“Tell me.”
“At a certain point, Licco’s lawyers will call Gurreri as a witness.You can bet on that. In one way or another they’ll get him to talk on the stand. And Gurreri will swear that he has always known that his wife was Licco’s mistress, and that this was why he left his home in disgust, fed up with the constant quarrels with Concetta, who wouldn’t stop crying for her beau behind bars.”
“Well, if that’s the way it is—”
“How else could it be?”
“—maybe you’d best go back to Giarrizzo.”
“What for?”
“To tell him what you’ve just told me.”
“I’m not going back there, not even with a gun to my head . . . First of all, because he pointed out to me that it’s improper for me to talk to him. And, secondly, because he has assigned the supplementary investigation to the carabinieri. Let him figure things out with them. Now hurry back and finish your discussion with Concetta’s neighbor.”
At eight o’clock on the dot, the phone rang.
“Chief, that’d be the lady Esther Man.”
Their date! He had completely forgotten about it! What was he going to do now? Should he say yes or no? He picked up the receiver, still undecided.
“Salvo? This is Rachele. Have you overcome your reservations?”
There was an ever so slight note of irony in her voice, which irritated him.
“I still haven’t finished here.”
You want to get wise with me? Then stew in your own juices.
“Think you’ll manage to get away?”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe in an hour or so . . . But that’s probably too late for you to go out to eat.”
He was hoping she would say that, in that case, it was better to meet another evening. Instead, Rachele said:
“Okay, no problem. I can even eat at midnight, if need be.”
O matre santa! How the hell was he going to spend the next hour with nothing to do in the office? Why had he played so hard to get? Most importantly, he was ravenous, eaten alive by his hunger.
“Wait. Can you hold on a second?”
“Of course.”
He set the receiver down on the desk, got up, went over to the window, and pretended to be talking audibly to someone.
“What do you mean, you can’t find it? . . . Put it off till tomorrow morning? . . . Well, all right.”
He turned around to go back to his desk, but then froze. Standing in the doorway was Catarella, who looked at him with an expression between concern and fear.
“You feel okay, Chief ?”
Without saying a word, Montalbano shot out one arm to signal that he should leave the room at once. Catarella disappeared.
“Rachele? Luckily I’ve managed to break free. Where should we meet?”
“Wherever you like.”
“Have you got a car?”
“Ingrid lent me hers.”
How ready Ingrid was to facilitate his encounters with Rachele!
“Why, doesn’t she need it?”
“No, a friend of hers picked her up and will bring her home later.”
He told her where they should meet. Before leaving the room, he picked up the magazine that Mimì Augello had brought him. It might help him rein in Rachele, if their conversation began to take a dangerous turn.
13
Arriving at the Marinella Bar, he noticed that Ingrid’s car was nowhere to be seen in the parking lot. Apparently Rachele was running late. She hardly had the same Swiss precision as her friend. He remained undecided as to whether he should wait for her outside or inside the bar. He felt a little uneasy about the encounter, there was no denying it. The fact was that, at fifty-six years and counting, never in his life had he met back up with a woman—one, moreover, entirely foreign to him—after having had hasty, er, sexual congress with her, as Prosecutor Tommaseo might call it.And the real reason he hadn’t wanted to return her phone calls was that he felt quite awkward talking to her. Awkward and a little ashamed to have shown this woman a side of himself that wasn’t really him.
What should he say to her? How should he behave? What sort of expression should he wear?
To steel himself a little, he got out of his car, entered the establishment, walked up to the bar, and asked Pino, the barman, for a whisky, neat.
He had just finished downing it when he saw Pino’s face drop. Eyes fixed on the entrance, the barman was an open-mouthed statue, like Lou Ravi in a crèche, a glass in one hand, a dish towel in the other.
The inspector turned around.
Rachele had just walked in.
She was so elegantly dressed, it was frightening. But her beauty was even more frightening.
It was as if her presence had suddenly increased the wattage of the lights in the bar. Pino was frozen, unable to move.
The inspector went up to greet her. And she proved very much the lady.
“Ciao,” she said, smiling at him, her blue eyes sparkling with genuine pleasure at seeing him. “Here I am.”
And she made no move to kiss him or be kissed by proffering her cheek.
Montalbano was overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude, and immediately felt at ease.
“Care for an aperitif ?”
“I’d rather not.”
Montalbano forgot to pay for the whisky. Pino was still in the same position, spellbound. In the parking lot, Rachele asked:
“Have you decided where we’re going?”
“Yes.To Montereale Marina.”
“That’s on the road to Fiacca, isn’t it? Shall we take your car or Ingrid’s?”
“Let’s take Ingrid’s. Would you mind driving? I feel a bit tired.”
It wasn’t true, but he could already feel the effect of the whisky. How could two fingers of whisky possibly make his head spin? Maybe it was the mix of whisky and Rachele that was so deadly?
They set off. Rachele drove with assurance. She went fast, naturally, but maintained a constant speed. It took them ten minutes to get to Montereale.
“Now show me the way,” she said.
Suddenly, again from the effect of that deadly mix, the inspector couldn’t remember how to get there.
“I think you have to turn to the right.”
The road on the right, which was not paved, came to an end in front of a farmhouse.
“Then turn around and take the road on the left.”
That wasn’t the right one, either, as it ended in front of the warehouse of the farmers’ cooperative.
“Maybe we need to go straight,” Rachele concluded.
And that, indeed, proved to be the right way.
Another ten minutes later, they were seated at a table in a restaurant where the inspector had been several times before and always eaten well.
The table they chose was under a pergola, at the edge of the beach. The sea was some thirty paces away, ever so lightly lapping the shore, making it clear that it had little desire to move. The stars were out, and there was not a cloud in the sky.
At another table sat two men of about fifty. On one of them, the sight of Rachele had a quasi lethal effect: the wine he was drinking went down the wrong way, and he nearly died choking. His friend finally managed, in extremis, to help him regain his breath, by dint of a series of powerful slaps on the back.
“They serve a white wine here that makes a nice aperitif as well . . . ,” said Montalbano.
“If you’ll join me.”
“Of course I will. Are you hungry?”
“On the way down to Marinella from Montelusa I wasn’t, but I am now. It must be the sea air.”
“I’m glad. I must confess that I’m always put off by women who don’t like to eat because they’re afraid to gain . . .”
He stopped short. Why was he suddenly speaking so confidentially with Rachele? What was happening?
“I’ve never followed diets,” said Rachele. “So far, at least, I’ve never needed to, luckily.”
The waiter brought the wine. They downed their first glasses.
“This is really good,” said Rachele.
A couple about thirty years old walked in, looking around for a table. But as soon as the girl saw how her partner was eyeing Rachele, she took him by the arm and led him back into the indoor part of the restaurant.