The Track of Sand (13 page)

Later he felt her move and then get up, and all at once a yellowish light lit up the scene. Rachele, still naked, was standing beside the door by the light switch and looking at him. Without warning she started laughing in her way, throwing her head back.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re funny.You’re so touching.”

She went up to him, knelt down, and hugged him. Montalbano started frantically putting his clothes back on.

But they lost another ten minutes helping each other remove the blades of straw that had lodged themselves in every place they could.

They retraced their steps without a word, and walking a bit apart from each other.

Then, just as he had feared, Montalbano ran into a tree. But this time Rachele did not come to his aid by taking his hand. She said only:

“Did you hurt yourself ?”

“No.”

But when they were still in the dark part of the great lawn where the tables were, Rachele suddenly put her arms around him and whispered in his ear:

“I really enjoyed you.”

Deep inside, Montalbano felt a kind of shame. He also felt slightly offended.

I really enjoyed you! What kind of fucking statement was that? What did it mean? That the lady was satisfied with the performance? Pleased with the product? Try Montalbano’s cassata; you’ll taste paradise! Montalbano’s ice cream has no equal! Montalbano’s cannoli are the best! Try them, you’ll like them!

He felt enraged. Because, while Rachele may have enjoyed the encounter, it was still stuck in his craw.What had taken place between the two of them anyway? A pure and simple coupling. Like two horses in a barn. And he, after a certain point, had been unable, or had not known how, to restrain himself. How true it was that one needed slip only once, to slip every time thereafter!

Why had he done it?

It was a pointless question, in that he knew very well why: the fear—by now ever-present even when not visible—of the years passing by, flying by. And his recent flings, first with that twenty-year-old girl, whose name he did not even want to remember, and now with Rachele, were both ridiculous, miserable, pitiable attempts to stop time.To stop it, at least, for those few seconds in which only the body was alive, while the mind, for its part, was lost in some great, timeless nothingness.

When they returned to their table, the dinner was over.A few tables had already been cleared by the waiters. An atmosphere of desolation hung over it all, and a few of the floodlights had been turned off. A handful of people remained, still willing to be eaten alive by mosquitoes.

Ingrid was waiting for them at Guido’s place.

“Guido has gone back to Fiacca,” she said to Rachele. “He was a bit miffed. He said he’ll call you later.”

“All right,” Rachele said indifferently.

“Where’d you two go?”

“Salvo came with me to say goodbye to Moonbeam.”

Ingrid gave a hint of a smile at the sound of that “Salvo.”

“I’m going to smoke this cigarette and then go beddybye,” said Rachele.

Montalbano also lit up. They smoked in silence. Then Rachele stood up and exchanged kisses with Ingrid.

“I’ll come to Montelusa late in the morning.”

“Whenever you like.”

Then she put her arms around Montalbano and rested her lips lightly on his.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

As soon as Rachele left, Ingrid leaned forward, reached out with her hand, and started feeling around in the inspector’s hair.

“You’re covered with straw.”

“Shall we go?”

“Let’s.”

They got up. In the salons they encountered barely ten people.

A few of them lay sprawled out in armchairs, half asleep. Since it wasn’t very late, the soup and putrid mullets must have had an effect somewhere between food poisoning and heaviness in the stomach.The courtyard had already nearly been emptied of automobiles.

They walked the three hundred yards of road until they saw Ingrid’s car, now alone, parked under an almond tree. But there was no sign of the ex-con in the vicinity. He had thought, however, to leave the keys in the car door.

Since it was night and there was little traffic, Ingrid felt entitled to drive at an average speed of about ninety mph. What’s more, when she passed a tractor-trailer on a curve with another car fast approaching head-on, Montalbano, in that instant, was able to read his own obituary in the newspaper. This time, however, he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of telling her to slow down.

Ingrid wasn’t talking. She was driving alertly, tongue pressed between her lips, but it was clear she was not in her usual good mood. She didn’t open her mouth until Marinella came into view.

“Did Rachele get what she wanted?” she began brutally.

“Thanks to your help.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you and Rachele had agreed on a plan, perhaps when you were changing for dinner. She probably told you she would like—how shall I put it?—to taste me. And you cleared out, inventing some Giogiò who never existed. Am I right?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”

“So then what’s wrong?”

“I’m having a belated attack of jealousy, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. It’s illogical.”

“I’ll leave the logic to you. I have a different way of thinking.”

“Namely?”

“Salvo, the fact is that with me you play the saint, and with other women—”

“But it was you who acted as my sponsor for Rachele, I am sure of it!”

“Your sponsor?!”

“Yes, ma’am!
‘You know, Rachele, Montalbano’s cassata is the best there is! Try and see for yourself!’
”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

They pulled up at his house. Montalbano got out of the car without saying goodbye. Ingrid, too, got out, and planted herself in front of him.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked.

“At you, at me, at Rachele, at all of creation!”

