'I'll try to spare you the effort. Tell you what: I'll say what I think happened, and you correct me if I'm wrong.'
'All right.'
'Well, one day in early July, 1943, Lisetta and Mario came to your house at the foot of the Crasto, where at that moment you were living alone. Lisetta had run away from Serradifalco to rejoin her boyfriend, Mario Cunich, a sailor from the Pacinotti, a mother ship that was supposed to leave a few days later'
The old man raised his hand and the inspector stopped.
'Excuse me, but that's not what happened. And I remember everything, down to the smallest details. The memory of the aged becomes clearer and clearer with time. It has no pity. On the evening of July 6, around nine oclock, I heard someone knocking desperately at the door. I went to see who it was, and there was Lisetta, who had run away. She'd been raped.'
'On her way from Serradifalco to Vig?'
'No. By her father, the night before.'
Montalbano didn't feel like opening his mouth.
'And that was only the beginning,' said the old man. 'The worst was yet to come. Lisetta had confided to me that, now and then, her father, Uncle Stefano, as I used to call him, since we were related, used to take certain liberties with her. One day, Stefano Moscato, who, not long before, had come out of prison and been evacuated to Serradifalco with the rest of the family, discovered the letters that Mario had sent to his daughter. He told her he wanted to talk to her about something important, then took her out to the country, threw the letters in her face, beat her, and raped her. Lisetta was ...she'd never been with a man before. But she didn't create a scandal; she had very strong nerves. The next day she simply ran away and came to see me. I was like a brother to her, more than a brother. The following morning I went into town to tell Mario that Lisetta had come. Mario showed up early that afternoon. I left them alone and went for a walk in the country. When I got back home around seven that evening, Lisetta was alone. Mario had returned to his ship. We made some supper, and then we went to the window to watch the fireworks, that's what they looked like, of the Allied strike on Vig. Lisetta finally went up stairs to sleep, in my bedroom. I stayed downstairs and read a book by the light of an oil lamp. That was when . . .'
Rizzitano broke off, exhausted, and heaved a long sigh.
'Would you like a glass of water?'
The old man seemed not to have heard him.
'...that was when I heard someone shouting in the distance. Actually, at first it sounded to me like a wailing animal, a howling dog. But in fact it was Uncle Stefano, calling his daughter. The sound of that voice made my hair stand on end, because it was the agonized, agonizing cry of a cruelly abandoned lover who was suffering and screaming out his pain like an animal; it was not the voice of a father looking for his daughter. It upset me terribly. I opened the door. Outside was total darkness. I shouted that I was alone in the house. I said: Why come looking for your daughter at my house? Then suddenly there he was in front of me, as though catapulted. He ran inside like a madman, trembling, insulting me and Lisetta. I tried to calm him and approached him. He punched me in the face and I fell backward, stunned. Finally I noticed he had a pistol in his hand. He said he was going to kill me. Then I made a mistake: I retorted that he only wanted his daughter so he could rape her again. He shot at me but missed; he was too agitated. Then he took better aim, but another shot exploded in the room. I used to keep a loaded shotgun in my room, near the bed. Lisetta had taken it and fired at her father from the top of the stairs. Struck in the shoulder, Uncle Stefano staggered, and his weapon fell from his hand. Coldly, Lisetta ordered him to get out or she would finish him off. I have no doubt she would have done so without hesitation. Uncle Stefano looked his daughter long in the eye, then began to whimper with his mouth closed, and not only, I suspect, because of his wound. Then he turned his back and left. I bolted all the doors and windows. I was terrified, and it was Lisetta who gave me back my courage and strength. We remained barricaded inside the next morning as well. Around three oclock Mario arrived, we told him what had happened, and he decided to spend the night with us. He didn't want to leave us alone there, since Lisetta's father would surely be back. Around midnight a horrific bombing raid was launched over Vig, but Lisetta remained calm because her Mario was with her. On the morning of July ninth, I went to Vig to see if the house we owned in town was still standing. I strongly advised Mario not to open the door for anyone and to keep the shotgun within reach.'
He stopped. 'My throat is dry.'
Montalbano ran into the kitchen and returned with a glass and a pitcher of cold water. The old man took the glass in both hands; his whole body was shaking. The inspector felt keenly sorry.
'If youd like to rest awhile, we can resume later.'
The old man shook his head.
'If I stop now, I'll never resume. I stayed in Vig until late afternoon. The house hadn't been destroyed, but it was a tremendous mess: doors and windows blown out by the shock waves, upended furniture, broken glass. I cleaned up as best I could, and that kept me busy till evening. My bicycle was gone from the entrance way, stolen. So I headed back to the Crasto on foot. It was an hours walk. Actually I had to walk by the side of the main road because there were so many military vehicles, Italian and German, moving in both directions. The moment I arrived at the top of the dirt road that led to my house, two American fighter-bombers appeared overhead and started machine-gunning and dropping fragmentation bombs. The planes were flying very low to the ground and roaring like thunder. I threw myself into a ditch and almost immediately was struck very hard in the back by something that I first thought was a large stone sent flying by an exploding bomb. In fact it was a military boot, with the foot still inside, severed just above the ankle. I sprang to my feet and started running up the driveway, but I had to stop to vomit. My legs were giving out, and I fell two or three times, as behind me the noise of the airplanes began to fade and I could hear the cries and screams and prayers more clearly, and the orders being shouted between the burning trucks. The instant I set foot in my house, I heard two shots ring out upstairs, quickly, one right after the other. Uncle Stefano, I thought, had managed to get inside the house and carry out his revenge. Near the door there was a big iron bar that was used to bolt it shut. I grabbed it and went upstairs without a sound. My bedroom door was open; a man was standing just inside with his back to me, still holding the revolver in his hand.'
The old man, who until this point hadn't once looked up at the inspector, now stared him straight in the eye.
'In your opinion, do I have the face of a murderer?'
'No,' said Montalbano. 'And if you're referring to the man in the room with the gun in his hand, you can set your mind at rest. You acted out of necessity, in self-defense.'
'Someone who kills a man is still someone who kills a man. The legal formulas come later. What counts is the
