About my poor dead friend.
Would you like some? asked the inspector, holding out the bag.
Thanks, said the other, taking a handful of ca e simenza.
The pause allowed Montalbano to put the man he was speaking to in better perspective: Bonfiglio, aside from being like a brother to the late cavaliere, was a man who held extreme right-wing ideas and was not all there in the head.
You mean Misuraca?
No, I mean my grandfather.
And what am I supposed to do?
Arrest the murderers. Its your duty.
And who would these murderers be?
Who they are, not would be. Im referring to the local party leaders, who were unworthy to have him in their ranks. They killed him.
I beg your pardon. Wasnt it an accident?
Oh, I suppose you think accidents just happen accidentally?
I would say so.
You would be wrong. If someones looking for an accident, theres always somebody else ready to send one his way. Let me cite an example to illustrate my point. This last February Mimrapanzano drowned when he went for a swim. An accidental death, they said. But here I ask you: How old was Mimhen he died? Fifty-five years old. Why, at that age, did he get this brilliant idea to go for a swim in the cold, like he used to do when he was a kid? The answer is because less than three months before, he had got married to a Milanese girl twenty-four years younger than him, and one day, when they were out strolling on the beach, she asked him: Is it true, darling, that you used to swim in this sea in February? It sure is, replied Crapanzano. The girl, who apparently was already tired of the old man, sighed. Whats wrong? Crapanzano asked, like an idiot. Im sorry I wont ever have a chance to see you do it again, said the slut. Without saying a word, Crapanzano took off his clothes and jumped into the water. Does that clarify my point?
Perfectly.
Now, to get back to the party leaders of Montelusa province. After a first meeting ended with harsh words, they held another last night. The cavaliere, along with a few other people, wanted the chapter to issue a press release protesting the governments ordinance granting amnesty to crooks. Others saw things differently. At a certain point, some guy called Misuraca a geezer, another said he looked like something out of the puppet theater, a third man called him a senile wreck. I learned all these things from a friend who was there. Finally, the secretary, some jerk whos not even Sicilian and goes by the name of Biragh asked him please to vacate the premises, since he had no authorization whatsoever to attend the meeting. Which was true, but no one had ever dared say this before. So Gerlando got in his little Fiat and headed back home to Vig. His blood was boiling, no doubt about it, but the others had made him lose his head on purpose. And youre going to tell me it was an accident?
The only way to reason with Bonfiglio was to put oneself squarely on his level.The inspector knew this from experience.
Is there one television personality you find particularly obnoxious? he asked him.
There are a hundred thousand, but Mike Bongiorno is the worst. Whenever I see him, my stomach gets all queasy and I feel like smashing the screen.
Good. And if, after watching this particular MC, you get in your car, drive into a wall, and kill yourself, what am I supposed to do, in your opinion?
Arrest Mike Bongiorno, the other said firmly.
He went back to the office feeling calmer. His encounter with the logic of Ernesto Bonfiglio had distracted and amused him.
Any news? he asked as he walked in.
Theres a personal letter for you that came just now in the mail, said Catarella, repeating, for emphasis: Per- son-al.
On his desk he found a postcard from his father and some office memos.
Hey, Cat! Whered you put the letter?
I said it was personal! Catarella said defensively.
Whats that supposed to mean?
It means that you have to receive it in person, it being personal and all.
Okay. The person is here in front of you. Wheres the letter?
Its gone where it was supposed to go. Where the person personally lives. I told the postman to deliver it to your house, Chief, your personal residence, in Marinella.
Standing in front of the Trattoria San Calogero, catching a
breath of air, was the cook and owner.
Where you going, Inspector? Not coming in?
Im eating at home today.
Whatever you say. But Ive got some rock lobster ready
for the grill thatll seem like youre not eating them, but dreaming them.
Montalbano went inside, won over by the image more than the desire. Then, after finishing his meal, he pushed the dishes away, crossed his arms on the table, and fell asleep. He always ate in a small room with three tables, and so it was easy for Serafino, the waiter, to steer customers towards the big dining room and leave the inspector in peace. Around four oclock, with the restaurant already closed, the proprietor, noticing that Montalbano was showing no signs of life, made him a cup of coffee, then gently woke him up.
