the refrigerator nor the oven. He took all his clothes off and went into the shower. Then he put on a pair of jeans and a Canadian bear-hunter’s shirt. It occurred to him that he didn’t know how things would go, and he wondered: to pack or not to pack? Perhaps it was better to bring his pistol. Then he picked out a dark-brown sport coat that had a spacious inner pocket and put this on. He didn’t want to alarm Ingrid if at some point he needed to fetch his weapon; better get it now. He went outside to the car, opened the glove compartment, grabbed the pistol, and slipped it in the inside pocket of the jacket. When he bent down to close the glove compartment, the gun slid out of the pocket and fell to the floor of the car. Montalbano cursed the saints, got down on his knees—because the gun had ended up under the seat—picked it up, locked the car, and went back in the house. Feeling hot with his jacket on, he took it off and set it down on the dining room table. He decided it was a good time to call Livia. He picked up the receiver, dialed the number, and just as the first ring began, the doorbell rang as well. To open or not to open? He hung up and went to open the door. It was Ingrid, a little early. More beautiful than ever, if that was possible. To kiss her or not to kiss her? The question was answered at once by the Swede, who kissed him.
“How are you?”
“I feel a little like Hamlet.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Never mind. Did you come in your husband’s car?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
An utterly academic question. Montalbano didn’t know a bloody thing about cars. Or motors, for that matter.
“A BMW 320.”
“What color?”
This question, on the other hand, had a specific purpose. Knowing what an asshole Ingrid’s husband was, he was likely to have had it painted in red, yellow, and green stripes with blue polka dots.
“Dark grey.”
Thank heavens. There was a chance they might not be spotted and shot right off the bat.
“Have you had dinner?” asked Ingrid.
“No. How about you?”
“No, I haven’t either. Later, if there’s time, we could . . . By the way, what are we doing tonight?”
“I’ll explain on the way there.”
The telephone rang. It was Marzilla.
“Inspector, the car they brought me is a Jaguar. I’ll be leaving my place in five minutes,” he said in a quavering voice.
Then he hung up.
“If you’re ready, we can go now,” said Montalbano.
He put on his jacket with nonchalance, not realizing it was inside out. Naturally the gun slid out of the pocket and fell to the floor. Ingrid recoiled in fright.
“Are you serious?” she asked.
Following Catarella’s instructions, they didn’t miss a single turn. Half an hour after they’d left Marinella—half an hour which Montalbano used to fill Ingrid in—they arrived at the lane of oaks. They took this, and when they’d reached the end, they saw, by the light of the headlights, the ruins of a large villa.
“Go straight,” said Montalbano. “Don’t follow the road and don’t turn left. We have to hide the car behind the villa.”
Ingrid did as he said. Behind the villa was open, desolate country. She turned off the headlights and they got out. The moon lit their way. The night was so quiet, it was frightening. They didn’t even hear any dogs barking.
“What now?” asked Ingrid.
“We leave the car here and we go find a place from where we can see the lane, so we can watch the cars that go by.”
“What cars?” said Ingrid. “Here we won’t even see any crickets go by.”
They headed off.
“Well, we can do what they do in movies,” said Ingrid again.
“Why, what do they do in movies?”
“Come on, Salvo, don’t you know? When the two police officers, a man and a woman, stake out a place, they pretend they’re lovers. They embrace and kiss, but they’re actually keeping watch.”
Now they were right in front of the villa, about thirty yards from the oak tree where the road turned towards Lampisa. They sat down on the remains of a wall and Montalbano lit a cigarette. But he didn’t have time to finish it. A car had come down the lane, advancing slowly. Perhaps the driver didn’t know the road. Ingrid leapt to her feet, held her hand out to the inspector, pulled him to his feet, and wrapped her arms around him. The car approached very slowly. For Montalbano it was like being wholly enveloped by the branches of an apricot tree. The scent made his head spin, stirring up what there was to stir up in him. Ingrid held him very tightly. At one point she whispered in his ear:
“Something’s moving.”
“Where?” asked Montalbano, chin resting on her shoulder, nose drowning in her hair.
