and when, at last, he’d expelled even his own mother’s milk, he kept on vomiting poison bitterness, bile, pure hatred.
He managed to stand up, holding on to the sink, but his legs could barely support him. He was sure he was getting a fever. He stuck his head under the open faucet.
“Too old for this profession,” he muttered.
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
He didn’t stay there long. When he got up his head was spinning, but the blind rage that had overwhelmed him was now turning into lucid determination. He called the office.
“Hallo? Hallo? This the Vigata Pol—”
“Montalbano here, Cat. Put Inspector Augello on, if he’s there.”
He was there.
“What is it, Salvo?”
“Listen to me carefully, Mimi. I want you and Fazio, right now, to take a car, not a squad car, mind you, and drive towards Santoli. I want to know if Dr. Ingro’s villa is being watched.”
“By whom?”
“No questions, Mimi. If it’s being watched, it’s certainly not by us. And you must try to determine if the doctor is alone or with others. Take as long as you need to be sure of what you’re seeing. I summoned all the men for a midnight meeting. Cancel the order; it’s no longer necessary. When you’ve finished in Santoli, let Fazio go home and come to Marinella to tell me how things stand.”
He hung up and the telephone rang. It was Livia.
“How come you’re already home at this hour?” she asked.
She was pleased, but more than pleased, she was happily surprised.
“And if you know I’m never home at this hour, why did you call?”
He’d answered a question with a question. But he needed to stall. Otherwise Livia, knowing him as she did, would realize that something wasn’t right with him.
“You know, Salvo, for the last hour or so something strange has been happening to me. It’s never happened to me before, or at least, it’s never been so strong as now. It’s hard to explain.”
Now it was Livia who was stalling.
“Give it a try.”
“Well, it’s as though you were here.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Okay. See, when I came home, I didn’t see my dining room, I saw yours. Not exactly, though; it was my room, of course, but at the same time, it was yours.”
“As in dreams.”
“Yes, something like that. And since that moment, it’s as though I’ve been split in two. I’m in Boccadasse, but at the same time I’m with you, in Marinella. It’s ... really beautiful. I called because I knew you’d be home.”
To hide his emotions, Montalbano tried to make a joke of it.
“The fact is, you’re curious.”
“About what?”
“About the layout of my house.”
“But I already ...” Livia reacted.
She broke off, suddenly remembering the little game he’d suggested they play: getting engaged, starting all over.
“I’d like to get to know it.”
“Why don’t you come?”
He’d been unable to control his tone, and a sincere question had come out. Livia took notice.
“What’s wrong, Salvo?”
“Nothing. A bad mood, it’ll pass. An ugly case.”
“Do you really want me to come?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll catch the afternoon flight tomorrow. I love you.”
He had to find a way to pass the time while waiting for Mimi. He didn’t feel like eating, even though he had emptied his guts of everything possible. His hand, as if of its own will, took a book off the shelf. He glanced at the title: The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad. He recalled having liked it, even a lot, but couldn’t remember anything
