and indefin-able images that passed now and then through his head be really called thought? His mind seemed to have gone awry like a television set when the picture breaks apart into a sort of grainy zigzag of muddled interference that prevents you from watching what you want to watch and at the same time gives you a faded image of another simultaneous program, and you’re forced to fiddle with the settings, trying to find the cause of the disturbance and to make it go away.
Suddenly Montalbano no longer knew where he was. He no longer recognized the habitual landscape along the road to Marinella. The houses were different, the shops were different, the people were different. Jesus, where had he ended up?
He must certainly have made a wrong turn. But how was that possible, since he’d been taking this road at least twice a day for years?
He pulled over, stopped, had a look around, and then understood. Without realizing or wanting to, he’d taken the road to the Mistrettas’ villa. For a brief moment, his hands on the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals had acted on their own, without his taking the slightest notice. This happened to him sometimes. That is, his body would do things quite independently, as though not connected to his brain.
And when it did this, there was no point in opposing it, because there always turned out to be a reason.
What to do now? Turn around or continue? Naturally, he continued.
When he entered the living room, there were seven people there listening to Minutolo. They were standing around a big table that had been moved from its corner to the middle of the room. Spread out on the table was a giant map of Vigata and surroundings, a military sort of map that showed everything down to the street lamps and back alleys where only dogs and goats went to pee.
From his headquarters, Commander-in-Chief Minutolo ordered his men to conduct more intensive, and hopefully fruitful, searches. Fazio was in his usual place. By this point he had merged with the armchair in front of the little table holding the telephone and its related contraptions. Minutolo looked surprised to see Montalbano. Fazio made as if to get up.
“What is it? Did something happen?” asked Minutolo.
“No, no, it’s nothing,” said Montalbano, who was just as surprised to find himself there.
Some of those present greeted him, and he replied vaguely.
“I’m giving out orders for—” Minutolo began.
“I can see that,” said Montalbano.
“ ‘Did you wish to say something?” Minutolo politely invited him.
“Yes. No shooting. For any reason.”
“May I ask why?”
The question had been asked by a young guy, an up-and-coming assistant inspector, well-dressed, quick- tongued, and well-toned, with a lock of hair falling rakishly onto his forehead. He looked like a social-climbing business type. One saw so many of his ilk nowadays. A rapidly proliferating race of assholes. Montalbano took an immediate dislike to him.
“Because once, somebody like you shot and killed some wretch who had kidnapped a girl. The search went on, but in vain. The only person who could say where the girl was being held could no longer speak. She was found a month later, bound hand and foot, dead of starvation and dehydration. Satisfied?” A heavy silence descended. Why the hell had he come back to the villa? Was he, the old cop, merely turning uselessly round and round like a screw stripped of its threads?
He needed a sip of water. There had to be a kitchen somewhere in there. He found it at the end of a corridor. In the kitchen was a nurse, fiftyish and chubby, with an open, friendly face.
“You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? Would you like something?” she asked with a sympathetic smile.
“Yes, a glass of water, please.”
The woman poured him a glass of mineral water from a bottle she’d extracted from the refrigerator. As Montalbano drank, she filled a hot-water bottle with steaming water and made as if to leave.
“Just a minute,” the inspector said. “Where’s Mr. Mistretta?”
“He’s sleeping. It’s what the doctor wanted. And he’s right. I gave him some tranquilizers and sleeping pills, as he told me.”
“And Mrs. Mistretta? Is she better? Worse? Any news?”
“The only news we’ll ever hear of that poor woman is when she dies.”
“Is she in her right mind?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But even when she seems to understand, in my opinion she doesn’t.”
“Could I see her?”
“Follow me.”
Montalbano felt apprehensive. But he knew well that it was a false apprehension, dictated by his desire to postpone an encounter that would be very hard for him to bear.
“What if she asks who I am?”
“Are you kidding? That would be a miracle.” Halfway down the corridor there was a broad, comfortable staircase leading upstairs, where there was another corridor, this one with six doors.
“That’s Mr. Mistretta’s bedroom; that’s the bathroom, and that’s the lady’s bedroom. It’s easier for the help if she sleeps alone. Those doors across the hall are the girl’s room—poor thing!—another bathroom, and a guest room,” the nurse explained.
