Patience of the Spider

As soon as he got out of the shower, Montalbano asked wild-eyed:

“Can you smell me?”

And as he was asking this question, he took a whiff of his arm. He looked like a hunting dog.

“But what’s got into you?” Livia asked, distressed.

“Just come here and smell me, please.”

Livia obeyed, running her nose over Salvo’s chest.

“What do you smell?”

“Your skin.”

“Are you sure?”

Finally satisfied, the inspector put on a clean set of under-wear, a shirt, and a pair of jeans.

They went into the living room. Montalbano sat down in an armchair, Livia settled into the one beside it. For a short spell neither said a word. Then, with her voice still unsteady, Livia asked: “Better now?”

“Better.”

Another stretch of silence. Then Livia again:

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m hoping I will be soon.”

More silence. Then Livia ventured:

“Want to tell me about it?”

“It’s hard.”

“Just try, please.”

And so he told her about it. It took time, for it really was hard for him to find the right words to describe what he had seen. And what he had felt.

When he had finished, Livia asked a question, only one, but it hit the nail on the head.

“Would you explain to me why you went to see her? What need was there?”

Need. Was that the right word? Or the wrong word? True, there was no need, but at the same time, inexplicably, there was.

Ask my hands and feet, he would have liked to reply. Better not delve too deeply. There was still too much confusion in his head. He threw up his hands.

“I can’t explain it, Livia.”

As he was saying these words, he realized they were only half true.

They talked a while more, but Montalbano’s appetite did not return. His stomach was still in knots.

“Do you think Peruzzo will pay?” Livia asked as they were about to get into bed.

It was the question of the day. Inevitable.

“He’ll pay, he’ll pay.”

He’s already paying, he wanted to add, but said nothing.

o o o

As he held her tight and kissed her upon entering her, Livia sensed that he was sending a desperate plea for consolation.

“Can’t you feel that I’m here?” she whispered in his ear.

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12

When he awoke, it was already broad daylight. Maybe there had been no clack that night, or if there had, it hadn’t been loud enough to make him open his eyes. It was time to get up, but he chose to lie in bed instead. Though he said nothing to Livia, his bones ached, clearly a consequence of his swim the evening before. And the fresh scar on his shoulder had turned purple and throbbed. Livia noticed that something wasn’t right, but decided not to ask any questions.

o o o

Between one chore and another, he arrived at the office a little late.

“Ahh, Chief, Chief! The pitchers Cicco De Cicco made for you’s blown up on your desk!” Catarella said, looking around with suspicion, as soon as the inspector walked in.

De Cicco had, in fact, done an excellent job. In the enlargements it became clear that the crack in the concrete just under the rim of the basin wasn’t a crack at all. It was a deceptive play of light and shadow created by a piece of string hanging from a nail. Attached to the other end of the string was a large thermometer of the sort used to measure the temperature of must. Both the string and thermometer were black from prior use and the soot that had accumulated on them.

There was no doubt in Montalbano’s mind: The kidnappers had stuck the girl in a long-abandoned wine vat. So