Patience of the Spider

“Are you a relative?”

“No, but . . .”

“Then why are you surprised? Don Cosimo, rest his soul, was ninety-five years old. He died three months ago.” He drove off cursing the saints. To leave town, he had to take a rather labyrinthine route that ended up setting his nerves on edge. He calmed down when he started driving along the coastal road that led back to Marinella. All at once he remembered that when Mimi Augello said that Susanna’s backpack had been found, he’d specified that they’d found it behind the four-kilometer marker along the road he was on now. He was almost there. He slowed down, pulled over, and stopped at the very point Mimi had mentioned. He got out. There were no houses nearby. To his right were some clumps of wild grass, beyond which lay a golden burst of yellow beach, the same as in Marinella. Beyond that, the sea, surf receding with a lazy breath, already anticipating the sunset. On his left was a high wall, interrupted at one point by a cast-iron gate, which was wide open. At the gate began a paved road that cut straight through a well-tended, genuine wood and led to a villa that remained hidden from view. To one side of the gate was an enormous bronze plaque with letters written in high relief.

Montalbano didn’t need to cross the road to read what it said.

He got back in the car and left.

What was it Adelina often said? L’omu e’ sceccu di consiguenza. Or: Man is a jackass of consequence. A glorified donkey. And like a donkey that always travels the same road and gets used to that road, man is given to taking always the same route, making always the same gestures, without reflection, out of habit.

But would what he had just happened to discover, and what Angela had told him, stand up in court?

No, he concluded, definitely not. But they were confirmations. That, they certainly were.

o o o

At seven-thirty he turned on the television to watch the evening’s first news report.

They said there were no new developments in the investigation. Susanna was still unable to answer questions, and a huge crowd was expected at the funeral services for the late Mrs. Mistretta, despite the fact that the family had made it known they didn’t want anyone to come either to the church or the cemetery. They also mentioned in passing that Antonio Peruzzo had vanished from circulation, fleeing his impending arrest. This news, however, had not been officially confirmed.

The other station’s news broadcast, at eight, repeated the same things, but in a different order. First came the report of the engineer’s disappearance, then the fact that the family wanted a private funeral. Nobody could enter the church, and no one would be allowed into the cemetery.

o o o

The telephone rang, just as he was about to go out to eat.

He had a hearty appetite. He’d eaten hardly anything at mid-day, and Angela’s fresh egg had tasted to him like an hors d’oeuvre.

“Inspector? This . . . this is Francesco.” He didn’t recognize the voice. It was hoarse, hesitant.

“Francesco who?” he asked gruffly.

“Francesco Li . . . Lipari.”

Susanna’s boyfriend. Why was he talking like that?

“What’s wrong?”

“Susanna . . .”

He stopped. Montalbano could clearly hear him sniffle.

The kid was crying.

“Susanna . . . Susanna told . . . me . . .”

“Did you see her?”

“No. But she . . . she finally . . . answered the phone . . .” Now came the sobbing.

“I’m . . . I’m . . . sorr . . .”

“Calm down, Francesco. Do you want to come over to my place?”

“No . . . no thanks . . . I’m not . . . I’ve been drin . . .

drinking. She said she didn’t want to . . . to see me anymore.” Montalbano felt his blood run cold, perhaps colder than Francesco’s. What did this mean? That Susanna had another man? And if she had another man, then all his calculations, all his suppositions went out the window. They were nothing more than the ridiculous, miserable fantasies of an aging inspector who was no longer all there in the head.

“Is she in love with somebody else?”

“Worse.”

“Worse in what way?”

“There isn’t anybo . . . anybody else. She made a vow, a decision, when she was being held prisoner.”

“Is she religious?”

“No. It’s a promise she made to herself . . . that if she was set free in time to see her mother still alive . . . she would go away before a month had passed. And she was talking to me as though she was already gone, already far away.” “Did she tell you where she was going?”

“To Africa. She’s giving up her studies, giving up getting married, having children. Sh-she’s giving up