After another twenty or so minutes he lost patience, opened the car door, and got out. In the twinkling of an eye he was soaked straight down to his underpants. He started running towards the front of the column of cars and soon came to the point of obstruction, the cause of which was immediately obvious: the sea had washed the road away. Completely. Both lanes were gone. In their place was a chasm, at the bottom of which lay not earth but yellowy, foamy water. The nose of the first car in the column was actually sticking out over the edge. Another ten inches and it would have plummeted below. The inspector, however, became immediately convinced that the car was still in danger, because the road surface was still crumbling, though very slowly. In some twenty minutes, that car was destined to be swallowed up by the chasm. The downpour made it impossible to see inside the vehicle.
He went up to the car and tapped on the window. After a pause it was opened barely a crack by a young woman just over thirty wearing eyeglasses with lenses as thick as bottle bottoms. She looked terrified.
She was alone in the car.
“You have to get out,” he said to her.
“Why?”
“I’m afraid your car’s going to get swallowed up if help doesn’t arrive immediately.”
She made a face like a child about to start crying.
“But where will I go?”
“Take whatever you need, and you can come in my car.”
She just looked at him and said nothing. Montalbano realized she didn’t trust him, a total stranger.
“Listen, I’m a police inspector.”
Perhaps it was the way he said it, but the girl seemed convinced. She grabbed a sort of handbag and got out of the car.
They started running side by side, then Montalbano had her get in his car.
Their clothes were so wet that when they sat down the weight of their bodies made the water ooze out of her jeans and his trousers.
“Montalbano’s the name.”
The young woman eyed him, bringing her head closer.
“Ah, yes. Now I recognize you. I’ve seen you on TV.”
She started sneezing and didn’t stop. When she’d finally finished, her eyes were watering. She removed her glasses, wiped her eyes, and put them back on.
“My name is Vanna. Vanna Digiulio.”
“Seems like you’re catching a cold.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Listen, do you want to come to my place? I’ve got some dry clothes that belong to my girlfriend. You could change into them and set these clothes out to dry.”
“I’m not sure that would be right,” she objected, suddenly reserved.
“You’re not sure what would be right?”
“For me to come to your place.”
What was she imagining? That he would jump on her the moment she entered? Did he give the impression of being that kind of man? And hadn’t she ever looked at herself in the mirror?
“Listen, if you’re not-”
“And how would we get to your house?”
“On foot. It’s barely fifty yards from here. It’s going to be hours before anyone gets us out of this jam.”
As Montalbano, after changing clothes, prepared a caffelatte for her and a mug of coffee for himself, Vanna took a shower, put on a dress of Livia’s that was a bit too wide for her, and came into the kitchen, crashing first into the doorjamb and then against a chair. How did she ever get a driver’s license, with eyes like hers? A rather homely girl, poor thing. When she was wearing jeans, one couldn’t tell, but now that she was wearing Livia’s dress, Montalbano noticed that she had bandy, muscular legs. They looked more like a man’s legs than a woman’s. And on top of almost nonexistent breasts and a mousy face, she even had an ungainly walk.
“Where’d you put your clothes?”
“I saw a little heater in the bathroom, and I turned it on and put my jeans, blouse, and jacket in front of it.”
He sat her down and served her the caffelatte with a few of the biscotti Adelina normally bought for him and which he normally never ate.
“Excuse me a minute,” he said after drinking his first cup of coffee, and he got up and phoned the police station.
“Ah Chief Chief! Ahh Chief!”
“What’s wrong, Cat?”
“Iss the oppocalypso!”
“What happened?”
“The wind blew the roof tiles offa the roof in probable cause o’ which the water’s comin’ inna rooms!”
“Has it done any damage?”
“Yessir. F’rinstince, alla papers that was a toppa yer desk awaitin’ f’yiz to sign ’em ’sgot so wet they’s turn to paste.”
A hymn of exultation, deriding the bureaucracy, welled up joyously in Montalbano’s breast.
“Listen, Cat, I’m here at home. The road into town has collapsed.”
“So you’s consiquintly outta reach.”
“Unless Gallo can find a way to come and get me…”
“Wait a sic an’ I’ll put ’im on, ’e’s right here.”
“What is it, Chief?”
“Well, I was on my way to the station when I ran into a traffic jam about fifty yards down the road from my house. The storm tides washed away the road. My car is stuck there and can’t move. And so I’m stranded here at home. If you could manage to find a-”
Gallo didn’t let him finish his sentence.
“I’ll be there in half an hour, max,” he said.
The inspector returned to the kitchen, sat back down, and fired up a cigarette.
“Do you smoke?” he asked the young woman.
“Yes, but my cigarettes are all wet.”
“Take one of mine.”
She accepted and held out her cigarette for him to light.
“I feel mortified for causing you so much trouble-”
“Not at all! In half an hour somebody’s going to come by to pick me up. Were you on your way to Vigàta?”
“Yes. I had an appointment at ten, at the port. My aunt is supposed to be arriving. I came all the way from Palermo. But in this weather, I doubt that… I bet she doesn’t come in until this afternoon.”
“There aren’t any mail boats or ferries that come into the port at ten in the morning, you know.”
“I know. My aunt has her own boat.”
The word “boat” got on his nerves. Nowadays when someone says “come and see my boat,” you find yourself looking at a one-hundred-twenty-foot vessel.
“Rowboat?” he asked, innocent as a lamb.
She didn’t get the joke.
“It’s a big boat with a captain and a four-man crew. And she’s always sailing. Alone. I haven’t seen her for years.”
“Where’s she going?”
“Nowhere.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My aunt likes sailing the high seas. She can afford it. Apparently she’s very rich. When Zio Arturo died, he left her a large inheritance and a Tunisian manservant named Zizì.”
“So she bought the boat with her inheritance?”
“No, Zio Arturo already had the boat. He also liked to spend a lot of time at sea. He didn’t work, but he had a ton of money. Nobody knew where it came from. Apparently he had some sort of partnership with a banker named Ricca.”
“And what do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Me?”
She seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if she needed to choose from the many different things she did.
“I’m a student.”
In the half hour that followed, Montalbano learned that the girl, who was an orphan and lived in Palermo, was studying architecture, didn’t have a boyfriend, and, well aware that she was no beauty, loved to read and listen to music. He also learned that she didn’t use perfume, lived with a cat named Eleuterio in an apartment that she owned, and preferred going to the movies to sitting in front of the television. Then she stopped all at once, looked at the inspector, and said:
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For listening to me. It’s not every day that a man will sit and listen to me for so long.”