The Safety Net Page 10

  “You’ve got a full wardrobe here,” said Livia. “And if they need you back in Vigàta, they can always reach you on my land line.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be needing me.”

  “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “For four days, at the very least. But if nothing’s going on down there, I could stretch that out to a week.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Livia shouted, hugging him anew. Then: “Have you had any dinner?”

  “I didn’t have time.”

  “If you’d be happy with a fried egg, some cheese, and some salami . . .”

  “That’d be fine with me.”

  Then, just in case Livia suddenly felt inspired to cook something up the following day:

  “I’ll make up for it tomorrow at the restaurant.”

  They went into the kitchen. The inspector sat down at the table, and Livia set a place for him and served him the egg. She watched him eat without saying a word. She didn’t open her mouth until Montalbano also had dispatched the salami and cheese.

  “Listen, Salvo, of all those stories you told me over the phone . . . and there were really a lot . . .”

  “But they weren’t made up. They were—”

  “They were whatever they were. But, of all those stories, I’m only interested in one.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one about what happened between Mimì and Beba. Is it true that Beba wanted to talk to a lawyer?”

  Montalbano ran one hand over his conscience.

  Precisely where his conscience was located was another matter. He didn’t know, but it must have been somewhere between his stomach and the bottom of his rib cage. He decided to tell her the truth. But a slightly adjusted truth.

  Because, no matter how you looked at it, an adjusted truth was always more convincing than the hard, naked truth.

  “She probably said that without really meaning it. But she became so exasperated with Mimì that she scratched his face. He really screwed up this time.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Montalbano told her everything in great detail, including the show he’d put on at the restaurant and the revenge he’d taken by robbing Mimì of a night of sleep.

  “Shall we go out on the balcony?” he asked when he’d finished. “It’s such a nice evening . . .”

  On the bedroom’s balcony, from which you could see the sea, there was room enough for two chairs and a stool, which served as a small table. Livia set a bottle of whisky, a glass, and an ashtray down on it; Montalbano added a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Selene, who was a medium-sized dog, rolled onto Livia’s feet.

  The inspector got carried away colorfully describing the carnival atmosphere created by the film shoots all over town, prompting an occasional guffaw from Livia.

  “Well,” she commented upon finishing, “if nothing else, at least you didn’t have any problems at the police station.”

  “Maybe not at the police station, but I did have what you might call a personal problem, and I still haven’t figured out how to resolve it.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s a long story, Livia. I’ll tell it to you tomorrow. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “I want to hear it now.”

  Whenever Livia got something into her head, there was no getting it out of there.

  “All right, then,” Montalbano said in surrender, pouring himself half a glass of whisky.

  “Wait just a second,” said Livia. “I want to go put on a sweater.”

  She got up, leaned over Salvo, gave him a kiss, went into the bedroom, came back, kissed Salvo again, and sat back down, all the while with Selene following behind her.

  “Okay, you can begin.”

  Montalbano started telling her about the home movie reels shot by Engineer Sabatello’s father and went on for over an hour. That was because at a certain point he realized that he wasn’t telling the story anymore to Livia, but to himself, in the sense that this was the first time he’d managed to have a full picture of the situation, thanks to what Sidoti had told him.

  “You’ve made me sad,” said Livia.

  “You were the one insisting that I tell you.”

  “I know,” she said.

  And she sat there in silence, stroking Selene.

  “Are you wondering why he shot all those reels?” Montalbano asked her.

  “That’s not what I’m interested in.”

  The inspector gave a start.

  “But they’re the most interesting part of the—”

  “I still have in my possession a pebble from a river,” said Livia. “It was a present from my first boyfriend. Are you interested?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s the same sort of thing. Filming that wall was an exercise of remembrance.”

  “Remembering what?”

  “That is what you, sooner or later, will have to find out. But, actually, I meant Emanuele.”

  “And his unhappy life?”

  “That, too. But mostly his death.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t really know. It’s just a rather confused impression. A feeling that none of it makes any sense.”

  “Could you be more precise?”

  “Well, for example, I wonder how it is that Francesco never noticed that his brother had reached such a state of desperation. He should have been able to feel it inside, in his own body . . .”

  Montalbano had asked himself this same question, but been unable to answer it.

  “A desperation so great, so absolute that he would take a gun into his hand even though he was scared to death of guns . . . Can you imagine what kind of deep, dark fears he had to bear as he was raising the gun to his head?”

  She heaved a long sigh.

  “It’s late,” she said.

  “Did I tire you out with all my talking?”

  “No. You made me happy.”

