“Yes, Doctor. In the photograph, right below the edge of the vat, there’s what appears to be a crack. I had that detail enlarged. It’s not a crack.”
“What is it?”
The inspector could feel that Susanna had been about to ask the same question. They still couldn’t figure out where they’d made a mistake. He sensed the motion of the doctor’s head as it turned toward Susanna, the questioning look in his eyes, even though these things were not visible.
“It’s an old fermentation thermometer. Unrecognizable, covered with spiderwebs, blackened, and so encrusted into the wall that it looks like it’s part of it. And therefore you couldn’t see it. But it’s still there. And this is the conclusive proof. I need only get up, go inside, pick up the phone, have two of my men come and stand guard over you, call the judge for the warrant, and begin searching your villa, Doctor.” “It would be a big step forward for your career,” Mistretta said mockingly.
“Once again, you’re entirely wrong. My career has no more steps to take, neither forward nor backward. What I’m trying to do is not for you, Doctor.”
“Are you doing it for me?”
Susanna sounded astonished.
Yes, for you. Because I’ve been spellbound by the quality, the intensity, the purity of your hatred. I am fascinated by the fiendish nature of the thoughts that come into your head, by the coldness and courage and patience with which you carried out your intentions, by the way you calculated the price you had to pay and were ready to pay it. And I’m also doing it for myself, because it’s not right that there’s always someone who suffers and someone who benefits from the other’s suffering, with the approval of the so-called law. Can a man, having reached the end of his career, rebel against a state of things he himself has helped to maintain?
Since the inspector wasn’t answering, the girl said something that wasn’t even a question.
“The nurse told me you wanted to see Mama.” I wanted to see her, yes.To see her in bed, wasted away, no longer a body but almost a thing, yet something that groaned, that suffered horribly . . . Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I wanted to see where your hatred had first taken root and grown uncontrollably with the stench of medications, excrement, sweat, sickness, vomit, pus, and gangrene that had devastated the heart of that thing lying in bed.The hatred with which you infected those close to you . . . But not your father—no, your father never knew a thing, never knew that it was all a sham . . . He anguished terribly over what he believed was a real kidnapping . . . But this, too, was a price you were willing to pay, and to have others pay, because true hatred, like love, doesn’t balk at the despair and tears of the innocent.
“I wanted to understand.”
It began to thunder out at sea. The lightning was far away, but the rain was approaching.
“Because the idea of taking revenge on your uncle was first born in that room, on one of those terrible nights you spent taking care of your mother. Isn’t that so, Susanna? At first it seemed like an effect of your fatigue, your discourage-ment, your despair, but soon it became harder and harder to get that idea out of your head. And so, almost as a way to kill time, you started thinking of how you might make your ob-session a reality. You drew up a plan, night after night. And you asked your uncle to help you, because . . .” Stop.You can’t say that. It just came to you now, this very moment.You need to think it over before—“Say it,” the doctor said softly but firmly. “Because Susanna realized that I had always been in love with Giulia. It was a love without hope, but it prevented me from having a life of my own.” “And therefore you, Doctor, on impulse, you decided to collaborate on the destruction of Antonio Peruzzo’s reputation. By manipulating public opinion to perfection. The coup de grâce came when you replaced the money-filled suitcase with the duffel full of scrap paper.” It began to drizzle. Montalbano stood up.
“Before leaving, to set my conscience at rest . . .” His voice came out too solemnly, but he was unable to change it.
“To set my conscience at rest, I cannot allow those six billion lire to remain in—”
“In our hands?” Susanna finished his sentence. “The money is no longer here. We didn’t even keep the money that was lent by Mama and never given back. Uncle Carlo took care of it, with the help of a client of his, who will never talk.
It was divided up, and by now most of it has already been transferred abroad. It’s supposed to be sent anonymously to about fifty different humanitarian organizations. If you want, I can go in the house and get the list.” “Fine,” said the inspector. “I’m leaving.” He indistinctly saw the doctor and the girl stand up as well.
“Are you coming to the funeral tomorrow?” asked Susanna. “I would really like—”
“No,” said the inspector. “My only wish is that you, Susanna, do not betray my hope.”
He realized he was talking like an old man, but this time he didn’t give a damn.
“Good luck,” he said in a soft voice.
He turned his back to them, went out to his car, opened the door, turned on the ignition, and drove, but had to stop almost at once in front of the closed gate. He saw the girl come running under the now driving rain, her hair seeming to light up like fire when caught in the glare of the headlights. She opened the gate without turning around to look at him. And he, too, looked away.
o o o
On the road back to Marinella, the rain started falling in buckets. At a certain point he had to pull over because the windshield wipers couldn’t handle it. Then it stopped all at once. Entering the dining room, he realized he’d left the French door to the veranda open, and the floor had got all wet. He would have to mop it up. He turned on the outdoor light and went outside. The violent rainstorm had washed away the spiderweb. The shrub’s branches were sparkling clean and dripping wet.
2 3 5
AU T H O R ’ S N OT E
This story is invented from top to bottom, at least I hope it is.
Therefore the names of the characters and business, and the situations and events of the book, have no connection to reality.
If anyone should find some reference to real events, I can assure you this was not intentional.
A. C.
2 3 7
N OT ES
5 he couldn’t bring himself to go see the notary: In Italy a notary (notaio) performs functions of probate and contract law, among other things.
7 The poor man, not knowing how much he’d bled, keptb> on fighting when in fact he was dead: Il pover’uom, che non se n’era accorto,/ andava combattendo ed era morto. Two lines from a tradi-tional Italian song.
16 a triumphant member of the party in power: I.e., the party called Forza Italia, the right-wing political entity created by media tycoon Silvio Berlusconi, who was still in power when this book was written.
19 “Go see if it was the traffic police!”: In Italy the jurisdiction of the Vigili Urbani (the “municipal police”), which includes the traffic police, is separate from that of the Commissariato di Pubblico Sicurezza (“Commissariat of Public Safety”), the branch of the police for which Montalbano works. The Carabinieri (the national police), the Guardia di Finanza (here translated as “Customs police”), and the Polizia Stradale (or “road police”) also have separate jurisdictions, which often leads to petty rivalries and bureaucratic confusion.
32 Matre santa!: Holy mother! A Sicilian invocation of the Blessed Virgin.
38 “will be handled by Inspector Minutolo, who, being a Calabrian . . .”—What? Minutolo was from Alì, in Messina province—: Messina is in Sicily, not Calabria. The region of Calabria, across the Strait of Messina from Sicily, is notorious for its kidnappings.