Patience of the Spider

Publisher’s Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Camilleri, Andrea.

[Pazienza del ragno. English]

The patience of the spider Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli.p>

p. cm.

“A Penguin mystery.”

ISBN: 1-4295-2992-X

I. Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954– II. Title.

PQ4863.A3894P3913 2007

853'.914—dc22 2006051527

Set in Bembo Designed by Jaye Zimet

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THE PATIENCE OF THE SPIDER

01

He jolted awake, sweaty and short of breath. For a few seconds he didn’t know where he was. Then the soft, regular breathing of Livia, who lay asleep beside him, brought him back to a familiar, reassuring reality. He was in his bedroom in Marinella.

What had yanked him from his sleep was a sharp pang, cold as a knife blade, in his wounded shoulder. He didn’t need to look at the clock on the nightstand to know that it was three-thirty in the morning—actually, three- twenty-seven and forty seconds.

The same thing had been happening to him for the last twenty days, ever since the night Jamil Zarzis, a trafficker in small third world children, had shot and wounded him, and he had reacted by killing the man. Twenty days, but it was as though the mechanism of time had got stuck at that moment. Some gear in the part of his brain that measures the passing hours and days had gone “clack,” and ever since, if he was asleep, he would wake up, and if he was awake, everything around him would stop in a sort of imperceptible freeze-frame. He knew very well that during that split-second duel, it had never crossed his mind to check what time it was, and yet—and this he remembered very clearly—the moment the bullet fired by Jamil Zarzis penetrated his flesh, a voice inside him—an impersonal, female voice, slightly metallic, like the voices you hear over PA systems in train stations and supermarkets—had said, “It is three-twenty-seven and forty seconds.”

o o o

“Were you with the inspector?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Your name?”

“Fazio, Doctor.”

“How long has he been wounded?”

“Well, Doctor, the exchange of fire took place around three-thirty. So, a little more than half an hour ago. Oh, Doctor . . .”

“Yes?”

“Is it serious?”

The inspector was lying down, utterly still, eyes shut, which led everyone to think he was unconscious and they could speak openly.

Whereas in fact he heard and understood everything. He felt simultaneously dazed and lucid, but had no desire to open his mouth and answer the doctor’s questions himself. Apparently the shots they’d given him to kill the pain had affected his whole body.

“Don’t be silly! All we have to do is extract the bullet lodged in his shoulder.”

“O Madonna Santa!”

“There’s no need to get so upset! It’s a piece of cake. Besides, I really don’t think it did much damage.With a bit of physical therapy, he should recover one hundred percent use of his arm. But why, may I ask, are you still so concerned?” “Well, you see, Doctor, a few days ago the inspector went out by himself on an investigation . . .”

o o o

Now, as then, he keeps his eyes closed. But he can no longer hear the words, which are drowned out by the loud, pounding surf. It must be windy outside, the whole shutter is vibrating from the force of the gusts, emitting a kind of wail. It’s a good thing he’s still convalescing; he can stay under the covers for as long as he wants. Consoled