The Patience of the Spider (15 page)

you heard from Engineer Peruzzo, by any chance?

No. No news.

It was the same girl as before, except that now there was a
shrill, almost hysterical tone to her voice.

Ill call back.

No, please, look, its useless. Mr. Nicotra has ordered all
telephones to be cut off in ten minutes.

Why?

Were getting dozens and dozens of calls ...full of insults
. . . obscenities.

The girl was about to burst into tears.

11

Around five in the afternoon Gallo reported to Montalbano
that a nasty rumor had spread about town which, if there was
still any need, turned everyone against Antonio Peruzzo. The
gossip had it that the engineer, to get out of paying the ransom,
had asked a judge to freeze his assets. And that the judge
had refused. The story didnt seem to hold water, but the inspector
decided to check it out anyway.

Minutolo? Montalbano here. Do you know, by any
chance, what the judge intends to do about Peruzzo?

Look, he just called me up and was beside himself.
Somebody told him there was a rumor

Ive already heard.

Well, he told me hes had no contact of any sort, either
direct or indirect, with Peruzzo. And that, for the moment,
at least, hes not authorized to freeze the assets of
any of the Mistrettas family, friends, acquaintances, or neigh-
bors...He went on and on, like a river overflowing its
banks.

Listen, have you still got Susannas photo?

Yes.

Could you lend it to me till tomorrow? I want to have a
better look at it. Ill send Gallo for it.

Still fixated on that business about the light?

Yes.

It was a lie. The point wasnt the light, but the shadow.

Okay, Montalbano, but dont lose it. I mean it. Otherwise,
whos going to deal with the judge?

Heres the photo, said Gallo half an hour later, handing him

an envelope.

Thanks. Send Catarella in here.

Catarella arrived in a flash, tongue hanging out, like a dog
responding to his masters whistle.

Your orders, Chief!

Listen, Cat, that trusty friend of yours...the guy whos
really good with photographs and can blow them up ...whats
his name?

His names Cicco De Cicco his name is, Chief.

Is he still at Montelusa Central?

Yessir, Chief. Still posted at his post.

Excellent. Have Imbrn the switchboard and go take
this photo to him. Let me explain exactly what I want him
to do.

Theres some kid wants to talk to you. His names Francesco

Lipari.

Let him in.

Francesco had lost weight. The dark circles under his eyes
now took up half his face. He looked like the Masked Man of
comic book fame.

Have you seen the photo? he asked without saying
hello.

Yes.

How is she?

Look, to begin with, she wasnt in chains, as that asshole
Ragonese claimed. And shes not in a well, but inside an
empty cistern at least ten feet deep. Given the circumstances,
she looked like she was doing all right.

Could I see the picture?

If youd come earlier...I just sent it to Montelusa for
an analysis.

What kind of analysis?

He couldnt very well tell Francesco everything he had in
mind.

Its not about Susanna, but the place where theyre keeping
her.

Can you tell if ...iftheyve hurt her?

I really dont think so.

Could you see her face?

Of course.

How did her eyes look?

This kid was going to make a really good cop.

She wasnt scared. Thats probably the first thing I noticed.
In fact, her expression looked very . . .

Determined? said Francesco Lipari.

Exactly.

I know her. It means shes not giving in to her situation,
and that sooner or later shes going to try to escape. The kidnappers
will have to watch her very closely. He paused. Then
he asked: Do you think Peruzzo will pay up?

The way things are going, hes got no choice but to cough
up the money.

Did you know that Susanna never said anything to me
about this business between her mother and her uncle? I felt
sort of bad when I heard about it.

Why?

Because I felt like she couldnt confide in me.

