second level. He was in costume, the last touches having been applied to his makeup. He heard the call: Who's on next? He didn't move. The attendant arrived, out of breath, and told him that Signor Gege who hadn't died, this was well known, he'd escaped to Egypt, hadn't shown up yet. He dashed onto the stage, looking out into the theater through a small opening in the curtain: it was mobbed. The only empty box was the fifth from the right, second level. He made a split-second decision: he returned to his dressing room, took off his costume and put his regular clothes back on, leaving the makeup, including the long, gray beard and thick, white eyebrows, untouched. Nobody would ever recognize him again, and therefore he would never sing again. He well understood that his career was over and he would have to scramble to survive, but he didn't know what to do about it. Without Gege couldn't sing.
He woke up bathed in sweat. In his own fashion, he had produced a classic Freudian dream, that of the empty theater box. What did it mean? That the pointless wait for Lillo Rizzitano would ruin his life?
'Inspector? It's Headmaster Burgio. It's been a while since we last spoke. Have you any news of our mutual friend?'
'No.'
Monosyllabic, hasty, at the risk of seeming impolite, he had to discourage long or pointless phone conversations. If Rizzitano were to make up his mind, he might think twice if he found the line busy.
'I'm afraid the only way we'll ever get to talk to Lillo, if you'll forgive my saying so, is to hire a medium.'
...
He had a big squabble with Adelina. The housekeeper had just gone into the kitchen when he heard her start yelling. Then she appeared in the bedroom.
'Signuri, you dint eat nothin yesterday for lunch or dinner!'
'I wasn't hungry,Adel'
'I work mself to death cookin dlicious things and you jes turn up ya nose at em.'
'I don't turn up my nose at them, I'm just not hungry, as I said.'
'An this houses become a pigsty! You don want me to wash the floor, you don want me to wash ya clothes! For five days you been wearin the same shirt ann a same shorts! You stink, signuri!'
'I'm sorry, Adelina. I'll snap out of it, you'll see.'
'Well, lemme know when you snap out of it, and I'll come back. Cause I ain't settin foot back in ere. Call me when ya feelin better.'
...
He went out onto the veranda, sat down on the bench, put the telephone beside him, and stared at the sea. He couldn't do anything else, read, think, write, nothing. Only stare at the sea. He was losing himself in the bottomless well of an obsession, and he knew it. He remembered a film he'd seen, perhaps based on a novel by Datt, in which a police inspector stubbornly kept waiting for a killer who was supposed to pass through a certain place in the mountains, when in fact the guy would never come through there again. But the inspector didn't know this, and so he waited and waited, and meanwhile days, months, years went by . . .
Around eleven oclock that same morning, the telephone rang. Nobody had called since Headmaster Burgio, several hours before. Montalbano didn't pick up the receiver; he froze as though paralyzed. He knew, with utter certainty though he couldn't have explained why who would be there at the other end.
He made an effort, and picked up.
'Hello? Inspector Montalbano?'
A fine, deep voice, even though it belonged to an old man.
'Yes, this is he,' said Montalbano. And he couldn't refrain from adding:' Finally!'
'Finally,' the other repeated.
They both remained silent a moment, listening to their breathing.
'I've just landed at Palermo. I could be at your place in Vig by one-thirty this afternoon at the latest. If that's all right with you, perhaps you could tell me exactly how to find you. I've been away a long time. Fifty-one years.'
25
He dusted, swept, and scrubbed the floors with the speed of a slapstick silent movie. Then he went into the bathroom and washed up as he had done only once before in his life, when, at age sixteen, he'd gone on his first date. He took an interminable shower, sniffing his armpits and the skin on his arms, then doused himself, for good measure, with eau de cologne. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he chose his best suit, his most serious tie, and polished his shoes until they looked as if they had their own internal light source. Then he got the idea to set the table, but only for one. He was, it was true, in the throes of a canine hunger, but he was sure he would not be able to swallow.
He waited, endlessly. One-thirty came and went, and he felt sick and had something like a fainting spell. He poured himself a double shot of whisky and gulped it down. Finally, liberation: the sound of a car coming up the driveway. He quickly threw the front door wide open. There was a taxi with a Palermo license plate, and a very well-dressed old man got out, holding a cane in one hand and an overnight bag in the other. The man paid the driver, and while the car was maneuvering to leave, he looked around. He stood erect, head high, and cut an impressive figure. Immediately Montalbano felt he had seen him somewhere before. He went out to meet him.
'Is it all houses around here?' the old man asked.
'Yes.'
'There used to be nothing, only brush and sand and sea.'
They hadn't greeted each other or introduced themselves. They already knew one another.
