The Track of Sand

preventing a homicide.

If anything, all it had ever accomplished was an increase in the number of dead: not just the designated victim, but two or three men from the escort as well.

And this was inevitable. Because anyone who comes up to you to kill you knows exactly what he needs to do and has likely rehearsed the scenario dozens of times, whereas the men in the escort, who are trained to fire on the rebound—that is, after they’ve been attacked, and thus defensively, not offensively—know nothing of the intentions of the man who is approaching. A few seconds later, when they finally understand, it is already too late: that difference of a few seconds between the attacker and the escort is the killer’s winning card.

In short, the brain of the person using a weapon to kill has one more gear than the one who uses it to defend.

At any rate, the inspector felt on edge, there was no denying it.

On edge, not afraid.

And also deeply offended.

When he’d seen the house turned upside down, his first feeling was one of shame. The comparison was, of course, untenable, but in a vague way he understood why very often a woman who has been raped feels too humiliated to report it.

His house—in other words, his person—had been brutally violated, searched, turned inside out by unknown hands. In fact, the only way he’d been able to talk about it with Fazio was to pretend he was joking.The rifling through all his belongings had upset him considerably more than the attempt to burn the house down.

Then there was that offensive telephone call. But it wasn’t so much the tone or the final insult.The offense lay in the fact that someone could think he was the kind of man to give in to intimidation and do the bidding of others, like some measly little punk or worthless nobody. Had he ever given them any reason, any hint in his actions or words, to have such an opinion of him?

Whatever the case, these people surely were not about to stop.They even showed signs of being in a hurry.

Do what you’re supposed to do.

Maybe Fazio was right. Everything that was happening to him must have some connection to the Licco trial. In the reconstruction of events the inspector had presented to send Licco to prison, there was one weak link, he remembered. But he was unable to bring it into focus. Surely Licco’s lawyers had noticed this weak point and discussed it with the Cuffaros, who had then sprung into action.

The first thing he had to do next morning was get hold of the Licco file and reread it.

The telephone rang. He let it ring. A minute later, it stopped ringing. If they were out there watching him, they would see that he was taking things easy. He wouldn’t even get up to answer the phone.

When sleep started to come over him and he went back inside, he decided to leave the French door ajar.That way, if they were planning to pay him a visit during the night, they wouldn’t have to break it a third time.

He went to the bathroom, lay down in bed, and no sooner had he slipped in between the sheets than the phone rang again.This time he got up and answered.

It was Livia.

“Why didn’t you answer the first time?”

“What first time?”

“About an hour ago.”

So it was she who had called.

“Maybe I was in the shower and didn’t hear.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. And you?”

“I’m fine. I wanted to ask you something.”

That made two. First Ingrid, and now Livia. All the women had questions to ask him. Ingrid he had answered with a half lie. Would he have to do the same with Livia? He coined a new proverb: A hundred lies a day / keeps all the women at bay.

“Go ahead.”

“Are you busy in the coming days?”

“Not exceedingly.”

“I really feel like coming to Marinella to spend a few days with you. I could catch the plane at three o’clock tomorrow aftern—”

“No!”

He must have yelled it.

“Thank you!” said Livia, after a pause.

And she hung up.

Matre santa! Now, how was he going to explain to her that that “No!” had escaped him because he was afraid to involve her in the nasty affair in which he was buried up to his neck?

What if those guys got it in their heads to start shooting when Livia was with him, just to make a point? No, there was no way. Having Livia about the house at that moment was a terrible idea.

He called her back. He was expecting her not to answer, but Livia actually picked up.

“Just because I’m curious.”

“About what?”

“To see whether you can manage to justify the way you said no.”

“I can see how you would be upset. But you have to understand, Livia, these are not excuses, you have to believe me.The fact is that in the last few days, burglars have broken into my house three times, and I—”

Livia started laughing uncontrollably.

What the fuck was so funny about it? Eh? You tell her that burglars go in and out of your house whenever the hell they feel like it, and not only does she not say anything to comfort you, she thinks it’s comical? How thoughtful! He started to feel angry.

“Listen, Livia, I don’t see what—”

“Burglars breaking into the home of the famous Inspector Montalbano! Ha ha ha!”

“If you would just calm down a second . . .”

“Ha ha ha ho ho ho!”

What to do? Hang up? Wait it out? Luckily she started calming down.

“I’m sorry, but it seems so funny to me!”

Which was exactly the reaction other people would have if the thing came to be known about town.

“Let me tell you what happened. It’s a strange story. Because, you know, they came back again this afternoon.”

“What did they steal?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Tell me!”

“Three days ago, Ingrid had come here for dinner . . .”

He bit his tongue, but it was too late. The damage was done.

At the other end of the line, the barometer must have signaled a gathering storm. Ever since the situation between them had returned to normal, Livia had been in the grips of a jealousy the likes of which she had never felt before.

“And since when have you been in the habit?”

“What habit?”

“The habit of the two of you having dinner in Marinella. By moonlight. Speaking of which, do you light a candle on the table?”

It ended badly.

* * *

And therefore, whether from the aggravation of the visit by the three men who wanted to burn down his house, or from the aggravation of the anonymous phone call, or from the aggravation of the squabble with Livia, he ended up sleeping hardly at all, and the little he did sleep was broken up into spells of twenty minutes or so. He woke up in a complete stupor. A half-hour shower and a half pint of espresso put him at least in a condition to tell