The Patience of the Spider (21 page)

Is that you, signore? Adelina Cirrincire.

Adelina the housekeeper! How did she already know
that Livia was gone? Sense of smell? The wind? Better not
to probe too deep. He might discover that everyone in

town also knew what tune he hummed when sitting on the

john.
What is it, Adel
Can I come-a this aftanoon to clean house and make you

somethin a eat?
No, Adelnot today. Come tomorrow morning.
He needed a little time to think, alone, with nobody else

around.
Djou decide yet abou ma granssons bappetism? the
housekeeper continued.

He didnt hesitate one second. Thinking she was being
clever with her quip about evening things out, Livia had provided
him with an excellent reason to accept.

Ive decided, yes, Ill do it.
Ah, Gesma so heppy!
Have you set the date?
Iss ahp to you, signore.
Me?
Yes, hit depends on when you free.
No, it depends on when your son is free, the inspector wanted

to say, since Pasquale, the childs father, was always in and out
of jail. But he merely said:
Arrange everything yourselves, then let me know. Ive
got all the time in the world now.

More than sit down, Francesco Lipari collapsed into the chair
in front of the inspectors desk. His face was pale and the circles
under his eyes had turned a dense black, as though painted
on with shoe polish. His clothes were rumpled, as if hed slept

in them. Montalbano was shocked. He would have expected

the boy to be happy and relieved that Susanna had been freed.

Are you not feeling well?

No.

Why?

Susanna wont speak to me.

Explain.

Whats to explain? Ever since I first heard shed been released,
Ive called her house at least ten times. Its always her father,
her uncle, or someone else who answers the phone. Never
her. And they always tell me Susannas busy and cant come to
the phone. Even this morning, when I heard that her mother
had died

Where did you hear it?

On a local radio station. I immediately thought: Its a good
thing she got to see her again while she was still alive! And so I
phoned, I wanted to be near her, but I got the same answer. She
wasnt available.

He buried his face in his hands.

What did I do to be treated this way?

You? Nothing, said Montalbano. But you have to try to
understand. The trauma of being kidnapped is tremendous and
very hard to get over. Everyone whos been through it says the
same thing. It takes time.

And the Good Samaritan Montalbano fell silent, pleased
with himself. All the while he was forming his own, strictly
personal opinion of the matter, but preferred not to reveal it
to the young man. He therefore stuck to generalities.

But wouldnt having someone beside her who truly loves
her help her to get over the trauma?

You want to know something?
Okay.
Ill make a confession. Like Susanna, I think that I, too,

would want to be left alone to contemplate my wounds.
Wounds?
Yes. And not just my own, but those Ive inflicted on

others.
The boy looked at him, utterly at sea.
I have no idea what youre talking about.
Never mind.
The Good Samaritan Montalbano wasnt about to waste

his daily dose of goodness all at once.
Was there anything else you wanted to tell me? he asked.
Yes. Did you know that Peruzzo was left off the ballot of

his partys candidates?
No.
And did you know that the Customs Police have been

searching his offices since yesterday afternoon? Rumor has it
that they found, right off the bat, enough material to put him
behind bars.

This is the first Ive heard of it. And so?
So Ive been asking myself some questions.
And you want me to answer them?
If possible.
Im willing to answer one question only, provided I can.

Make your choice.
The boy asked his question at once. Clearly it was the first
on his list.
Do you think it was Peruzzo who put clippings instead
of money in that bag?

Dont you?

Francesco attempted a smile, but didnt succeed. He only
twisted his mouth into a grimace.

Dont answer a question with a question, he said.

He was sharp, this kid. Alert and clever. It was a pleasure
to talk to him.

Why shouldnt I think it was him? said Montalbano.
Mr. Peruzzo, according to what weve learned about him, is
an unscrupulous man with a penchant for dangerous gambits.
He probably sized up his situation. The essential thing, for
him, was to avoid getting drawn into the case, because once he
was, he could only lose. Therefore, why not take yet another
risk and try to save six billion lire?

