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.”
9
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
“You’re covered with straw.”
“Shall we go?”
“Let’s.”
9
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
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