“Just listen for a second. Let’s be frank, Salvo. It’s true that Rachele asked me if she could give it a go, and I cleared out. But it’s equally true that, when you were alone with her, she hardly pointed a gun at you and forced you to do what she wanted. She asked you, in her way, and you consented. You could have said no, and that would have been the end of that.You have no right to be mad at me or Rachele. Only at yourself.”

“Okay, but—”

“Let me finish. I also understand what you meant by your cassata. What, did you want feeling? Did you want a declaration of love? Did you want Rachele to whisper passionately to you: ‘I love you, Salvo.You’re the only person in the world I love’? Did you want deep feelings for an excuse, so you could have your quickie and feel less guilty? Rachele, quite honestly, offered you—wait, how shall I put it?—ah, yes: she offered you a deal. And you accepted.”

“Yes, but—”

“And you want to know something else? You disappointed me a little.”

“Why?”

“I really thought you would be able to handle Rachele. And now that’s enough. I apologize for the rant. Good night.”

“I apologize, too.”

The inspector waited for Ingrid to leave, waved goodbye, then turned, opened the door, flicked on the light, went inside, and froze.

The burglars had turned the house upside down.

After spending half an hour trying to put everything back in its proper place, he lost heart. Without Adelina’s help, he would never manage. He might as well leave things just as they were. It was almost one o’clock in the morning, but sleep was the last thing on his mind.The burglars had forced open the French door on the veranda, and it must not have even required much effort, because when Ingrid had come by to pick him up, he had forgotten to lock the dead bolt. A thrust of the shoulder had sufficed to open it.

He went into the utilities closet where the housekeeper kept the things she needed, and he noticed that they had carefully searched even there. The tool drawer had been opened, its contents scattered across the floor. At last he found the hammer, screwdriver, and three or four small screws. But the moment he tried to fix the lock on the French door, he realized he really did need glasses.

But how could he have never noticed before that his vision was faulty? His mood, already dark because of Rachele and the lovely surprise he had come home to, turned even darker, black as ink. All at once he remembered that in the drawer of the nightstand was a pair of glasses of his father’s that had been sent to him together with the watch.

He went into the bedroom and opened the drawer.The envelope with the money was still in its place, as was the glasses’ case.

But he also found something he hadn’t expected to find. The watch had been put back.

He put on the glasses and his vision immediately improved. He went back into the dining room and started fixing the lock.

The burglars—who, it was clear, should no longer be called that—hadn’t stolen anything. Indeed, they had even given back what they had taken during their first visit.

And this was a clear, indeed unscrambled, message:
Dear Montalbano,We did not break into your house to rob you, but to look for something
.

Had they found it, after a search more thorough than anything he’d ever seen the police do? And what could it be?

A letter? But at home he didn’t have any correspondence that might matter to anyone.

A document? Something written that had something to do with an investigation? But he very rarely brought any paperwork home with him and, anyway, he always brought it back to the station the following day.

Whatever the case, the conclusion was that, if they hadn’t found it, then surely they would be back again for another go-round even more devastating than the last one.

His little repair job on the French door seemed to him to have come out well. He opened and closed it twice, and the spring-lock seemed to work.

“See? When you retire, you can devote yourself to little household chores like this
,
”
said Montalbano One.

He pretended not to have heard. The night air had brought with it the scent of the sea and, as a result, whetted his appetite. During the preceding day he’d eaten hardly anything at lunchtime, and in the evening only two spoonfuls of the hydrochloric acid soup. He opened the refrigerator: green olives, black passuluna olives, caciocavallo cheese, anchovies. The bread was a bit hard but still edible. There was no lack of wine. He put together a nice platter of what he had and took it out onto the veranda.

Clearly the burglars—
for the moment we’ll keep calling them that
, he said to himself—must have taken a great deal of time to be able to search the house as they had done. Did they know he was out of town and wouldn’t be back until late at night? And if they did, that meant someone had informed them. But who knew he was going to Fiacca that evening? Only Ingrid and Rachele.

Wait a second, Montalbano, don’t start running with this, or you’re liable to trip and fall onto a pile of bullshit
.

The simplest explanation was that they were keeping an eye on him. And the moment they saw him leave, they had forced open the French door in broad daylight. Besides, who would have been on the beach at that hour? Then they went inside and had the rest of the afternoon to work in peace.

Hadn’t they done the same thing the first time? They had waited for him to go out to buy whisky, and then gone inside.Yes, they were keeping an eye on him. Spying on him.

And it was possible that even now, as he was eating his olives and bread, they were watching him. Shit, what a pain in the ass!

He felt deeply disturbed to know that his every movement was being observed by people unknown. He hoped they had found what they were looking for, so they could stop breaking his balls.

Having finished eating, he got up, took the plate, cutlery, bottle, and glass into the kitchen, locked the French door, congratulating himself on his repair job, and went to take a shower.As he was washing himself, a few blades of straw fell from his head to his feet, before they were swallowed up by the small whirlpool around the drain.