’s health has been a constant worry. Normally around seven we would take a break from our study, and Susanna would phone home and find out how her mother was doing…Yes, she did the same yesterday…”
“Inspector, I really don’t think she was kidnapped. I feel pretty good about that. Oh God, it’s so cool being interrogated by you! You want to know what I think? Jesus, this is so fabulous! The inspector wants to know what I think! Okay, I think Susanna went away of her own accord and will come back in a few days. She probably needed a little rest and couldn’t handle watching her mother die that way, day after day, night after night…”
“What, are you leaving already? Don’t you want to interrogate me some more? Couldn’t you wait another five minutes, so we can take our picture together? Aren’t you going to summon me down to the station? You’re not?”
She suddenly stood up, seeing the inspector do the same. Then she made a move that Montalbano mistakenly interpreted as the start of a belly dance.
“Okay, okay, I’ll summon you down to the station,” he said, racing toward the door.
Seeing the inspector appear unexpectedly before him, Catarella nearly fainted.
“Jesus, what a pleasant s’prise! Jesus, iss so nice t’see you all over again, Chief!”
No sooner had Montalbano entered his office than the door slammed violently against the wall. Since he was no longer used to this, the inspector took fright.
“What’s going on?”
A panting Catarella stood in the doorway.
“Nuttin’, Chief. My hand slipped.”
“What do you want?”
“Ahh, Chief! I’m so ixcited t’see you that I forgot ta tell ya that the c’mishner called looking for you. Iss rilly rilly urgint!”
“Okay, ring him up and put him through to me.”
“Hello, Montalbano? First of all, how are you?”
“Pretty well, thanks.”
“I took the liberty of calling you at home, but your…the lady told me…and so I…”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I heard about the kidnapping. A nasty business, it seems.”
“Very nasty.”
Hyperbole always worked with the commissioner. But what was he driving at with this phone call?
“Well, here’s the thing…I’d like you to come back to active duty—just for the moment, of course, and assuming, also, that you’re up to…Sooner or later, Inspector Augello will have to go out in the field to coordinate the searches, and I haven’t got anyone to replace him in Vigàta…Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. So I’m officially informing you that the kidnapping investigation will be handled by Inspector Minutolo, who, being a Calabrian…”—What? Minutolo was from Alì, in Messina province—“…should know a lot about kidnappings.”
Thus—strictly applying Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi’s logic—one needed only to be Chinese to know a lot about Chinese checkers.
“Now you,” the commissioner went on, “don’t go treading on other people’s turf the way you always do. I mean it. I want you only to lend support, or, at most, to carry on some minor side investigations that won’t wear you out but will converge with Minutolo’s central investigation.”
“Could you give me a practical example?”
“Of what?”
“Of how I might converge with Inspector Minutolo.”
He enjoyed acting like a complete idiot with the commissioner. The only problem was that the commissioner really believed he was a complete idiot. Bonetti-Alderighi sighed so loudly that Montalbano heard him. Perhaps it was better not to take the game too far.
“Sorry, sorry, I think I understand. If Inspector Minutolo’s conducting the main investigation, that would make him the Po, whereas I would be the Dora, the Riparia, or the Baltea, it makes no difference. Right?”
“Right,” the commissioner said wearily. Then he hung up.
The only positive thing to come out of all this was that the investigation had been turned over to Filippo Minutolo, known as Fifì, an intelligent man with whom one could reason.
Montalbano phoned Livia to tell her he’d been called back to duty, if only in the role of Dora Riparia (or was it Baltea?). But she didn’t answer. No doubt she’d taken the car and gone to the museum or for a stroll in the Valley of the Temples, as she always did when she came to Vigàta. He rang her cell phone, but it was turned off. More precisely, the recording said the person he was calling could not be reached. And it advised him to
try again later. But how can one reach somebody who can’t be reached? Just by trying again later? As a rule, the telephone people tended toward absurdity. They said, for example: The number you have reached does not exist…How could they possibly say such a thing? Every number that one can think of exists. If a number, even one, in the infinite sequence of numbers were missing, the entire universe would be plunged into chaos. Didn’t the telephone companies realize this?
