“Before. Me, he told before.”
“And you agreed anyway?”
“Yes. He said I could go with other men if I wanted to. Discreetly, of course, and provided I always informed him of everything.”
“And have you kept your promise?”
“Yes.”
Montalbano had the clear impression that this “Yes” was a lie. But it didn’t seem to be all that important whether Elena met secretly with someone without telling her husband. It was her own business.
“Listen, Elena, I have to be more explicit.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why does a beautiful girl like you, who must have men constantly wooing and desiring her, agree to marry a man who is not rich, much older than her, and can’t even—”
“Inspector, have you ever imagined yourself flailing in the water because your boat has sunk in a storm at sea?”
“I don’t have a very good imagination.”
“Try to make the effort. You’ve been swimming a long time, but you just can’t go any further. You realize you’re going to drown. Then you suddenly find yourself beside some object that might keep you afloat. “What do you do? You grab onto it. And it makes no difference to you whether it’s a plank of wood or a life raft with radar.”
“Was it really that bad?” “Yes.”
Clearly she didn’t want to discuss the subject. It was hard for her. But the inspector couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it slide. He needed to know everything past and present about the people associated with the murder victim. It was his job, even though it sometimes made him feel like someone from the Inquisition. And he didn’t like this one bit.
“How did you meet Emilio?”
“After the scandal in Comisini, Emilio went to live for a while in Fela. There, my father, who’s his second cousin, talked to him about me and my situation, and the fact that he was forced to put me in a special home for minors.”
“Drugs?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you?” “Sixteen.”
“Why did you start?”
“You’re asking me a specific question that has no specific answer. It’s hard to explain why I started. Even to myself. It was probably a combination of things … First of all, my mother’s sudden death, when I wasn’t even ten years old. Then my father’s utter inability to care about anyone, including my mother. Then simple curiosity. The opportunity arises at a moment of weakness. Your boyfriend from school, whom you think you’re in love with, pushes you to try …”
“How long did you stay at the home?”
“A whole year, without interruption. Emilio came to see me three times. The first time with my father, so he could meet me. After that he came alone.”
“And then?”
“I ran away. I got on a train and went to Milan. I met a lot of different men. I ended up with one who was forty. I got stopped twice by the police. The first time they sent me home to my father, since I was a minor. But if living with him was dramatic before, this time it became impossible. So I ran away again. I went back to Milan. When they stopped me the second time …”
She froze, turned pale, started lightly trembling again, and swallowed without speaking.
“That’s enough,” said Montalbano.
“No. I want to explain why…The second time, as the two policemen were taking me to the station in their car, I offered to make a deal with them. You can imagine what. At first they pretended not to be interested. ‘You have to come down to the station,’ they kept repeating. So I kept pleading with them. And when I realized they were getting off on hearing me implore them, since they could do whatever they liked with me, I made a scene, started crying, got down on my knees, right there in the car. Finally they accepted and took me to a secluded place. It was terrible. They used me for hours, as never before. But the worst of it was their contempt, their sadistic desire to humiliate me … In the end one of them urinated in my face.”
“Please, that’s enough,” Montalbano repeated, in a soft voice.
He felt deeply ashamed for being a man. He knew that the girl was not making up her story. This sort of thing had happened before, unfortunately. But now he understood why, at the mere mention of the words “police station,” Elena had nearly fainted.
“Why did the police arrest you?”
“Prostitution.”
She said it with perfect ease, without shame or embarrassment. It was one thing among so many others she had done.
“When we were hurting for money,” she went on, “my boyfriend used to prostitute me. Discreetly, of course. Not on the streets. But there were some raids, and I was caught twice.”
“How did you meet back up with Emilio?”