  * * *

  At around three o’clock in the morning, Montalbano woke up. Livia was sleeping soundly. It was she who’d found the hole in the weave of the story he’d told her: namely, the weapon Emanuele chose to kill himself with.

  There were countless ways to end one’s own life without having to resort to a knife or a firearm.

  In the present case, Emanuele could have climbed to the top of the turret and thrown himself off.

  Or else hanged himself from a tree.

  Or jumped into the well in the middle of the garden.

  Or killed himself with rat poison.

  Whereas . . .

  He went and grabbed a weapon the mere sight of which made him piss his pants in terror.

  Wait a second. It was a pistol, not a revolver, as Sidoti had taken care to point out.

  A pistol that Francesco Sabatello kept around without the charger.

  Which meant that Emanuele not only had inserted the charger but had also loaded the barrel, pulling the latch back and then letting it slide forward.

  But those were movements one learned. They were not things you did instinctively.

  Therefore Emanuele must have seen someone else make them.

  But was seeing someone make them once or twice enough to allow a handicapped man like Emanuele to repeat them without making any mistakes?

  And if, on the other hand, someone had taught them to him, how had they managed to convince him to pick up a gun?

  And to hold it in his hand and not let go?

  Wouldn’t he have fainted in fright?

  The inspector fell back asleep, convinced of one thing. That he would never manage to discover the reason for the films if he didn’t first understand with certainty how Emanuele had committed suicide.

  * * *

>   He was woken up by the sound of the front door closing. Through the half-shuttered balcony window, the light of a beautiful morning filtered in.

  “Livia, is that you?”

  “Yes, I took Selene out.”

  He felt confused. What time was it, anyway? He looked at his watch. Almost nine. He jumped out of bed, ran into the kitchen, and gave Livia a kiss.

  “Why didn’t you wake me up? I would have gone out with you . . .”

  “You were sleeping so soundly . . . I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I put a change of underwear and a clean shirt for you in the bathroom.”

  “Have you already had breakfast?”

  “Yes. And I’ve already brewed you a good four cups’ worth of coffee. Think that’ll be enough?”

  “I’ll make it be enough.”

  Before going into the bathroom he drank a first demitasse as a test. It was good. Coffee, at least, was one thing Livia knew how to make.

  * * *

  “So, what’s the plan for this morning?” he asked, appearing before Livia all clean and shiny.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you want to stay home or go out.”

  “I’d rather go out.”

  “Then let’s do this. We’ll all get in the car, you, me, and Selene. Since I have a few errands to run, I’ll drop you and Selene off at the park. That way you can get a little better acquainted. But be sure to keep her on the leash the whole time. I’ll come by and pick you up about an hour later, or maybe a little more.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we’ll see whether we want to go straight to the restaurant or come briefly back home.”

  The inspector rather liked this last part of the plan.

  * * *

  With Selene on the leash, he headed towards a group of four benches arranged in a circle. Only one was free, and he sat down on it.

  Selene was restless, tugging and whimpering and generally making it clear that she wanted to be set free to have a nice run. But if he unleashed her, would she return when he called her? Or would he be forced to go looking for her?

  As he sat there unable to make up his mind, he noticed that an old man, with a long beard halfway down his chest, had stopped in front of him and was looking at him intensely. What the hell did he want?

  “I’m sorry, can I help you with something?”

  “Yes. My bench.”

  “Excuse me, which bench?”

  “The one you’re sitting on.”

  Montalbano was at a loss.

  “But it’s a public bench! How can it be yours?”

  “By usucaption. For the past twenty-five years, I’ve been sitting there from eleven a.m. to one p.m., and from four p.m. to six p.m.”

  Montalbano tried to compromise.

  “There’s more than enough room for you here. Just sit down beside me.”

  “I never share my bench with anyone.”

  The inspector didn’t feel like getting into a squabble with an insane old man. Luckily an elderly couple sitting on the bench next to them got up and left. Montalbano dashed over and sat down on it.

  And was immediately overwhelmed by a wave of melancholy.

  How much time did he have left before retirement? Almost none at all—no, actually, if he’d wanted to, he could have already retired.

  Was this the kind of future that awaited him? Taking Selene on walks in the park and scuffling with other geezers over a place on a sunlit bench?

  And then, evenings, nodding off in front of the TV set, waking up numbskulled, calling for Livia, who’s lying there in an even deeper stupor in the armchair beside him, and finally, each helping the other, staggering off to bed?

  Too advanced in years to make new friends, or to accept Livia’s friends, he was sure to have a desolate, lonely old age.

  He didn’t feel like sitting there any longer. A strong desire to start walking came over him. So he got up, took three steps, and froze.

  Where was Selene?