Whatever the case, it was now time to eat, but there was no point in going back to Marinella. He wouldn’t find anything made by Adelina in the fridge or the oven. Informed that Livia was staying at the house, the housekeeper would not show up again until Livia was certifiably gone. The two women disliked each other too much.
He was getting up to go eat at the Trattoria Da Enzo when Catarella told him Inspector Minutolo was on the line.
“Any news, Fifì?”
“Nothing, Salvo. I’m calling about Fazio.”
“What’s up?”
“Could I borrow him? Because the commissioner hasn’t given me a single man for this investigation, only technicians, who just bugged the Lofaros’ phone and then left. He said I should be able to go it alone.”
“Because you’re Calabrian and therefore an expert in kidnappings. That’s what he told me.”
Minutolo muttered something that didn’t sound like unmitigated praise for his superior.
“So, can I borrow him at least until this evening?”
“If he doesn’t collapse first. Listen, don’t you think it’s strange the kidnappers haven’t made contact yet?”
“No, not at all. I once had a case, in Sardinia, where they didn’t deign to send a message until a week after the kidnapping, and then another time—”
“You see? You are an expert, after all, just as the commissioner said.”
“Go fuck yourselves, both of you!”
Montalbano disgracefully took advantage of the free time and the fact that Livia was incommunicado.
“Welcome back, Inspector! You picked the right day to come!” said Enzo.
As an exceptional treat, Enzo had made couscous with eight different kinds of fish, but only for his favorite customers. These, of course, included the inspector, who, the moment he saw the dish in front of him and inhaled its aroma, was overcome with emotion. Enzo noticed but, luckily, misunderstood.
“Your eyes are shining, Inspector! Got a touch of fever, by chance?”
“Yes,” he lied without hesitation.
He scarfed down two helpings. Afterwards, he shamelessly declared that a few little mullets might be a nice idea. A stroll out to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty thus became a digestive necessity.
Back at the station, he phoned Livia again. The recording repeated that the person could not be reached. Oh well.
Galluzzo came in to report on a case involving a supermarket robbery.
“Excuse me, but isn’t Inspector Augello here?”
“Yes, Chief, he’s over there.”
“Well, then go over there and tell him about it. Before he gets called into the field, as the commissioner put it.”
There was no getting around it, Susanna’s disappearance was beginning to worry him in earnest. His real fear was that the girl had been kidnapped by a sex maniac. Maybe it was best to advise Minutolo to organize a search team immediately, without waiting for a phone call that might never come.
He took the scrap of paper Mimì had given him out of his pocket and dialed the number of Susanna’s boyfriend.
“Hello, is this the Lipari home? This is Inspector Montalbano. I’d like to speak with Francesco.”
“Oh, it’s you? This is Francesco, Inspector.”
There was a note of disappointment in his voice. Apparently he was hoping it would be Susanna calling.
“Listen, could you come see me?”
“When?”
“Right now, if possible.”
“Is there any news?”
This time anxiety had replaced disappointment.
“No, but I’d like to talk with you a little.”
“I’ll be right over.”
4
Francesco arrived barely ten minutes later.
“It’s pretty quick with a motorbike,” he said.
A good-looking kid, tall, well-dressed, with a clear, open gaze. But one could see that he was being eaten alive by worry. He sat down on the edge of a chair, nerves taut.
“Were you already questioned by my colleague Minutolo?”
“I haven’t been questioned by anybody. I phoned Susanna’s father late this morning to find out if…but unfortunately…”
He stopped and looked the inspector straight in the eye.
“And this silence makes me imagine the worst.”
“Such as?”
“That maybe she’s been kidnapped by someone who wants to abuse her. And that she’s either still in his hands or else he’s already…”
“What makes you think this?”
