His heart sank.
It was hopeless: if Mr. C’mishner was breaking the inspector’s balls even at home, at that hour, then the problem must be very, very serious. And it would make him lose time and, as a result, miss his date with Laura.
The horizon went from being cloudless to darkening by the second. He was lost.
“Montalbano! What, aren’t you going to reply?”
“I’m right here, Mr. Commissioner.”
“I called your office.”
Meaningful pause.
“So?”
“And they told me you’d gone home several hours ago!” said the commissioner, emphasizing the last three words with a rising tone.
Was he reproaching the inspector for being a goof-off who cashed in his paychecks without earning them? Montalbano became incensed.
“Mr. Commissioner, I am not a shirker! I-”
“That’s not what I’m calling about.”
Ah, you see? It really was a serious matter! Better not fly off the handle. Take it easy.
“Then what can I do for you?”
“I want to see you immediately!”
Shit! Take your time, Montalbà.
“Where?”
“What kind of question is that? Here, now!”
“Where, in your office?”
“Where do you think? In a bar?”
“Now?”
“Now!”
But Laura would be arriving in a few minutes!
If the commissioner thought he was going to get in his car and drive to Montelusa, he had another think coming! They couldn’t drag him away from there even in chains!
Montalbano assumed an apologetic tone.
“I really can’t, believe me.”
“And why not?”
He had to come up with a lie that would make it impossible for him to leave his house. He decided to throw in his lot with improvisation.
“Well, you see, when I got home I slipped and got a nasty ankle sprain which-”
“Which certainly won’t prevent you from seeing a certain Laura!” Bonetti-Alderighi interrupted him in a sarcastic tone.
Montalbano became incensed again.
“Aside from the fact that this Laura is a physical therapist who is going to try to remedy the situation with massages-and you really have no idea just how desperately I am hoping she succeeds-you should know that if it were indeed the sort of encounter you are insinuating, a sprained ankle would hardly prevent me from-”
“So you really can’t move?” Bonetti-Alderighi interrupted him, to stop him from getting lewd.
“No, I can’t.”
“What if I sent someone to pick you up?”
“I still don’t think I could make it.”
A brief pause for reflection on the commissioner’s part.
“Well, then, I’ll come to you.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“Nooooooooo!”
A wolflike sort of howl had escaped his lips. He absolutely had to prevent the commissioner from coming, whatever the cost.
“Why are you yelling?”
“A shooting pain in my foot.”
If the guy came to his house, he would certainly run into Laura. Who would even be in uniform. It would be hard to convince the commissioner that physical therapists wore the exact same uniform as naval officers. And things would turn nasty.
“No, don’t bother, sir. You see… with a little effort I can try to get up and come to your office.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
What was he going to do now?
First of all, he had to inform Laura. He rang the Harbor Office, but they told him she’d already left. He tried her cell phone, but it was turned off.
He immediately called Gallo and told him to come and pick him up in a squad car.
Cursing the saints, he removed the shoe and sock from his left foot, went into the bathroom, wrapped half a roll of cotton around his ankle and then fixed this in place with an entire roll of gauze. He’d actually done a pretty good job of it; the whole area looked quite swollen from the sprain.
Then he grabbed a slipper, but the foot was too fat to fit. So he cut the slipper with a pair of scissors. Now the foot fit, but the slipper was too loose and fell off with every step he took.
Desperate, he grabbed a roll of packing tape and wound this round and round his foot, slipper, and ankle.
To make his limp more convincing, he needed a cane. But he didn’t own one, and so he rummaged through the utility closet and came up with a red plastic broomstick.
Now he looked exactly like a Sardinian shepherd from Campidano.
When Gallo saw him, his jaw dropped.
“Chief! What happened to you?”
“Don’t give me any shit; just drive me to the commissioner’s office.”
His mood was so black that squid ink seemed grey by comparison. For the entire ride, Gallo didn’t dare open his mouth again.
Bonetti-Alderighi seemed not to notice the inspector’s pastoral getup. Though he didn’t tell him to sit down, Montalbano did so anyway, groaning and sighing as if from a script.
The commissioner, however, heard none of it, or pretended not to.
Without a word he raised his right hand, index and middle finger extended and spread. Montalbano looked first at the fingers and then, questioningly, at the commissioner’s angry face.
“Two,” Bonetti-Alderighi then said.
“You want to play morra?” Montalbano asked with an angelic expression.
Would that he had never said it!
Bonetti-Alderighi’s hand then closed in a fist, and the fist came crashing down on the desktop, nearly breaking it.
“Jesus Christ, Montalbano! You are stark, raving mad! Don’t you realize it?”
“Realize what?”
“Two people have been murdered in Vigàta! And you…”
Choked with rage, the commissioner couldn’t finish his sentence and ended up coughing.
He was forced to stand up, go and open the minifridge, and drink a glass of water.
