The Track of Sand

“Why did I ...?”The prospect of the dinner, the people whose conversation he would have to listen to, the muck that would likely be served and that he would have to swallow even if it made him puke, had made him forget that it was he who had called her. “Oh, right, sorry. But I don’t want to take up any more of your time. If you could just give me about five minutes tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow there’s going to be pandemonium. But I do have a little time right now, before I get ready to go out to eat.”

With Guido? A candlelight dinner?

“Listen, signora—”

“Please call me Rachele.”

“All right, Rachele. Do you remember when you told me that it was the watchman of the stables who had informed you that your horse—”

“Yes, I remember saying that. But I must have been mistaken.”

“Why?”

“Because Chichi—I’m sorry, Lo Duca told me the poor night watchman was at the hospital. On the other hand . . .”

“Go on, Rachele.”

“On the other hand I’m almost certain he said he was the watchman. But I’d been asleep, you know, it was very early in the morning and I’d been up very late . . .”

“I understand. Did Lo Duca tell you who he had asked to call you?”

“Lo Duca didn’t ask anyone to call me. That would have been ungentlemanly. It was up to him to inform me.”

“And did he?”

“Of course! He phoned me from Rome around nine in the morning.”

“And did you tell him that someone had already called?”

“Yes.”

“Did he make any comment?”

“He said it was probably someone from the stable who had called of his own initiative.”

“Have you got another minute?”

“Listen, I’m in the bathtub at the moment and I am really enjoying it. Hearing your voice so close to my ear right now is . . . Never mind.”

She played rough, this Rachele Esterman.

“You told me you phoned the stables in the afternoon—”

“You’re not remembering correctly. Someone from the stable called to tell me the horse hadn’t been found yet.”

“Did the person identify himself ?”

“No.”

“Was it the same voice as in the morning?”

“I . . . think so.”

“Did you mention this second phone call to Lo Duca?”

“No. Should I have?”

“No, there was no need. All right, Rachele, I—”

“Wait.”

A minute of silence passed. They hadn’t been cut off, because Montalbano could hear her breathing. Then she said in a low voice:

“I get it.”

“You get what?”

“What you suspect.”

“Namely?”

“That the person who called me twice was not from the stables, but was one of the people who stole and killed my horse. Am I right?”

Shrewd, beautiful, and smart.

“You’re right.”

“Why did they do it?”

“I can’t really say at the moment.”

There was a pause.

“Oh, listen. Is there any news of Lo Duca’s horse?”

“They’ve lost all trace of it.”

“How strange.”

“Well, Rachele, that’s about all I had—”

“I wanted to tell you something.”

“Tell me.”

“You . . . I really like you. I like talking to you, being with you.”

“Thank you,” said Montalbano, a bit confused and not knowing what else to say.

She laughed. And in his mind he saw her naked, in the bathtub, throwing her head back and laughing. A cold chill ran down his spine.

“I don’t think we’re going to be able to spend any time together tomorrow, just the two of us . . .Although, maybe—”

She broke off as if she had just thought of something. Montalbano waited a bit, then went ahem, ahem, exactly the way they do in British novels.

She resumed speaking.

“At any rate, I’ve decided to stay another three or four days in Montelusa. I think I already mentioned that to you. I hope we’ll have a chance to meet. See you tomorrow, Salvo.”

* * *

He took a shower and went out on the veranda to eat.Adelina had made a salad of baby octopus big enough for four and some giant prawns to be dressed only with olive oil, lemon, salt, and black pepper.

He ate and drank, managing only to think of idiocies.

Then he got up and phoned Livia.

“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” was the first thing she said.

How could he tell her he got drunk with Ingrid and it had completely slipped his mind?

“There was no way.”

“Why not?”

“I was busy.”

“With whom?”

Jeez, what a pain in the ass!

“What do you mean, with whom? With my men.”

“What were you doing?”

His balls were definitively broken.

“We were having a competition.”

“A competition?!”

“Yes, to see who could say the stupidest shit imaginable.”

“And you won, of course. You have no rivals in that field!”

And thus began the usual relaxing nightly squabble.

6

After the phone call, he no longer felt like going to bed. He went back out on the veranda and sat down. He needed to distract himself a little, to think about something that had nothing to do with either Livia or the horse