The Patience of the Spider (22 page)

And with patience, tenacity, and determination, never
once turning back, that spider had woven its web to completion.
It was a marvel of geometry, a masterpiece of logic.

Yet it was impossible for that web not to contain at least
one mistake, however minuscule, one tiny, barely visible imperfection.

He got up, went inside, and started looking for a magnifying
glass that he knew he had somewhere. Ever since Sherlock
Holmes, no detective is a true detective if he doesnt have a
magnifying glass within reach.

He opened every last drawer in the house, made a mess of
the placecoming across a letter hed received from a friend
six months before and never opened, he opened it, read it,

learned that his friend Gaspano had become a grandfather
(Shit! But werent he and Gaspano the same age?)searched
some more, then decided there was no point in continuing. He
could only conclude, apparently, that he was not a true detective.
Elementary, my dear Watson. He went back out on the
veranda, leaned on the railing, and bent all the way forward until
his nose was almost at the center of the spiderweb. Then he
recoiled a little, suddenly scared that the lightning-fast spider
might bite his nose, mistaking it for prey. He studied the web
carefully, to the point that his eyes began to water. No, the web
appeared geometrically perfect, but in reality it wasnt. There
were at least three or four points where the distance between
one strand and the next was irregular, and there was even one
spot where two threads zigzagged for very brief stretches.

Feeling reassured, he smiled. Then his smile turned to
laughter. A spiderweb! There wasnt a single clichore used
and abused to describe a scheme plotted in the shadows. Hed
never employed it before. Apparently the clichad wanted to
get back at him for his disdain, becoming a reality and forcing
him to take it into consideration.

16

Two hours later he was in his car on the road to Gallotta, eyes
popping because he couldnt remember where he was supposed
to turn. At a certain point he spotted, on his right, the
tree with the sign saying fresh eggs painted in red.

The path from the road led nowhere except to the little
white die of a cottage where hed been. In fact it ended there.
From a distance he noticed a car parked in the space in front
of the house. He drove up the path, which was all uphill,
parked near the other car, and got out.

The door was locked. Maybe the girl was entertaining a
client with other intentions than buying fresh eggs.

He didnt knock, but decided to wait a little. He smoked a
cigarette, leaning against his car. As he tossed the butt on the
ground, he thought he saw something appear and disappear
behind the tiny barred window next to the front door that allowed
air to circulate inside when the door was closed. A face,
perhaps. The door then opened and a distinguished-looking,
chunky man of about fifty came out, wearing gold-rimmed
glasses. He was pepper-red with embarrassment.

Wont you come in, Inspector? the woman called from
inside.

Montalbano went in. She was sitting on the sofa-cot. Its

cover was rumpled and a pillow had fallen to the floor. She
was buttoning her blouse, long black hair hanging loose on
her shoulders, the corners of her mouth smeared with lipstick.

I looked out the window and recognized you at once,
she said. Excuse me just one minute.

She stood up and started putting things in order. Like the
first time he saw her, she was dressed up.

How is your husband feeling? Montalbano asked, glancing
at the door to the back room, which was closed.

Hows he supposed to feel, poor man?

When shed finished tidying up and had wiped her mouth
with a Kleenex, she asked with a smile:

Can I make you some coffee?

Thank you. But I dont want to inconvenience you.

Are you kidding? You dont seem like a cop. Please sit
down, she said, pulling out a cane chair for him.

Thanks. I dont know your name.

Angela. Angela Di Bartolomeo.

Did my colleagues come to interrogate you?

Inspector, I did just like you told me to do. I put on
shabby clothes, put the bed in the other room ...Nothing doing.
They turned the house upside down, they even looked under
my husbands bed, they asked me questions for four hours
straight, they searched the chicken coop and scared my chickens
away and broke three baskets worth of eggs ...And then
there was one of em, the son of a bitchpardon my
languagewho, as soon as we were alone, took advantage . . .

Took advantage how?

Took advantage of me, touched my breasts. At a certain

point it got to where I couldnt take it anymore and I started
crying. It didnt matter that I kept saying I wouldnt ever do
any harm to Dr. Mistrettas niece cause the doctor even gives
my husband his medicines for free ...But he just didnt want
to hear it.

The coffee was excellent.

Listen, Angela, I need you to try and remember something.

Ill do whatever you want.

Do you remember when you said that after Susanna was
kidnapped, a car came here one night and you thought it
might be a client?

Yessir.

Okay, now that things have settled down, can you calmly
try to remember what you did when you heard that cars motor?

Didnt I already tell you?

You said you got out of bed because you thought it was
a client.

Yessir.

A client who hadnt told you he was coming, however.

Yessir.

You got out of bed, and then what did you do?

I came in here and turned on the light.

This was the new element, the thing the inspector had
been looking for. Therefore she must also have seen something,
in addition to what shed heard.

Stop right there. Which light?

The one outside. The one thats over the door and when
its dark it lights up the yard in front of the house. When my

husband was still okay, we used to eat outside in the summertime.
The switch is right there, see it?

And she pointed to it. It was on the wall between the door
and the little window.

And then?

Then I looked out the window, which was half open.
But the card already turned around, I just barely saw it from
behind.

Do you know anything about cars,Angela?

Me? said the girl. I dont know the first thing!

But you managed to see the back of the car, you just told
me.

Yessir.

Do you remember what color it was?

Angela thought about this a moment.

I cant really say, Inspector. Mightve been blue, black,
dark green ...But Im sure about one thing: it wasnt light, it
was dark.

Now came the hardest question.

Montalbano took a deep breath and asked it. And Angela
answered at once, somewhat surprised at not having thought
of it first.

Oh, yes, thats true!

Then she immediately made a face, looking confused.

But . . . whats that got to do with it?