And what if they killed Susanna?

He could claim, as a last resort, that hed paid the ransom
and that it was the kidnappers who hadnt kept their word. Because
there was always the chance that Susanna might recognize
one of them, which would have made it necessary to eliminate
her. He would have cried and wailed in front of the TV cameras,
and some people would have ended up believing him.

And would you have been one of those people, Inspector?

I plead the Fifth, said Montalbano.

Montalbano? This is Minutolo. I spoke with the commis

sioner.

Whatd he say?

He said he didnt want to take advantage of your
courtesy.

Which, translated into the vernacular, means the quicker

I get my ass out of the way, the better.
Precisely.
Well, my friend, what do you want me to say? I guess Ill

go back to convalescing and wish you all the best.
But if I need to exchange a few ideas with you, can I
Whenever you like.
Did you know that the Customs Police have found truck

loads of incriminating stuff in Peruzzos offices? Everybody
thinks hes screwed for good this time.

He picked up the photographic enlargements that hed had
Cicco De Cicco make and put them in an envelope, which he
managed, with some effort, to fit in his jacket pocket.

Catarella!
Your orders, Chief.
Is Inspector Augello around?
No, Chief. Hes in Montelusa cause the cmishner wants

Specter Augello to be the inner-in-chief.
So the cmishner had finally marginalized the inspector

and was speaking only to Augello, the inner-in-chief.
What about Fazio?
He aint here, neither, Chief. He went for a minnit over

to Via Palazzolo, cross from the alimentary school.
What for?
Theres some shopkeeper who dint wanna pay per

tection money shot at the guy who axed him for it but e
missed.
So much the better.

Smuch the bitter, Chief, but tmake it up he got some
guy whos passin by in the arm.

Listen, Cat. Im going home to resume my convalescence.

Straightaway straightaway?

Yes.

Can I come see you sometimes when I wanna see you
sometimes?

Come whenever you like.

Before returning to Marinella, he dropped in at the grocers
where he sometimes got his provisions. He bought green olives,
passuluna black olives, caciocavallo cheese, fresh bread sprinkled
with giuggiulena, and a jar of Trapanese pesto.

Back at home, he set the table on the veranda while the
pasta cooked. After shilly-shallying a bit, the day had finally
surrendered to the late spring sunshine. There wasnt a cloud
in the sky, not a breath of wind in the air. The inspector
drained the pasta, dressed it with pesto, took the dish outside,
and began to eat. A man was walking by along the water, and
for a moment he stopped and stared at Montalbano on the veranda.
What was so strange about him that a man should eye
him as if he were a painting? Perhaps he really was a painting,
one that might be titled: The Solitary Pensioners Lunch.The
idea made him suddenly lose his appetite. He kept eating his
pasta, but listlessly.

The telephone rang. It was Livia. She told him shed
made it back without incident, that everything was all right,
she was cleaning her apartment, and would call him back that

evening. A brief phone call, but long enough to let the pasta
turn cold.

He didnt feel like eating any more. A wave of black
melancholy had come over him, conceding him only a glass of
wine and a bit of giuggiulena bread. He tore off a piece, put it
in his mouth, and with the index finger of his right hand began
searching about for giuggiulena seeds that had fallen from
the crust. He pressed them against the tablecloth with his fingertip
until they stuck, then brought his finger to his mouth.
The joy of eating bread with giuggiulena lay primarily in this
ritual.

Flush against the verandas right-hand wallon the outside,
that iswas a wild shrub that over time had grown in
width and height to the point where it now came up to the
level of someone sitting on the bench.

Livia had told him many times that they needed to uproot
it, but this had become a difficult proposition. By now the
shrubs roots must have grown as thick and long as a trees.
Montalbano didnt know why, but he suddenly had the urge
to cut it down. He needed only turn his head a little to the
right for the whole bush to enter his field of vision. The wild
plant was reviving. Here and there amidst its yellow scrub a
few green buds were beginning to emerge. Near the top, between
two small branches, a silvery spiderweb sparkled in the
sunlight. Montalbano was certain it hadnt been there the day
before, because Livia would have noticed and, with her fear of
spiders, would have destroyed it with the broom. It must have
been made during the night.