6
As for the personally personal letter earlier announced by Catarella, hed completely forgotten about it. It came back to him only when he stepped right on it upon entering his home: the postman had slipped it under the door. The address made it look like an anonymous letter: montalbano police headquarterscity. Then, on the upper left, the notice: personal. Which had then set Catarellas earthquake- damaged wits in motion.
Anonymous it was not, however. On the contrary. The signature that Montalbano immediately looked for at the end went off in his brain like a gunshot.
Esteemed Inspector,
It occurred to me that in all probability I wont be able to
come see you tomorrow morning as planned. If the meeting
of the Party leadership of Montelusa, which I shall attend
upon completing this letter, were by chanceas appears quite
likelyto spell failure for my positions, I believe it would be
my duty to go to Palermo to try and awaken the souls and
consciences of those comrades who make the decisions within
the Party. I am even ready to fly to Rome to request an audience with the National Secretary. These intentions, if realized, would necessitate the postponement of our meeting, and thus I beg you please to excuse me for putting in writing what I ought properly to have told you in person.
As you will surely recall, the day after the strange rob- bery/nonrobbery at the supermarket, I came of my own accord to police headquarters to report what I had happened to see that is, a group of men quietly at work, however odd the hour, with lights on and under the supervision of a uniformed man who looked to me like the night watchman. No passerby would have seen anything unusual in this scene; had I noticed anything out of the ordinary, I would have made sure to alert the police myself.
The night following my testimony, I was too upset from the arguments Id had with my Party colleagues to fall asleep, and thus I had occasion to review the scene of the robbery in my mind. Only then did I remember a detail that could prove to be very important. On my way back from Montelusa, agitated as I was, I took the wrong approach route for Vig, one that has been recently made very complicated by a series of incomprehensible one-way streets. Instead of taking the Via Granet, I turned onto the old Via Lincoln and found myself going against the flow of traffic. After realizing my mistake about fifty yards down the street, I decided to retrace my path in reverse, completing my maneuver at the corner of Vicolo Trup thinking I would back into this street, so that I could then point my car in the right direction. I was unable to do
this, however, because the vicolo was entirely blocked by a large car, a model heavily advertised these days but available only in very limited quantities, the Ulysses, license plate Montelusa 328280. At this point I had no choice but to proceed in my directional violation. A few yards down the street, I came out into the Piazza Chiesa Vecchia, where the supermarket is.
; To spare you further investigation: that car, the only one of its kind in town, belongs to Mr. Carmelo Ingrassia. Now, since Ingrassia lives in Monte Ducale, what was his car doing a short distance away from the supermarket, also belonging to Mr. Ingrassia, at the very moment when it was being burgled? I leave the answer to you.
Yours very sincerely,
cav. gerlando misuraca
Youve fucked me royally this time, Cavaliere! was Montalbanos only comment as he glared at the letter he had set down on the dining table. And dining, of course, was now out of the question. He opened the refrigerator only to pay glum homage to the culinary mastery of his housekeeper,a deserved homage, for an enveloping fragrance of poached baby octopus immediately assailed his senses. But he closed the fridge. He wasnt up to it; his stomach was tight as a fist. He undressed and, fully naked, went for a walk along the beach; at that hour there was nobody around anyway. Couldnt eat, couldnt sleep. Around four oclock in the morning he dived
into the icy water, swam a long time, then returned home. He noticed, laughing, that he had an erection. He started talking to it, trying to reason with it.
Its no use deluding yourself.
The erection told him a phone call to Livia might be just the thing. To Livia lying naked and warm with sleep in her bed.
Youre just a dickhead telling me dickheaded things. Teenage jerk-off stuff.
Offended, the erection withdrew. Montalbano put on a pair of briefs, threw a dry towel over his shoulder, grabbed a chair and sat down on the veranda, which gave onto the beach.
