‘They’re really dragging this out!’ they say. ‘Haven’t we had enough?’ After a couple of weeks the saturation effect is such that nobody wants to hear another word about that scandal. Now do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“If, on the other hand, you hush everything up, the silence itself starts to talk, rumors begin to multiply out of control until you can’t stop them anymore.
You want an example? Do you know how many phone calls we’ve received at the studio precisely because of our silence? Hundreds. So is it true that Mr.
Luparello used to do two women at a time in his car?
Is it true that Mr. Luparello liked to do the sandwich, fucking a whore while a black man worked on him from behind? Then the latest, which came in tonight: is it true that Luparello used to give all his prostitutes fabulous jewels? Apparently somebody found one at the Pasture. Speaking of which, do you know anything about this story?”
“Me? No, that’s just bullshit,” the inspector calmly lied.
“See? I’m sure that in a few months some asshole will come to me and ask if it’s true that Luparello used to bugger little four-year-olds and then stuff them with chestnuts and eat them. The slandering of his name will become eternal, the stuff of legend.
That, I hope, will help you understand why I agreed to sweep it all under the rug.”
“And what’s Cardamone’s position?”
“I don’t know. That was very strange, his election.
In the provincial secretariat they were all Luparello’s men, you see, except for two, who were Cardamone’s, but they were there just for the sake of appearances, to show that they were democratic and all. Clearly the new secretary could have been and should have been a follower of Luparello. Instead, surprise: Rizzo stands up and proposes Cardamone. The other members of the clique were speechless but didn’t dare object. If Rizzo’s talking this way, it must mean there’s something lurking beneath all this which could turn dangerous; better follow the counselor down that path.
And so they vote in favor. Cardamone gets the call, accepts the post, and himself proposes that Rizzo work alongside him, to the great dismay of his two representatives in the secretariat. But here I understand Cardamone: better to have Rizzo aboard—he must have thought—than at large like a loose cannon.”
Zito then proceeded to tell him about a novel he was planning to write, and they went on till four.
~
As he was checking the health of a succulent plant, a gift from Livia that he kept on the windowsill in his office, Montalbano saw a blue government car pull up, the kind equipped with telephone, chauffeur, and bodyguard, the latter of which got out first and opened the rear door for a short, bald man wearing a suit the same color as the car.
“There’s someone outside who needs to talk to me,” he said to the guard. “Send him right in.”
When Rizzo entered, the inspector noted that the upper part of his left sleeve was covered by a broad black band the width of a palm: the counselor was already in mourning for the funeral.
“What can I do to win your forgiveness?”
“For what?”
“For having disturbed you at home, at so late an hour.”
“But you said the matter was improcr—”
“Improcrastinable, yes.”
Such a clever man, Counselor Pietro Rizzo!
“I’ll come to the point. Late last Sunday night a young couple, highly respectable people, having had a bit to drink, decided to indulge an imprudent whim.
The wife persuaded the husband to take her to the Pasture. She was curious about the place and what goes on there. A reprehensible curiosity, to be sure, but nothing more. When the pair arrived at the edge of the Pasture, the woman got out of the car. But almost immediately people began to harass her with obscene propositions, so she got back in the car and they left.
Back at home she realized she’d lost a precious object she was wearing around her neck.”
“What a strange coincidence,” muttered Montalbano, as if to himself.
“Excuse me?”
“I was just noting that at around the same time, and in the same place, Silvio Luparello was dying.”
Rizzo didn’t lose his composure, but assumed a grave expression.
“I noticed the same thing, you know. Tricks of fate.”
“The object you mention, is it a solid-gold necklace with a heart studded with precious stones?”
“That’s the one. I’m here to ask you to return it to its rightful owners, with the same discretion, of course, as you showed when my poor Mr. Luparello was found dead.”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” said the inspector,
“but I haven’t the slightest idea of how to proceed in a case like this. In any event, I think it would have been a different story if the owner herself had come forward.”
“But I have a proper letter of attorney!”