When Francesco left the office, feeling a little more relieved
than when hed entered, Montalbano sat there thinking about
what the kid had just told him. There was no question that
Susanna was courageous, and her look in the photo confirmed
this. Courageous and resolved. Then why had her
voice sounded so desperate when she asked for help in that
first phone call? Was there not a contradiction between the
voice and the image? Perhaps only an apparent contradiction.
The telephone recording was probably made only a few hours
after shed been kidnapped, when Susanna hadnt yet regained
control of herself and was still suffering from severe shock.
One cant be courageous nonstop, twenty-four hours a day.
This was the only possible explanation.

Chief, Cicco De Cicco says hes gonna get on it straightaway
and so the pitchersll be ready round nine aclack tmorrow
morning.

I want you to pick them up yourself.

Catarella suddenly assumed a mysterious manner, leaned
forward, and said in a low voice:

Are wese the only twos that knows about this, Chief?

Montalbano nodded, and Catarella walked out of the office
stiff-legged, knees straight, arms swinging out from his
sides with fingers spread. The pride of sharing a secret with
his boss had changed him from a dog into a strutting peacock.

The inspector got in his car to go home, lost in thought. But
could that confused tangle of meaningless words and indefinable
images that passed now and then through his head be really
called thought? His mind seemed to have gone awry like
a television set when the picture breaks apart into a sort of
grainy zigzag of muddled interference that prevents you from
watching what you want to watch and at the same time gives
you a faded image of another simultaneous program, and youre
forced to fiddle with the settings, trying to find the cause of
the disturbance and to make it go away.

Suddenly Montalbano no longer knew where he was. He
no longer recognized the habitual landscape along the road to
Marinella. The houses were different, the shops were different,
the people were different. Jesus, where had he ended up?
He must certainly have made a wrong turn. But how was that
possible, since hed been taking this road at least twice a day
for years?

He pulled over, stopped, had a look around, and then understood.
Without realizing or wanting to, hed taken the
road to the Mistrettas villa. For a brief moment, his hands on
the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals had acted on
their own, without his taking the slightest notice. This happened
to him sometimes. That is, his body would do things

quite independently, as though not connected to his brain.
And when it did this, there was no point in opposing it, because
there always turned out to be a reason.

What to do now? Turn around or continue? Naturally, he
continued.

When he entered the living room, there were seven people
there listening to Minutolo. They were standing around a big
table that had been moved from its corner to the middle of the
room. Spread out on the table was a giant map of Vig and
surroundings, a military sort of map that showed everything
down to the street lamps and back alleys where only dogs and
goats went to pee.

From his headquarters, Commander-in-Chief Minutolo
ordered his men to conduct more intensive, and hopefully
fruitful, searches. Fazio was in his usual place. By this point
he had merged with the armchair in front of the little table
holding the telephone and its related contraptions. Minutolo
looked surprised to see Montalbano. Fazio made as if to
get up.

What is it? Did something happen? asked Minutolo.

No, no, its nothing, said Montalbano, who was just as
surprised to find himself there.

Some of those present greeted him, and he replied
vaguely.

Im giving out orders for Minutolo began.

I can see that, said Montalbano.

Did you wish to say something? Minutolo politely invited
him.

Yes. No shooting. For any reason.

May I ask why?

The question had been asked by a young guy, an up-and-
coming assistant inspector, well-dressed, quick-tongued, and
well-toned, with a lock of hair falling rakishly onto his forehead.
He looked like a social-climbing business type. One saw
so many of his ilk nowadays. A rapidly proliferating race of
assholes. Montalbano took an immediate dislike to him.

Because once, somebody like you shot and killed some
wretch who had kidnapped a girl. The search went on, but in
vain. The only person who could say where the girl was being
held could no longer speak. She was found a month later,
bound hand and foot, dead of starvation and dehydration. Satisfied?

A heavy silence descended. Why the hell had he come
back to the villa? Was he, the old cop, merely turning uselessly
round and round like a screw stripped of its threads?

He needed a sip of water. There had to be a kitchen some-
whereinthere.Hefound it at theend of acorridor. In the
kitchen was a nurse, fiftyish and chubby, with an open, friendly
face.

Youre Inspector Montalbano, arent you? Would you
like something? she asked with a sympathetic smile.

