IM8 The Patience of the Spider (2007) Read online

  THE PATIENCE OF THE SPIDER

  ANDREA CAMILLERI

  Translated by Stephen Sartarelli

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  The idiosyncratic Montalbano is totally endearing.

  The New York Times

  Like Mike Hammer or Sam Spade, Montalbano is the kind of guy who cant stay out of trouble.... Still, deftly and lovingly translated by Stephen Sartarelli, Camilleri makes it abundantly clear that under the gruff, sardonic exterior our inspector has a heart of gold, and that any outbursts, fumbles, or threats are made only in the name of pursuing truth. The Nation

  Once again, violence is muted, complications rule, politics roil, but humor...prevail[s] in the end. Italy is good to visit, even if only in print. And what better way to shorten a flight to Palermo than by gobbling this tasty snack along the way? Los Angeles Times

  [Camilleris mysteries] offer quirky characters, crisp dialogue, bright storytellingand Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging protagonists in detective fiction. ...Montalbano is a delightful creation, an honest man on Sicilys mean streets. USA Today

  The Montalbano mysteries offer cose dolci to the world-lit lover hankering for a whodunit. The Village Voice

  The reading of these little gems is fast and fun every step of the way. The New York Sun

  Wittily translated from the savory Italian, Camilleris mysteries . . . feature the sardonic Inspector Salvo Montalbano, whose gustatory adventures are at least as much fun as his crime solving.

  Rocky Mountain News

  Camilleri once again thrills with his fluid storytelling and quirky characters. Publishers Weekly

  Also by Andrea Camilleri

  The Shape of Water The Terra-Cotta Dog The Snack Thief Voice of the Violin Excursion to Tindari The Smell of the Night Rounding the Mark

  Andrea Camilleri is the author of many books, including his Montalbano series, which has been adapted for Italian television and translated into nine languages. He lives in Rome.

  Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry, most recently The Open Vault.

  Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephens Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1311, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Translation copyright Stephen Sartarelli, 2007 All rights reserved

  Originally published in Italian as La pazienza del ragno by Sellerio Editore, Palermo. Copright 2004 Sellerio Editore.

  Publishers Note This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Camilleri,Andrea. [Pazienza del ragno. English] The patience of the spider / Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli. p. cm. A Penguin mystery.

  I. Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954 II. Title. PQ4863.A3894P3913 2007 853'.914dc22 2006051527

  Set in Bembo Designed by Jaye Zimet

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  1

  He jolted awake, sweaty and short of breath. For a few seconds he didnt know where he was. Then the soft, regular breathing of Livia, who lay asleep beside him, brought him back to a familiar, reassuring reality. He was in his bedroom in Marinella. What had yanked him from his sleep was a sharp pang, cold as a knife blade, in his wounded shoulder. He didnt need to look at the clock on the nightstand to know that it was three-thirty in the morningactually, three-twenty-seven and forty seconds. The same thing had been happening to him for the last twenty days, ever since the night Jamil Zarzis, a trafficker in small third world children, had shot and wounded him, and he had reacted by killing the man. Twenty days, but it was as though the mechanism of time had got stuck at that moment. Some gear in the part of his brain that measures the passing hours and days had gone clack, and ever since, if he was asleep, he would wake up, and if he was awake, everything around him would stop in a sort of imperceptible freeze-frame. He knew very well that during that split-second duel, it had never crossed his mind to check what time it was, and yetand this he remembered very clearlythe moment the bullet fired by Jamil Zarzis penetrated his flesh, a voice inside himan impersonal, female voice, slightly metallic, like the voices you hear over PA systems

  in train stations and supermarketshad said, It is three- twenty-seven and forty seconds.

  Were you with the inspector?

  Yes, Doctor.

  Your name?

  Fazio, Doctor.

  How long has he been wounded?

  Well, Doctor, the exchange of fire took place around three- thirty. So, a little more than half an hour ago. Oh, Doctor...

  Yes?

  Is it serious?

  The inspector was lying down, utterly still, eyes shut, which led everyone to think he was unconscious and they could speak openly. Whereas in fact he heard and understood everything. He felt simultaneously dazed and lucid, but had no desire to open his mouth and answer the doctors questions himself. Apparently the shots theyd given him to kill the pain had affected his whole body.

  Dont be silly! All we have to do is extract the bullet lodged in his shoulder.

  O Madonna Santa!

  Theres no need to get so upset! Its a piece of cake. Besides, I really dont think it did much damage.With a bit of physical therapy, he should recover one hundred percent use of his arm. But why, may I ask, are you still so concerned?

  Well, you see, Doctor, a few days ago the inspector went out by himself on an investigation...

  Now, as then, he keeps his eyes closed. But he can no longer hear the words, which are drowned out by the loud, pounding surf. It must be windy outside, the whole shutter is vibrating from the force of the gusts, emitting a kind of wail. Its a good thing hes still convalescing; he can stay under the covers for as long as he wants. Consoled by this thought, he decides to open his eyes just a crack.

