The Patience of the Spider Read Online Free PDF Page A

can tell, and it seems
to plunge into a kind of premature old age. The sturdy
wrought-iron gate was ajar.
    The inspector entered a large living room furnished with
dark, massive nineteenth-century antiques, but at first glance it
looked like a museum, as it was full of small Pre-Columbian
statues and African masks. Travel souvenirs of the geologist,
Salvatore Mistretta. In one corner of the room there were two
armchairs, a small table with a telephone on top, and a television.
Fazio and a man who must have been Mistretta were sitting
in the armchairs, eyes glued to the television screen. When
Montalbano entered, the man gave Fazio a questioning look.
    This is Inspector Montalbano. And this is Signor Mistretta.
    The man came forward with his hand extended. Montalbano
shook it without speaking. The geologist was a thin man
    of about sixty, with a face as baked as one of those South
American statuettes, stooped shoulders, a mop of white hair,
and a pair of blue eyes that wandered around the room like a
drug addicts. Apparently the tension was eating away at him.
    No news? asked Montalbano.
    The geologist threw his hands up disconsolately.
    Id like to have a word with you, the inspector went on.
Could we go outside?
    For no apparent reason he felt like he couldnt breathe. It
was stuffy in the living room, and not a ray of light filtered in,
despite two big French doors. Mistretta hesitated, then turned
to Fazio.
    If somebody rings the bell upstairs, could you please let
me know?
    Of course, said Fazio.
    They went out. The garden surrounding the villa was in a
state of utter abandon, now little more than a field of wild,
yellowing plants.
    This way, said the geologist.
    He led the inspector to a hemicycle of wooden benches at
the center of a kind of orderly, well-tended oasis of green.
    This is where Susanna comes to stu
    Unable to continue, he collapsed onto a bench. The inspector
sat down beside him and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
    Do you smoke?
    What had Dr. Strazzera advised him to do? Try to stop
smoking, if possible.
    At the moment, it was not possible.
    Id stopped, but in these circumstances . . .said Mistretta.
    You see, dear distinguished Dr. Strazzera? Sometimes one
simply cannot do without it.
    The inspector held out a cigarette for him and then lit it.
They smoked awhile in silence, then Montalbano asked:
    Is your wife sick?
    Shes dying.
    Does she know whats happened?
    No. Shes on tranquilizers and sedatives. My brother
Carlo, whos a doctor, spent last night with her. He just left, in
fact. But . . .
    But?
    But my wife, even in this induced state of sleep, keeps calling
for Susanna, as if she mysteriously understands that something...
    The inspector felt himself sweating. How was he ever going
to talk to the man about his daughters kidnapping when
his wife was dying? The only way, perhaps, was to adopt an
official, bureaucratic tone, the kind of tone that precludes, by
its very nature, any form of humanity.
    Mr. Mistretta, I have to inform those in charge about the
kidnapping. The judge, the commissioner, my colleagues in
Montelusa ...And you can rest assured that the news will also
reach the ears of some newsman who will race here with the
inevitable camera crew ...The reason Im stalling is that I
want to be absolutely certain.
    Certain of what?
    That its really a kidnapping were dealing with.
    3
    The geologist gave him a puzzled look.
What else could it be?
Let me first say that I have no choice but to make con
    jectures, however unpleasant.
I understand.
One question. Does your wife need a lot of care?
Nonstop, day and night.
Who looks after her?
Susanna and I take turns.
How long has she been in this condition?
Things got worse about six months ago.
Is it possible that after being frayed for so long, Susannas
    nerves finally gave out?
What are you trying to say?
Isnt it possible that, seeing her mother always in