“Isn’t that your real name?You mean you don’t belong to the KGB?”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes, Montalbano.”

  “Who’s joking? I’m calling you from the commissioner’s office, and he’s very upset over the KGB-style treatment you gave my men. He promised me he’d write to the interior minister this very day.”

  The phenomenon cannot be explained, and yet it happened: Montalbano actually saw Sciacchitano, universally known as a pusillanimous ass-lick, turn pale over the telephone line. His lie had the same effect on the man as a billy club to the head.

  “What are you saying? You have to understand that I, as defender of public safety—”

  Montalbano interrupted him.

  “Safety doesn’t preclude politeness,” he said pithily, sounding like one of those road signs that say: BE POLITE, FOR SAFETY’S SAKE.

  “But I was extremely polite! I even gave them beer and sandwiches!”

  “I’m sorry to say, but despite the beer and sandwiches, there will be consequences higher up. But cheer up, Sciacchitano, it’s not your fault. You can’t fit a square peg into a round hole.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you, being a born asshole, will never be a decent, intelligent person. Now, I demand that you write a letter, addressed to me, praising my men to the skies. And I want it by tomorrow. Good-bye.”

  “Do you think if I write the letter, the commissioner will let it drop?”

  “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. But if I were you, I’d write that letter. And I might even date it yesterday. Got that?”

  He felt better now, having let off some steam. He called Catarella.

  “Is Inspector Augello in his office?”

  “No sir, but he just now phoned. He said that, figuring he was about ten minutes away, he’d be here in about ten minutes.”

  Montalbano took advantage of the time to start writing the fake report. The real one he’d written at home the night before. At a certain point Augello knocked and entered.

  “You were looking for me?”

  “Is it really so hard for you to come to work a little earlier?”

  “Sorry, but in fact I was busy till five o’clock in the morning. Then I went home and drifted off to sleep, and that was that.”

  “Busy with one of those whores you like so much? The kind that pack two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh into a tight little dress?”

  “Didn’t Catarella tell you?”

  “He told me you’d be coming in late.”

  “Last night, around two, there was a fatal car accident. I went to the scene myself, thinking I’d let you sleep, since the thing was of no importance to us.”

  “To the people who died, it was certainly important.”

  “There was only one victim. He took the downhill stretch of the Catena at high speed—apparently his brakes weren’t working—and ended up wedged under a truck that had started coming up the slope in the opposite direction. The poor guy died instantly.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I sure did. So did you. Cavaliere Misuraca.”

  “Montalbano? I just got a call from Palermo. They want us to hold a press conference. And that’s not all: they want it to make some noise. That’s very important. It’s part of their strategy. Journalists from other cities will be there, and it will be reported on the national news. It’s going to be a big deal.

  “They want to show that the new government is not letting up in the fight against the Mafia, and that, on the contrary, they will be more resolute, more relentless than ever—

  “Is something wrong, Montalbano?”

  “No. I was just imagining the next day’s headlines.”

  “The press conference is scheduled for noon tomorrow. I just wanted to give you advance warning.”

  “Thank you, sir, but what have I got to do with any of it?”

  “Montalbano, I am a nice man, a kind man, but only up to a point. You have everything to do with it! Stop being so childish!”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Good God, Montalbano! Say what you wrote in the report.”

  “Which one?”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Just try to speak clearly, don’t mumble, and keep your head up. And—Oh, yes, your hands. Decide once and for all where you’re going to put them and keep them there. Don’t do like last time, where the correspondent of the Corriere offered aloud to cut them off for you, to make you feel more comfortable.”

  “And what if they question me?”

  “Of course they’ll ‘question’ you, to use your odd phrasing. They’re journalists, aren’t they? Good day.”

  Too agitated by everything that was happening and was going to happen the following day, Montalbano had to leave the office. He went out, stopped at the usual shop, bought a small bag of càlia e simenza, and headed toward the jetty. When he was at the foot of the lighthouse and about to turn back, he found himself face-to-face with Ernesto Bonfiglio, the owner of a travel agency and a very good friend of the recently deceased Cavaliere Misuraca.

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?” Bonfiglio blurted out at him aggressively.

  Montalbano, who was trying to dislodge a small fragment of peanut stuck between two teeth, merely looked at him, befuddled.

  “I’m asking if there’s anything we can do,” Bonfiglio repeated resentfully, giving him a hostile look in return.

  “Do about what?”

  “About my poor dead friend.”

  “Would you like some?” asked the inspector, holding out the bag.

  “Thanks,” said the other, taking a handful of càlia 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. It’s your duty.”

  “And who would these murderers be?”

  “Who they are, not ‘would be.’ I’m referring to the local party leaders, who were unworthy to have him in their ranks. They killed him.”

  “I beg your pardon. Wasn’t it an accident?”

  “Oh, I suppose you think accidents just happen accidentally?”

  “I would say so.”

  “You would be wrong. If someone’s looking for an accident, there’s always somebody else ready to send one his way. Let me cite an example to illustrate my point. This last February Mimì Crapanzano drowned when he went for a swim. An accidental death, they said. But here I ask you: How old was Mimì when 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. ‘What’s wrong?’ Crapanzano asked, like an idiot. ‘I’m sorry I won’t 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 government’s 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 who’s not even Sicilian and goes by the name of Biraghìn, 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 Vigàta. His blood was boiling, no doubt about it, but the others had made him lose his head on purpose. And you’re 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.

  “There’s a personal letter for you that came just now in the mail,” said Catarella, repeating, for emphasis: “Person-al.”

  On his desk he found a postcard from his father and some office memos.

  “Hey, Cat! Where’d you put the letter?”

  “I said it was personal!” Catarella said defensively.

  “What’s 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. Where’s the letter?”

  “It’s 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?”

  “I’m eating at home today.”

  “Whatever you say. But I’ve got some rock lobster ready for the grill that’ll seem like you’re 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 o’clock, 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, he’d 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 HEADQUARTERS—CITY. Then, on the upper left, the notice: PERSONAL. Which had then set Catarella’s 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 won’t 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 chance—as appears quite likely—to 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 robbery /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 I’d 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 Vigàta, 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 Trupìa, 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

  “You’ve fucked me royally this time, Cavaliere!” was Montalbano’s 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 wasn’t 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. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Around four o’clock 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.

  “It’s 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.

  “You’re 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 sun-beams. It promised to be a beautiful day, and the inspector felt reassured and ready to act. He’d had a few ideas, after reading the cavaliere’s letter; the swim had helped him to organize them.

  “You can’t 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 I’ve got trousers, jacket, shirt, and tie. I’ll change before I go to Montelusa. Actually, do me a favor. Take them out and put them on a chair; otherwise they’ll get wrinkled.”

  “They’re already wrinkled, Chief. But I wasn’t 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 thing’s 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.

  “Don’t tell him anything.”

  “What if he insists?”

  “If he insists, tell him I want to know how long it’s been since he last had an enema. Good enough?”

  “There’s 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 staircase—were 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 client’s 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 inspector’s 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: