Their clothes were so wet that when they sat down the weight of their bodies made the water ooze out of her jeans and his trousers.

“Montalbano’s the name.”

The young woman eyed him, bringing her head closer.

“Ah, yes. Now I recognize you. I’ve seen you on TV.”

She started sneezing and didn’t stop. When she’d finally finished, her eyes were watering. She removed her glasses, wiped her eyes, and put them back on.

“My name is Vanna. Vanna Digiulio.”

“Seems like you’re catching a cold.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Listen, do you want to come to my place? I’ve got some dry clothes that belong to my girlfriend. You could change into them and set these clothes out to dry.”

“I’m not sure that would be right,” she objected, suddenly reserved.

“You’re not sure what would be right?”

“For me to come to your place.”

What was she imagining? That he would jump on her the moment she entered? Did he give the impression of being that kind of man? And hadn’t she ever looked at herself in the mirror?

“Listen, if you’re not-”

“And how would we get to your house?”

“On foot. It’s barely fifty yards from here. It’s going to be hours before anyone gets us out of this jam.”

As Montalbano, after changing clothes, prepared a caffelatte for her and a mug of coffee for himself, Vanna took a shower, put on a dress of Livia’s that was a bit too wide for her, and came into the kitchen, crashing first into the doorjamb and then against a chair. How did she ever get a driver’s license, with eyes like hers? A rather homely girl, poor thing. When she was wearing jeans, one couldn’t tell, but now that she was wearing Livia’s dress, Montalbano noticed that she had bandy, muscular legs. They looked more like a man’s legs than a woman’s. And on top of almost nonexistent breasts and a mousy face, she even had an ungainly walk.

“Where’d you put your clothes?”