At the moment, it was not possible.
“I’d stopped, but in these circumstances . . .”said Mistretta.
You see, dear distinguished Dr. Strazzera? Sometimes one simply cannot do without it.
The inspector held out a cigarette for him and then lit it.
They smoked awhile in silence, then Montalbano asked:
“Is your wife sick?”
“She’s dying.”
“Does she know what’s happened?”
“No. She’s on tranquilizers and sedatives. My brother Carlo, who’s a doctor, spent last night with her. He just left, in fact. But . . .”
“But?”
“But my wife, even in this induced state of sleep, keeps calling for Susanna, as if she mysteriously understands that something . . .”
The inspector felt himself sweating. How was he ever going to talk to the man about his daughter’s kidnapping when his wife was dying? The only way, perhaps, was to adopt an official, bureaucratic tone, the kind of tone that precludes, by its very nature, any form of humanity.
“Mr. Mistretta, I have to inform those in charge about the kidnapping. The judge, the commissioner, my colleagues in Montelusa . . . And you can rest assured that the news will also reach the ears of some newsman who will race here with the inevitable camera crew . . . The reason I’m stalling is that I want to be absolutely certain.” “Certain of what?”
“That it’s really a kidnapping we’re dealing with.”
03
The geologist gave him a puzzled look.
“What else could it be?”
“Let me first say that I have no choice but to make conjectures, however unpleasant.”
“I understand.”
“One question. Does your wife need a lot of care?”
“Nonstop, day and night.”
“Who looks after her?”
“Susanna and I take turns.”
“How long has she been in this condition?”
“Things got worse about six months ago.”
“Is it possible that after being frayed for so long, Susanna’s nerves finally gave out?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Isn’t it possible that, seeing her mother always in that state, your daughter got so worn out from all the sleepless nights and study that she ran away of her own free will from what had become an unbearable situation?” The reply didn’t come immediately.
“That’s out of the question. Susanna is strong and generous. She would never do that to me. Never. And anyway, where would she hide?”
“Did she have any money on her?”
“I dunno, maybe thirty euros, at the most.”
“Doesn’t she have any relatives or friends she’s particularly fond of?”
“There’s only my brother, whom she would go visit at his house, but not very often. And she would meet with that boy who helped me in my search. They’d often go to the movies together or out for pizza. But there’s nobody else she was close to.” “What about the girl she was studying with?”
“She’s just a study companion, I think.”
Now they came to the difficult part, and the inspector had to be careful not to further offend this wounded man with his questions. He took a deep breath. The morning air was, in spite of everything, sweet and fragrant.
“Listen, your daughter’s boyfriend . . . what’s his name?”
“Francesco. Francesco Lipari.”
“Did Susan get along well with Francesco?”
“As far as I could tell, yes, basically.”
“What do you mean by ‘basically’?”
“I mean that, sometimes, I would hear her arguing with him over the telephone . . . But just silly stuff, the kind of things young lovers quarrel about.”
“You don’t think that Susanna perhaps met someone who secretly lured her, persuading her to—”
