The Dance of the Seagull (14 page)

Montalbano started up the car, but didn’t drive off at once. He bent down inside the car as if he couldn’t find something.

“What are you looking for?”

“I thought I’d . . .”

And they were off like a rocket, so fast that Angela was thrown back against her seat. In the rearview mirror Montalbano saw the same metallic-finish car that had been following them since Fiacca hurry out of the parking lot in pursuit of them. Everything was falling into place. He started to slow down.

When driving past the Scala dei Turchi, he slowed down even more. By this point he was going barely twenty-five kilometers an hour, and every car that passed him had a few nasty things to say to him. The poor metallic car, with its powerful engine, must have been suffering terribly to have to keep behind him at that slow pace. Angela kept her head turned towards the sea and had stopped talking. Without warning Montalbano took his right hand off the steering wheel and laid it on the girl’s left thigh. She didn’t move. A few moments later the hand began to find its way between her legs, which Angela held tightly together. This time, too, she didn’t breathe a word.

The moment they were inside the house, without a word Montalbano grabbed her by the waist with both hands and held her tightly against him. She didn’t return his embrace, but let her body be pressed up against his.

When Montalbano sought out her lips, however, she jerked her head away.

“You don’t want me to kiss you?”

“Yes, but not on the lips, please.”

“As you wish,” said Montalbano, starting to caress her breasts.

A moment later she asked:

“Could we have that whisky on the veranda?”

“I could sit here like this all night.”

She was on her second whisky. Sitting on the little bench next to Montalbano, she was resting her head on his shoulder. The sky was crisp, polished clean, with more stars than the inspector ever saw except on rare occasions. A man in a hat walked slowly by along the water’s edge. The two of them on the veranda were lit up as though on a stage, and yet the man didn’t once turn his head to look at them.

You’re an idiot
, thought Montalbano.
Any normal passerby would have looked
.

Was he the man driving the metallic car, or was he the one in the passenger’s seat?

“Shall we go inside?”

“Could I have another whisky first?”

“A third glass? No. After all the wine you drank this evening, you’ll get drunk.”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t like making love to a drunken woman.”

Angela heaved a long sigh.

“All right, then, let’s go inside.”

As they were getting up, a second man, without a hat, walked slowly past along the water’s edge. My, what a lot of traffic there was on the beach tonight! Unlike the first one, however, this second man stopped and looked at them.

“This is the bedroom and the bathroom is there.”

He heard his cell phone ring. He’d left it on the dining room table.

“I’m going to answer that. Meanwhile, get undressed.”

He ran a hand lightly across her buttocks and went out.

He took the phone out onto the veranda before answering.

“Hello?”

“Fazio here, Chief.”

“At this hour?”

“You told me I could call no matter the hour.”

“I meant that for your sake. How come you’re not asleep?”

“I can’t fall asleep.”

“All right, what did you want to tell me?”

“I remembered Manzella’s address. Via Bixio 22.”

“Thanks. Now try to get some sleep.”

The man on the beach hadn’t moved and was still watching. Montalbano turned off the outdoor light and locked the French door.

She hadn’t got undressed. She merely sat at the edge of the bed, staring at her shoes.

“Would you prefer I undressed you myself?”

“You won’t get upset if I tell you something?”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t feel like it anymore.”

“All right, then, I’ll call a cab.”

She balked. She hadn’t expected Montalbano to give up so quickly. Then she recovered and said:

“Couldn’t I stay here a little while longer?”

She couldn’t leave the house too early. To those waiting for her, it would mean she’d failed.

“Not here. Let’s go back onto the veranda.”

“No. I feel cold outside.”

Sitting back down on the veranda, with that guy still looking on, would mean that she hadn’t accomplished anything.

“Listen, if we remain in the bedroom, the situation becomes harder and harder for me. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“We could make an agreement.”

“What do you mean?”

Come on, Montalbano, say it. The more vulgar you are, the more quickly she’ll cave in.

“Just give me a blow job and I’ll let you go.”

“No!”

“Would you please tell me why you’ve been so available? In fact, it was you who suggested we come to my place. And now, suddenly”—
even more vulgar, Montalbano—
“and now you don’t want to pull down your panties and spread your legs?”

She gave a start and put a hand on her left cheek, as if she’d been slapped.

“I don’t feel like it anymore, I’ve already told you.”

That’s a lame excuse, Angelina. But let’s pretend it works.

“Listen, tell you what. I’ll drive you back to Fiacca.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Couldn’t we wait . . . an hour or so?”

“Just long enough so people will think we fucked?”

She shot to her feet.

“What are you talking about?
Who
will think?”

“Sit down.”

“No.”

He grabbed her by the arm and threw her down on the bed. She sat up, propping herself up with arms tensed and fists clenched.

“All right, this is where the gloves come off. Either you do what I say or I’ll make you do it.”

“Please . . .”

“So you eat an’ drink on my nickel, an’ now you say you don’ feel like it no more? Thought you could fuck around wit’ me, eh? I can play this old fart like a fiddle! Izzat whatchoo was thinkin’, li’l bitch? Well, think again, ’cause I’m gonna show you a thing or two!”

It wasn’t so much the tone as the fact that he’d suddenly switched to dialect that seemed to terrify Angela. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“I thought you were . . . different.”

“You was wrong!”

In the twinkling of an eye, he furiously tore off his jacket and shirt and stood there barechested. He felt ridiculous, and probably looked it. Though ashamed of what he was doing, he had to continue the charade until she broke.

“Take off your blouse and bra.”

Still on the bed, she obeyed. For a second, Montalbano was spellbound by the sight of the girl’s beautiful breasts.

“Now the rest, baby. C’mon!”

She stood up and, turning her back to him, took off her jeans.

For a second, Montalbano felt like Saint Anthony’s twin brother.

“Now the panties.”

As soon as she took them off, Montalbano came up behind her and pulled down his zipper, making as much noise as possible. Then he grabbed Angela by the hips.

“Bend over.”

She leaned against the back of a chair. His hands felt her shudder all over, and then she made a strange sound with her mouth, as if she’d been about to throw up and had strained to hold it in.

“Now get dressed,” he said, going and sitting on the edge of the bed.

As she was putting her jeans back on, the inspector saw her shoulders heave with sobs.

“Shall we drop the pretense now, and start talking seriously?”

“Okay,” said Angela, sniffling like a little girl.