The Track of Sand (20 page)

That wasn’t the right one, either, as it ended in front of the warehouse of the farmers’ cooperative.

“Maybe we need to go straight,” Rachele concluded.

And that, indeed, proved to be the right way.

Another ten minutes later, they were seated at a table in a restaurant where the inspector had been several times before and always eaten well.

The table they chose was under a pergola, at the edge of the beach. The sea was some thirty paces away, ever so lightly lapping the shore, making it clear that it had little desire to move. The stars were out, and there was not a cloud in the sky.

At another table sat two men of about fifty. On one of them, the sight of Rachele had a quasi lethal effect: the wine he was drinking went down the wrong way, and he nearly died choking. His friend finally managed, in extremis, to help him regain his breath, by dint of a series of powerful slaps on the back.

“They serve a white wine here that makes a nice aperitif as well . . . ,” said Montalbano.

“If you’ll join me.”

“Of course I will. Are you hungry?”

“On the way down to Marinella from Montelusa I wasn’t, but I am now. It must be the sea air.”

“I’m glad. I must confess that I’m always put off by women who don’t like to eat because they’re afraid to gain . . .”

He stopped short. Why was he suddenly speaking so confidentially with Rachele? What was happening?

“I’ve never followed diets,” said Rachele. “So far, at least, I’ve never needed to, luckily.”

The waiter brought the wine. They downed their first glasses.

“This is really good,” said Rachele.

A couple about thirty years old walked in, looking around for a table. But as soon as the girl saw how her partner was eyeing Rachele, she took him by the arm and led him back into the indoor part of the restaurant.

The waiter reappeared and, refilling the empty glasses, asked what they wanted to eat.

“Will you be having a first course or an antipasto?”

“Does the one exclude the other?” Rachele asked in turn.

“They serve fifteen different kinds of antipasto here,” said Montalbano. “Which, frankly, I recommend.”

“Fifteen?”

“Maybe more.”

“All right, then. Antipasto it is.”

“And for the main course?” asked the waiter.

“We’ll decide that later,” said Montalbano.

“Shall I bring another bottle with the antipasti?”

“I think you should.”

A few minutes later, there wasn’t any room left on the table for so much as a needle.

Shrimp, jumbo prawns, squid, smoked tuna, fried balls of
nunnatu
, sea urchins, mussels, clams, octopus morsels
a strascinasale
, octopus morsels
affucati
, tiny fried calamari, calamari and squidlets tossed in a salad with orange slices and celery, capers wrapped in anchovies, sardines
a beccafico
, swordfish carpaccio . . .

The total silence in which they ate, occasionally exchanging glances of appreciation for the flavors and aromas, was interrupted only once, at the moment of transition to the anchovy-wrapped capers, when Rachele asked:

“Is something wrong?”

And Montalbano, feeling himself blush, said:

“No.”

For the previous few minutes he had been lost watching her mouth open and close, the fork going in, revealing for an instant the intimacy of a palate as pink as a cat’s, the fork coming back out empty but still clasped by glistening teeth, the mouth reclosing, the lips moving lightly, rhythmically, as she chewed. The mere sight of her mouth left one speechless. In a flash Montalbano remembered the evening in Fiacca, when he fell under the spell of those lips by the light of her cigarette.

When they had finished the antipasti, Rachele said:

“Good God!”

And she heaved a long sigh.

“Everything all right?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

The waiter came to remove the dishes.

“And what would you like as a main course?”

“Couldn’t we wait a little?” Rachele asked.

“As you wish.”

The waiter walked away. Rachele remained silent.Then, all at once, she grabbed her pack of cigarettes and lighter, stood up, descended the two steps that led to the beach, removed her shoes with a simple motion of her legs and feet, and headed towards the sea. When she reached the water’s edge, she stopped, letting the sea caress her feet.

