good condition, considering the terrible ordeal she’d just been through.
Lattes then pointed to a journalist, who stood up and asked why they couldn’t interview the girl.
“Because the investigation is still ongoing,” replied the judge.
“In short, was the ransom paid or not?” asked Zito.
“We’re not at liberty to reveal that right now,” the judge answered again.
At this point Pippo Ragonese stood up. His lips were pursed so tightly that the words came out compressed.
“I’d like n’t t’ask a quest’n b’t t’make a st’tm’nt—”
“Speak clearly!” shouted the Greek chorus of journalists.
“I want to make a statement, not to ask a question.
Shortly before I came here, our studios received a phone call that was forwarded to me. I recognized the voice of the same kidnapper who had phoned me before. He declared, and I quote, that the ransom had not been paid, and that although the person who was supposed to pay had tricked them, they had decided to set the girl free anyway, because they didn’t want to have a death on their conscience.” Mayhem broke out. People leapt to their feet, gesticulat-ing, other people ran out of the room, the judge inveighed against Ragonese. The uproar got so loud that you couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying. Montalbano turned off the television, went out on the veranda, and sat down.
o o o
Livia got home an hour later and found Salvo looking out at the sea. She didn’t seem the least bit angry.
“Where were you?”
“I dropped in to say hi to Beba and then went over to Kolymbetra. Promise me you’ll go there one of these days. And where were you? You didn’t even phone to say you weren’t coming home for lunch.” “I’m sorry, Livia, but—”
“Don’t apologize. I have no desire to quarrel with you.
These are our last few hours together, and I don’t want to spoil them.”
She flitted about the house a bit, then did something she almost never did. She went and sat on his lap and held him tight. She stayed there awhile, in silence. Then:
“Shall we go inside?” she whispered in his ear.
Before going into the bedroom Montalbano, for one reason or another, unplugged the telephone.
o o o
As they lay in each other’s arms, dinnertime passed. And after-dinnertime as well.
“I’m so happy Susanna’s kidnapping was solved before I left,” Livia said at a certain point.
“Yeah,” replied the inspector.
He’d managed to forget about the abduction for a few hours. But he was instinctively grateful to Livia for having reminded him of it. Why? What did gratitude have to do with it? He had no explanation.
As they ate they spoke little. Livia’s imminent departure weighed heavy on both their minds.
She got up from the table and went to finish packing. At some point he heard Livia call from the other room:
“Salvo, did you take the book of yours I was reading?”
“No.”
It was a novel by Simenon,
Livia came and sat beside him on the veranda.
“I can’t find it. I wanted to bring it with me so I can finish it.”
The inspector had a hunch where it might be. He got up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back.”
The book was where he thought it would be, in the bed room, caught between the wall and the head of the bed, having fallen off the nightstand. He bent down, picked it up, and put it on top of the already closed suitcase. He went back out on the veranda.
“I found it,” he said, and started to sit back down.
“Where?” asked Livia.
Montalbano froze, thunderstruck. One foot slightly raised, body leaning slightly forward. As if in the throes of a back spasm. He held so still that Livia got scared.
“Salvo, what’s wrong?”
He was powerless to move. His legs had turned to lead, but his brain kept whirring, all the gears spinning at high speed, happy to be finally turning the right way.
“My God, Salvo, are you ill?”
“No.”
