The Patience of the Spider

THE PATIENCE OF THE SPIDER

ANDREA CAMILLERI

Translated by Stephen Sartarelli

PENGUIN BOOKS

The idiosyncratic Montalbano is totally endearing.

The New York Times

Like Mike Hammer or Sam Spade, Montalbano is the kind of guy
who cant stay out of trouble.... Still, deftly and lovingly translated
by Stephen Sartarelli, Camilleri makes it abundantly clear that under
the gruff, sardonic exterior our inspector has a heart of gold, and
that any outbursts, fumbles, or threats are made only in the name of
pursuing truth. The Nation

Once again, violence is muted, complications rule, politics roil, but
humor...prevail[s] in the end. Italy is good to visit, even if only in
print. And what better way to shorten a flight to Palermo than by
gobbling this tasty snack along the way? Los Angeles Times

[Camilleris mysteries] offer quirky characters, crisp dialogue,
bright storytellingand Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging
protagonists in detective fiction. ...Montalbano is a delightful
creation, an honest man on Sicilys mean streets. USA Today

The Montalbano mysteries offer cose dolci to the world-lit lover
hankering for a whodunit. The Village Voice

The reading of these little gems is fast and fun every step of the
way. The New York Sun

Wittily translated from the savory Italian, Camilleris mysteries . . .
feature the sardonic Inspector Salvo Montalbano, whose gustatory
adventures are at least as much fun as his crime solving.

Rocky Mountain News

Camilleri once again thrills with his fluid storytelling and quirky
characters. Publishers Weekly

Also by Andrea Camilleri

The Shape of Water
The Terra-Cotta Dog
The Snack Thief
Voice of the Violin
Excursion to Tindari
The Smell of the Night
Rounding the Mark

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, most recently
The Open Vault.

Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Translation copyright Stephen Sartarelli, 2007
All rights reserved

Originally published in Italian as La pazienza del ragno by Sellerio Editore, Palermo.
Copright 2004 Sellerio Editore.

Publishers Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the authors imagination or are used fictitously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Camilleri,Andrea.
[Pazienza del ragno. English]
The patience of the spider / Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli.
p. cm.
A Penguin mystery.

I. Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954 II. Title.
PQ4863.A3894P3913 2007
853'.914dc22 2006051527

Set in Bembo Designed by Jaye Zimet

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1

He jolted awake, sweaty and short of breath. For a few seconds
he didnt know where he was. Then the soft, regular breathing
of Livia, who lay asleep beside him, brought him back to a familiar,
reassuring reality. He was in his bedroom in Marinella.
What had yanked him from his sleep was a sharp pang, cold as a
knife blade, in his wounded shoulder. He didnt need to look at
the clock on the nightstand to know that it was three-thirty in
the morningactually, three-twenty-seven and forty seconds.
The same thing had been happening to him for the last twenty
days, ever since the night Jamil Zarzis, a trafficker in small third
world children, had shot and wounded him, and he had reacted
by killing the man. Twenty days, but it was as though the mechanism
of time had got stuck at that moment. Some gear in the
part of his brain that measures the passing hours and days had
gone clack, and ever since, if he was asleep, he would wake up,
and if he was awake, everything around him would stop in a
sort of imperceptible freeze-frame. He knew very well that
during that split-second duel, it had never crossed his mind to
check what time it was, and yetand this he remembered very
clearlythe moment the bullet fired by Jamil Zarzis penetrated
his flesh, a voice inside himan impersonal, female
voice, slightly metallic, like the voices you hear over PA systems

in train stations and supermarketshad said, It is three-
twenty-seven and forty seconds.

Were you with the inspector?

Yes, Doctor.

Your name?

Fazio, Doctor.

How long has he been wounded?

Well, Doctor, the exchange of fire took place around three-
thirty. So, a little more than half an hour ago. Oh, Doctor...

Yes?

Is it serious?

The inspector was lying down, utterly still, eyes shut, which led
everyone to think he was unconscious and they could speak openly.
Whereas in fact he heard and understood everything. He felt simultaneously
dazed and lucid, but had no desire to open his mouth and answer
the doctors questions himself. Apparently the shots theyd given
him to kill the pain had affected his whole body.

Dont be silly! All we have to do is extract the bullet lodged in
his shoulder.

O Madonna Santa!

Theres no need to get so upset! Its a piece of cake. Besides, I
really dont think it did much damage.With a bit of physical therapy,
he should recover one hundred percent use of his arm. But why, may
I ask, are you still so concerned?

Well, you see, Doctor, a few days ago the inspector went out by
himself on an investigation...

Now, as then, he keeps his eyes closed. But he can no longer
hear the words, which are drowned out by the loud, pounding
surf. It must be windy outside, the whole shutter is vibrating
from the force of the gusts, emitting a kind of wail. Its a good
thing hes still convalescing; he can stay under the covers for as
long as he wants. Consoled by this thought, he decides to
open his eyes just a crack.

