and makes up the most incredible stories . . . So I was a little worried she might have . . .”
“I understand. Don’t worry, she didn’t tell me anything out of the ordinary.”
“Thank you,” said the lady, standing up and flashing a radiant smile.
“You’re welcome,” said Montalbano, also standing up and smiling broadly.
5
As he was opening the door to his house he heard the phone ringing, but when he went to pick up it was too late. The person at the other end had hung up. He glanced at his watch: eight thirty-five.
He let off some steam by cursing the owner of the yacht a few times for having wasted his time.
He’d given Laura his home phone number and they had agreed that she would call at eight-thirty. Which was why she hadn’t bothered to give him her number. So what would he do now? Call the Harbor Office? Or wait a little while yet, hoping she would try to call again? He decided to wait.
He changed his clothes and then went into the kitchen and opened the oven. Adelina, his housekeeper, had made a casserole of
pasta ’ncasciata
that could have fed four. And in the refrigerator, in case he was still hungry, which was unlikely, there was a ready platter of
nervetti
with vinegar.
The telephone rang again. It was Laura.
“I called a few minutes ago but—”
“Sorry, I was held up at the office and—”
“Where shall we meet?”
“Listen, there’s a bar in Marinella—”
“No, I don’t feel like it.”
“Like what?”
“Like meeting you there. I don’t like bars.”
“Then I guess we could—”
“Why don’t you tell me how to get to your house?” she cut him off.
In fact it was the easiest thing to do, and she seemed to be a practical girl. He explained to her how to get there.
“Then let’s do this. I’ll come to your place, and while we’re having an aperitif we can decide where to go out to dinner.
“Yes, sir.”
Laura showed up half an hour later. She’d changed out of her uniform and was wearing a skirt down to her knees, a white blouse, and a sort of heavy vest. She had let her hair down, and it fell onto her shoulders. She was beautiful, vivacious, and very likeable.
“It’s so nice here!”
Montalbano opened the French door onto the veranda, and she went outside, enchanted.
“What’ll you have?” he asked her.
“A little white wine, if you’ve got any.”
The inspector always kept a bottle in the fridge. He grabbed it and replaced it with another.
“Can we sit out here?”
“Absolutely.”
They drank their wine sitting beside each other on the bench. But it was chilly, and when they had finished their glasses they went back inside.
“Where are you going to take me?”
“There are two possibilities. We could go to a restaurant outside of Montereale, which means we’d need to take the car, or we could stay here.”
She looked hesitant, and Montalbano misread her.
“You don’t know me very well,” he said, “but I can assure you I—”
Laura burst into laughter that sounded like so many pearls falling to the ground.
“Oh, I certainly wasn’t thinking you wanted to . . .”
He felt a twinge of melancholy. Did she think him so old that he no longer had any desire? Luckily, however, she continued:
“. . . but I must confess I’m really hungry, because I skipped lunch today.”
“Come with me.”
He led her into the kitchen, opened the oven, and took out the casserole. She smelled it and sighed, closing her eyes for a second.
“What do you say?” asked Montalbano. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“Let’s stay here.”
They got to know each other a little better. She told him she’d chosen a military career because her father was an admiral, now on the verge of retirement. She’d studied at the Accademia di Livorno, had sailed on the
Vespucci
, and had a boyfriend named Gianni who was also a naval officer and was serving on a battle cruiser. She was thirty-three years old, had been in Vigàta
“I understand. Don’t worry, she didn’t tell me anything out of the ordinary.”
“Thank you,” said the lady, standing up and flashing a radiant smile.
“You’re welcome,” said Montalbano, also standing up and smiling broadly.
5
As he was opening the door to his house he heard the phone ringing, but when he went to pick up it was too late. The person at the other end had hung up. He glanced at his watch: eight thirty-five.
He let off some steam by cursing the owner of the yacht a few times for having wasted his time.
He’d given Laura his home phone number and they had agreed that she would call at eight-thirty. Which was why she hadn’t bothered to give him her number. So what would he do now? Call the Harbor Office? Or wait a little while yet, hoping she would try to call again? He decided to wait.
He changed his clothes and then went into the kitchen and opened the oven. Adelina, his housekeeper, had made a casserole of
pasta ’ncasciata
that could have fed four. And in the refrigerator, in case he was still hungry, which was unlikely, there was a ready platter of
nervetti
with vinegar.
The telephone rang again. It was Laura.
“I called a few minutes ago but—”
“Sorry, I was held up at the office and—”
“Where shall we meet?”
“Listen, there’s a bar in Marinella—”
“No, I don’t feel like it.”
“Like what?”
“Like meeting you there. I don’t like bars.”
“Then I guess we could—”
“Why don’t you tell me how to get to your house?” she cut him off.
In fact it was the easiest thing to do, and she seemed to be a practical girl. He explained to her how to get there.
“Then let’s do this. I’ll come to your place, and while we’re having an aperitif we can decide where to go out to dinner.
“Yes, sir.”
Laura showed up half an hour later. She’d changed out of her uniform and was wearing a skirt down to her knees, a white blouse, and a sort of heavy vest. She had let her hair down, and it fell onto her shoulders. She was beautiful, vivacious, and very likeable.
“It’s so nice here!”
Montalbano opened the French door onto the veranda, and she went outside, enchanted.
“What’ll you have?” he asked her.
“A little white wine, if you’ve got any.”
The inspector always kept a bottle in the fridge. He grabbed it and replaced it with another.
“Can we sit out here?”
“Absolutely.”
They drank their wine sitting beside each other on the bench. But it was chilly, and when they had finished their glasses they went back inside.
“Where are you going to take me?”
“There are two possibilities. We could go to a restaurant outside of Montereale, which means we’d need to take the car, or we could stay here.”
She looked hesitant, and Montalbano misread her.
“You don’t know me very well,” he said, “but I can assure you I—”
Laura burst into laughter that sounded like so many pearls falling to the ground.
“Oh, I certainly wasn’t thinking you wanted to . . .”
He felt a twinge of melancholy. Did she think him so old that he no longer had any desire? Luckily, however, she continued:
“. . . but I must confess I’m really hungry, because I skipped lunch today.”
“Come with me.”
He led her into the kitchen, opened the oven, and took out the casserole. She smelled it and sighed, closing her eyes for a second.
“What do you say?” asked Montalbano. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“Let’s stay here.”
They got to know each other a little better. She told him she’d chosen a military career because her father was an admiral, now on the verge of retirement. She’d studied at the Accademia di Livorno, had sailed on the
Vespucci
, and had a boyfriend named Gianni who was also a naval officer and was serving on a battle cruiser. She was thirty-three years old, had been in Vigàta
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