leaving,’ said Livia. ‘My flight leaves Palermo at two this afternoon.’
‘I’ll drive you there.’
‘No, I’ve already arranged it all with Mimi. He’s coming by in an hour to pick me up.’
It was he who persuaded me to come and see you; I wanted to go home yesterday.’
Oh, so now he was supposed to thank Mimi into the bargain?
‘You didn’t want to see me?’
‘Try to understand, Salvo.
I need to be alone, to collect my thoughts, to draw some conclusions. This has all been overwhelming for me.’
The inspector felt curious to know the rest.
‘Well, tell me what happened next.’
‘As soon as I saw Francois there in the room, I instinctively drew near to him, but he moved away.’
Montalbano remembered the scene he’d endured a few days earlier.
‘He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I love you, Livia, but I won’t leave this house and my brothers.” I sat there immobile, frozen. And he went on, “If you take me away with you, I’ll run away for good and you’ll never see me again.”
Then he ran out shouting, “I’m here, I’m here!” I started to feel dizzy, and the next thing I knew I was lying in a bed, with Franca beside me.
My God, how cruel children can be sometimes!’
‘I felt very weak. When I tried to get up, I fainted again. Franca didn’t want me to leave. She called a doctor and never left my side. I slept there. Actually slept! I spent the whole night sitting in a chair by the window. The next morning Mimi came. Her sister had phoned him. Mimi has been like a brother to me, more than a brother. He made sure I didn’t run into Francois again. He took me out’ showed me half Sicily, and he talked me into coming here, even if only for an hour. “The two of you need to talk, to explain yourselves,” he said. We got to Montelusa last night, and he accompanied me to the Hotel Delia Valle, This morning he came round and brought me here. My suitcase is in his car’
‘I don’t think there’s much to explain’ said Montalbano.
An explanation would have been possible only if Livia, realizing she’d been wrong, had expressed a word of understanding, just one, regarding his feelings. Or did she think that he, Salvo, had felt nothing when he realized they’d lost Francois for ever? Livia wasn’t allowing for any openings, she was shut up inside her own grief and could see nothing but her own selfish despair. And what about him? Weren’t they, until proven otherwise, a couple whose bond was built on love, yes, and on sex, too, but above all on a relationship of mutual understanding that bordered at times on complicity? One word too many, at that moment, might trigger an irreparable rupture. Montalbano swallowed his resentment.
‘What do you intend to do?’
he asked.
‘About … the boy?’ She couldn’t bring herself to pronounce Francois’s name.
‘Yes’
‘I won t stand in his way’
She got up abruptly and ran towards the sea, moaning in a low voice like a mortally wounded animal. Then, unable to stand it any longer, she threw herself face down on the sand.
Montalbano picked her up in his arms, carried her into the house, laid her down on the bed, and with a damp towel gently wiped the sand off her face.
When he heard the horn of Mimi Augello’s car, Montalbano helped Livia stand up and put her clothes in order.
Utterly passive, she let him do as he wished. With an arm around her waist, he escorted her outside. Mimi did not get out of the car. He knew it was unwise to get too close to his superior; he might get bitten. He stared straight ahead the whole time, to avoid meeting the inspector’s gaze. Right before getting in the car, Livia turned her head slightly and kissed Montalbano on the cheek. The inspector returned to the house, went into the bathroom, and got into the shower, clothes and all, turning the water on full blast. Then he swallowed two sleeping pills, which he never took, washed them down with a glass of whisky, threw himself on the bed, and waited for the inevitable blow to lay him out.
When he woke it was five in the afternoon. He had a slight headache and felt nauseated.
‘Augello here?’ he asked, walking into the station.
Mimi entered Montalbano’s office and prudently closed the door behind him. He looked resigned.
‘If you start yelling like you usually do’ he said, ‘it’s probably better if we go outside’
The inspector got up from his chair, brought himself face- to-face with Mimi, then put an arm around the other’s neck.
‘You’re a real friend, Mimi.
But I advise you to leave this room immediately. I’m liable to change my mind and start kicking you.’
Inspector? Clementina Vasile Cozzo’s on the line. Shall I put her through?’
‘And who are you?’
It couldn’t possibly be Catarella.
‘What do you mean, who am I? I’m me.’
‘And what the hell is your name?’
It’s Catarella, Chief!
Poissonally in poisson!’
Thank God for that. The impromptu identity check had resuscitated the old Catarella, not the one the computer was inexorably transforming.
Inspector! What happened?
Are you angry with me?’
‘Signora, believe me, I’ve had some pretty strange days.. ‘
“You’re forgiven.
Could you come to my flat? I have something to show you.’
‘Now?’
‘Now’
Signora Clementina escorted him into the living room and turned off the television.
‘Look at this. It’s the programme of tomorrow’s concert, which Maestro Cataldo Barbera had someone bring to me a short while ago.’
Montalbano took the torn, squared notebook page from the signora’s hand. Was this why she’d so urgently wanted to see him?
On it, in pencil, was written:
Montalbano gave a start.
Did Maestro Barbera know the victim?
‘That’s why I asked you to come,’ said Mrs Vasile Cozzo, reading the question in his eyes.
The inspector went back to studying the sheet of paper.
Programme: G. Tartini, Variations on a Theme ‘ by Corelli’; J.S. Bach, ‘Largo’; G.B. Viotti, from Concerto no. 24 in E minor.
He handed the sheet, back to Mrs Vasile Cozzo.
‘Did you know that they were acquainted, signora?’
‘Never. And I wonder how that could be, since the Maestro never goes outside. As soon as I read that piece of paper, I knew it might be of interest to you.’
‘I’m going to go upstairs and talk to him.’
‘You’re wasting your time.
He’ll refuse to see you. It’s six thirty. He’s already gone to bed.’
‘What does he do, watch television?’
‘He hasn’t got a television, and he doesn’t read newspapers. He goes to sleep, and then wakes up around two o’clock in the morning. I asked the maid if she knew why the Maestro keeps such odd hours, and she said she had no idea. But, after giving it some thought, I think I’ve found a plausible explanation.’
‘Which is?’
‘I believe that the Maestro, in so doing, blots out a specific period of time, that is, he cancels, skips over, the hours during which he normally used to
