“Rachele? Luckily I’ve managed to break free. Where should we meet?”
“Wherever you like.”
“Have you got a car?”
“Ingrid lent me hers.”
How ready Ingrid was to facilitate his encounters with Rachele!
“Why, doesn’t she need it?”
“No, a friend of hers picked her up and will bring her home later.”
He told her where they should meet. Before leaving the room, he picked up the magazine that Mimì Augello had brought him. It might help him rein in Rachele, if their conversation began to take a dangerous turn.
13
Arriving at the Marinella Bar, he noticed that Ingrid’s car was nowhere to be seen in the parking lot. Apparently Rachele was running late. She hardly had the same Swiss precision as her friend. He remained undecided as to whether he should wait for her outside or inside the bar. He felt a little uneasy about the encounter, there was no denying it. The fact was that, at fifty-six years and counting, never in his life had he met back up with a woman—one, moreover, entirely foreign to him—after having had hasty, er,
What should he say to her? How should he behave? What sort of expression should he wear?
To steel himself a little, he got out of his car, entered the establishment, walked up to the bar, and asked Pino, the barman, for a whisky, neat.
He had just finished downing it when he saw Pino’s face drop. Eyes fixed on the entrance, the barman was an open-mouthed statue, like Lou Ravi in a crèche, a glass in one hand, a dish towel in the other.
The inspector turned around.
Rachele had just walked in.
She was so elegantly dressed, it was frightening. But her beauty was even more frightening.
It was as if her presence had suddenly increased the wattage of the lights in the bar. Pino was frozen, unable to move.
The inspector went up to greet her. And she proved very much the lady.
“Ciao,” she said, smiling at him, her blue eyes sparkling with genuine pleasure at seeing him. “Here I am.”
And she made no move to kiss him or be kissed by proffering her cheek.
Montalbano was overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude, and immediately felt at ease.
“Care for an aperitif ?”
“I’d rather not.”
Montalbano forgot to pay for the whisky. Pino was still in the same position, spellbound. In the parking lot, Rachele asked:
“Have you decided where we’re going?”
“Yes.To Montereale Marina.”
“That’s on the road to Fiacca, isn’t it? Shall we take your car or Ingrid’s?”
“Let’s take Ingrid’s. Would you mind driving? I feel a bit tired.”
It wasn’t true, but he could already feel the effect of the whisky. How could two fingers of whisky possibly make his head spin? Maybe it was the mix of whisky and Rachele that was so deadly?
They set off. Rachele drove with assurance. She went fast, naturally, but maintained a constant speed. It took them ten minutes to get to Montereale.
“Now show me the way,” she said.
Suddenly, again from the effect of that deadly mix, the inspector couldn’t remember how to get there.
“I think you have to turn to the right.”
The road on the right, which was not paved, came to an end in front of a farmhouse.
“Then turn around and take the road on the left.”
That wasn’t the right one, either, as it ended in front of the warehouse of the farmers’ cooperative.
“Maybe we need to go straight,” Rachele concluded.
And that, indeed, proved to be the right way.
Another ten minutes later, they were seated at a table in a restaurant where the inspector had been several times before and always eaten well.
The table they chose was under a pergola, at the edge of the beach. The sea was some thirty paces away, ever so lightly lapping the shore, making it clear that it had little desire to move. The stars were out, and there was not a cloud in the sky.
At another table sat two men of about fifty. On one of them, the sight of Rachele had a quasi lethal effect: the wine he was drinking went down the wrong way, and he nearly died choking. His friend finally managed, in extremis, to help him regain his breath, by dint of a series of powerful slaps on the back.
“They serve a white wine here that makes a nice aperitif as well . . . ,” said Montalbano.
“If you’ll join me.”
“Of course I will. Are you hungry?”
“On the way down to Marinella from Montelusa I wasn’t, but I am now. It must be the sea air.”
“I’m glad. I must confess that I’m always put off by women who don’t like to eat because they’re afraid to gain . . .”
He stopped short. Why was he suddenly speaking so confidentially with Rachele? What was happening?
“I’ve never followed diets,” said Rachele. “So far, at least, I’ve never needed to, luckily.”
The waiter brought the wine. They downed their first glasses.
“This is really good,” said Rachele.
A couple about thirty years old walked in, looking around for a table. But as soon as the girl saw how her partner was eyeing Rachele, she took him by the arm and led him back into the indoor part of the restaurant.
The waiter reappeared and, refilling the empty glasses, asked what they wanted to eat.
“Will you be having a first course or an antipasto?”
“Does the one exclude the other?” Rachele asked in turn.
“They serve fifteen different kinds of antipasto here,” said Montalbano. “Which, frankly, I recommend.”
“Fifteen?”
“Maybe more.”
“All right, then. Antipasto it is.”
“And for the main course?” asked the waiter.
“We’ll decide that later,” said Montalbano.
“Shall I bring another bottle with the antipasti?”
“I think you should.”
A few minutes later, there wasn’t any room left on the table for so much as a needle.
Shrimp, jumbo prawns, squid, smoked tuna, fried balls of
The total silence in which they ate, occasionally exchanging glances of appreciation for the flavors and aromas, was interrupted only once, at the moment of transition to the anchovy-wrapped capers, when Rachele asked:
“Is something wrong?”
