The Shape of Water

“What’s that?” the inspector asked, stunned by the woman’s lucid, pitiless analysis, which she made without shedding a tear, as though the deceased were a casual acquaintance.

“That he was naked when they surprised him, and that they forced him to get dressed in a hurry. And the only place he could have been naked was in the little house at Capo Massaria. That is why I gave you the keys. I repeat, it was a criminal act against my husband’s public image, but only half successful. They wanted to make him out to be a pig, so they could feed him to the pigs at any moment. It would have been better if he hadn’t died; forced to cover himself, he would have done whatever they asked. The plan did, however, succeed in part: all my husband’s men have been excluded from the new leadership. Rizzo alone escaped; actually, he gained by it.”

“And why did he?”

“That is up to you to discover, if you so desire. Or else you can stop at the shape they’ve given the water.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I’m not Sicilian; I was born in Grosseto and came to Montelusa when my father was made prefect here.

We owned a small piece of land and a house on the slopes of the Amiata and used to spend our summers there. I had a little friend, a peasant boy, who was younger than me. I was about ten. One day I saw that my friend had put a bowl, a cup, a teapot, and a square milk carton on the edge of a well, had filled them all with water, and was looking at them attentively.

“ ‘What are you doing?’ I asked him. And he answered me with a question in turn.

“ ‘What shape is water?’

“ ‘Water doesn’t have any shape!’ I said, laughing.

‘It takes the shape you give it.’ ”

At that moment the door to the library opened, and an angel appeared.

11

The angel—Montalbano at that moment didn’t know how else to define him—was a young man of about twenty, tall, blond, very tanned, with a perfect body and an ephebic aura. A pandering ray of sun had taken care to bathe him in light in the doorway, accentuating the Apollonian features of his face.

“May I come in, zia?”

“Come in, Giorgio, come in.”

While the youth moved toward the sofa, weightlessly, his feet seeming not to touch the ground but merely to glide across the floor, navigating a sinuous, almost spiral path, brushing past objects within reach or, more than brushing, lightly caressing them, Montalbano caught a glance from the signora that told him to put the photograph he was holding in his pocket.

He obeyed, while the widow quickly put the other photos back in the yellow envelope, which she placed beside her on the sofa. When the young man came near, the inspector noticed that his blue eyes were streaked with red, puffy from tears, and ringed with dark circles.

“How do you feel, zia?” he asked in an almost singing voice, then knelt elegantly beside the woman, resting his head in her lap. In Montalbano’s mind flashed the memory, bright as if under a floodlight, of a painting he had seen once—he couldn’t remember where—a portrait of an English lady with a greyhound in the exact same position as the one the young man had assumed.

“This is Giorgio,” the woman said. “Giorgio Zicari, son of my sister Elisabetta and Ernesto Zicari, the criminal lawyer. Perhaps you know him.”

As she spoke, the woman stroked his hair. Giorgio gave no indication of having understood what was said.

Visibly absorbed in his devastating grief, he didn’t even bother to turn toward the inspector. The woman, moreover, had taken care not to tell her nephew who Montalbano was and what he was doing in their house.

“Were you able to sleep last night?”

Giorgio’s only reply was to shake his head.

“I’ll tell you what you should do. Did you notice that Dr. Capuano’s here? Go talk to him, have him prescribe you a strong sedative, then go back to bed.”

Without a word, Giorgio stood up fluidly, levitated over the floor with his curious, spiral manner of movement, and disappeared beyond the door.

“You must forgive him,” the lady said. “Giorgio is without doubt the one who has suffered most, and who suffers most, from the death of my husband. You see, I wanted my own son to study and find himself a position independently of his father, far from Sicily.

You can perhaps imagine my reasons for this. As a result, in Stefano’s absence my husband poured all his affection on our nephew, and his love was returned to the point of idolatry. The boy even came to live with us, to the great displeasure of my sister and her husband, who felt abandoned.”

She stood up, and Montalbano did likewise.

“I’ve told you everything I thought I should tell you, Inspector. I know I’m in honest hands. You may call me whenever you see fit, at any hour of the day or night. And don’t bother to spare my feelings; I’m what they call ‘a strong woman.’ In any event, act as your conscience dictates.”

“One question, signora, which has been troubling me for some time. Why weren’t you concerned to make it known that your husband hadn’t returned . . . ?

What I mean is, wasn’t it disturbing that your husband didn’t come home that night? Had it happened before?”

“Yes, it had. But, you see, he phoned me Sunday night.”

“From where?”