“Michela, why do you hate Elena so much, but not the other women your brother went with?”
Before she answered, a painful grimace twisted her mouth.
“Angelo fell truly in love with that woman. It was the first time that happened to him.”
The moment had come. Montalbano summoned inside him everything there was to summon: muscles, breath, nerves. Like a diver at the edge of the diving board, an instant before taking the plunge. Then he jumped.
“Angelo was supposed to love only you, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
He’d done it. Penetrating that shadowy undergrowth of intertwined roots, snakes, tarantulas, vipers’ nests, wild grasses, and thorny brambles had been easy. He’d had no trouble entering the dark wood. But walking through it would take courage.
“But hadn’t you once been engaged? Weren’t you in love?”
“Yes. But Angelo …”
There, under a tree, he’d found the malignant plant. Beautiful to look at, but put a leaf in your mouth and it’s lethal.
“Angelo got rid of him, is that right?”
“Yes.”
There was no end to this sick forest and its stench of death. The farther in you went, the greater the horror you wanted neither to see nor to smell, waiting in ambush.
“And when Teresa got pregnant, was it you who persuaded Angelo to have the girl abort and set a trap for her?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody was supposed to interfere with your … your… “
“What’s wrong, Inspector?” she whispered. “Can’t find the right word? Love, Mr. Montalbano. The word is ‘love.’ “
She opened her eyes and looked at him. On the surface of the yellowish liquid expanse, there were now large bubbles, popping as if in slow motion. Montalbano imagined the stink they gave off, a sickly-sweet smell of decomposition, of rotten eggs, of miasmas and fetid swamps.
“How did you find out Angelo’d been killed?”
“I got a phone call. That same Monday, around nineP.M.They told me they’d gone to talk to Angelo but had found him already dead. They ordered me to remove everything that might reveal the sort of work Angelo was doing for them. And I obeyed.”
“You not only obeyed. You also went into the room where your brother had just been killed and planted false evidence against Elena. It was you who staged that whole scene of the panties in the mouth, the unbuckled jeans, his member hanging out.”
“Yes. I wanted to be sure, absolutely certain, that Elena would be charged with the crime. Because she did it. When those other people arrived, Angelo was already dead.”
“We’ll see about that later. They may have lied to you, you know. For now, tell me: Do you know who it was that called you to tell you your brother was dead?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me his name.”
Michela stood up slowly. She spread her arms as though stretching.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, “I need a drink of water.”
She left the room and headed towards the kitchen, her shoulders more hunched than ever, feet dragging on the floor.
Montalbano didn’t know how or why, but all at once he got up and ran into the kitchen. Michela wasn’t there. He went out on the open balcony. A small light illuminated the area in front of the garage, but its dim glow was enough to reveal a kind of black sack, immobile, on the ground. Michela had thrown herself down below, without a word, without a cry. And the inspector realized that tragedy, when acted out in front of others, strikes poses and speaks in a loud voice, but when it is deep and true, it speaks softly and makes humble gestures. There: the humility of tragedy.
He made a snap decision. He’d never gone to Angelo’s apartment that evening. When the woman’s body was discovered, they would think she killed herself because she couldn’t get over the loss of her brother. And that was how it should be.
He closed the door to the apartment softly, terrified that His Majesty might catch him in the act. He descended the lifeless stairs, went outside, got in his car, and drove home to Marinella.
18
The moment he entered his house, he felt very tired. Great was the desire to lie down, pull the covers up over his head, and stay that way, eyes closed, trying to blot out the world.
It was elevenP.M.As he was taking off his jacket, tie, and shirt, he managed, like a magician, to dial Augello’s number.
“Salvo, are you crazy?”
“Why?”
