It was a miracle the inspector kept the wine from going down the wrong way. But he felt his face blushing red and got angry with himself.
Later, Adriana gestured towards the sea snails.
“How is one supposed to eat those?”
“You have to pull them out with a big sort of hairpin that I put among the silverware at your place.”
Adriana tried opening one but didn’t succeed.
“You do it for me,” she said.
Montalbano used the pin, and she opened her mouth and let him feed her.
“Mmm. It’s good. More.”
Each time she opened her mouth for the snail, Montalbano nearly had a heart attack.
The bottle of wine was emptied in a flash.
“I’ll go open another.”
“No,” said Adriana, squeezing his imprisoned leg, but she must have immediately noticed his anxiety. “Okay,” she said, liberating him.
Returning with the opened bottle, the inspector didn’t sit back down in the chair, but on the bench, beside Adriana.
When they had finished eating, Montalbano cleared the table, leaving the bottle and glasses. As he sat back down, Adriana tucked herself under his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Why do you keep running away?”
Had the moment come to talk seriously? Perhaps that was best, to confront the question head-on.
“Adriana, believe me, I have no desire whatsoever to run away from you. I like you in a way that has rarely happened to me. But do you realize that there’s a thirty-three-year age difference between us?”
“I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“Okay, but it’s the same thing. I’m practically an antique, and it really doesn’t seem right to me that . . . Someone the right age, on the other hand . . .”
“But what’s the right age, anyway? Twenty-five? Thirty? Have you seen the men that age? Have you heard them speak? Do you know how they act? They have no idea what women are about!”
“Listen, to you I’m just a passing desire, but for me, you risk becoming something else entirely. At my age—”
“Enough of this age stuff. And don’t imagine I want you the way I might want an ice cream cone. Speaking of which, have you got any?”
“Ice cream? Yes.”
He took it out of the freezer, but it was so hard he was unable to cut into it. He brought it out on the veranda.
“Custard and chocolate. Sound okay to you?” asked Montalbano, sitting back down as before.
And, as before, she tucked herself under his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.
Five minutes were enough to make the ice cream edible. Adriana ate hers in silence, without changing position.
Then, as Montalbano was pushing away her empty plate, he realized the girl was crying. The sound of it wrung his heart. He tried to make her raise her head from his shoulder so he could look her in the eye, but she resisted.
“There’s another thing you have to consider, Adriana. That for years I’ve been with a woman I love.And I’ve always tried as best I can to remain faithful to Livia, who is—”
“Unreachable,” said Adriana, raising her head and looking him in the eye.
The same thing must have happened to men in castles under siege during the wars of yesteryear. They would hold out a long time against hunger and thirst, pour boiling oil to repel those climbing the walls, and the castle would seem impregnable. And then a single shot of the catapult, precise and well-aimed, would knock down the iron door, and the besiegers would burst in, encountering no more resistance.
Unreachable. That was the key word Adriana had used. What had the girl heard in that word when he’d used it? His anger? His jealousy? His weakness? His loneliness?
Montalbano embraced her and kissed her. Her lips tasted of custard and chocolate.
It was like plunging into the great August heat.
Then Adriana said:
“Let’s go inside.”
They stood up, still embracing, and at that moment the doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” asked Adriana.
“It’s . . . it’s Fazio. I told him to come. I’d forgotten all about it.”
Without a word, Adriana went and locked herself in the bathroom.
As soon as he set foot on the veranda, Fazio, seeing the two glasses and the two small dishes streaked with ice cream, asked:
“Is there another person here?”
“Yes, Adriana.”
“Ah. And is she leaving now?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
“Like a glass of wine?”
“No, sir, thanks.”
“A bit of ice cream?”
“No, sir, thanks.”
Clearly he felt irritated by the girl’s presence.
19
They’d been sitting on the veranda for nearly an hour, but even as the night advanced, it brought no relief. In fact, the heat seemed more rabid than ever, as if there wasn’t a half-moon in the sky but the midday sun.
When he’d finished talking, he looked inquisitively at Fazio.
“What do you think?” he said.
“So you would like to call Spitaleri in to the station for questioning, subject him to one of those interrogations that last a day and a night, and then, when he’s reduced to the state of a doormat, have Miss Adriana, who he’s never seen before, suddenly appear before him. Is that what you’re saying?”
“More or less.”
“And you think that when he sees the twin sister of the girl he killed standing in front of him, he’ll crack and confess?”
“At least I’m hoping that’s what he’ll do.”
Fazio twisted up his mouth.
“Not convinced?”
“Chief, the guy’s a crook. He’s got thicker skin than an armadillo.The moment you call him in for questioning, he’s gonna go on the defensive and put on his armor, because he’ll expect the works from you. So even if he sees the girl and has a heart attack, I’m sure he won’t let it show.”
“So you think it’s useless to have Adriana appear by surprise?”
“No, I think it could be useful, but I think it would be a mistake to have it take place at the police station.”
Adriana, who’d been silent up until then, finally spoke.
“I agree with Fazio. It’s not the right setting.”
“What would be the right one, in your opinion?”
“The other day I suddenly realized that after amnesty is granted, other people will move into that house and live there. And it didn’t seem right to me. The idea that others might, I dunno, laugh and sing . . . in the same living room where Rina had her throat slashed . . .”
She made a sort of sobbing sound. Instinctively Montalbano put his hand on hers. Fazio noticed, but showed no surprise. Adriana pulled herself together.
“I’ve decided to talk about it with Papa.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to suggest that he should sell our house and buy the one in which Rina died. That way the illegal apartment will never be lived in by anyone, and my sister’s memory will remain free.”
“And what do you expect to achieve by this?”