Yes, a glass of water, please.

The woman poured him a glass of mineral water from a
bottle shed extracted from the refrigerator. As Montalbano
drank, she filled a hot-water bottle with steaming water and
made as if to leave.

Just a minute, the inspector said. Wheres Mr. Mistretta?

Hes sleeping. Its what the doctor wanted. And hes

right. I gave him some tranquilizers and sleeping pills, as he

told me.

And Mrs. Mistretta? Is she better? Worse? Any news?

The only news well ever hear of that poor woman is
when she dies.

Is she in her right mind?

Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But even when she seems
to understand, in my opinion she doesnt.

Could I see her?

Follow me.

Montalbano felt apprehensive. But he knew well that it
was a false apprehension, dictated by his desire to postpone an
encounter that would be very hard for him to bear.

What if she asks who I am?

Are you kidding? That would be a miracle.

Halfway down the corridor there was a broad, comfortable
staircase leading upstairs, where there was another corridor,
this one with six doors.

Thats Mr. Mistrettas bedroom; thats the bathroom, and
thats the ladys bedroom. Its easier for the help if she sleeps
alone. Those doors across the hall are the girls roompoor
thing!another bathroom, and a guest room, the nurse explained.

Could I see Susannas room?

Certainly.

He opened the door, poked his head in, and turned on the
light. A small bed, armoire, two chairs, a small table with
books, a bookcase. All in perfect order. And almost totally
anonymous, like a hotel room only temporarily inhabited.

Nothing personal, no posters, no photographs. Like the cell of
a lay nun. He turned off the light and closed the door. The
nurse gently opened the other door. At the same moment, the
inspectors forehead and palms broke into a heavy sweat. An
uncontrollable terror always came over him whenever he found
himself face to face with a dying person. He didnt know
what to do. He had to give strict orders to his legs to prevent
them from running away of their own accord and dragging
him along with them. A dead body didnt frighten him. It
was the imminence of death that shook him to the depths of
his soul.

He managed to get hold of himself and cross the threshold.
Then began his personal descent into hell. He was immediately
assailed by the same unbearable odor he had smelled in
the room of the legless man, the husband of the woman who
sold eggs. Except that here the odor was denser. It stuck to
ones skin like a very fine film. It was, moreover, brownish-
yellow in color, with streaks of fiery red. A color in motion.
This had never happened before. The colors evoked by smells
had always seemed as though painted on canvas. They held
still. Now, however, the red streaks were starting to form a
whirlpool. By this point the sweat had drenched his shirt. The
womans regular bed had been replaced by a hospital bed
whose whiteness sliced through Montalbanos memory and
tried to pull him backwards, to the days of his recovery. Beside
the bed were oxygen canisters, an I.V. stand, and some
complicated paraphernalia on a small table. A small cart (also
white, for Christs sake!) was literally covered with vials, small
bottles, gauze, measuring glasses, and other containers of varying
size. From where he had stopped, barely two steps inside

the door, the bed looked empty to him. No human contour
could be seen under the taut covers. Even the two pointed
mounds formed by the feet when one lies supine were missing.
And that sort of strange grey ball forgotten on the pillow
was too small to be a head; perhaps it was a large rubber enema
syringe whose color had faded. He advanced another two
steps and froze in horror. That thing on the pillow was indeed
a human head that had nothing human about it, a hairless,
dried-up tangle of wrinkles so deep they looked like theyd
been carved with a drill bit. Its mouth was open, a black hole
without so much as a hint of white teeth. He had once seen
something similar in a magazine, the handiwork of headhunters,
practiced on their prey. As he stood there staring, unable
to move and almost not believing his eyes, out of the hole
that was the mouth came a sound created only by the dry,
burnt-up throat:

Ghanna . . .

Shes calling her daughter, said the nurse.

Montalbano backpedaled, stiff-legged, knees refusing to
bend. To avoid falling, he leaned on a side table.