  She’d run away, leash and all. He broke out in a cold sweat. He looked around. No sign at all of her.

  “Are you looking for your dog?” asked the usucaption codger with a malicious grin.

  “Yes.”

  “It went over that way,” the old man said, vaguely pointing in a north-northeast direction.

  Montalbano, who knew the human soul well, headed off in a southwesterly direction, calling desperately.

  “Selene! Selene!”

  At last he saw her. She was playing with a little boy barely three years old, before the loving eyes of his mother, an attractive, well-dressed woman of about forty.

  “I’ve come to retrieve my dog,” said Montalbano.

  “Please go ahead.”

  Easier said than done. As soon as he drew near, Selene would scamper away. After five minutes of vain attempts, the good-looking lady joined the hunt, but with no results, either.

  “You haven’t trained him very well, apparently,” the woman reproached him.

  Montalbano was about to reply when he heard a voice.

  “Salvo . . . Selene?”

  Selene shot off like a rocket towards the spot where Livia’s voice had come from.

  Montalbano half bowed to the unknown woman in as dignified a manner as he could muster.

  * * *

  “Did Selene behave?” Livia asked when they were in the car.

  “Behave? Are you kidding?” the inspector cried, venting his frustration. “First, taking advantage of a moment of distraction on my part—”

  “I do hope you’re not going to blame Selene for your being distracted,” Livia said with irritation, interrupting him.

  “I wouldn’t dare. I just meant to say that she ran away, and when I went looking for her and called her name, she didn’t come.”

  “And why should she come?”

  “Because I was calling her!”

  “And who are you to her? An acquaintance, someone who every so often comes to see me . . .”

  Stop right there, Montalbano! Trouble ahead. The conversation was on the verge of taking a very dangerous turn. Better change the subject at once.

  “So where are you going to take me now?”

  “I have no choice but to go home first. I have to put some stuff in the freezer and prepare Selene’s food.”

  “And what about me?”

  “You can either come with me or go for a walk and we can meet back up outside my place in half an hour.”

  * * *

  As he was strolling about town, he noticed a display of pure white roses called Queen of the Snows in a florist’s window. Unable to restrain himself, he went inside.

  “I’d like a dozen of those white roses,” he said.

  He also noticed some dark red roses with long stems inside the shop.

  “And a dozen of these red ones as well.”

  “In a single bouquet?”

  “Yes.”

  He walked back to Livia’s place somewhat awkwardly, his view rather limited by the enormous bouquet he was carrying.

  The moment Livia came out and saw Montalbano with the roses, she buried her face in her hands and started crying. The tears were genuine, and unstoppable, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed.

  Montalbano went up to her, managing to hold the huge bouquet in one hand, so he could stroke her hair.

  “C’mon, Livia, don’t be like that.”

  But then she reopened the front door and went back inside, followed by Montalbano. She kept on crying until they were inside the apartment, where she ran and locked herself in the bathroom.

  Montalbano felt that his only option was to let her have all the time she needed to get it out of her system, and so he set the roses down on the table and went
and smoked a cigarette on the bedroom’s little balcony. Then he finally heard Livia calling him.

  She was still in the bathroom, but she’d already put herself back together. Salvo had barely entered when she ran up to him and hugged him very tight, keeping her head pressed against his chest.

  They stayed that way for a spell, in silence.

  Then she whispered:

  “Thank you.”

  Raising her head, she kissed him on the chin.

  “For what?” Montalbano asked confusedly.

  “For being here with me.”

  Not knowing what to say, he squeezed her tighter.

  Then, in a sudden, loving impulse, he decided to sacrifice himself.

  “Would you rather we stayed home? It’s all the same to me, maybe even preferable . . . You can make me something to eat—say, a dish of spaghetti, and then—”

  “Absolutely not,” Livia said firmly. “We’re going to eat out, as we decided.”

  They released their embrace.

  “But first you must help me put these roses in some vases.”

  The inspector was beginning to feel rather hungry. His supper of the night before hadn’t exactly been rich.

  “Let’s just do it when we get—”

  “No, they’ll suffer, all bound up like that.”

  She untied the bouquet, cut the roses scattered across the table, then made a face.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you like them?”

  “They’re magnificent. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “They look like an homage to fallen patriots.”

  “What?!”

  “Just look: the green of the leaves, the red and white of the roses . . . It’s the Italian flag.”

  Why could he never do anything right?

  “But, luckily, you’re alive and of sound mind. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  At last they were ready to leave. At that moment Montalbano realized that the home phone’s receiver was off the hook and lying beside it. He pointed this out to Livia.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” she said, going over and hanging it back up. “Who knows for how long it’s been like that.”