Really? No better? No better for whom?
By the time he left the station it was past midnight.
For all those hours he had opened his mouth barely three or four times, to answer questions. And Fazio must have noticed that there was something out of kilter with him, because he kept looking over at him.
For his own part, the inspector had asked only two questions, both for Roberta Rollo.
“But did you know that Lieutenant Belladonna was still aboard the Ace of Hearts?”
“Of course! I even told you!”
It was true. Now he remembered. Rollo had started saying, “But the lieutenant…,” but he hadn’t let her finish the sentence.
His second question was:
“And would you have had them fire at the cruiser even if you’d known the lieutenant was aboard?”
“No, in fact I immediately told the Coast Guard not to open fire, even if this meant losing the game. But you took care of that. As soon as I saw you both jump into the water, I told them they could fire away.”
No, he couldn’t go home to Marinella without having any news of Laura. He got in his car and headed for Montelusa.
At that hour one wasn’t allowed to enter the hospital, but perhaps someone in the emergency room could tell him something.
As soon as he went in, however, he realized it was hopeless. A bus full of tourists had fallen into a ravine and there were some thirty-odd injured who urgently needed care.
He left the emergency room demoralized. As he was about to head to the parking lot where he’d left the car, he heard someone call him. Turning around, he saw that it was Mario Scala, an inspector from the Antimafia Commission.
“Hey, Salvo. I just heard a little while ago at the office about your heroic actions. Congratulations. What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to know if there was any news about a lieutenant from the Harbor Office, named Belladonna, a young woman who…”
His throat went dry and he couldn’t go on. He managed only to ask:
“And how about you?”
“I’ve got a Mafia turncoat here, a state’s witness who’s registered at the hospital under a false name. But I still worry about him, so I come and see him from time to time… What did you say the lieutenant’s name was?”
“Belladonna?”
“Wait here.”
He returned some ten minutes later after Montalbano had chain-smoked five cigarettes.
Mario Scala had a very serious expression on his face.
“They performed emergency surgery. It was a miracle she even made it to the hospital alive. She’d lost too much blood. She’s on life support now.”
“Is she going to make it?”
“They’re hoping. But she’s in very grave condition.”
Since the parking lot was almost entirely deserted, the inspector went into his car, turned on the ignition, and pulled the car around in such a way that he had a good view of the hospital’s main entrance. There were two unopened packs of cigarettes in the glove compartment.
He could spend the whole night there. And he did.
Every so often he got out of the car, walked around, looked up at the hospital’s façade, and then got back into the car.
Then, at dawn’s first, violet light, he saw a man in uniform come out the front door and immediately start talking on his cell phone.
It was Lieutenant Garrufo!
Montalbano jumped out of the car, ran up to the lieutenant, and brusquely pulled the arm holding the phone away from the man’s face.
“How is Laura?” he asked.
Garrufo was about to get angry but luckily recognized him at once.
“Ah, it’s you. Just a second.”
He brought the cell phone back to his ear.
“I’ll call you back later.”
“How is she?” Montalbano asked again.
Garrufo’s uniform was all rumpled and he looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink all night.
He threw up his hands, and Montalbano felt sick at heart.
“I don’t know what to say, Inspector. She’s pretty far gone. I spent the whole night at her side, and when they took her to the operating room I waited outside, in the corridor. Right before the operation she had a moment of lucidity, but then nothing.”
“Did she manage to say anything?”
And here it seemed to Montalbano that the lieutenant had suddenly felt a little embarrassed.
“Yes. She repeated a name twice.” He paused a moment, and then asked: “Your first name is Salvo, isn’t it?”
The tone he used made this a statement, not a question. Silence fell over them. Then Garrufo said:
“We’ve informed her boyfriend. But he won’t be able to come. He doesn’t think he can ask for permission.”
The dream in which Livia had refused to come to his funeral flashed through the inspector’s mind. But what did that have to do with anything? What a thought! Perhaps the effect of sleep deprivation? That was a dream, and this was…
“The chief surgeon told me he found it very strange that Laura wasn’t cooperating.”
“Cooperating in what sense?”
“He said that, since she’s such a young woman, her body should instinctively react and cooperate, even on the unconscious level. Whereas… Well, I guess I’ll go back inside.”
She didn’t want to react, didn’t want to cooperate to save herself, Montalbano thought as he walked towards his car with a lump in his throat and his heart as tight as a fist. Perhaps because she’d made a choice. Or more likely because she wanted to take herself out of the game, so she wouldn’t have to make a choice.
He sat down in the car on the passenger’s side.
An hour later, the door on the driver’s side opened, and someone got in and sat down. He didn’t turn to see who it was, because by this point he was unable to take his eyes off the hospital entrance.
“I went to Marinella to look for you,” said Fazio, “but you weren’t there. Then I realized you’d be here, and so I came.”
Montalbano didn’t answer.
Half an hour later, he saw Garrufo come out, bent over, face in his hands, weeping.
“Take me home,” he said to Fazio.
He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, at last.
Author’s Note
The only thing in this novel connected to reality is the Kimberley Process. Everything else, from the characters’ names to the situations in which they find themselves, is the fruit of my imagination.
A.C.
Andrea Camilleri
Andrea Camilleri is the author of many books, including his Montalbano series, which has been adapted for Italian television and translated into nine languages. He lives in Rome.
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.