“Inspector, everyone knows that Susanna’s father doesn’t have a cent. He used to be rich, but he had to sell everything.”
“Why? Did his business go bad?”
“I don’t know why. But he wasn’t a businessman. He earned a good salary and had put a lot of money aside. And I think Susanna’s mother also inherited a…well, I don’t know, frankly.”
“Go on.”
“As I was saying, do you really think the kidnappers would be unaware of the victim’s economic situation? Would they make that kind of mistake? Come on! They know more about us than the tax collectors!”
The argument made sense.
“And there’s another thing,” the kid went on. “I’ve waited for Susanna outside Tina’s place at least four or five different times. After she came out, we would head back to her house on our motorbikes. Now and then we would stop, then we’d continue on our way. When we arrived at the gate we would say goodbye and I’d go home. We always took the same route. The most direct one, which Susanna always took. Whereas last night she took a different road, more out of the way. It’s full of holes, almost impassable. You need a four-by-four to get through there. There’s hardly any light, and it’s much longer than our usual route. I have no idea why she would go that way. But it’s an ideal place for a kidnapping. Maybe it was a chance encounter that went bad.”
The boy had a good head on his shoulders.
“How old are you, young man?”
“Twenty-three. You can call me Francesco, if you want. You’re old enough to be my father.”
With a pang to the heart, Montalbano realized that, at this stage of his life, he would never be the father of a kid that age.
“Are you a student?”
“Yes, in law. I graduate next year.”
“What do you want to do in life?”
He asked only to relieve the tension.
“The same thing you do.”
Montalbano thought he hadn’t heard right.
“You want to join the police force?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it.”
“I wish you the best of luck. Listen, to get back to your rapist hypothesis…which, mind you, is only a hypothesis.”
“Which I’m sure you’d already thought of.”
“Of course. Did Susanna ever mention people making lewd propositions, obscene phone calls, things like that?”
“Susanna’s very reserved. She certainly got a lot of compliments, wherever she went. She’s a beautiful girl. Sometimes she would repeat them to me, and we would laugh about it. If there was any cause for worry, I’m sure she would have mentioned it to me.”
“Her friend Tina is convinced Susanna ran away of her own volition.”
Francesco gave him an astonished look, mouth open.
“Why would she do that?”
“A sudden breakdown. The pain and tension caused by her mother’s illness, the physical strain of caring for her, the stress of s
tudying for exams. Is Susanna a fragile girl?”
“So that’s what Tina thinks? She obviously doesn’t know Susanna! Susanna’s nerves are bound to give out, that much is certain, but it’s equally certain the breakdown won’t come until after her mother dies! Until that moment, she will stay at her bedside. Because once she gets something in her head, and she’s convinced she’s right, she becomes so determined that…She’s anything but fragile! No, believe me, that’s an absurd hypothesis.”
“Speaking of which, what is Susanna’s mother sick with?”
“To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I don’t know what’s wrong with her. A couple of weeks ago, Susanna’s uncle, Carlo, the doctor, had some sort of consultation with two doctors—one who’d come down from Rome, the other from Milan—and in the end they all threw their hands up. Susanna explained to me that her mother is dying of an incurable disease: the refusal to live. A kind of fatal depression. When I asked the reason for this depression—since I believe there always has to be a reason—she answered evasively.”
Montalbano steered the conversation back to the girl.
“How did you meet Susanna?”
“Purely by chance, in a bar. She was with a girl I used to go out with.”
“When was this?”
“About six months ago.”
“And you hit it off straightaway?”
Francesco gave a broad smile.
“It was love at first sight.”
“Do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Make love.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At my place.”
“Do you live alone?”
“I live with my father. But he’s away a lot, often travels abroad. He’s a wholesaler in lumber. Right now he’s in Russia.”
“What about your mother?”
“They’re divorced. My mother’s remarried and lives in Siracusa.”
Francesco opened and then closed his mouth, as if he wanted to add something.
“Go on,” Montalbano prodded him.
The Patience of the Spider Page 4