She hadn’t told Montalbano to follow her. Just like that evening in Fiacca. And so the inspector remained seated at the table. Some ten minutes later, he saw her returning. Before ascending the two steps, she put her shoes back on.

When she sat down before him, Montalbano had the impression that the blue of her eyes was slightly brighter than usual. Rachele looked at him and smiled.

Then a tear that had remained half suspended fell from her left eye and rolled down her cheek.

“I think a grain of sand must have got in my eye,” said Rachele, clearly fibbing.

The waiter returned like a nightmare.

“Has the lady decided?”

“What have you got?” asked Montalbano.

“We’ve got a mixed fish fry, grilled fish, swordfish however you like it, mullet
alla livornese
—”

“I only want a salad,” said Rachele. Then, turning to the inspector: “Sorry, I just can’t eat any more.”

“No problem. I’ll have a salad, too. However . . .”

“However?” said the waiter.

“Throw in some green and black olives, celery, carrots, capers, anything else the cook can think of.”

“I’ll have mine that way, too,” declared Rachele.

“Would you like another bottle?”

There was enough left for two more glasses, one each.

“For me, that’s enough,” she said.

Montalbano gestured no, and the waiter left, perhaps mildly disappointed at the scantness of their order.

“I apologize for a few minutes ago,” said Rachele. “I got up and walked away without saying anything. It’s just that . . . I didn’t want to start crying in front of you.”

Montalbano didn’t open his mouth.

“It happens to me sometimes,” she continued,“but not very often, unfortunately.”

“Why do you say ‘unfortunately’?”

“You know, Salvo, it’s very hard for me to cry when something bad or something sad happens. It all stays inside me.That’s just the way I am.”

“I saw you cry at the police station.”

“That was only the second or third time in my life. Whereas—and this is what’s so strange—I often weep uncontrollably in moments of . . . well, I wouldn’t say happiness, that’s too big a word. It would be more accurate to say that it’s when I have a feeling of great calm inside me, when all the bumps are smoothed over, all the—But that’s enough; I don’t want to bore you with descriptions of my inner life.”

This time, too, Montalbano said nothing.

But he was wondering how many Racheles there were inside Rachele.

The one he had met the first time at the station was an intelligent, rational woman, ironic and very much in control of herself.The one he had dealt with in Fiacca was a woman who had lucidly obtained what she wanted while managing, at the same time, to let go of herself completely in an instant, losing all lucidity and self-control.And the one who was sitting in front of him now was instead a vulnerable woman who had told him, without saying so directly, how unhappy she was, how rare were the moments of serenity in which she felt at peace with herself.

On the other hand, what on earth did he know about women?

Madamina, il catalogo è questo
.And the list was a miserable one: one relationship before Livia; Livia; the twenty-year-old girl he didn’t even want to name; and now Rachele.

And what about Ingrid? But Ingrid was a case apart. In their relationship, the line of demarcation between friendship and something else was very, very fine.

Of course, he’d met women, plenty of them, over the course of his many investigations, but they were all acquaintances made in very specific circumstances, in which the women all had a stake in presenting themselves as different from how they really were.

The waiter brought the salads. Which refreshed the tongue, the palate, and the mind.

“Would you like a whisky?”

“Why not?”

They ordered the drinks, which arrived at once. Now the moment had come to discuss the matter of most concern to Rachele.

“I brought a magazine with me, but I left it in the car,” Montalbano began.

“What magazine?”

“The one featuring photos of Lo Duca’s horses. I mentioned it to you over the phone.”

“Oh, yes. And I think I told you that mine had a white spot shaped like a star on its flank. Poor Super!”

“How did you develop this passion for horses?”

“I got it from my father. I guess you don’t know I was once champion of all Europe.”

Montalbano’s jaw dropped.

“Really?”

“Yes. I also twice won the Piazza di Siena competition, I’ve won in Madrid, and at Longchamp, too . . . Past glories.”

There was a pause. Montalbano decided to lay his cards on the table.

“Why were you so insistent about seeing me?”