In fact its got nothing to do with it, he hastened to reassure
her. I asked you because the car Im looking for looked
a lot like that one.

He got up and held out his hand to her.

I have to go now.

Angela also stood up.

You want a really, really fresh egg?

Before the inspector could answer, shed pulled one out of
a basket. Montalbano took it, tapped it twice against the table,
and sucked out the contents. It had been years since hed last
tasted an egg like that.

At a junction on the way back, he saw a sign that said montereale
18 km. He turned and took this road. Perhaps it was the
taste of the egg that made him realize he hadnt been to Don
Cosimos shop for quite some time. It was a tiny little place
where one could still find things that had long disappeared
from Vig, such as little bunches of oregano, concentrate of
sun-dried tomatoes and, most of all, a special vinegar made
from strong, naturally fermented red wine. Indeed hed noticed
that the bottle he had in the kitchen had barely two fingers
worth left. He therefore needed urgently to restock.

It took him an incredibly long time to reach Montereale.
Hed driven at a snails pace, in part because he was thinking
of the implications of what Angela had confirmed, in part because
he enjoyed taking in the new landscape. In town, as he
was about to turn onto the little street that led to the shop, he
noticed a sign indicating no entry. This was new. It hadnt
been there before. It meant he would have to make a long detour.
He was better off leaving the car in the little piazza that
was right there, and taking a little walk. He pulled over,
stopped, opened the car door, and saw a uniformed traffic cop
in front of him.

You cant park here.

I cant? Why not?

Cant you read that sign? No parking.

The inspector looked around. There were three other vehicles
parked in the piazzetta. A small pickup, a minivan, and
an SUV.

What about them?

The cop looked at him sternly.

They have authorization.

Why, nowadays, did every town, even if it had only two
hundred inhabitants, pretend it was New York City, passing
extremely complicated traffic regulations that changed every
two weeks?

Listen, the inspector said in a conciliatory tone. I only
need to stop a few minutes. I want to go to Don Cosimos
shop to buy

You cant.

Is it also forbidden to go to Don Cosimos shop? said
Montalbano, at a loss.

Its not forbidden, the traffic cop said. Its just that the
shop is closed.

And when will it reopen?

I dont think it will ever open again. Don Cosimo died.

Oh my God! When?

Are you a relative?

No, but...

Then why are you surprised? Don Cosimo, rest his soul,
was ninety-five years old. He died three months ago.

He drove off cursing the saints. To leave town, he had to
take a rather labyrinthine route that ended up setting his nerves
on edge. He calmed down when he started driving along the

coastal road that led back to Marinella. All at once he remembered
that when Mimugello said that Susannas backpack
had been found, hed specified that theyd found it behind the
four-kilometer marker along the road he was on now. He was
almost there. He slowed down, pulled over, and stopped at the
very point Mimad mentioned. He got out. There were no
houses nearby. To his right were some clumps of wild grass,
beyond which lay a golden burst of yellow beach, the same as
in Marinella. Beyond that, the sea, surf receding with a lazy
breath, already anticipating the sunset. On his left was a high
wall, interrupted at one point by a cast-iron gate, which was
wide open. At the gate began a paved road that cut straight
through a well-tended, genuine wood and led to a villa that
remained hidden from view. To one side of the gate was an
enormous bronze plaque with letters written in high relief.

Montalbano didnt need to cross the road to read what it
said.

He got back in the car and left.

What was it Adelina often said? Lomu e sceccu di consiguenza.
Or: Man is a jackass of consequence. A glorified
donkey. And like a donkey that always travels the same road
and gets used to that road, man is given to taking always the
same route, making always the same gestures, without reflection,
out of habit.

But would what he had just happened to discover, and
what Angela had told him, stand up in court?

No, he concluded, definitely not. But they were confirmations.
That, they certainly were.

At seven-thirty he turned on the television to watch the eve-
nings first news report.

They said there were no new developments in the investigation.
Susanna was still unable to answer questions, and a
huge crowd was expected at the funeral services for the late
Mrs. Mistretta, despite the fact that the family had made it
known they didnt want anyone to come either to the church
or the cemetery. They also mentioned in passing that Antonio
Peruzzo had vanished from circulation, fleeing his impending
arrest. This news, however, had not been officially confirmed.
The other stations news broadcast, at eight, repeated the same
things, but in a different order. First came the report of the
engineers disappearance, then the fact that the family wanted
a private funeral. Nobody could enter the church, and no one
would be allowed into the cemetery.

The telephone rang, just as he was about to go out to eat.
He had a hearty appetite. Hed eaten hardly anything at midday,
and Angelas fresh egg had tasted to him like an hors
doeuvre.

Inspector? This...this is Francesco.

He didnt recognize the voice. It was hoarse, hesitant.

Francesco who? he asked gruffly.

Francesco Li . . . Lipari.

Susannas boyfriend. Why was he talking like that?

Whats wrong?

Susanna . . .

He stopped. Montalbano could clearly hear him sniffle.
The kid was crying.

Susanna...Susanna told...me...
Did you see her?
No. But she...she finally...answered the phone...
Now came the sobbing.
Im...Im ...sorr...
Calm down, Francesco. Do you want to come over to

my place?
No ...no thanks ...Im not ...Ive been drin...
drinking. Shesaidshe didnt want to ...tosee me anymore.

Montalbano felt his blood run cold, perhaps colder than
Francescos. What did this mean? That Susanna had another
man? And if she had another man, then all his calculations, all
his suppositions went out the window. They were nothing
more than the ridiculous, miserable fantasies of an aging inspector
who was no longer all there in the head.

Is she in love with somebody else?
Worse.
Worse in what way?
There isnt anybo ...anybody else. She made a vow, a

decision, when she was being held prisoner.
Is she religious?
No. Its a promise she made to herself ...that if she was