Then Vice Mayor Zarco suggested they visit Upper Brancato, just to aid digestion. Naturally they went in Zarco’s car.
After taking a road that consisted of one sharp turn after another and looked like the X-ray of an intestine, they stopped in the middle of a cluster of houses that would have made an Expressionist set-designer’s day. Not a single house stood up straight. They all leaned to the left or the right at angles so extreme that the Tower of Pisa would have looked perfectly per-pendicular by comparison. Three or four houses were actually attached to the hillside and jutted out horizontally, as if they had suction cups holding them in place, hidden in the founda-tions. Two old men walked by talking to each other, but rather loudly, because one was listing sharply to the right, the other to the left. Perhaps they’d been conditioned by the inclina-tions of the houses in which they lived.
“Shall we go back home for coffee? The missus makes a good cup,” said Zarco, when he saw that Montalbano, under the influence of the surroundings, had started walking askew himself.
When Signora Angila opened the door for them, to Montalbano she looked like a child’s drawing: almost albino, her hair braided, her cheeks red. She seemed agitated.
“What’s wrong?” her husband asked.
“The TV just said the girl was released but the ransom wasn’t paid!”
“Really?!” asked the land surveyor, looking over at Montalbano.
The inspector shrugged and threw his hands up, as if to say he didn’t know the first thing about the whole affair.
“Oh, yes,” the woman went on. “They said the police found Mr. Peruzzo’s duffel bag, right near here, in fact, and it was filled with newspaper. The newsman wondered how and why the girl was freed. What’s clear is that piece of slime uncle of hers risked getting her killed!” No longer Antonio Peruzzo or “the engineer,” but “that piece of slime,” that unnamable shit, that excrescence of sewage. If Peruzzo had indeed wanted to gamble, he’d lost.
Although the girl had been freed, he was now forever prisoner of the utter, absolute contempt in which people held him.
o o o
The inspector decided not to return to the office but to go back home and watch the press conference in peace. When nearing the overpass, he drove very carefully, in case any stragglers had stayed behind. At any rate, the signs that a horde of policemen, journalists, photographers, and cameramen had passed through were everywhere: empty cans of Coca-Cola, broken beer bottles, crumpled packs of cigarettes. A garbage dump. They’d even broken the stone slab that covered the little well.
o o o
As he was opening the door to his house, he froze. He hadn’t called Livia all morning. He’d completely forgotten to tell her he wouldn’t make it home for lunch. A squabble was now inevitable, and he had no excuses. The house, however, was empty. Livia had gone out. Entering the bedroom, he saw her open suitcase, half full. He immediately remembered that Livia was supposed to return to Boccadasse the next morning. The vacation time she’d taken to stay beside him at the hospital and during his convalescence was over. He felt a sudden pang in his heart, and a wave of emotion swept over him, treacherous as usual. It was a good thing she wasn’t there. He could let himself go without shame. And let himself go he did.
Then he went and washed his face, after which he sat down in the chair in front of the telephone. He opened the phone book. The lawyer had two numbers, one for his home, the other for his office. Montalbano dialed the latter.
“Legal offices of Francesco Luna,” said a female voice.
“This is Inspector Montalbano. Is Mr. Luna there?”
“Yes, but he’s in a meeting. Let me see if he picks up.” Various noises, recorded music.
“My dear friend,” said Luna. “I can’t talk to you right now. Are you in your office?”
“No, I’m at home. You want the number?”
“Please.”
Montalbano gave it to him.
“I’ll call you back in about ten minutes,” said the lawyer.
o o o
The inspector noted that during their brief exchange, Luna didn’t once call him by his name or title. One could only imagine what sort of clients he was meeting with; no doubt they would have been troubled to hear the word
About half an hour passed, give or take a few minutes, before the phone rang.
“Inspector Montalbano? Please excuse the delay, but first I was with some people and then I thought I’d better call you from a safe phone.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Luna? Have the phones to your office been tapped?”
“I’m not sure, but the way things are going . . . What did you want to tell me?”
“Nothing you don’t already know.”
“Are you referring to the bag full of clippings?”
“Exactly. You realize, of course, that this development is a serious impediment to the resuscitation of Peruzzo’s reputation, to which you’d asked me to contribute.” Silence, as if they’d been cut off.
“Hello?” said Montalbano.
“I’m still here. Answer me sincerely, Inspector: Do you think that if I’d known there was only scrap paper inside