The inspector stood up and leaned over the railing to get
a closer look at it.

Spellbound, the inspector counted some thirty threads in
concentric circles that decreased in diameter as they approached
thecenter. The distancebetween threadswas thesamethroughout,
except in the middle, where it greatly increased. The circular
weave, moreover, was held together by a regular sequence of
radial threads that emanated from the center and stretched to
the outermost circle of the web.

Montalbano guessed that there were about twenty radial
threads of uniform distance from one another. The center of the
web was made up of the points of convergence of all the
threads, which were held together by a thread different from
the rest and spiral in shape.

How patient that spider must have been!

It certainly must have encountered some difficulties. A
gust of wind shredding the weave, an animal that happened to
pass and move a branch ...But no matter, the spider had carried
on its nocturnal labor, determined to bring its web to
completion, whatever the cost, obstinate, deaf and blind to all
other stimuli.

But where was the spider? Try as he might, the inspector
couldnt see it. Had it already left, abandoning everything?
Had it been eaten by some other animal? Or was it lurking
hidden under some yellow leaf, looking keenly around, with
its eight eyes like a diadem, its eight legs ready to spring?

All at once, the web began ever so delicately to vibrate, to
quiver. Not from any sudden breath of wind, for the nearest
leaves, even the flimsiest, remained still. No, it was an artificial
movement, created intentionally. And by what, if not the spider
itself? Apparently the invisible arachnid wanted the web
to be taken for something elsea veil of frost, a wisp of

steamand was moving the threads with its legs. It was a
trap.

Montalbano turned back towards the table, picked up a
tiny piece of bread, broke it up into even smaller crumbs, and
threw them at the web. Too light, they scattered in the air, but
one did get caught in the very middle of the web, right on the
spiral thread, and stayed there for only a split second. It was
there one moment and gone the next. Darting out like a flash
from the upper part of the webwhich remained hidden under
some leavesa grey dot had enveloped the breadcrumb
and vanished. But more than actually witness this movement,
the inspector had sensed it. The swiftness with which the grey
dot had moved was astonishing. He decided he wanted a better
look at the spiders reaction. He took another crumb,
rolled it into a tiny little ball slightly bigger than the last one,
and hurled it right into the center of the web, which shook
all over. The grey dot pounced again, arrived at the center,
covered the bread with its body, but did not return to its hiding
place. It held still, perfectly visible, in the middle of its
admirable structure of airy geometries. To Montalbano it
seemed as if the spider was looking at him, gloating in triumph.

Then, in nightmarishly slow succession, as in an endless
cinematic fadeout and fade-in, the spiders tiny head began to
change color and form, going from grey to pink, its fuzz turning
to hair, the eight eyes merging into two, until it looked
like a minute human face, smiling with satisfaction at the
booty it held tightly between its legs.

Montalbano shuddered in horror. Was he living a nightmare?
Had he drunk too much wine without realizing it? All

at once he remembered a passage in Ovid hed studied at
school, the one about Arachne the weaver, turned into a spider
by Athena...Could time have started running backwards, all
the way back to the dark night of myth? He felt dizzy, head
spinning. Luckily that monstrous vision didnt last long, for
the image began at once to blur and reverse the transformation.
Yet before the spider turned back into a spider, before it
vanished again amidst the leaves, Montalbano had enough
time to recognize the face. And, no, it wasnt Arachnes. He
was sure of that.

He sat down on the bench, his legs giving out from under
him. He had to drink a whole glass of wine to regain a little
strength.

He realized that it must also have been late one nighton
one of many nights of anguish, torment, and ragethat the
other spider, too, the one whose face hed just glimpsed, had
decided to weave a gigantic web.