Patience of the Spider

everything.”

“To do what?”

“To make herself useful. That exactly what she said: ‘I’m finally going to make myself useful.’ She’s going away with some volunteer organization. And you know what? She’d already made her preliminary request with them two months ago, without telling me anything. All the while she was with me, she was thinking of leaving me forever. What on earth got into her?” So there wasn’t any other man. And it all made sense.

Even more than before.

“Do you think she may change her mind?”

“No, Inspector. If you’d heard her voice . . . And anyway, I know her well. When she’s made a de-decision . . . But for the love of God, what does it mean, Inspector? What does it mean?” The last question was a cry. Montalbano knew perfectly well, at this point, what it meant, but he couldn’t answer Francesco’s question. For the inspector it had all become rather simple. The scales, which had long been in a state of balance, had now tipped forcefully and entirely to one side. What Francesco had just told him confirmed that his next move was the right one. And should be made at once.

o o o

Before making any moves, however, he had to fill Livia in.

He put his hand over the telephone, but did not pick up the receiver. He still needed to talk it over with himself. Did what he was about to do, he asked himself, in some way mean that, having reached the end of his career, or almost, he was repudiating—in the eyes of his superiors, in the eyes of the law itself—the principles by which he had abided for so many long years? But had he in fact always respected these principles?

Didn’t Livia harshly accuse him once of acting like a minor god, a little god who took pleasure in changing or rearranging the facts? Livia was wrong. He was no god. Absolutely not. He was only a man with his own personal judgment of right and wrong. And sometimes what he thought was right would have been wrong in the eyes of justice. And vice versa. So was it better to act in accordance with justice, the kind of justice that’s written down in books, or with one’s own conscience?

No, Livia might not understand, and might even manage, through argument, to bring him to the opposite conclusion from the one he wanted to arrive at.

It was better to write to her. He took out a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen.

Livia my love,

he began, but couldn’t continue. He tore up the sheet and took out another.

My beloved Livia,

and he got stuck again. He took out a third sheet.

Livia,

and the pen refused to go any further.

It was hopeless. He would tell her everything face to face, looking her straight in the eye, the next time they saw each other.

Having made this decision, he felt rested, serene, revived.

Wait a minute, he said to himself. Those three adjectives, rested, serene, revived, are not your own. You’re quoting. Okay, but what?

He thought hard, putting his head in his hands. Then, confident in his visual memory, he moved with near-total assurance. He stood up right in front of the bookcase, pulled out Leonardo Sciascia’s Council of Egypt, and leafed through it.

There it was, on page 122 of the first edition from 1966, the one he’d read at age sixteen and had always carried around with him, to read from time to time.

On that extraordinary page, the abbe Vella decides to reveal something to Monsignor Airoldi that will turn his life upside down, to wit, that the Arabian Code is an imposture, a forgery created by his own hand. Yet before going to Monsignor Airoldi, the abbe Vella takes a bath and drinks a coffee.

Montalbano, too, stood at a crossroads.

Smiling, he stripped naked and slipped into the shower.

He changed all his clothes, down to his underpants, putting on an entire set of clean articles. He chose a serious-looking tie for the occasion. Then he made coffee and drank a cup with relish. By this point, the three adjectives, rested, serene, revived, were entirely his. One, however—which was not in Sciascia’s book—was missing: sated.

o o o

“What can I get for you, Inspector?”

“Everything.”

They laughed.

Seafood antipasto, fish soup, boiled octopus dressed with olive oil and lemon, four mullets (two fried, two grilled), and two little glasses, filled to the brim, of a tangerine liqueur with an explosive alcohol level, the pride and joy of Enzo the restaurateur. Who congratulated the inspector.

“I can see you’re in good form again.”

“Thanks. Would you do me a favor, Enzo? Could you look up Dr. Mistretta’s number in the phone book and write it down for me on a piece of paper?”