  Why could he no longer hear Fazio talking? He opened his eyes just a crack.The two men had stepped a short distance away from the bed and were over by the window. Fazio was talking and the doctor, dressed in a white smock, was listening, a grave expression on his face. Suddenly Montalbano realized he had no need to hear Fazios words to know what he was saying to the doctor. Fazio, his friend, his trusty right-hand man, was betraying him. Like Judas. He was obviously telling the doctor about the time hed found the inspector lying on the beach, drained of strength after the terrible chest pain hed had in the water... Imagine the doctors reaction upon hearing this wonderful news! Before ever removing that goddamned bullet, they would give him the works: examine him inside and
out, poke him full of holes, lift up his skin piece by piece to see what there was underneath...

  His bedroom is the same as its always been. No, thats not true. Its different, but still the same. Different because there are Livias things on the dresser: purse, hairpins, two little perfume bottles. And, on the chair across the room, a blouse and skirt. And though he cant see them, he knows theres a pair of

  pink slippers somewhere near the bed. He feels a surge of emotion. He melts, goes all soft inside, turns to liquid. For twenty days this has been his new refrain, and he doesnt know how to put a stop to it. The slightest thing will set it off and bring him, treacherously, to the point of tears. Hes embarrassed, ashamed of his new emotional fragility, and has to create elaborate defenses to prevent others from noticing. But not with Livia. With her he couldnt pull it off. So she decided to help him, to lend him a hand by dealing firmly with him, not allowing him any opportunities to let himself go. But its no use. Because this loving approach on Livias part also triggers a mixed emotion of happiness and sadness. Hes happy that Livia used up all her vacation time to come and look after him, and he knows that the house is happy to have her there. Ever since she arrived, when he looks at his bedroom in sunlight it seems to have its color back, as though the walls had been repainted a luminous white.

  Since nobody can see him, he wipes away a tear with a corner of the bedsheet.

  White all around, and amidst the white, only the brown of his naked skin (Was it once pink? How many centuries ago?).A white room, in which hes being given an electrocardiogram. The doctor studies the long strip of paper, shakes his head in doubt. Terrified, Montalbano imagines that the graph the doctor is examining looks exactly like the seismograph of the Messina earthquake of 1908, which he once saw reproduced in a history magazine: a crazy, hopeless jumble of lines traced as if by a hand driven mad by fear.

  Theyve found me out! he thinks to himself. They realize that

  my heart functions on alternating current, higgledy-piggledy, and that Ive had at least three heart attacks!

  Then another doctor, also in a white smock, enters the room. He looks at the strip, at Montalbano, and at this colleague.

  Lets do it over, he says.

  Maybe they cant believe their eyes, cant understand how a man with an electrocardiogram like that is still in a hospital bed and not on a marble slab in the morgue. They look at the new strip, their heads now very close together.

  Lets do a telecardiogram, is the verdict.The doctors seem perplexed.

  Montalbano wishes he could tell them that, if this is the way it is, they shouldnt even bother extracting the bullet.They should let him die in peace. But, dammit, he forgot to make a will. The house in Marinella, for example, should definitely go to Livia, so that some fourth cousin doesnt show up and claim it.

  Right, because the house in Marinella has been his for a few years now. He never thought hed be able to buy it. It cost too much for the salary he earned, which barely let him set anything aside. Then one day his fathers former partner had written to him saying he was ready to liquidate his fathers share of the vineyard, which amounted to a considerable sum. So not only had he had the money to buy the house, but there was a fair amount left over to put away. For his old age. And that was why he needed to draw up a will, since, without wanting to, hed become a man with property. Once again, however, after he got out of the hospital he couldnt bring himself to go see the notary. But if he ever did get around to

  seeing him, the house would go to Livia, that much was certain. As for Frans, the son who wasnt his son but could have been, he knew exactly what to leave him. Enough money to buy himself a nice car. He could already see the indignant expression on Livias face. What? And spoil him like that? Yes, maam. A son who wasnt a son but could (should?) have been one should be spoiled much more than a son whos really a son. Twisted logic, yes, but still logical. And what about Catarella? Surely he had to put Catarella in his will. So what would he leave him? Certainly not any books. He tried to recall an old song of the Alpine regiment called The Cap- tains Testament or something similar, but couldnt remember it. The watch! That was it. He would leave Catarella his fathers watch, which his business partner had sent to him. That way he could feel like part of the family. The watch was the answer.

  He cant read the clock on the wall in the cardiology unit because there is a kind of greyish veil over his eyes.The two doctors are very attentively watching some sort of TV screen, occasionally moving a computer mouse.

  One of them, the doctor whos supposed to perform the operation, is named Strazzera, Amedeo Strazzera. This time the machine spits out not a strip of paper but a series of photographs or something sim- ilar.The two doctors study and study them, then finally sigh as though worn out after a long walk. Strazzera approaches while his colleague goes and sits down in a chairwhite, of course. The doctor looks sternly at the inspector and bends forward. Montalbano is expecting him to say:

  You must stop pretending youre alive! Shame on you!

