The Terra-Cotta Dog

'You don't sound very enthusiastic.'

'Of course I am, what do you mean?'

'Look, Salvo, if you wiggle out of this at the last minute, I'll go anyway, by myself.'

'Come on.'

'But what's wrong with you?'

'Nothing. I was sleeping.'

...

'Inspector Montalbano? Good evening. This is Headmaster Burgio.'

'Good evening. What can I do for you?'

'I'm very sorry to disturb you at home. I just heard on television about the two bodies that were found.'

'Could you identify them?'

'No. I'm calling about something that was said in passing on TV, but which might be of interest to you. I'm talking about the terra-cotta dog. If you have no objection, I thought I'd come by your office tomorrow morning with Burruano, the accountant. Do you know him?'

'I know who he is. Ten oclock all right?'

...

'Here,' said Livia. 'I want to do it here, right away.'

They were in a kind of park, dense with trees. Crawling about at their feet were hundreds of snails of every variety, garden snails, tree snails, escargots, slugs, periwinkles.

'Why right here? Let's get back in the car and in five minutes we'll be home. Around here, somebody might see us.'

'Don't argue, jerk!' Livia shot back, grabbing his belt and trying awkwardly to unbuckle it.

'I'll do it,' he said.

In an instant Livia was naked, while he was still struggling with his trousers, then his underpants.

She's accustomed to stripping in a hurry, he thought, in a surge of Sicilian jealousy.

As Livia threw herself down on the wet grass, legs spread, caressing her breasts with her hands, he heard, to his disgust, the sound of dozens of snails being crushed under the weight of her body.

'Come on, hurry up,' she said.

Montalbano finally managed to strip down naked, shuddering in the chill air. Meanwhile, a few snails had started slithering over Livias body.

'And what do you expect to do with that?' she asked critically, eyeing his cock. With a look of compassion, she got up on her knees, took it in her hands, caressed it, and put her lips around it. When she felt he was ready, she resumed her prior position.

'Fuck me to kingdom come,' she said.

When did she become so vulgar? he wondered, bewildered.

As he was about to enter her, he saw the dog a few steps away, a white dog with its pink tongue sticking out, growling menacingly, teeth bared, a string of slobber dribbling from its mouth. When did it get there?

'What are you doing? Has it gone soft again?'

'Theres a dog.'

'What the hell do you care? Give it to me.'

At that exact moment the dog sprang into the air and he froze, terrified. The dog landed a few inches from his head, turned stiff, its color lightly fading, then lay down, its front legs extended, hind legs folded. It became fake, turned into terra-cotta. It was the dog in the cave, the one guarding the dead couple.

Then all at once the sky, trees, and grass disappeared, walls of rock formed around them and overhead, and in horror he realized that the dead couple in the cave were not two strangers, but Livia and himself.

He awoke from the nightmare breathless and sweating, and immediately in his mind he begged Livias forgiveness for having imagined her as so obscene in the dream. But what was the meaning of that dog? And those disgusting snails slithering all over the place?

That dog had to have a meaning, he was sure of it.

Before going to the office, he stopped at a kiosk and bought Sicily's two newspapers. Both of them prominently featured the story of the bodies found in the cave; as for the discovery of the weapons, they had prominently forgotten about that. The paper published in Palermo was certain that it had been a love suicide, whereas the one published in Catania was also open to the possibility of murder, while not, of course, discounting suicide, and indeed its headline read: double suicide or dual homicide? implying some vague, mysterious distinction between double and dual. On the other hand, no matter what the issue, this newspaper customarily never took a position. Whether the subject was a war or an earthquake, it always liked to play both sides of the fence, and for this had gained a reputation as an independent, freethinking daily. Neither of the two dwelt on the jug, the bowl, or the terra-cotta dog.

The instant Montalbano appeared in the doorway, Catarella asked him what he should say to the hundreds of journalists who were certain to phone, wanting to speak with the inspector.