He remained there watching the sea as it began to lighten slowly, then take on color, streaked with yellow sunbeams. It promised to be a beautiful day, and the inspector felt reassured and ready to act. Hed had a few ideas, after reading the cavalieres letter; the swim had helped him to organize them.
You cant show up at the press conference looking like that, pronounced Fazio, looking him over severely.
What, are you taking lessons from the Anti-Mafia Commission now? Montalbano opened the padded nylon bag he was holding. In here Ive got trousers, jacket, shirt, and tie. Ill change before I go to Montelusa. Actually, do me
a favor. Take them out and put them on a chair; otherwise theyll get wrinkled.
Theyre already wrinkled, Chief. But I wasnt talking about your clothes; I meant your face. Like it or not, you gotta go to the barber.
Fazio had said like it or not because he knew him well and realized how much effort it cost the inspector to go to the barber. Running a hand behind his head, Montalbano agreed that his hair could use a little trim, too. His face darkened.
Not one fucking things going to go right today! he predicted.
Before exiting, he left orders that, while he was out beautifying himself, someone should go pick up Carmelo Ingrassia and bring him to headquarters.
If he asks why, what should I tell him? asked Fazio.
Dont tell him anything.
What if he insists?
If he insists, tell him I want to know how long its been since he last had an enema. Good enough?
Theres no need to get upset.
The barber, his young helper, and a client who was sitting in one of the two rotating chairs that barely fit into the shop which was actually only a recess under a staircasewere in the midst of an animated discussion, but fell silent as soon as the inspector appeared. Montalbano had entered with what he
himself called his barber-shop face, that is, mouth shrunken to a slit, eyes half-closed in suspicion, eyebrows furrowed, expression at once scornful and severe.
Good morning. Is there a wait?
Even his voice came out deep and gravelly.
No sir. Have a seat, Inspector.
As Montalbano took his place in the vacant chair, the barber, in accelerated, Chaplinesque movements, held a mirror behind the clients head to let him admire the finished product, freed him of the towel round his neck, tossed this into a bin, took out a clean one and put it over the inspectors shoulders. The client, denied even the customary brush- down by the assistant, literally fled from the shop after muttering Good day.
The ritual of the haircut and shave, performed in absolute silence, was swift and funereal. A new client appeared, parting the beaded curtain, but he quickly sniffed the atmosphere and, recognizing the inspector, said:
Ill pass by later. Then he disappeared.
On the street, as he headed back to his office, Montalbano noticed an indefinable yet disgusting odor wafting around him, something between turpentine and a certain kind of face powder prostitutes used to wear some thirty years back. The stink was coming from his own hair.
Ingrassias in your office, Tortorella said in a low voice, sounding conspiratorial.
Whered Fazio go?
Home to change. The commissioners office called. They said Fazio, Gallo, Galluzzo, and Germanhould also take part in the press conference.
I guess my phone call to that asshole Sciacchitano had an effect, thought Montalbano.
Ingrassia, who this time was dressed entirely in pastel green, started to rise.
Dont get up, said the inspector, sitting down behind his desk. He distractedly ran a hand through his hair, and immediately the smell of turpentine and face powder grew stronger. Alarmed, he brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed them, confirming his suspicion. But there was nothing to be done; there was no shampoo in the office bathroom. Without warning, he resumed his barber-shop face. Seeing him suddenly transformed, Ingrassia became worried and started squirming in his chair.
Is something wrong? he asked.
In what sense do you mean?
Well...in every sense, I suppose, said Ingrassia, flustered.
Montalbano shrugged evasively and went back to sniffing his fingers. The conversation stalled.
Have you heard about poor Cavaliere Misuraca? the inspector asked, as if chatting among friends in his living room.
Ah! Such is life! The other sighed sorrowfully.
Imagine that, Mr. Ingrassia. Id asked him if he could
give me some more details about what hed seen the night of the robbery, wed agreed to meet again, and now this...
