The waiter reappeared and, refilling the empty glasses, asked what they wanted to eat.
“Will you be having a first course or an antipasto?”
“Does the one exclude the other?” Rachele asked in turn.
“They serve fifteen different kinds of antipasto here,” said Montalbano. “Which, frankly, I recommend.”
“Fifteen?”
“Maybe more.”
“All right, then. Antipasto it is.”
“And for the main course?” asked the waiter.
“We’ll decide that later,” said Montalbano.
“Shall I bring another bottle with the antipasti?”
“I think you should.”
A few minutes later, there wasn’t any room left on the table for so much as a needle.
Shrimp, jumbo prawns, squid, smoked tuna, fried balls of nunnatu, sea urchins, mussels, clams, octopus morsels a strascinasale , octopus morsels affucati, tiny fried calamari, calamari and squidlets tossed in a salad with orange slices and celery, capers wrapped in anchovies, sardines a beccafico, swordfish carpaccio . . .[11]
The total silence in which they ate, occasionally exchanging glances of appreciation for the flavors and aromas, was interrupted only once, at the moment of transition to the anchovy-wrapped capers, when Rachele asked:
“Is something wrong?”
And Montalbano, feeling himself blush, said:
“No.”
For the previous few minutes he had been lost watching her mouth open and close, the fork going in, revealing for an instant the intimacy of a palate as pink as a cat’s, the fork coming back out empty but still clasped by glistening teeth, the mouth reclosing, the lips moving lightly, rhythmically, as she chewed. The mere sight of her mouth left one speechless. In a flash Montalbano remembered the evening in Fiacca, when he fell under the spell of those lips by the light of her cigarette.
When they had finished the antipasti, Rachele said:
“Good God!”
And she heaved a long sigh.
“Everything all right?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
The waiter came to remove the dishes.
“And what would you like as a main course?”
“Couldn’t we wait a little?” Rachele asked.
“As you wish.”
The waiter walked away. Rachele remained silent.Then, all at once, she grabbed her pack of cigarettes and lighter, stood up, descended the two steps that led to the beach, removed her shoes with a simple motion of her legs and feet, and headed towards the sea. When she reached the water’s edge, she stopped, letting the sea caress her feet.
She hadn’t told Montalbano to follow her. Just like that evening in Fiacca. And so the inspector remained seated at the table. Some ten minutes later, he saw her returning. Before ascending the two steps, she put her shoes back on.
When she sat down before him, Montalbano had the impression that the blue of her eyes was slightly brighter than usual. Rachele looked at him and smiled.
Then a tear that had remained half suspended fell from her left eye and rolled down her cheek.
“I think a grain of sand must have got in my eye,” said Rachele, clearly fibbing.
The waiter returned like a nightmare.
“Has the lady decided?”
“What have you got?” asked Montalbano.
“We’ve got a mixed fish fry, grilled fish, swordfish however you like it, mullet alla livornese—”
“I only want a salad,” said Rachele. Then, turning to the inspector: “Sorry, I just can’t eat any more.”
“No problem. I’ll have a salad, too. However . . .”
“However?” said the waiter.
“Throw in some green and black olives, celery, carrots, capers, anything else the cook can think of.”
“I’ll have mine that way, too,” declared Rachele.
“Would you like another bottle?”
There was enough left for two more glasses, one each.
“For me, that’s enough,” she said.
Montalbano gestured no, and the waiter left, perhaps mildly disappointed at the scantness of their order.
“I apologize for a few minutes ago,” said Rachele. “I got up and walked away without saying anything. It’s just that . . . I didn’t want to start crying in front of you.”
Montalbano didn’t open his mouth.
“It happens to me sometimes,” she continued,“but not very often, unfortunately.”
“Why do you say ‘unfortunately’?”
“You know, Salvo, it’s very hard for me to cry when something bad or something sad happens. It all stays inside me.That’s just the way I am.”
“I saw you cry at the police station.”
“That was only the second or third time in my life. Whereas—and this is what’s so strange—I often weep uncontrollably in moments of . . . well, I wouldn’t say happiness, that’s too big a word. It would be more accurate to say that it’s when I have a feeling of great calm inside me, when all the bumps are smoothed over, all the—But that’s enough; I don’t want to bore you with descriptions of my inner life.”
This time, too, Montalbano said nothing.
But he was wondering how many Racheles there were inside Rachele.
The one he had met the first time at the station was an intelligent, rational woman, ironic and very much in control of herself.The one he had dealt with in Fiacca was a woman who had lucidly obtained what she wanted while managing, at the same time, to let go of herself completely in an instant, losing all lucidity and self-control.And the one who was sitting in front of him now was instead a vulnerable woman who had told him, without saying so directly, how unhappy she was, how rare were the moments of serenity in which she felt at peace with herself.
On the other hand, what on earth did he know about women?
Madamina, il catalogo è questo.[12] And the list was a miserable one: one relationship before Livia; Livia; the twenty-year-old girl he didn’t even want to name; and now Rachele.
And what about Ingrid? But Ingrid was a case apart. In their relationship, the line of demarcation between friendship and something else was very, very fine.
Of course, he’d met women, plenty of them, over the course of his many investigations, but they were all acquaintances made in very specific circumstances, in which the women all had a stake in presenting themselves as different from how they really were.
The waiter brought the salads. Which refreshed the tongue, the palate, and the mind.
“Would you like a whisky?”
“Why not?”
They ordered the drinks, which arrived at once. Now the moment had come to discuss the matter of most concern to Rachele.
“I brought a magazine with me, but I left it in the car,” Montalbano began.
“What magazine?”
“The one featuring photos of Lo Duca’s horses. I mentioned it to you over the phone.”
“Oh, yes. And I think I told you that mine had a white spot shaped like a star on its flank. Poor Super!”
“How did you develop this passion for horses?”
“I got it from my father. I guess you don’t know I was once champion of all Europe.”
Montalbano’s jaw dropped.
“Really?”
“Yes. I also twice won the Piazza di Siena competition, I’ve won in Madrid, and at Longchamp, too . . . Past glories.”
There was a pause. Montalbano decided to lay his cards on the table.
“Why were you so insistent about seeing me?”
She gave a start, perhaps because of the directness of the attack, which she hadn’t expected.Then she sat up straight, and Montalbano understood that he now had before him the same Rachele as the first time at the station.
“For two reasons.The first is strictly personal.”
“Tell me.”
“Since I don’t think that, after I leave, we’ll ever see each other again, I wanted to explain my behavior the other night in Fiacca. So you won’t have a distorted memory of me.”
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Shrimp, jumbo prawns, squid, smoked tuna, fried balls of
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