  How does the poem go?

  The poor man, not knowing how much hed bled, / kept on fighting when in fact he was dead.

  But the doctor says nothing and begins to sound his chest with the stethoscope. As if he hasnt already done this at least twenty times. Finally he straightens back up, looks over at his colleague, and asks:

  What do we do?

  I would let Di Bartolo have a look at him, says the other.

  Di Bartolo! A legend. Montalbano had met him a while back. By now he must be over seventy. A skinny old man with a little white beard that made him look like a goat, he could no longer conform to human society or the rules of common courtesy. Once, after examining, in a manner of speaking, a man known to be a ruthless loan shark, he told the patient he couldnt tell him anything because he was unable to locate his heart. Another time, in a cafhe said to a man hed never seen before, who was sipping a coffee, Do you know youre about to have a heart attack? And lo and behold, he had a heart attack right then and there, maybe because a luminary such as Di Bartolo had just told him it was coming.

  But why do these two want to call in Di Bartolo if there is nothing more to be done? Maybe they want to show the old master what a phenomenon this Montalbano is, the way he inexplicably goes on living with a heart that looks like Dresden after the Allied bombing.

  While waiting, they decide to take him back to his room. As theyre opening the door to push the stretcher through, he hears Livias voice call out desperately:

  Salvo! Salvo!

  He doesnt feel like answering. Poor thing! Shed come down to Vig to spend a few days with him and got this nice surprise instead.

  What a nice surprise! Livia had said to him the day before, when, upon his return from a check-up at Montelusa Hospital, hed appeared in the doorway with a large bouquet of roses in his hands. And shed burst into tears.

  Come on, dont start! hed said, barely holding back himself.

  Why shouldnt I?

  Well, you never have before!

  And when have you ever given me a bouquet of roses before?

  He lays his hand on her hip, but gently, so as not to wake her.

  Hed forgottenor else hadnt noticed during his earlier meetings with himthat Dr. Di Bartolo not only looked but also sounded like a goat.

  Good day, everybody, he bleats upon entering, followed by ten or so doctors, all dressed without fail in white smocks and crowding into the room.

  Good day, replies everybodythat is, Montalbano, since hes the only body in the room when the doctor appears.

  Di Bartolo approaches the bed and looks at him with interest.

  Im glad to see that, despite my colleagues efforts, you can still understand and know what you want.

  He makes a gesture and Strazzera appears beside him and hands him the test results. Di Bartolo barely glances at the first sheet and then tosses it onto the bed, does the same with the second, ditto the third and the fourth. In a matter of seconds, Montalbanos head and torso disappear under t
he paper. In the end he hears the doctors voice but cant see him because the photos of the telecardiogram are over his eyes.

  Mind telling me why you called me here?

  The bleat sounds rather irritated. Apparently the goat is getting ornery.

  Well, Doctor, Strazzeras voice hesitantly begins, the fact is, one of the inspectors men told us that a few days ago hed had a serious episode of...

  Of what? Montalbano can no longer hear Strazzera. Maybe hes telling the next installment in Di Bartolos ear. Installment? This isnt some soap opera. Strazzera said episode. But isnt a soap opera installment called an episode?

  Pull him up for me, orders Dr. Di Bartolo.

  They remove the sheets of paper covering him and gently lift him up. A circle of doctors in white surround the bed, religiously silent. Di Bartolo applies the stethoscope to Montalbanos chest, moves it a few centimeters, then moves it a few more centimeters and stops. Seeing his face so close, the inspector notices that the doctors jaws are moving continuously, as if he were chewing gum. All at once, he understands.The doctor is ruminating. Dr. Di Bartolo actually is a goat. Who now hasnt moved for a long time. Hes listening, immobile. What do his ears hear in there? Montalbano wonders. Buildings collapsing? Fissures suddenly opening up? Subterranean rumbles? Di Bartolo keeps listening interminably, not moving one millimeter from the spot hes singled out. Doesnt it hurt his back to stay bent over like that? The inspector begins to sweat from fear.The doctor straightens up.

  Thats enough.

  The other doctors set Montalbano back down.

  In my opinion, the luminary concludes, you could shoot him another three or four times, extract the bullets without anesthesia, and his heart would definitely stand up to it.

  Then he leaves, without saying goodbye to anyone.

  Ten minutes later, the inspectors in the operating room.Theres a bright white light. A man stands over him, holding a kind of mask in his hand, which he places over Montalbanos face.

  Breathe deeply, he says.

  He obeys. And cant remember anything else.

  How is it, he asks himself, they havent yet invented an aerosol cartridge for when you cant sleep? Something you stick it in your nose and push, and the gas or whatever it is comes out, and you fall asleep right away?