Ingrassia threw his hands up in the air, inviting Montalbano, with this gesture, to resign himself to fate. He allowed a respectful pause to elapse, then:
Im sorry, he said, but what other details could the poor cavaliere have given you? Hed already told you everything he saw.
Montalbano wagged his forefinger, signaling no. You dont think he told you everything he saw? asked
Ingrassia, intrigued. Montalbano wagged his finger again. Stew in your own juices, scumbag, he was thinking. The green Ingrassia started to tremble like a leafy branch
in the breeze. Well, then, what did you want him to tell you? What he thought he didnt see. The breeze turned into a gale, the branch began to lurch. I dont understand. Let me explain. Youre familiar, are you not, with a
painting by Pieter Brueghel called Childrens Games? Who? Me? No, said Ingrassia, worried. Doesnt matter. But you must be familiar with the
works of Hieronymus Bosch?
No sir, said Ingrassia, starting to sweat. Now he was really getting scared, his face starting to match the color of his outfit, green.
Never mind, then, dont worry about it, Montalbano said magnanimously. What I meant was that when someone sees a scene, he usually remembers the first general impression he has of it. Right?
Right, said Ingrassia, prepared for the worst.
Then, little by little, a few other details may start coming back to him, things that registered in his memory but were discarded as unimportant. An open or closed window, for example, or a noise, a whistle, a songwhat else?a chair out of place, a car where its not supposed to be, a light ...That sort of thing. You know, little details that can later turn out to be extremely important.
Ingrassia took a white handkerchief with a green border out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.
You had me brought here just
to tell me that?
No. That would be inconveniencing you for no reason. I would never do a thing like that. I was wondering if youd heard from the people who, in your opinion, played that joke on you, you know, the phony robbery.
Not a word from anyone.
Thats odd.
Why?
Because the best part of any practical joke is enjoying it afterward with the person it was played on. Well, if you do hear from anybody, please let me know. Good day.
Good day, muttered Ingrassia, standing up. He was dripping wet, his trousers sticking to his bottom.
Fazio showed up all decked out in a shiny new uniform. Im here, he said. And the pope is in Rome. I know, Inspector, I know: today is not your day. He started to leave but stopped in the doorway. Inspector Augello called, said he had a terrible tooth
ache. He says hes not coming unless he has to. Listen, do you have any idea where the wreck of Cava
liere Misuracas Fiat ended up? Its still here, in our garage. If you ask me, its just envy. What are you talking about? Inspector Augellos toothache. Its just a bout of envy. Whos he envious of ? You. Because its your press conference and not his.
And hes probably also pissed off because you wouldnt tell
him who youd arrested. Would you do me a favor? All right, all right, Im going. When Fazio had closed the door well, Montalbano dialed
a number. The voice of the woman who answered sounded
like a parody of an African in a dubbed film. Hallo? Who dare? Who you callin dare? Where did the Cardamones find these housekeepers? Is Signora Ingrid there? Ya, but who callin? This is Salvo Montalbano.
You wait dare.
Ingrids voice, on the other hand, was the very same as the voice the Italian dubber had given to Greta Garbo, who was herself Swedish.
Ciao, Salvo. How are you? Long time no see.
I need your help, Ingrid. Are you free tonight?
Actually, no. But if its really important I can drop everything.
Its important.
Tell me where and when.
Nine oclock tonight, at the Marinella Bar.
For Montalbano, the press conference proved, as of course he knew it would, to be a long, painful embarrassment. Anti- Mafia Vice-Commissioner De Dominicis came from Palermo and sat on the Montelusa police commissioners right. Imperious gestures and angry glances prevailed upon Montalbano, who had wanted to remain in the audience, to sit on his supe- riors left. Behind him, standing, were Fazio, GermanGallo, and Galluzzo. The commissioner spoke first and began by naming the man they had arrested, the number one of the number twos: Gaetano Bennici, known as Tano the Greek, wanted for multiple murders and long a fugitive from justice. It was a literal bombshell. The journalists, who were there in great numbersthere were even four TV cameras jumped out of their chairs and started talking to one another, making such a racket that the commissioner had difficulty
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