He arrived home feeling a little worried that Livia might give him the third degree. And indeed she started the questioning at once, after greeting him with a kiss that seemed a bit dis-tracted to him.
“So why did you have to go in to work?”
“Because the commissioner put me back on duty.” And he added, as a precaution, “But only temporarily.”
“Do you feel tired?”
“Not at all.”
“Did you have to drive?”
“I had the squad car take me around.”
End of interrogation. Some third degree! This was a piece of cake with icing.
05
“Did you watch the news?” he asked in turn, seeing that the danger had passed.
Livia replied that she hadn’t even turned on the television.
He would therefore have to wait for the ten-thirty edition of TeleVigata News, since Minutolo must surely have chosen to speak to the station that was always pro-government regardless of who was in power.
Although the pasta was a tad overcooked and the sauce acidic, and although the meat looked and tasted exactly like a piece of cardboard, the dinner Livia had cooked up could not really be considered an incitement to homicide. Throughout the meal, Livia spoke to him about Kolymbetra, trying to con-vey a little of the excitement she’d felt.
Without warning she broke off, stood up, and went out on the veranda.
It took Montalbano a few moments to realize she’d stopped speaking to him. Without getting up, and convinced that Livia had gone outside because she’d heard something, he asked her in a loud voice: “What is it? What did you hear?”
Livia reappeared with fire in her eyes.
“Nothing, that’s what I heard. What was I supposed to hear? All I heard was your silence! That was loud and clear!
You never listen when I talk to you, or else you pretend to listen and then answer in an incomprehensible mumble!” Oh, no, not a squabble! He had to dodge it at all costs.
Maybe by feigning a tragic tone . . . And it wouldn’t be entirely staged, since there was an element of truth to it: He did, in fact, feel very tired.
“No, Livia, no . . .” he said.
Resting his elbows on the table, he covered his face with his hands. Livia became alarmed and immediately changed tone.
“But be reasonable, Salvo. Whenever anybody talks to you, you just—”
“I know, I know. Please forgive me, that’s just the way I am, and I don’t even realize it when . . .” He spoke in a strangled voice, hands pressing hard on his eyes. Then he got up all at once and ran into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. After washing his face, he reemerged.
Livia was standing outside the door, repentant. He’d put on a good performance. The audience was moved. They embraced with abandon, asking each other’s pardon.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that today was a bad—”
“I’m sorry, too, Salvo.”
They spent two hours chatting on the little veranda.
Then they went back inside and the inspector turned on the television, tuning it to TeleVigata. The kidnapping of Susanna Mistretta was naturally the lead story. As the anchorman spoke of the girl, a photograph of her appeared on the screen. At that point Montalbano realized that he’d never felt curious enough to find out what she looked like. She was a beautiful girl, blonde and blue-eyed. Little wonder that people complimented her on the street, as Francesco had mentioned. Her expression, however, was one of self-assurance and determination, which made her look slightly older than her years. Then some images of the villa appeared. The newsman hadn’t the slightest doubt that Susanna had been kidnapped, despite the fact that no ransom demands had yet been made on the family. By way of conclusion, he informed viewers that the station would now show an exclusive interview with the kidnap victim’s father. Mr. Mistretta appeared on the screen.
The moment the man began to speak, Montalbano was flabbergasted. In front of a television camera, some people lose their train of thought, stutter, go cross-eyed, sweat, say stupid things—he himself belonged to this unhappy category—whereas others remain perfectly normal, speaking and moving the way they usually do. Then there is a third category, the chosen few who become more lucid and clear when a camera is watching. Mistretta belonged to the latter group. He said that whoever had kidnapped his daughter, Susanna, had made a mistake. Whatever sum they might ask for her liberation, the family was in no position to raise any money. The kidnappers should better inform themselves, he said. The only solution was to set Susanna free, immediately. If, however, there was something else the kidnappers wanted—though he, Mistretta, could not imagine what this might be— they should make their demands at once. He would do the impossible to satisfy them.
That was all. His voice was firm, his eyes dry. Troubled, yes, but not afraid. With this declaration, the geologist won the esteem and respect of all who had heard him.
“He’s a real man, this Mistretta,” said Livia.
The anchorman reappeared, saying he would report the rest of the news after the station’s commentary on what was clearly the biggest story of the day. The purse-lipped face of TeleVigata’s main editorialist, Pippo Ragonese, appeared on the screen. He started by saying that it was well-known that retired geologist Salvatore Mistretta was of modest means, even though his wife, now gravely ill, had once been wealthy before losing
