“How old are you, young man?”
“Twenty-three. You can call me Francesco, if you want.
You’re old enough to be my father.”
With a pang to the heart, Montalbano realized that, at this stage of his life, he would never be the father of a kid that age.
“Are you a student?”
“Yes, in law. I graduate next year.”
“What do you want to do in life?”
He asked only to relieve the tension.
“The same thing you do.”
Montalbano thought he hadn’t heard right.
“You want to join the police force?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it.”
“I wish you the best of luck. Listen, to get back to your rapist hypothesis . . . which, mind you, is only a hypothesis.”
“Which I’m sure you’d already thought of.”
“Of course. Did Susanna ever mention people making lewd propositions, obscene phone calls, things like that?”
“Susanna’s very reserved. She certainly got a lot of compliments, wherever she went. She’s a beautiful girl. Sometimes she would repeat them to me, and we would laugh about it. If there was any cause for worry, I’m sure she would have mentioned it to me.” “Her friend Tina is convinced Susanna ran away of her own volition.”
Francesco gave him an astonished look, mouth open.
“Why would she do that?”
“A sudden breakdown. The pain and tension caused by her mother’s illness, the physical strain of caring for her, the stress of studying for exams. Is Susanna a fragile girl?” “So that’s what Tina thinks? She obviously doesn’t know Susanna! Susanna’s nerves are bound to give out, that much is certain, but it’s equally certain the breakdown won’t come until after her mother dies! Until that moment, she will stay at her bedside. Because once she gets something in her head, and she’s convinced she’s right, she becomes so determined that . . .
She’s anything but fragile! No, believe me, that’s an absurd hypothesis.”
“Speaking of which, what is Susanna’s mother sick with?”
“To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I don’t know what’s wrong with her. A couple of weeks ago, Susanna’s uncle, Carlo, the doctor, had some sort of consultation with two doctors—one who’d come down from Rome, the other from Milan—and in the end they all threw their hands up. Susanna explained to me that her mother is dying of an incurable dis-ease: the refusal to live. A kind of fatal depression. When I asked the reason for this depression— since I believe there always has to be a reason—she answered evasively.” Montalbano steered the conversation back to the girl.
“How did you meet Susanna?”
“Purely by chance, in a bar. She was with a girl I used to go out with.”
“When was this?”
“About six months ago.”
“And you hit it off straightaway?”
Francesco gave a broad smile.
“It was love at first sight.”
“Do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Make love.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At my place.”
“Do you live alone?”
“I live with my father. But he’s away a lot, often travels abroad. He’s a wholesaler in lumber. Right now he’s in Russia.”
“What about your mother?”
“They’re divorced. My mother’s remarried and lives in Siracusa.”
Francesco opened and then closed his mouth, as if he wanted to add something.
