after the Epiphany of 43. The coins found inside the bowl went out of circulation in October that same year.'
He paused.
'And this can mean only one thing,' he added.
But what that one thing was, he didn't say. He patiently waited while Burgio collected his thoughts, stood up, and took a few steps around the room.
'I get it,' said the old man. 'You're saying that during this period, the Crasticeddru cave belonged to the Rizzitanos.'
'Exactly. And as you told me, the cave was already sealed off by the boulder at the time, because the Rizzitanos kept merchandise to be sold on the black market in it. They must have known about the other cave, the one where the dead couple were brought.'
The headmaster gave him a confused look.
'Why do you say they were brought there?'
'Because they were killed somewhere else. Of that I am absolutely certain.'
'But it doesn't make any sense. Why put them there and set them up as if they were asleep, with the jug, the bowl of money, and the dog?'
'I've been asking myself the same question. And maybe the only person who could tell us something is your friend Lillo Rizzitano.'
Signora Angelina came in.
'It's ready.'
The soft vegetables, which consisted of the leaves and flowers of Sicilian zucchini, the long, smooth kind, which are white, lightly speckled with green, had come out so tender, so delicate, that Montalbano actually felt deeply moved. With each bite he could feel his stomach purifying itself, turning clean and shiny the way he'd seen happen with certain fakirs on television.
'How do you find them?' asked Signora Angelina.
'Beautiful,' said Montalbano. Seeing the couples surprise, he blushed and explained himself. 'I'm sorry. Sometimes I abuse my adjectives.'
The striped mullet, boiled and dressed in olive oil, lemon, and parsley, was every bit as light as the vegetables. Only when the fruit was brought to the table did the headmaster come back to the question Montalbano had asked him but not before he'd had his say on the problem of the schools and the reform the new minister of education had decided to carry out, which would abolish mandatory secondary-school attendance.
'In Russia at the time of the tsars,' said Burgio, 'they had secondary schools, though they called them whatever theyre called in Russian. In Italy it was Gentile who called them lyceums when he instituted his own reform, which placed humanistic studies above all others. Well, Lenins Communists, being the kind of Communists they were, didn't have the courage to abolish secondary schools. Only an upstart, a semi-illiterate nonentity like our minister, could conceive of such a thing. What's he called, Guastella?'
'Vastella,' said Signora Angelina.
Actually, he was called something else as well, but the inspector refrained from pointing this out.
'Lillo and I were friends in everything, but not in school, since he was a few years ahead of me. When I entered my third year of lyceum, he had just graduated. On the night of the American landing, Lillo's house, which was at the foot of the Crasto, was destroyed. From what I was able to find out once the storm had passed, Lillo had been at home alone and was seriously injured. A peasant saw some Italian soldiers putting him on a truck; he was bleeding profusely. That was the last I heard of Lillo. I haven't had any news since, though God knows I've searched far and wide!'
'Is it possible nobody from his family survived?'
'I don't know.'
The headmaster noticed that his wife looked lost in thought, absent, her eyes half-closed.
'Angelina!' Burgio called.
The old woman roused herself, then smiled at Montalbano.
'Forgive me. My husband says I've always been a woman of fantasy, but he doesn't mean it as a compliment. He means I sometimes let my fantasies run away with me.'
15
When he returned home after supper with the Burgios, it wasn't even ten oclock. Too early to go to bed. On TV there was a debate on the Mafia, another on Italian foreign policy, still another on the economic situation, a roundtable on conditions in the Montelusa insane asylum, a discussion about freedom of information, a documentary on juvenile delinquency in Moscow, another documentary on seals, still another on tobacco farming, a gangster film set in Thirties Chicago, a nightly program in which a former art critic, now a parliamentary deputy and political opinion-maker, was raving against magistrates, leftist politicians, and various adversaries, making himself into a little Saint-Just when his rightful place was among the ranks of carpet salesman, wart-healers, magicians, and strippers who were appearing with increasing frequency on the small screen. Turning off the television, Montalbano switched on the outdoor light, went out on the veranda, and sat down on the little bench with a magazine to which he subscribed. It was nicely printed, with interesting articles, and edited by a group of young environmentalists in the province. Scanning the table of contents, he found nothing of interest and thus started looking at the photographs, which occasionally realized their ambition of illustrating news events in emblematic fashion.
The ring of the doorbell caught him by surprise. He wasn't expecting anyone, he said to himself, but a second later he remembered that Anna had called in the afternoon. When she had suggested coming by to see him, he couldn't say no. He felt indebted to the girl for having used her contemptibly, he had to admit in that whole story he'd concocted to save Ingrid from persecution by her father-in-law.