“You just mentioned the exclusive contract Spitaleri has for refurbishing the house.Well, tomorrow morning, I’m going to that agency and I’m going to tell that man, what’s his name . . .”
“Callara.”
“I’m going to tell Callara we want to buy the house, even before amnesty is granted.We’ll take care of all the paperwork and cover all the expenses for the amnesty. I’ll explain to him why, and let him know that we’re willing to pay well for it. I’ll convince him, I’m sure of it.Then I’ll ask him to give me keys to the upstairs apartment and to recommend somebody to handle the renovation of the downstairs. At which point Callara will surely give me Spitaleri’s name. I’ll get the phone number, and then—”
“Wait a minute. What if Callara wants to come along with you?”
“He won’t if I don’t tell him exactly when I’m going to go. He can’t remain at my disposal for two whole days. Anyway, I think the fact that we own a house just a few yards away from his will work in my favor.”
“And then what?”
“Then I’ll phone Spitaleri and have him come out to Pizzo. If I can manage to be downstairs, in the living room where he murdered Rina, at the moment he arrives, and he sees me there for the first time—”
“You can’t be left alone with Spitaleri!”
“I won’t be alone, if you’re there hiding behind that stack of window frames.”
“How do you know there are frames in the living room?” asked an alert Fazio, like the smart cop he always was, even in friendly surroundings.
“I told her myself,” Montalbano cut in.
Silence fell over the three of them.
“If we take all the necessary precautions,” the inspector said a moment later, “maybe we could pull it off.”
“Chief, can I speak freely?” Fazio asked.
“Of course.”
“With all due respect to the young lady, I don’t like the idea.”
“Why not?” asked Adriana.
“It’s extremely dangerous, Miss. Spitaleri always goes around with a knife in his pocket, and the man is capable of anything.”
“But if Salvo is also there, it seems to me—”
Fazio didn’t show any surprise at that “Salvo,” either.
“I still don’t like it. It’s not right for us to put you in danger that way.”
They discussed things for another half hour. In the end, it was Montalbano who decided.
“We’re going to do what Adriana suggested. For additional security, you’ll be in the vicinity, too, Fazio, perhaps with another one of our men.”
“Whatever you say, sir,” said Fazio, surrendering.
He stood up, said good-bye to Adriana, and headed towards the door, with the inspector following behind him. But before leaving, he looked Montalbano in the eye.
“Chief, think long and hard about it, before you give the final go-ahead.”
“Come and sit down,” Adriana said when Montalbano returned.
“I’m a little tired,” he said.
Something had changed, and the girl realized it.
In his lonely bed, between sweat-dampened sheets, Montalbano had a wretched night, feeling one minute like an utter fool, the next minute like San Luigi Gonzaga or Sant’Alfonso de’ Liguori, somebody like that.
Adriana’s first phone call to Montalbano came into the station around five o’clock in the afternoon the following day.
“I got the keys from Callara. He’s thrilled about selling right away. He must be rather greedy, because when he heard that we would absorb all the costs of the amnesty, he practically got down on his knees in thanks.”
“Did he tell you about Spitaleri?”
“He even showed me the contract he made with Speciale, and gave me Spitaleri’s cell phone number into the bargain.”
“Have you called him?”
“Yes. I spoke directly with him. We made an appointment to meet at the house tomorrow evening at seven. So, where do we stand with our plans?”
“We’ll meet at the house tomorrow around five P.M. That should give us enough time to organize everything well.”
Her second call, on the other hand, was to Marinella, around ten o’clock that evening.
“The nurse just arrived. She’s going to spend the night. Can I come see you?”
What did it mean? Did she want to spend the night with him?
Was she joking? He couldn’t handle another night playing the part of Saint Anthony being tempted by demons in the desert.
“Look, Adriana, I—”
“I feel extremely nervous and need some company.”
“I understand perfectly. I’m nervous, too.”
“I’ll just come for a nighttime swim. Come on.”
“Why don’t you just go to bed? Tomorrow will be a hard day.”
She giggled.
“No problem, I’ll bring my bathing suit.”
“Oh, all right.”
Why had he given in? Weariness? Because of the heat, which killed the will? Or simply because he himself, really and truly, felt like seeing her?
The girl swam like a dolphin. And Montalbano experienced a new, troubling pleasure, feeling that young body beside his, making the same movements as if long accustomed to swimming with him.
Adriana, moreover, had so much stamina, she could have swum all the way to Malta. At a certain point, Montalbano couldn’t go any farther and flipped over to do the dead man’s float. She came back and floated right beside him.
“Where did you learn how to swim?”
“I took a lot of lessons when I was little. When I come here in the summer I spend the whole day in the water. In Palermo I go to the pool twice a week.”
“Do you do a lot of sports?”
“I go often to the gym. I can even shoot a gun.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I used to have a . . . well, let’s call him a boyfriend, who was a fanatic. He used to take me to the Poligono.”
A pang, ever so slight. Not of jealousy, but of envy for the boy, her former . . . well, let’s call him her lover, who was the right age and could enjoy her company without complications.
“Shall we go back?” said Adriana.
They took their time swimming back. Neither of them wanted to break the sort of spell that had fallen over their bodies, which they couldn’t see in the darkness but could therefore feel all the more through their breath and the occasional moments of contact.
Then, about two or three yards from the shore, where the water was waist-deep, Adriana, who was holding Montalbano’s hand as she walked, slammed her foot against a metal jerry can that some asshole had thrown into the water, and fell forward. Instinctively, Montalbano gripped her hand, but then, perhaps because he lost his balance, he fell in turn, right on top of the girl.
They resurfaced in each other’s clutches as though wrestling, and breathless as if after a long submersion. Adriana slipped again, and they both collapsed underwater, still in each other’s arms. They emerged even more tightly embraced, and then drowned themselves once and for all in other waters.