When he sat back down, he seemed a little calmer.
“Do you admit that you knew the man found in the dinghy had been murdered?”
“Yes, and in fact-”
“Silence! Do you admit that you knew a North African sailor was also murdered?”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t have-”
“Quiet! Do you or don’t you admit that you then began to investigate the matter?”
“Of course. It was my duty to-”
“Shut up!”
Silence, quiet, and shut up. Montalbano began to admire the variety of the commissioner’s injunctions. He wanted to see if Bonetti-Alderighi could come up with any others.
“Look, Mr. Commissioner-”
“Button it! I’ll do all the talking, for now.”
Silence, quiet, shut up, and button it. He tried again.
“But I would like to-”
“Sshhh!” said the commissioner, bringing his index finger to his lips.
No, sshhh didn’t count. It had to be verbal. But Montalbano didn’t feel like playing anymore and clammed up.
“Now I want you to answer a question I have for you, but without equivocating, without digressing, without-”
“-stalling, cavilling, changing the subject, beating around the bush?” Montalbano suggested in a rapid-fire burst to put any thesaurus to shame.
The commissioner looked at him, nonplussed.
“Are you mocking me?”
Montalbano assumed a demure expression.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Then cut the shit and answer!”
“May I make an observation?”
“No.”
Montalbano fell silent.
“Answer!”
“If you won’t let me make my observation…”
“All right, make your observation and then answer my question!”
“The observation is the following. I only wanted to point out, in all humility, that you forgot to ask your question.”
“Ah, yes. You see? You are the only person here with the ability to make me so furious that I get all-”
“Confused? Distracted? Disoriented? Muddled?”
“Stop it, for Christ’s sake! I don’t need your stupid suggestions! At any rate, why didn’t you deign to inform either the public prosecutor or myself of these investigations? Can you tell me?”
“And how did you find out?”
“Don’t ask idiotic questions! Just answer!”
With all his talking, the guy was making him miss his appointment with Laura. Montalbano decided to cut things short.
“I completely forgot.”
“You forgot?” the commissioner repeated, dumbfounded.
Montalbano threw his hands up.
Bonetti-Alderighi turned red as a beet and emitted first a sort of roar and then an elephantine trumpet blast. It sounded like they were at the zoo.
“But what… exactly… do you think you’re doing? Runn… running your own private inves… tigating firm?” the commissioner yelled, stammering in rage and standing up, index finger pointed at the inspector.
“No, but-”
“Silence!”
What? Was he going to restart, da capo, the ball-busting litany of silence, quiet, and shut up? They wouldn’t get out of there before dawn!
“And you listen to me, Montalbano,” the commissioner continued. “As of this moment you are removed!”
“From what?”
“From the investigations. Inspector Mazzamore will handle them.”
Never heard of him. Must be a new arrival. They changed every two weeks. Montelusa Central Police was a revolving door.
The only one who never left was pain in the ass Bonetti-Alderighi.
Montalbano was about to object when he realized that this new development would allow him more time to devote to Laura.
“All right, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll remove myself,” said Montalbano, anxious to leave.
Leaning on the broomstick, he stood up, groaning and twisting his mouth as though in great pain.
The commissioner was unmoved.
“Where are you going?”
“Home to lie down, so-”
“Ha ha ha!” the commissioner laughed, sounding just like Mephistopheles.
“Why are you laughing, may I ask?”
“You’re not going home!”
Montalbano turned pale. For a brief moment he was afraid that Bonetti-Alderighi would have him arrested. The man was capable of it. But the commissioner continued:
“Now you are going to go into Dr. Lattes’s office-he’s already waiting for you, in fact-and the two of you are going to reconstruct the list of the documents that were destroyed.”
And since Montalbano, annihilated, could no longer move, the commissioner prodded him.
“Go on! Out with you!”
While crossing the waiting room, still limping to keep up appearances, Montalbano managed to curse all the saints in heaven.
Upon seeing him, Dr. Lattes, without even noticing the Sardinian shepherd getup, immediately asked him:
“How’s the little one?”
“He’s dead,” Montalbano answered mournfully.
With his cojones already in a blinding spin, he’d be damned if he was going to keep the promise he’d made to Livia!
Lattes stood up, ran up to him, and embraced him.
“I’m so terribly sorry.”
Maybe there was a way out. Montalbano buried his face in Lattes’s shoulder and emitted a sobbing sound.
“And instead of being with my little boy… I have to be here and-”
“Good heavens, no!” said Lattes, hugging him even more tightly. “Go straight home! We’ll talk about it some other time!”
It was all the inspector could do not to kiss his hand.
When he left Lattes’s office it was already past ten. He dashed down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator, which was slow, and raced to the car.
“We’re going to Marinella, quick!”
“Shall I turn on the siren?” asked Gallo, pleased.
