“I’ve decided, yes, I’ll do it.”
“Ah, Gesu, Amma so heppy!”
“Have you set the date?”
“Iss ahp to you, signore.”
“Me?”
“Yes, hit depends on when you free.”
“Arrange everything yourselves, then let me know. I’ve got all the time in the world now.”
o o o
More than sit down, Francesco Lipari collapsed into the chair in front of the inspector’s desk. His face was pale and the circles under his eyes had turned a dense black, as though painted on with shoe polish. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them. Montalbano was shocked. He would have expected the boy to be happy and relieved that Susanna had been freed.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Susanna won’t speak to me.”
“Explain.”
“What’s to explain? Ever since I first heard she’d been released, I’ve called her house at least ten times. It’s always her father, her uncle, or someone else who answers the phone. Never her. And they always tell me Susanna’s busy and can’t come to the phone. Even this morning, when I heard that her mother had died—” “Where did you hear it?”
“On a local radio station. I immediately thought: It’s a good thing she got to see her again while she was still alive! And so I phoned, I wanted to be near her, but I got the same answer. She wasn’t available.” He buried his face in his hands.
“What did I do to be treated this way?”
“You? Nothing,” said Montalbano. “But you have to try to understand. The trauma of being kidnapped is tremendous and very hard to get over. Everyone who’s been through it says the same thing. It takes time.” And the Good Samaritan Montalbano fell silent, pleased with himself. All the while he was forming his own, strictly personal opinion of the matter, but preferred not to reveal it to the young man. He therefore stuck to generalities.
“But wouldn’t having someone beside her who truly loves her help her to get over the trauma?”
“You want to know something?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll make a confession. Like Susanna, I think that I, too, would want to be left alone to contemplate my wounds.”
“Wounds?”
“Yes. And not just my own, but those I’ve inflicted on others.”
The boy looked at him, utterly at sea.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Never mind.”
The Good Samaritan Montalbano wasn’t about to waste his daily dose of goodness all at once.
“Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?” he asked.
“Yes. Did you know that Peruzzo was left off the ballot of his party’s candidates?”
“No.”
“And did you know that the Customs Police have been searching his offices since yesterday afternoon? Rumor has it that they found, right off the bat, enough material to put him behind bars.” “This is the first I’ve heard of it. And so?”
“So I’ve been asking myself some questions.”
“And you want me to answer them?”
“If possible.”
“I’m willing to answer one question only, provided I can.
Make your choice.”
The boy asked his question at once. Clearly it was the first on his list.
“Do you think it was Peruzzo who put clippings instead of money in that bag?”
“Don’t you?”
Francesco attempted a smile, but didn’t succeed. He only twisted his mouth into a grimace.