Why could he no longer hear Fazio talking? He opened his eyes just
a crack.The two men had stepped a short distance away from the bed
and were over by the window. Fazio was talking and the doctor,
dressed in a white smock, was listening, a grave expression on his
face. Suddenly Montalbano realized he had no need to hear Fazios
words to know what he was saying to the doctor. Fazio, his friend,
his trusty right-hand man, was betraying him. Like Judas. He was
obviously telling the doctor about the time hed found the inspector
lying on the beach, drained of strength after the terrible chest pain
hed had in the water... Imagine the doctors reaction upon hearing
this wonderful news! Before ever removing that goddamned bullet,
they would give him the works: examine him inside and out,
poke him full of holes, lift up his skin piece by piece to see what there
was underneath...

His bedroom is the same as its always been. No, thats not
true. Its different, but still the same. Different because there
are Livias things on the dresser: purse, hairpins, two little perfume
bottles. And, on the chair across the room, a blouse and
skirt. And though he cant see them, he knows theres a pair of

pink slippers somewhere near the bed. He feels a surge of
emotion. He melts, goes all soft inside, turns to liquid. For
twenty days this has been his new refrain, and he doesnt
know how to put a stop to it. The slightest thing will set it off
and bring him, treacherously, to the point of tears. Hes embarrassed,
ashamed of his new emotional fragility, and has to
create elaborate defenses to prevent others from noticing. But
not with Livia. With her he couldnt pull it off. So she decided
to help him, to lend him a hand by dealing firmly with
him, not allowing him any opportunities to let himself go.
But its no use. Because this loving approach on Livias part
also triggers a mixed emotion of happiness and sadness. Hes
happy that Livia used up all her vacation time to come and
look after him, and he knows that the house is happy to have
her there. Ever since she arrived, when he looks at his bedroom
in sunlight it seems to have its color back, as though the
walls had been repainted a luminous white.

Since nobody can see him, he wipes away a tear with a
corner of the bedsheet.

White all around, and amidst the white, only the brown of his naked
skin (Was it once pink? How many centuries ago?).A white room, in
which hes being given an electrocardiogram. The doctor studies the
long strip of paper, shakes his head in doubt. Terrified, Montalbano
imagines that the graph the doctor is examining looks exactly like the
seismograph of the Messina earthquake of 1908, which he once saw
reproduced in a history magazine: a crazy, hopeless jumble of lines
traced as if by a hand driven mad by fear.

Theyve found me out! he thinks to himself. They realize that

my heart functions on alternating current, higgledy-piggledy,
and that Ive had at least three heart attacks!

Then another doctor, also in a white smock, enters the room. He
looks at the strip, at Montalbano, and at this colleague.

Lets do it over, he says.

Maybe they cant believe their eyes, cant understand how a man
with an electrocardiogram like that is still in a hospital bed and not on
a marble slab in the morgue. They look at the new strip, their heads
now very close together.

Lets do a telecardiogram, is the verdict.The doctors seem perplexed.

Montalbano wishes he could tell them that, if this is the way it is,
they shouldnt even bother extracting the bullet.They should let him
die in peace. But, dammit, he forgot to make a will. The house in
Marinella, for example, should definitely go to Livia, so that some
fourth cousin doesnt show up and claim it.

Right, because the house in Marinella has been his for a few
years now. He never thought hed be able to buy it. It cost too
much for the salary he earned, which barely let him set anything
aside. Then one day his fathers former partner had
written to him saying he was ready to liquidate his fathers
share of the vineyard, which amounted to a considerable sum.
So not only had he had the money to buy the house, but there
was a fair amount left over to put away. For his old age. And
that was why he needed to draw up a will, since, without
wanting to, hed become a man with property. Once again,
however, after he got out of the hospital he couldnt bring
himself to go see the notary. But if he ever did get around to

seeing him, the house would go to Livia, that much was certain.
As for Frans, the son who wasnt his son but could have
been, he knew exactly what to leave him. Enough money
to buy himself a nice car. He could already see the indignant
expression on Livias face. What? And spoil him like that?
Yes, maam. A son who wasnt a son but could (should?) have
been one should be spoiled much more than a son whos
really a son. Twisted logic, yes, but still logical. And what
about Catarella? Surely he had to put Catarella in his will. So
what would he leave him? Certainly not any books. He tried
to recall an old song of the Alpine regiment called The Cap-
tains Testament or something similar, but couldnt remember
it. The watch! That was it. He would leave Catarella his
fathers watch, which his business partner had sent to him.
That way he could feel like part of the family. The watch was
the answer.

He cant read the clock on the wall in the cardiology unit because
there is a kind of greyish veil over his eyes.The two doctors are very
attentively watching some sort of TV screen, occasionally moving a
computer mouse.

One of them, the doctor whos supposed to perform the operation,
is named Strazzera, Amedeo Strazzera. This time the machine spits
out not a strip of paper but a series of photographs or something sim-
ilar.The two doctors study and study them, then finally sigh as though
worn out after a long walk. Strazzera approaches while his colleague
goes and sits down in a chairwhite, of course. The doctor looks
sternly at the inspector and bends forward. Montalbano is expecting
him to say: