the whole thing slide all the way to hell, and bail out in any way he could. Because that’s the way he was. He was a man capable of understanding many things that others couldn’t or wouldn’t understand, moments of weakness, failures of courage, insolent disregard, lapses of attention, lies, ugly acts with ugly motives, things done out of laziness, boredom, self-interest, and so on. But he could never understand or forgive bad faith and betrayal.
Oh, yeah? My valiant knight, peerless and fearless, says he can never forgive betrayal?
Yes, it’s something I can’t even conceive of. And you, who are me, know this well.
So how is it, then, that you’ve forgiven yourself?
Me? There’s nothing I have to forgive myself for!
Are you really so sure? Would you please be so kind as to backtrack a few evenings in your memory?
Why, what happened?
Have you forgotten? Have we repressed this little fact? What happened is that you felt every bit as dejected as you do tonight, and for the same reason, except that then you had Ingrid beside you. Who comforted you. And, boy, did she ever comfort you.
Well, that happened because—
Montalba, the whys and wherefores for such an act are all well and good, but the act remains the same: It’s called betrayal.
You know what I say? I say that all this is happening because of that damned critaru, because of the potter’s field.
Explain what you mean.
I think that place, which is the place of the ultimate betrayal, where the betrayer betrays his own life, is cursed. Whoever passes near it, in one way or another, becomes contaminated with betrayal. I betray Livia, Dolores betrays Mimi, Mimi betrays me . . .
All right, then, if that’s the way it is, then get Mimi the hell out of that place. You are all—indeed we are all—in the same boat.
He got up, went inside, sat down, and resumed writing to himself.
14
And so, dear Salvo, as you see, such is the wonderful result I get by putting those two words together. But, if that’s the way it is, quite a few other questions still remain. Question number one. How did Dolores find out that Giovanni had been kidnapped and murdered by someone sent by Balduccio? Number two (with follow-up): Why is Dolores so certain that it was Balduccio who had Giovanni killed? What kind of relationship did Giovanni and Balduccio have?
Number three: Why does Dolores want to control the investigation through Mimi?
Possible answer to Question number one:
Dolores told us she fell asleep at the wheel on the way back from Gioia Tauro and didn’t get back to Vigata until the next day, after spending the night at a motel. It’s possible, on the other hand, that what she said is not true. That is, that she remained in Gioia Tauro for reasons of her own, and thus found out that Giovanni had not been able to take ship because he’d been kidnapped by Balduccio’s men. But why, then, not tell us this? Perhaps because this would only be a conjecture on her part, if she had no proof. Or perhaps because she didn’t know how her husband had been killed and where the body was. She only learned this when Mimi told her about the dismembered corpse at
’u critaru.
Possible answer to Question two:
Here there can be only one answer. Giovanni was a courier for Balduccio. He must have been very good at it. And Dolores must have been well aware of this activity. One day, however, he “betrays” Balduccio, who then has him killed. Dolores therefore hasn’t the slightest doubt about who ordered her husband’s elimination.
Possible answer to Question three:
Dolores knows—because Giovanni has surely told her—how intelligent and shrewd old Balduccio is. She is moved by an irresistible desire for revenge. She wants Balduccio to pay, and she knows that the old mafioso is capable of beating the justice system, as he has done so many times in the past. With Mimi under her control, she hopes to avert this danger, since she will never let him give up the fight against Balduccio.
Dear Salvo, I have bored myself to tears writing to you. I’ve said the essential. Now it’s up to you.
Good luck.
Day was dawning. As he stood up from the table, cold shivers ran up and down his spine. He undressed and got into a tub so hot it filled the bathroom with steam. When he came out he was red as a lobster. He shaved, made a pot of coffee, and drank his customary mugful. Then he went into the bedroom, got dressed, took out an overnight bag, put in a shirt, a pair of underpants, a pair of socks, two handkerchiefs, and a book he was reading. Going back into the dining room, he reread the letter he’d written to himself, brought it out to the veranda, and set fire to it with his lighter. He glanced at his watch. Almost six-thirty. He went inside and dialed a number on the land line, slipping his cell phone into his pocket.
“Hello?” answered Fazio.
“Montalbano here. Did I wake you up?”
“No, Chief. What is it?”
“Listen, I have to leave.”
