Livia—Montalbano distinctly heard it—held her breath. She didn’t speak. Montalbano continued.
“I realized that we’re often bickering, too often. Like a couple who’ve been married for years and are feeling the strain of living together. But the good part is, we don’t live together.”
“Go on,” said Livia in a faint voice.
“So, I said to myself: why don’t we start all over again, from the beginning?”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Livia, what would you say if we got engaged?”
“Aren’t we already?”
“No. We’re married.”
“Okay. So how do we begin?”
“Like this: Livia, I love you. And you?”
“Me too. Good night, my love.”
“Good night.”
He hung up. Now he could stuff himself with the caponata without fearing any more phone calls.
14
He woke up at seven, after a night of dreamless sleep so leaden he had the impression, upon opening his eyes, that he was still in the same position as when he first lay down. It was certainly not the most glorious of mornings—scattered clouds giving the impression of sheep about to gather into flocks—but one could clearly see that it did not promise any major bouts of ill humor. He slipped on a pair of shabby old trousers, stepped down from the veranda, and, barefoot, went for a walk along the beach. The cool air cleansed his skin, lungs, and thoughts. Back inside, he shaved and went into the shower.
In the course of every investigation that came his way, there was always one day—actually, a specific moment on a certain day—when an inexplicable sense of physical well-being, a happy lightness in the interaction of his thoughts, a harmonious conjunction of his muscles, made him feel as if he could endlessly walk along a road, eyes closed, without once stumbling or running into anything or anyone. As happens, sometimes, in the land of dream. It didn’t last very long, but it was enough. By now he knew from experience that from this point on—it was like the buoy at the bend in the sea-lane, the sign of the approaching turn—every piece of the puzzle, the investigation, in other words, would fall into place, all by itself, without any effort. It was almost enough just to will it so. And this was what was going through his head in the shower, even though many things, indeed most everything, still remained obscure.
It was quarter past eight when he pulled the car up in front of the station, slowing down to park, then reconsidered and drove on to Via Cavour.The concierge gave him a dirty look and didn’t even say hello: she’d just finished washing the floor at the entrance, and now the inspector’s shoes were going to muck it all up again. Davide Griffo looked less pale. He’d recovered a little. He didn’t seem surprised to see Montalbano and immediately offered him a cup of coffee, which he’d just made.
“Did you find anything?”
“Nothing,” said Griffo. “And I looked everywhere. There’s no passbook, and there’s nothing in writing that might explain Papa’s two million lire a month.”
“Mr. Griffo, I need you to help me remember something.”
“I’m at your disposal.”
“I believe you told me your father didn’t have any close relatives.”
“That’s right. He had a brother, whose name I forget, but he was killed in the American bombing raids in 1943.”
“Your mother, however, did have some close relations.”
“Exactly. A brother and a sister. The brother, Zio Mario, lives in Comiso and has a son who works in Sydney. We talked about him, remember? You asked me—”
“I remember.”The inspector cut him short.
“The sister, Zia Giuliana, used to live in Trapani, where she became a schoolteacher. She remained single, never wanted to get married. But neither Mama nor Zio Mario saw much of her, though she and Mama got a little closer in recent years, to the point that Mama and Papa went to visit her two days before she died. They stayed in Trapani for almost a week.”
“Any idea why your mother and her brother had fallen out with this Giuliana?”
“My grandfather and grandmother, when they died, left almost all of the little they had to Giuliana, practically disinheriting the other two.”
“Did your mother ever tell you why—”
“She hinted at it. Apparently my grandparents felt abandoned by Mama and Zio Mario. But my mother got married very young, you see, and my uncle had left home to go to work before he was even sixteen. Only Zia Giuliana stayed with her parents. As soon as my grandparents died—Grandma died first—Zia Giuliana sold what she owned here and moved to Trapani.”
“When did she die?”
“I can’t really say exactly. At least two years ago.”