“Yes.”
Montalbano would have suffered less inside a race car on the track at Indianapolis. At a certain point it occurred to him that if he wasn’t going to be handling the case any longer, there was no need for Mimì to engage in another night of gymnastics with La Giovannini. He might as well spare himself the effort.
He dialed Augello’s cell phone number.
“Montalbano here. Can you talk?”
“Ah, Gianfilippo! How good to hear from you!” said Augello. “Where are you calling from? Tell me, what can I do for you?”
In other words, he couldn’t talk. Obviously La Giovannini was right beside him.
“I wanted to tell you that if you want to bail out, you can.”
“Why?”
“Because the boss has decided to take me off the case. So it’s not our concern anymore.”
“Listen, Gianfilippo, I don’t think you can back out at this point, you know what I mean? It’s too late. Once you’re out on the dance floor, you have to dance. I’m sorry, but that’s the way I see it. So you take care now, and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Which meant that his phone call had arrived past regulation playing time.
He immediately noticed that there was no sign of Laura’s car in front of the house. He bade Gallo a hasty goodbye, opened the door, and went inside.
Laura wasn’t on the veranda, either, like last time.
She hadn’t waited for him. Or, more likely, she had waited for him but then became convinced he wasn’t going to come any time soon and had left.
He went and stuck his head under the bathroom faucet to cool his anger, then plucked up his courage and dialed her number.
“Hi, Salvo here.”
“Yes?” she said cold as ice.
He had to stay calm and try to explain clearly what had happened.
“Forgive me, Laura, I’m truly sorry, but I got a call from the commissioner and-”
“I figured that something had come up.”
Then why was she so distant?
“Listen, I’ll tell you what we can do to set things right. Wait for me outside the front door of your building in fifteen minutes, and I’ll come by and pick you up.”
“No.”
She’d said it without hesitation. A “no” as crisp and clean as a gunshot to the chest.
“It’s not that late, you know,” he insisted. “Have you already had dinner?”
“I don’t feel hungry anymore.”
Her voice sounded strange, neither indifferent nor angry. It was like a smooth barrier against which all words slid off, leaving no trace.
“Come on, once you sit down, your hunger will return.”
“It’s too late.”
“All right, but I’ll come anyway.”
“No.”
“We could at least spend half an hour together, no?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong? Are you upset? You know, I did call you at the Harbor Office to tell you I was running late, then I tried your cell phone, but I-”
“I’m not upset.”
“All right, then. Shall we meet tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve been thinking about this, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the commissioner’s phone call was providential.”
There was no way any phone call from Bonetti-Alderighi could ever be providential. It would be against nature.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that it was fate. It was a very precise sign.”
Was she raving?
“Listen, explain yourself a little better.”
“It means there can never be and must never be anything between us.”
“Don’t tell me you believe that sort of rubbish!”
She didn’t reply, and Montalbano got further incensed.
“What, do you get up and read the horoscope in the paper first thing every morning?”
Laura hung up.
Montalbano redialed the number, but the phone rang and rang without reply.
His appetite, naturally, had gone south.
The only thing to do was to sit out on the veranda, armed with cigarettes and whisky, and wait for the rage to subside so he could go to bed.
Wait a second, Montalbà. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that the only emotion you’re feeling at this moment is rage? And not regret or sadness?
And if I feel only rage, does that mean something?
Yes, sir, it certainly does. Shall we postpone the discussion until after you’ve ascertained that you have enough cigarettes and whisky in the house?
He went out, ducked into the Marinella Bar, came back, and as he was about to unlock the door, he heard the telephone ringing. In his haste, he fumbled with the keys and had to set the bottle down to open the door.
Naturally, by the time he raised the receiver, he heard only a dial tone.
How was it possible he could never manage to pick up the phone in time?
It must certainly have been Laura trying to call.
So, what to do now? Call her himself? And what if it hadn’t been Laura? At that moment the phone started ringing again.
“Laura!”
At the other end, total silence. Want to bet it was that pigheaded commissioner again?
“Who is this?” the inspector asked.
“Livia.”
In an instant, he was bathed in sweat.
“And I want to know who this Laura is,” she added.
Not knowing in his despair what to say, he laughed.
“Ha ha!”
“You find my question funny?”
“So you’re jealous, eh?
“Of course I’m jealous. Answer me and stop acting like an imbecile.”
She’d said it in the exact same tone of voice as Bonetti-Alderighi.
“You’re not going to believe me, but when you called, I was trying to think of the name of Petrarch’s beloved, and it finally came to me as I was picking up the receiver…”
“And you think I’m so stupid as to swallow that explanation?”
By now Montalbano’s sweat was pouring into his eyes, blinding him, while the receiver was slipping out of his hand.
“I’m sorry, could I call you back in five minutes?”
“No,” said Livia, hanging up.