By “the face of a spy” the inspector meant an utterly anonymous face, one of those you could have before you for an entire day but still not remember the following day. Faces like James Bond’s are not spy faces, because once you’ve seen them you never forget them, and thus the danger of recognition by the enemy is all the greater.
“Guido Costa, Inspector Montalbano,” said Rachele.
The inspector had to make a considerable effort to stop looking at Rachele and turn his gaze towards Costa. The moment he had seen her, he was spellbound. She was wearing a sort of black sack held up by her very slender shoulders and hanging down to her knees. Her legs were longer and more beautiful than Ingrid’s. Hair loose and brushing her shoulders, a ring of precious stones around her neck. In her hand she held a shawl.
“Shall we go?” said Guido Costa.
He had the voice of a dubber of porn flicks, one of those warm, deep voices that are used in these to whisper lewd things into women’s ears. Perhaps the insignificant Guido had some hidden qualities.
“Who knows if we’ll ever find a place to sit down,” said Montalbano.
“Not to worry,” said Rachele. “I’ve reserved a table for four. But it’s going to be a challenge to find Ingrid.”
It wasn’t. Ingrid was waiting for them, standing, at the reserved table.
“I ran into Giogiò!” Ingrid said cheerfully.
“Ah, Giogiò!” said Rachele with a little smile.
Montalbano intercepted a complicit look between the two women and understood everything. Giogiò must have been an old flame of Ingrid’s.And whoever said that reheated soup isn’t good might well be mistaken in this case.The inspector shuddered in terror at the thought that Ingrid might decide to spend the night with the long lost Giogiò, leaving him to sleep in the car until morning.
“Would you mind if I went and sat at Giogiò’s table?” Ingrid asked the inspector.
“Not at all.”
“You’re an angel.”
She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.
“On the other hand . . .”
“Don’t worry. I’ll come and get you after dinner, and we’ll drive back to Vigàta together.”
The headwaiter, who had witnessed the whole scene, came forward and removed Ingrid’s table settings.
“Is the placement all right, Signora Esterman?”
“Yes, Matteo, thank you.”
And as the headwaiter walked away, she explained to Montalbano:
“I asked Matteo to reserve us a table at the edge of the lighted area. It’s a bit dark for eating, but to make up for that, we’ll be spared the mosquitoes, at least up to a point.”
All across the lawn were dozens and dozens of tables of various sizes, with four to ten places, under the violent glare of several floodlights mounted on four iron scaffolds. Surely swarms of millions and millions of mosquitoes from Fiacca and neighboring towns were cheerfully converging towards this immense light source.
“Guido, if you would be so kind, I forgot my cigarettes in my room.”
Without a word, Guido got up and headed towards the villa.
“Ingrid told me you bet on me. Thanks. I owe you a kiss.”
“You ran a good race.”
“If I’d had my poor Super, I would surely have won. Speaking of which, I’ve lost track of Chichi—I’m sorry, I mean Lo Duca. I wanted to introduce you to him.”
“We’ve already met, and we even talked.”
“Oh, really? Did he tell you his theory about the two stolen horses and why they killed mine?”
“You mean the vendetta hypothesis?”
“Yes. Do you think it’s possible?”
“Why not?”
“Chichi has been a real gentleman, you know. He wanted at all costs to reimburse me for the loss of Super.”
“You refused?”
“Of course. What fault is it of his? Oh, indirectly, I suppose . . . But, the poor man . . . He’s been so mortified by all this ...I even kidded him a little about it.”
“About what?”
“Well, you see, he likes to brag that he has the respect of everyone in Sicily, and he goes around saying that no one would ever dare do anything to harm him.Whereas—”
A waiter appeared with three dishes, set them down at each place, and left.
In them was a thin, yellowish soup with greeny little streaks, the smell of which was a cross between beer gone sour and turpentine.
“Shall we wait for Guido?” Montalbano asked. Not out of politeness, but merely to stall, so he could summon the courage needed to put that first spoonful in his mouth.
“Of course not. It’ll get cold.”
Montalbano filled the spoon, brought it to his lips, closed his eyes, and swallowed. He was hoping that it would have at least the same taste/nontaste as soup-kitchen soups, but it turned out to be worse. It burned the throat. Maybe they’d seasoned it with hydrochloric acid. At the second spoonful, which was half air, he opened his eyes and realized that, in a flash, Rachele had eaten all of hers, since the dish in front of her was completely empty.
“If you don’t like it, give it to me,” said Rachele.
But how could she possibly like that disgusting swill? He passed her his dish.
She took it, leaned down slightly to one side, emptied it out on the grass, and handed it back to him.
“This is one advantage of a poorly lit table.”
Guido returned with the cigarettes.
“Thank you. Eat your soup, dear, before it gets cold. It’s delicious. Don’t you think, Inspector?”
Surely the woman must have a sadistic streak. Obediently, Guido Costa ate all his soup in silence.
“It was good, wasn’t it, dear?” Rachele asked.
And under the table, her knee knocked twice against Montalbano’s in understanding.
“It wasn’t bad,” the poor bastard replied, voice suddenly cracking.
The hydrochloric acid must have burnt his vocal cords.
Then, for a moment, a cloud seemed to have passed in front of the floodlights.
The inspector looked up. It was a cloud all right—of mosquitoes. A minute later, amid the voices and laughter one began to hear a chorus of whacks. Men and women were slapping themselves, smacking themselves on the neck, forehead, and ears.
“So where has my shawl ended up?” asked Rachele, looking under the table.
Montalbano and Guido also bent down to look. They didn’t find it.
“I must have dropped it on the way here. I’m going to go get another; I don’t want to be eaten up by mosquitoes.”
“I’ll go,” said Guido.
“You’re a saint.You know where it is? Probably in the large suitcase. Or else in one of the drawers of the armoire.”
So there was no longer any doubt that they slept together. They were too intimate for this not to be the case. But then why did Rachele treat him this way? Did she like having him as her servant?
As soon as Guido left, Rachele said:
“Excuse me.”
She stood up.And Montalbano was flummoxed, because Rachele then blithely picked up the shawl, which she had been sitting on, wrapped it around her shoulders, smiled at the inspector, and said:
“I have no desire to keep eating this slop.”
She took barely two steps before disappearing into the darkness just behind the table. Should he follow her? But she hadn’t asked him to follow her.Then he saw the flame of a cigarette lighter in the darkness.
Rachele had lit up a cigarette and was smoking, standing a few yards away. Maybe she felt suddenly in a bad mood and wanted to be alone.
The waiter arrived, again with three plates. This time it was fried mullet.
The unmistakable stink of fish that had been dead for a week wafted into the terrified inspector’s nostrils.
“Salvo, please come here.”
He didn’t so much obey Rachele’s call as genuinely flee the mullet on his plate. Anything was better than eating it.
He drew near to her, guided by the little red dot of her cigarette.
“Stay with me.”