o o o
Before making any moves, however, he had to fill Livia in.
He put his hand over the telephone, but did not pick up the receiver. He still needed to talk it over with himself. Did what he was about to do, he asked himself, in some way mean that, having reached the end of his career, or almost, he was repudiating—in the eyes of his superiors, in the eyes of the law itself—the principles by which he had abided for so many long years? But had he in fact always respected these principles?
Didn’t Livia harshly accuse him once of acting like a minor god, a little god who took pleasure in changing or rearranging the facts? Livia was wrong. He was no god. Absolutely not. He was only a man with his own personal judgment of right and wrong. And sometimes what he thought was right would have been wrong in the eyes of justice. And vice versa. So was it better to act in accordance with justice, the kind of justice that’s written down in books, or with one’s own conscience?
No, Livia might not understand, and might even manage, through argument, to bring him to the opposite conclusion from the one he wanted to arrive at.
It was better to write to her. He took out a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen.
Livia my love,
he began, but couldn’t continue. He tore up the sheet and took out another.
My beloved Livia,
and he got stuck again. He took out a third sheet.
Livia,
and the pen refused to go any further.
It was hopeless. He would tell her everything face to face, looking her straight in the eye, the next time they saw each other.
Having made this decision, he felt rested, serene, revived.
Wait a minute, he said to himself. Those three adjectives, rested, serene, revived, are not your own. You’re quoting. Okay, but what?
He thought hard, putting his head in his hands. Then, confident in his visual memory, he moved with near-total assurance. He stood up right in front of the bookcase, pulled out Leonardo Sciascia’s Council of Egypt, and leafed through it.
There it was, on page 122 of the first edition from 1966, the one he’d read at age sixteen and had always carried around with him, to read from time to time.
On that extraordinary page, the abbé Vella decides to reveal something to Monsignor Airoldi that will turn his life upside down, to wit, that the Arabian Code is an imposture, a forgery created by his own hand. Yet before going to Monsignor Airoldi, the abbé Vella takes a bath and drinks a coffee.
Montalbano, too, stood at a crossroads.
Smiling, he stripped naked and slipped into the shower.
He changed all his clothes, down to his underpants, putting on an entire set of clean articles. He chose a serious-looking tie for the occasion. Then he made coffee and drank a cup with relish. By this point, the three adjectives, rested, serene, revived, were entirely his. One, however—which was not in Sciascia’s book—was missing: sated.
o o o
“What can I get for you, Inspector?”
“Everything.”
They laughed.
Seafood antipasto, fish soup, boiled octopus dressed with olive oil and lemon, four mullets (two fried, two grilled), and two little glasses, filled to the brim, of a tangerine liqueur with an explosive alcohol level, the pride and joy of Enzo the restaurateur. Who congratulated the inspector.
“I can see you’re in good form again.”
“Thanks. Would you do me a favor, Enzo? Could you look up Dr. Mistretta’s number in the phone book and write it down for me on a piece of paper?”
As Enzo was working for him, he drank a third glass of liqueur at his leisure. The restaurateur returned and handed him the number.
“People around town have been talking about the doctor,” he said.
“And what are they saying?”
“That this morning he went to the notary’s to do the pa-perwork for donating the villa he lives in. He’s going to move in with his brother, the geologist, now that his wife has passed away.” “Who’s he donating the villa to?”
“Oh, apparently some orphanage in Montelusa.” From the restaurant phone, Montalbano called first Dr.
Mistretta’s office, then his home. There was no answer. No doubt the doctor was at his brother’s villa for the wake. And no doubt only the family was there, unbothered by policemen or journalists. He dialed the number. The telephone rang a long time before somebody picked up.
“The Mistretta home.”
“Montalbano here. Is that you, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Look, we can do it tomorrow after—”
“No.”
The doctor’s voice cracked.
“You want to see me now?”
“Yes.”
The doctor let a little time elapse before speaking again.
“All right, though I find your insistence quite inappropriate. You’re aware that the funeral is tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Will it take very long?”
“I can’t say.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“I’ll be over in twenty minutes, maximum.” Exiting the trattoria, he noticed that the weather had changed. Heavy rain clouds were approaching from the sea.
2 2 4
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17
Seen from the outside, the villa was in total darkness, a black bulk against a sky black with night and clouds. Dr. Mistretta had opened the gate and stood there waiting for the inspector’s car to appear. Montalbano drove in, parked, and got out, but waited in the garden for the doctor to close the gate. A faint light shone from a lone window with its shutter ajar; it came from the dead woman’s room, where her husband and daughter were keeping watch. One of the two French doors in the salon was closed, the other ajar, but it cast only a dim light into the garden, because the overhead chandelier was not lit.
“Come inside.”
“I prefer to stay outside. We can go in if it starts raining,” said the inspector.
They walked in silence to the wooden benches and sat down like the time before. Montalbano pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Want one?”
“No, thank you. I’ve decided to quit smoking.” Apparently the kidnapping had led both uncle and niece to make vows.
“What was it you so urgently needed to tell me?”
“Where are your brother and Susanna?”
“In my sister-in-law’s room.”
Who knows whether they’d opened the window to let a little air into the room? Who knows whether there was still that ghastly, unbearable stench of medication and illness?
“Do they know I’m here?”
“I told Susanna, but not my brother.”
How many things had been kept, and were still being kept, from the poor geologist?
“So, what did you want to tell me?”
“Let me preface it by saying that I’m not here in an official capacity. But I can be if I want.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. It depends on your answers.”
“Then get on with your questions.”
That was the problem. The first question was like a first step down a path of no return. He closed his eyes—the doctor couldn’t see, anyway—and began.
“You have a patient who lives in a cottage off the road to Gallotta, a man who flipped his tractor and—”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the Good Shepherd Clinic, which is two and a half miles from—”
“What kind of questions are these? Of course I know it. I go there often. So what? Are you going to recite a list of my patients?”
No. No list of patients. L’omu è sceccu di consiguenza . And you, that night in your SUV, with your heart racing madly, your blood pressure soaring because of what you were doing—since you had to deposit the helmet and backpack in two different places—what roads did you take? The ones you knew best! It was almost as though you weren’t driving the car, but it was driving you . . .