Another lie. She knew that her brother had caught the bug. And in fact she limited herself to denying it. She didn’t ask how Montalbano had found out, where Angelo gambled, how much he lost or won.
“If there was a lot of money in the account,” said Michela, “it probably means he had a few lucky evenings at the gambling table.”
The girl fenced well. She would parry and immediately follow with a thrust, exploiting her adversary’s reaction. She was ready to admit everything, so long as the real source of that money never came out.
“Let’s return to the strongbox.”
“Inspector, I know nothing about that strongbox, just as I knew nothing about the account in Fanara.”
“In your opinion, what could there have been in that box?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“I do,” Montalbano said in a low voice, as though giving no importance to the assertion.
Michela showed no interest in knowing what the inspector’s idea was.
“I’m tired,” she said instead, sighing.
Montalbano felt sorry for her. For in those two words, he’d felt the weight of a deep, genuine weariness, a weariness not only physical, of the body, but also of the mind, the emotions, the soul. An absolute weariness.
“I can leave, if you—”
“No, stay. The sooner we finish, the better. But I ask only one thing of you, Inspector. Don’t play cat and mouse with me. By this point you’ve figured out many things, or so it seems to me. Ask me only precise questions, and I’ll answer them as best I can.”
Montalbano couldn’t tell whether the woman was merely trying to change strategy or really asking him to bring things to a close because she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“It’ll take a little time.”
“I’ve got as much time as you want.”
“I’d like to start by telling you that I have a very precise idea where the box is presently located. I could have checked before our meeting tonight and confirmed my suspicion, but I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no saying I necessarily have to check. It’s up to you.”
“Up to me? And where do you suspect the box is?” “At the cemetery. Inside the coffin. Under Angelo’s body.”
“Oh, come on!” she said, even attempting a little smile that must have cost her a tremendous effort.
“We’re getting nowhere, Michela. If you carry on this way, I’m going to be forced to check the coffin. You know what that means? It means I’ll have to request a great many authorizations, the whole affair will become official, the strongbox will be opened, and everything you’ve done to save your brother’s good name will have been all for naught.”
It was perhaps at this instant that Michela realized the jig was up. She opened her eyes and looked at him for a moment.
Montalbano instinctively grabbed the arms of the easy chair as if to anchor himself. But there were no stormy seas in those eyes, just a liquid expanse, yellowish and dense, slowly moving and seeming to breathe, rising and falling. It didn’t frighten him, but he had the impression that if he put his finger in that liquid, it would have been burnt down to the bone. The woman closed her eyes again.
“Do you also know what’s inside the box?”
“Yes, Michela. Cocaine. But not only.”
“What else?”
“There must also be the substance with which Angelo mistakenly cut the last part of the cocaine, turning it, without wanting to, into a deadly poison. And thereby causing the death of Nicotra, Di Cristoforo, and others whose secret supplier he was.”
The woman took off her kerchief and shook her head, making her hair fall onto her shoulders.
How did I ever not notice before that she had so much white hair?the inspector asked himself.
“I’m tired,” Michela repeated.
“When did Angelo first start frequenting gambling dens?”
“Last year. He went out of curiosity. And that was the beginning of the end for him. The money he earned was no longer enough. So he accepted an offer somebody made to him: to supply important clients with large quantities. Given his profession, he could travel all over the province without arousing any suspicion.”
“How did you manage to discover that Angelo—”
“I didn’t. He told me himself. He never kept anything from me.”
“Do you know who made him this offer?” “I do, but I’m not going to tell you.”
“Did he also tell you he’d adulterated the last batch of cocaine?”
“No, he didn’t have the courage.” “Why not?”
“Because he did it for that slut Elena. He needed a lot of money to buy her other gifts and keep her close. And with this new system, he could double the amount of stuff they gave him and keep the difference for himself.”
“Michela, why do you hate Elena so much, but not the other women your brother went with?”
Before she answered, a painful grimace twisted her mouth.
“Angelo fell truly in love with that woman. It was the first time that happened to him.”
The moment had come. Montalbano summoned inside him everything there was to summon: muscles, breath, nerves. Like a diver at the edge of the diving board, an instant before taking the plunge. Then he jumped.
“Angelo was supposed to love only you, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
He’d done it. Penetrating that shadowy undergrowth of intertwined roots, snakes, tarantulas, vipers’ nests, wild grasses, and thorny brambles had been easy. He’d had no trouble entering the dark wood. But walking through it would take courage.
“But hadn’t you once been engaged? Weren’t you in love?”
“Yes. But Angelo …”
There, under a tree, he’d found the malignant plant. Beautiful to look at, but put a leaf in your mouth and it’s lethal.
“Angelo got rid of him, is that right?”
“Yes.”
There was no end to this sick forest and its stench of death. The farther in you went, the greater the horror you wanted neither to see nor to smell, waiting in ambush.
“And when Teresa got pregnant, was it you who persuaded Angelo to have the girl abort and set a trap for her?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody was supposed to interfere with your … your… “
“What’s wrong, Inspector?” she whispered. “Can’t find the right word? Love, Mr. Montalbano. The word is ‘love.’ “
She opened her eyes and looked at him. On the surface of the yellowish liquid expanse, there were now large bubbles, popping as if in slow motion. Montalbano imagined the stink they gave off, a sickly-sweet smell of decomposition, of rotten eggs, of miasmas and fetid swamps.
“How did you find out Angelo’d been killed?”
“I got a phone call. That same Monday, around nineP.M.They told me they’d gone to talk to Angelo but had found him already dead. They ordered me to remove everything that might reveal the sort of work Angelo was doing for them. And I obeyed.”
“You not only obeyed. You also went into the room where your brother had just been killed and planted false evidence against Elena. It was you who staged that whole scene of the panties in the mouth, the unbuckled jeans, his member hanging out.”
“Yes. I wanted to be sure, absolutely certain, that Elena would be charged with the crime. Because she did it. When those other people arrived, Angelo was already dead.”
“We’ll see about that later. They may have lied to you, you know. For now, tell me: Do you know who it was that called you to tell you your brother was dead?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me his name.”
Michela stood up slowly. She spread her arms as though stretching.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, “I need a drink of water.”
She left the room and headed towards the kitchen, her shoulders more hunched than ever, feet dragging on the floor.
Montalbano didn’t know how or why, but all at once he got up and ran into the kitchen. Michela wasn’t there. He went out on the open balcony. A small light illuminated the area in front of the garage, but its dim glow was enough to reveal a kind of black sack, immobile, on the ground. Michela had thrown herself down below, without a word, without a cry. And the inspector realized that tragedy, when acted out in front of others, strikes poses and speaks in a loud voice, but when it is deep and true, it speaks softly and makes humble gestures. There: the humility of tragedy.