At no time during her confinement was Susanna subjected to any mistreatment. She had no way, however, to attend to her personal hygiene. Nor did she ever hear her abductors speak. And they never once answered her questions or addressed her in any manner. They didn’t even say she was about to be freed when they had her come up out of the vat.
Later Susanna was able to lead investigators to where she was released. And there, in fact, police found the rope and the handkerchief that had been used to gag her. In conclusion, the commissioner said, the girl was in fairly good condition, considering the terrible ordeal she’d just been through.
Lattes then pointed to a journalist, who stood up and asked why they couldn’t interview the girl.
“Because the investigation is still ongoing,” replied the judge.
“In short, was the ransom paid or not?” asked Zito.
“We’re not at liberty to reveal that right now,” the judge answered again.
At this point Pippo Ragonese stood up. His lips were pursed so tightly that the words came out compressed.
“I’d like n’t t’ask a quest’n b’t t’make a st’tm’nt—”
“Speak clearly!” shouted the Greek chorus of journalists.
“I want to make a statement, not to ask a question.
Shortly before I came here, our studios received a phone call that was forwarded to me. I recognized the voice of the same kidnapper who had phoned me before. He declared, and I quote, that the ransom had not been paid, and that although the person who was supposed to pay had tricked them, they had decided to set the girl free anyway, because they didn’t want to have a death on their conscience.” Mayhem broke out. People leapt to their feet, gesticulat-ing, other people ran out of the room, the judge inveighed against Ragonese. The uproar got so loud that you couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying. Montalbano turned off the television, went out on the veranda, and sat down.
o o o
Livia got home an hour later and found Salvo looking out at the sea. She didn’t seem the least bit angry.
“Where were you?”
“I dropped in to say hi to Beba and then went over to Kolymbetra. Promise me you’ll go there one of these days. And where were you? You didn’t even phone to say you weren’t coming home for lunch.” “I’m sorry, Livia, but—”
“Don’t apologize. I have no desire to quarrel with you.
These are our last few hours together, and I don’t want to spoil them.”
She flitted about the house a bit, then did something she almost never did. She went and sat on his lap and held him tight. She stayed there awhile, in silence. Then:
“Shall we go inside?” she whispered in his ear.
Before going into the bedroom Montalbano, for one reason or another, unplugged the telephone.
o o o
As they lay in each other’s arms, dinnertime passed. And after-dinnertime as well.
“I’m so happy Susanna’s kidnapping was solved before I left,” Livia said at a certain point.
“Yeah,” replied the inspector.
He’d managed to forget about the abduction for a few hours. But he was instinctively grateful to Livia for having reminded him of it. Why? What did gratitude have to do with it? He had no explanation.
As they ate they spoke little. Livia’s imminent departure weighed heavy on both their minds.
She got up from the table and went to finish packing. At some point he heard Livia call from the other room:
“Salvo, did you take the book of yours I was reading?”
“No.”
It was a novel by Simenon, Monsieur Hire.
Livia came and sat beside him on the veranda.
“I can’t find it. I wanted to bring it with me so I can finish it.”
The inspector had a hunch where it might be. He got up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back.”
The book was where he thought it would be, in the bed room, caught between the wall and the head of the bed, having fallen off the nightstand. He bent down, picked it up, and put it on top of the already closed suitcase. He went back out on the veranda.
“I found it,” he said, and started to sit back down.
“Where?” asked Livia.
Montalbano froze, thunderstruck. One foot slightly raised, body leaning slightly forward. As if in the throes of a back spasm. He held so still that Livia got scared.
“Salvo, what’s wrong?”
He was powerless to move. His legs had turned to lead, but his brain kept whirring, all the gears spinning at high speed, happy to be finally turning the right way.
“My God, Salvo, are you ill?”
“No.”
Ever so slowly, he felt his blood, no longer petrified, begin to flow again. He managed to sit down. But he had an expression of utter astonishment on his face and didn’t want Livia to see it.
He rested his head on her shoulder and said:
“Thanks.”
At that moment he understood why, earlier, when they were lying in bed, he’d felt a gratitude for which, at first, he’d had no explanation.
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15
When time’s mechanism jammed at three twenty-seven and forty seconds, Montalbano didn’t wake up, since he was already awake. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep. He would have liked to toss and turn in bed, letting himself be carried off by waves of thought following one upon the other like breakers in rough seas, but he was forcing himself not to disturb Livia, who’d fallen asleep almost at once, and therefore he couldn’t thrash his arms and legs about.
The alarm went off at six, the weather looked promising, and by seven-fifteen they were already on the road to Punta Raisi, the airport of Palermo. Livia drove. Along the way they spoke little or not at all. Montalbano was already far away, thinking about what he was itching to do, to determine whether the idea he’d had was an absurd fantasy or an equally wild reality. Livia was also lost in thought, worrying about what awaited her in Genoa, the backlog at work, the things left hanging because she’d suddenly needed to go to Vigàta for a long stay at Salvo’s side.
Before Livia entered the boarding area, they embraced in the crowd like two teenagers in love. As he held her in his arms, Montalbano felt two conflicting emotions that had no natural right to be together, yet there they were. On the one hand he felt deep sadness that Livia was leaving. Without a doubt the house in Marinella would underscore her absence at every turn, now that he was well on his way to becoming a man of a certain age and starting to feel the weight of solitude. On the other hand he felt rather pressed, anxious for Livia to leave right away, without further delay, so that he could race back to Vigàta to do what he had to do, totally free and no longer obliged to conform to her schedule or answer her questions.
Then Livia broke away, looked back at him, and headed towards the security checkpoint. Montalbano stood still. Not because he wanted to follow her with his eyes until the last moment, but because a kind of astonishment had blocked his next move, which would have been to turn his back and head for the exit. For he thought he’d glimpsed, deep in her eyes—all the way inside—a sort of glimmer, a twinkle that shouldn’t have been there. It had lasted barely an instant, then gone out at once, cloaked by the opaque veil of emotion. Yet that flash—muted, yes, but still a flash—had lasted long enough for the inspector to see it and remain bewildered by it. Want to bet that Livia, too, as they were embracing, had felt the same contradictory feelings as he? That she too felt at once bitter over their parting and anxious to get back her freedom?