The Track of Sand

They were in a sort of thicket, in complete darkness. He couldn’t find his way, and this bothered him. He risked knocking his head against a tree. But the situation immediately improved when Rachele moved Montalbano’s hand onto her hip and then rested her own on top, so that they continued walking in each other’s embrace.

“Is that better?”

“Yes.”

Of course it was better. Now Montalbano’s hand was doubly comforted: by the heat of the woman’s body, and by the heat of the hand she kept on top of his. All at once the thicket came to an end, and the inspector saw before him a large, grassy clearing, at the far end of which a dim light glowed.

“See that light up ahead? That’s where the stalls are.”

Now that he could see better, Montalbano began to retract his hand, but she was ready and squeezed it harder.

“Leave it like that. Do you mind?”

“N ...no.”

He heard her giggle. Montalbano was walking with his head down, looking at the ground, afraid to misstep or bump into something.

“I don’t understand why the baron had this gate put here. It makes no sense. I’ve been coming here for years, and it’s always the same,” Rachele said at a certain point.

Montalbano looked up. He caught a glimpse of a cast-iron gate that was open.

There was nothing around it, neither a wall nor a fence. It was a perfectly useless gate.

“I cannot understand what its purpose could be,” Rachele repeated.

Without knowing why, the inspector felt overwhelmed by a sense of uneasiness. Like when you find yourself in a place where you know you’ve never been, and yet you feel like you’ve been there before.

When they arrived in front of the stalls, Rachele let go of Montalbano’s hand and slipped out of his embrace. Out of one of the stalls popped the head of a horse that had somehow sensed her presence outside. Rachele went up to it, brought her mouth to the animal’s ear, and started talking to it in a soft voice. She stroked its forehead for a long while, left off, then turned towards Montalbano, walked up to him, embraced him, and kissed him—a long, deep kiss, with her entire body pressed up against his. To the inspector it seemed as if the ambient temperature had spiked by about twenty degrees.Then she stepped back.

“That’s not, however, the kiss I would have given you if I had won.”

Montalbano said nothing, still stunned. She took him by the hand again and led him away.

“Where are we going now?”

“I want to give Moonbeam something to eat.”

She stopped in front of a small barn. The door was locked, but a brisk tug was enough to open it.The scent of hay was so strong it was stifling. Rachele went inside, and the inspector followed. As soon as they were inside, Rachele closed the door behind them.

“Where’s the light?”

“Never mind.”

“But you can’t see a thing this way.”

“I can,” said Rachele.

And at once he felt her, naked, in his arms. She had undressed in the twinkling of an eye.

The scent of her skin was overpowering. Hanging from Montalbano’s neck, her mouth glued to his, she let herself fall backwards onto the hay, pulling him down on top of her. Montalbano was so astounded that he felt like a mannequin.

“Put your arms around me,” she ordered, in a voice suddenly different.

Montalbano embraced her.Then, after a brief spell, she turned around until she was facing away from him.

* * *

“Mount me,” said the coarse voice.

He turned and looked at the woman.

She was no longer a woman, but sort of a horse. She had got down on all fours ...

The dream!

That was what had made him feel so uneasy! The absurd gate, the horse-woman . . . He froze for a moment, let go of the woman . . .

“What’s got into you? Put your arms around me!” Rachele repeated.

* * *

“C’mon, mount me,” she repeated.

He mounted and she took off at a gallop, fast as a Roman candle . . .

* * *

Later he felt her move and then get up, and all at once a yellowish light lit up the scene. Rachele, still naked, was standing beside the door by the light switch and looking at him. Without warning she started laughing in her way, throwing her head back.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re funny.You’re so touching.”

She went up to him, knelt down, and hugged him. Montalbano started frantically putting his clothes back on.

But they lost another ten minutes helping each other remove the blades of straw that had lodged themselves in every place they could.

They retraced their steps without a word, and walking a bit apart from each other.

Then, just as he had feared, Montalbano ran into a tree. But this time Rachele did not come to his aid by taking his hand. She said only:

“Did you hurt yourself ?”

“No.”

But when they were still in the dark part of the great lawn where the tables were, Rachele suddenly put her arms around him and whispered in his ear:

“I really enjoyed you.”

Deep inside, Montalbano felt a kind of shame. He also felt slightly offended.

I really enjoyed you! What kind of fucking statement was that? What did it mean? That the lady was satisfied with the performance? Pleased with the product? Try Montalbano’s cassata; you’ll taste paradise! Montalbano’s ice cream has no equal! Montalbano’s cannoli are the best! Try them, you’ll like them!

He felt enraged. Because, while Rachele may have enjoyed the encounter, it was still stuck in his craw.What had taken place between the two of them anyway? A pure and simple coupling. Like two horses in a barn. And he, after a certain point, had been unable, or had not known how, to restrain himself. How true it was that one needed slip only once, to slip every time thereafter!

Why had he done it?

It was a pointless question, in that he knew very well why: the fear—by now ever-present even when not visible—of the years passing by, flying by. And his recent flings, first with that twenty-year-old girl, whose name he did not even want to remember[9], and now with Rachele, were both ridiculous, miserable, pitiable attempts to stop time.To stop it, at least, for those few seconds in which only the body was alive, while the mind, for its part, was lost in some great, timeless nothingness.

* * *

When they returned to their table, the dinner was over.A few tables had already been cleared by the waiters. An atmosphere of desolation hung over it all, and a few of the floodlights had been turned off. A handful of people remained, still willing to be eaten alive by mosquitoes.

Ingrid was waiting for them at Guido’s place.

“Guido has gone back to Fiacca,” she said to Rachele. “He was a bit miffed. He said he’ll call you later.”

“All right,” Rachele said indifferently.

“Where’d you two go?”

“Salvo came with me to say goodbye to Moonbeam.”