was that, from one day to the next, the water under the Fradellas’ land, which was right up against the mountain, disappeared. The hole created by the tunnel had shifted the aquifer. And so the land went back to being what it had always been: arid and unproductive.
Since that time, the dry wells had started being used as convenient, anonymous tombs.
After the fireman had been lowered into the first well, duly strapped and attached to a windlass, and found nothing, all the men and equipment moved on to the second well. There, the fireman had descended about twenty yards down when he signaled that he wanted to be pulled back out.
“But he didn’t go down to the bottom,” the inspector observed.
“Apparently there’s a problem,” said Mallia.
When he’d returned to the top, the fireman said:
“I need a mask.”
“Is there not enough air down there?”
“There’s enough air, but there’s a terrible smell of rotting flesh.”
Montalbano felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He turned pale and didn’t even have the strength to speak. He felt like throwing up. Augello spoke in his stead:
“Did you see . . . whether . . .”
“I didn’t see anything. I only smelled.”
Having noticed the change in Montalbano, the fire chief Mallia cut in.
“It’s not necessarily a human body, you know. It could easily be a sheep or a dog . . .”
The fireman put on a mask and went back down. Mimì took Montalbano by the arm and pulled him aside.
“What’s wrong with you? That can’t be Fazio.”
“Why not?”
“Because his body wouldn’t have had the time to . . . to be in that condition.”
Augello was right, but that didn’t prevent Montalbano from continuing to feel a sort of inner trembling.
“Why don’t you go sit in the car and rest a little? If there’s any new development, I’ll come and get you.”
“No.”
He would never have managed to sit still. He needed to walk, maybe even around the well like a donkey attached to a millstone, as the others looked on with concern.
The fireman came back up.
“There’s a dead body.”
Despite Augello’s words, Montalbano felt a wave of nausea overwhelm him. As he leaned against a car, vomiting up his soul, he heard the fireman add:
“From the look of it, I’d say it’s been there for at least four or five days.”
“We have to pull it out,” said the chief.
“That’s not going to be easy,” the fireman commented.
Montalbano meanwhile had recovered somewhat from the malaise that had come over him. He’d felt a sort of electrical current run through his body from his brain down to the tips of his toes, and a bitter, acidic taste like regurgitation in his mouth. But if the body had been dead for four or five days, then Augello was right, it couldn’t be Fazio. Except that this logical, reassuring consideration had only come afterwards, after the fright had already done its damage. All the same, Fazio’s disappearance was eating him alive. He would have given anything, his money and his health, to find him.
“Have you got the right equipment for pulling him up?” he asked Mallia.
“Of course.”
“Then, Mimì, inform the prosecutor, Forensics, and Dr. Pasquano.”
“Can we start right away, or do we have to wait for those gentlemen to get here?” the fire chief asked.
“It’s better to wait. Meanwhile we can go and have a look at the third well.”
“Are you thinking the person we’re looking for is not the one we found?”
“At this point I’m absolutely certain.”
“But—”
“You have a problem with that?” the inspector asked, immediately turning defensive.
He wasn’t in the mood for any disagreement at that moment.
“No,” said Mallia. “I didn’t mean in any way to . . . Listen, we can go and check the third well, just not right now, but as soon as we’re done pulling out the body in this one. Moving the equipment and setting it back up is tiring and complicated, you see.
Since that time, the dry wells had started being used as convenient, anonymous tombs.
After the fireman had been lowered into the first well, duly strapped and attached to a windlass, and found nothing, all the men and equipment moved on to the second well. There, the fireman had descended about twenty yards down when he signaled that he wanted to be pulled back out.
“But he didn’t go down to the bottom,” the inspector observed.
“Apparently there’s a problem,” said Mallia.
When he’d returned to the top, the fireman said:
“I need a mask.”
“Is there not enough air down there?”
“There’s enough air, but there’s a terrible smell of rotting flesh.”
Montalbano felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He turned pale and didn’t even have the strength to speak. He felt like throwing up. Augello spoke in his stead:
“Did you see . . . whether . . .”
“I didn’t see anything. I only smelled.”
Having noticed the change in Montalbano, the fire chief Mallia cut in.
“It’s not necessarily a human body, you know. It could easily be a sheep or a dog . . .”
The fireman put on a mask and went back down. Mimì took Montalbano by the arm and pulled him aside.
“What’s wrong with you? That can’t be Fazio.”
“Why not?”
“Because his body wouldn’t have had the time to . . . to be in that condition.”
Augello was right, but that didn’t prevent Montalbano from continuing to feel a sort of inner trembling.
“Why don’t you go sit in the car and rest a little? If there’s any new development, I’ll come and get you.”
“No.”
He would never have managed to sit still. He needed to walk, maybe even around the well like a donkey attached to a millstone, as the others looked on with concern.
The fireman came back up.
“There’s a dead body.”
Despite Augello’s words, Montalbano felt a wave of nausea overwhelm him. As he leaned against a car, vomiting up his soul, he heard the fireman add:
“From the look of it, I’d say it’s been there for at least four or five days.”
“We have to pull it out,” said the chief.
“That’s not going to be easy,” the fireman commented.
Montalbano meanwhile had recovered somewhat from the malaise that had come over him. He’d felt a sort of electrical current run through his body from his brain down to the tips of his toes, and a bitter, acidic taste like regurgitation in his mouth. But if the body had been dead for four or five days, then Augello was right, it couldn’t be Fazio. Except that this logical, reassuring consideration had only come afterwards, after the fright had already done its damage. All the same, Fazio’s disappearance was eating him alive. He would have given anything, his money and his health, to find him.
“Have you got the right equipment for pulling him up?” he asked Mallia.
“Of course.”
“Then, Mimì, inform the prosecutor, Forensics, and Dr. Pasquano.”
“Can we start right away, or do we have to wait for those gentlemen to get here?” the fire chief asked.
“It’s better to wait. Meanwhile we can go and have a look at the third well.”
“Are you thinking the person we’re looking for is not the one we found?”
“At this point I’m absolutely certain.”
“But—”
“You have a problem with that?” the inspector asked, immediately turning defensive.
He wasn’t in the mood for any disagreement at that moment.
“No,” said Mallia. “I didn’t mean in any way to . . . Listen, we can go and check the third well, just not right now, but as soon as we’re done pulling out the body in this one. Moving the equipment and setting it back up is tiring and complicated, you see.
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