“Go on,” Montalbano prodded him.
“But we don’t . . .”
“Say it.”
The kid hesitated. It was clear he felt embarrassed talking about something so private.
“You’ll see,” the inspector continued, “when you become a policeman yourself, you too will have to ask indiscreet questions.”
“I know. I merely wanted to say that we don’t do it very often.”
“She doesn’t want to?”
“No, not exactly. I’m always the one who asks her to come to my place. But every time I’ve felt as though, I don’t know, she seemed distant, or absent. It was like she went along with it just to please me. I realized that she’s very affected by her mother’s illness. And I felt ashamed to ask her . . . Just yesterday afternoon . . .” He broke off, then made a strange face, as though per-plexed.
“How strange . . .” Francesco muttered.
The inspector pricked his ears.
“Just yesterday afternoon?” he pressed.
“She was the one who suggested we go to my place. And I said yes. We didn’t have much time, since she’d been at the bank and then had to go to Tina’s to study.” The kid still looked bewildered.
“Maybe she wanted to reward you for your patience,” said Montalbano.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Because this time, for the first time, Susanna was present. Entirely present. With me. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Sorry, but you said that before meeting you, she’d been to the bank. Do you know why she went?”
“She had to withdraw some money.”
“And did she?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know how much?”
“No.”
So why had Susanna’s father said that she had only thirty euros, at the most, in her pocket? Maybe he didn’t know she’d been to the bank? The inspector stood up, and the young man did the same.
“Okay, Francesco, you can go. It’s been a real pleasure to meet you. I’ll give you a ring if I need you.” He held out his hand, and Francesco shook it.
“Could I ask you one thing?” the boy asked.
“Of course.”
“Why, in your opinion, was Susanna’s motorbike parked that way?”
This Francesco Lipari would make a good cop, no doubt about it.
o o o
He phoned Marinella. Livia had just come in and was happy.
“You know what?” she said. “I’ve just discovered a fabulous place. It’s called Kolymbetra. Just think, it used to be a great big pool, originally carved out by Carthaginian prisoners.” “Where is it?”
“It’s right there, near the temples. Now it’s a kind of vast garden of Eden, just recently opened to the public.”
“Did you have lunch?”
“No, just a panino at Kolymbetra. How about you?”
“Nah, all I had was a panino, too.”
The lie had come out spontaneously, without warning.
Why hadn’t he told her he’d gorged himself on couscous and mullets, violating the sort of diet that Livia was forcing him to follow? For what reason? Perhaps a combination of shame, cowardice, and a desire to avoid a quarrel.
“Poor thing! Will you be back late?”
“I really don’t think so.”
“Then I’ll cook something.”
Here was the instant punishment for his lie. He would ex piate his sin by eating a dinner prepared by Livia. Not that she was a terrible cook, but her dishes tended toward the flavorless, the spiceless, the lightest of light, the I- can-but-I-can’t-really-taste-it. Instead of actually cooking, Livia hinted at cooking.
He decided to drop in at the villa to see how things were going. He drove off, and then, as he drew near, he noticed that traffic was getting heavy. In fact there were a good ten cars parked along the road that ran along one side of the villa, and in front of the closed gate six or seven people jostled about, videocams on their shoulders, trying to get a good shot of the lane and the garden. Montalbano closed the windows of his car and drove forward, wildly honking his horn, until he nearly crashed into the gate.
