Patience of the Spider

limitations. An ex-Communist and ex-Socialist, now a triumphant member of the party in power.

“Couldn’t you give me a shot to knock me out for three hours or so?” he implores Strazzera.

The doctor throws his hands up and goes out.

The honorable Gianfranco Petrotto arrives, preceded by a power-ful roar of applause that echoes through the corridor. But the only people allowed to enter the room with him are the prefect, the commissioner, the hospital superintendent, and a deputy from the politico’s retinue.

“Everyone else, wait outside!” he commands with a shout.

Then his mouth opens and closes, and he begins to talk. And talk. And talk. He doesn’t know that Montalbano has plugged his ears with surgical cotton to the point where they feel like they’re about to explode and can’t hear the bullshit he’s saying.

o o o

It’s been a while now since the shutter stopped wailing. He barely has time to look at the clock—four forty- five—before he falls asleep at last.

o o o

In his sleep he could faintly hear the telephone ringing and ringing.

He opened one eye, looked at the clock. Six o’clock. He’d slept barely an hour and fifteen minutes. He got up in a hurry, wanting to stop the ringing before it reached Livia in the depths of her sleep. He picked up the receiver.

“Chief, whadd I do, wake you up?”

“Cat, it’s six in the morning. On the dot.”

“Actually my watch gots six oh tree.”

“That means it’s a little fast.”

“You sure ’bout that, Chief?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, so I’ll put it tree minutes slow. Tanks, Chief.”

“You’re welcome.”

Catarella hung up. Montalbano did likewise, then headed back to the bedroom. Halfway there, he started cursing. What kind of goddamn phone call was that? Catarella calls him at the crack of dawn to find out if his watch has the right time? At that moment the phone rang again. The inspector quickly picked up the receiver after the first ring.

“Beck y’pardin, Chief, but that bizniss ’bout the time made me forget to tell you the real reason for the phone call I jes phoned you about.”

“So tell me.”

“Seems some girl’s motorbike’s been seized.”

“Seized or robbed?”

“Seized.”

Montalbano fumed. But he had no choice but to smother his urge to yell.

“And you wake me up at six in the morning to tell me the Carabinieri or Customs police have impounded a motorbike?

To tell me? Pardon my French, but I don’t give a fuck!”

“Chief, you kin speak whichever langwitch ya like wit-tout beckin my pardin, though, beckin y’pardin, it sounds a lot to me like a ’talian,” Catarella said respectfully.

“And furthermore, I’m not on duty, I’m still convalescing!”

“I know, Chief, but it wasn’t neither the Customs or the Canabirreri that had the seizure.”

“Well, then who was it?”

“ ’Ass just it, Chief. Nobody knows. Ann’ass why they tol’

me to call you poissonally in poisson.”

“Listen, is Fazio there?”

“No, sir, he’s at the scene.”

“How about Inspector Augello?”

“Him too.”

“So who’s left there at the station?”

“For the moment, Chief, ’s jes me holdin’ down the fort.

Mr. Inspector Augello axed me to do ’is doody for ’im, so ’ass what I’m doin.”

Good God! A danger to be avoided as quickly as possible.