She gave a start, perhaps because of the directness of the attack, which she hadn’t expected.Then she sat up straight, and Montalbano understood that he now had before him the same Rachele as the first time at the station.

“For two reasons.The first is strictly personal.”

“Tell me.”

“Since I don’t think that, after I leave, we’ll ever see each other again, I wanted to explain my behavior the other night in Fiacca. So you won’t have a distorted memory of me.”

“There’s no need for explanation,” said Montalbano, suddenly feeling uncomfortable again.

“Yes there is. Ingrid, who knows me well, should have warned you that I . . . well . . . I don’t quite know how to put it ...”

“If you don’t know how to say it, don’t say it.”

“If I like a man, I mean, if I really like a man, deep down, which doesn’t happen to me very often, I can’t help but . . . start things out with him in a way that for other women is the point of culmination. There. I don’t know if I—”

“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”

“Afterwards, two things can happen. Either I no longer want to hear even the slightest mention of the person, or else I try, in every way possible, to keep him close to me, as a friend, or lover ...And when I said I enjoyed you—and, incidentally, Ingrid told me you were upset about that—I wasn’t thinking about what had just happened between us, but about what you are like, the way you act . . . in short, you as a man, taken all together. I realize my statement could be taken the wrong way. But I wasn’t mistaken, since you’re giving me the gift of an evening like this. End of discussion.”

“And the second reason?”

“It’s to do with the stolen horses. But I’ve thought it over again and I’m no longer sure there’s any point in talking to you about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you said you’re not handling the case. I don’t want to tell you things that might just be a bother to you, on top of all the others you’ve already got.”

“You can talk to me about it anyway, if you want.”

“The other day I went with Chichi to the stables, and we ran into the veterinarian who was there to do his routine checkups.”

“What is his name?”

“Mario Anzalone. He’s very good.”

“I don’t know him. So what happened?”

“Well, when talking to Lo Duca, the veterinarian said he didn’t understand why the thieves took Rudy and not Moonbeam, the horse I rode in the race at Fiacca.”

“Why?”

“He said that if there had been an expert among the thieves, he would surely have preferred Moonbeam to Rudy. In the first place, because Moonbeam was a far better horse than Rudy, and secondly, because it was clear that Rudy was sick and couldn’t be easily cured. In fact, for this reason, he himself had suggested that we put him down, to spare him the suffering.”

“And how did Lo Duca react? Did you notice?”

“Yes, I did. He replied that he was too fond of that horse.”

“What was it sick with?”

“Viral arteritis. It creates lesions in the artery walls.”

“So, it is as if the thieves had entered a luxury auto showroom and stolen one very expensive car, and a broken-down Fiat 500.”

“More or less, yes.”

“Is the illness contagious?”

“Well, yes. In fact, during the ride back to Montelusa, I got upset at Chichi.What is this? I said.You said you would be happy to lodge my horse, and you put him right next to a sick horse?”

“Where did you keep him the other times you came here?”

“In Fiacca, with Baron Piscopo.”

“And how did Lo Duca defend himself ?”

“He said that his horse’s illness was already past the contagious stage. And he said that if I wanted—even though at this point it would have been completely pointless—I could phone the veterinarian, who would surely confirm what he’d said.”

“The horse, however, was dying.”

“Right.”

“So why bother to steal it?”

“That’s why I wanted to see you. I asked myself the same thing, and came to a conclusion that contradicts what Chichi told you in Fiacca.”

“Namely?”

“That they wanted to steal and kill only my horse, and that, since Rudy looked almost exactly like Super, they couldn’t figure out which one was mine, and so they took both.They wanted Chichi to look bad, and it worked.”

This was a hypothesis they had already considered at the station.

“Did you read the newspaper yesterday?” Rachele continued.

“No.”

“The
Corriere dell’Isola
devoted a great deal of space to the theft of the two horses. The reporters, however, seem not to know that mine was killed.”