Montalbano decided to speak plainly. 'Couldn't Lillo and Lisetta have been lovers?'

The headmaster started laughing, swatting the idea away with a swipe of the hand.

'Look, Lillo was madly in love with a Montelusa girl he'd stopped hearing from after July of 43. Besides, the corpse in the Crasticeddru couldn't be him, for the simple reason that the farmer who saw him bleeding and being loaded onto the truck by the soldiers, and then carried away who-knows-where, was a sensible, serious person.'

'Then,' said Montalbano, 'this can mean only one thing: that it's not true that Lisetta ran away with an American soldier. Therefore Lisetta's father told your wife a big fat lie. Who was Lisetta's father, anyway?'

'I vaguely remember his name was Stefano.'

'Is he still alive?'

'No, he died at least five years ago.'

'What did he do for a living?'

'I think he dealt in timber. But Stefano Moscato was not someone we talked about in my house.'

'Why not?'

'Because he, too, wasn't our kind of person. He was in cahoots with his relatives, the Rizzitanos, need I say more? He'd had trouble with the law, I don't know exactly what sort. In those days, in good, respectable families, you simply didn't talk about people like that. It was like talking about shit, if youll excuse my language.'

Signora Burgio came back, eyes red, an old letter in her hand. 'This is the last letter I received from Lisetta when I was staying in Acquapendente, where I'd moved with my family.'Serradifalco, June 10, 1943 My dear Angelina, How are you? How is everyone in your family? You have no idea how much I envy you, since your life in a northern town can't be even remotely comparable to the prison in which I spend my days. And don't think I'm exaggerating by using the word prison. Aside from Papa's asphyxiating surveillance, there's also the monotonous, stupid life of a village with only a handful of houses. Just imagine, last Sunday, as we were coming out of church, a local boy whom I don't even know said hi to me. Papa noticed, called him aside, and started slapping him. Sheer madness! My only recreation is reading. And I have a friend: Andreuccio, a ten-year-old boy, my cousin's son. He's very smart. Have you ever noticed that little children are sometimes more clever than we are?For several days now, Angelina, I've been living in despair. I received by means so adventurous it would take me too long to explain here a little note, four lines, from Him Him Him. He says he's desperate, he can no longer stand not seeing me, and now, after staying put all this time in Vig, they've just received orders to leave in the next few days. I feel like I'm dying without him. Before he leaves, before he goes away, I must must must spend a few hours with him, even if it means doing something crazy. I'll keep you informed. Meanwhile I send you a great big hug. Yours truly,Lisetta

'So you never did find out who this Him was,' said the inspector.

'No. She never wanted to tell me.'

'Did you receive any other letters after this one?'

'Are you kidding? It was already a miracle I got this one. At the time you couldn't cross the Strait of Messina; they were bombing it nonstop. Then, on July 9, the Americans landed and all communications were cut.'

'Excuse me, signora, but do you remember your friends address at Serradifalco?'

'Of course. It was care of the Sorrentino family, Via Crispi 18.'

...

He was about to put the key in the lock, but stopped in alarm. Voices and noises were coming from inside the house. He thought of going back to the car and getting his pistol, but did nothing. He opened the door cautiously, without making the slightest noise.

Then all at once he remembered that he'd completely forgotten about Livia, who had been waiting for him for God knows how long.

It took him half the night to make peace.

At seven in the morning he tiptoed out of bed and dialed a phone number.

'Fazio?' he said very softly. 'I need you to do me a favor. You have to call in sick.'

'No problem.'

'By this evening, I want to know everythingfrom the cradle to the grave about a certain Stefano Moscato, who died here in Vig about five years ago. Ask around town, check the records office and anywhere else you can think of. It's very important.'

'Don't worry, I'll take care of it.'

He hung up the phone, grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper, and wrote:Darling, I have to run out for something urgent and didn't want to wake you. I'll be back by early afternoon, promise. Why don't you grab a cab and go see the temples again? They're as splendid as ever. All my love.

He stole out of the house like a thief. Had Livia opened her eyes, there would have been hell to pay.

...

It took him an hour and a half to get to Serradifalco. It was a clear day, and he even started whistling. He felt happy. It made him think of Caifas, his fathers dog, who used to mope about the house, lethargic and melancholy, until he saw his master start getting his cartridges ready, and immediately he would turn frisky and spry, before transforming into a mass of sheer energy when he was finally out in the fields for the hunt.

Montalbano found Via Crispi right away; number 18 was a small nineteenth-century building, two stories. There was one doorbell, with the name Sorrentino inscribed beside it. A pleasant girl of about twenty asked him what he wanted.

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