thoughts, which became even darker, if that was possible, at the words that Gege putting his hand on his shoulder, then whispered in his ear.
'Be careful, Salvo, guy's an evil beast.'
He was driving slowly back home when the headlights of Gege car behind him started flashing repeatedly. He pulled over and Gege pulling up, leaned all the way across the seat towards the window on the side closest to Montalbano and handed him a package.
'I forgot the mostaccioli.'
'Thanks. I thought it was just an excuse.'
'What do you think I am? Somebody who says something and means something else?'
He accelerated, offended.
...
The inspector spent the kind of night one tells the doctor about. His first thought was to phone the commissioner, wake him up, and fill him in, to protect himself in the event the affair took any unexpected turns. But Tano the Greek had been explicit, according to Gege, Montalbano must not say anything to anyone and must come to the appointment alone. This was not, however, a game of cops and robbers: his duty was his duty. That is, he must inform his superiors and plan, down to the smallest details, how to surround and capture the criminal, perhaps with the help of considerable reinforcements. Tano had been a fugitive for nearly ten years, and he, Montalbano, was supposed to go visit him as if he were some pal just back from America? There was no getting around it, the commissioner must by all means be informed of the matter. He dialed the number of his superiors home in Montelusa, the provincial capital.
'Is that you, love?' murmured the voice of Livia from Boccadasse, Genoa.
Montalbano remained speechless for a moment. Apparently his instinct was leading him away from speaking with the commissioner, making him dial the wrong number.
'Sorry about before. I had just received an unexpected phone call and had to go out.'
'Never mind, Salvo, I know what your work is like. Actually, I'm sorry I got upset. I was just feeling disappointed.'
Montalbano looked at his watch: he had at least three hours before he was supposed to meet Tano.
'If you want, we could talk now.'
'Now? Look, Salvo, it's not to get back at you, but I'd rather not. I took a sleeping pill and can barely keep my eyes open.'
'All right, all right. Till tomorrow, then. I love you, Livia.'
Livias tone of voice suddenly changed, becoming more awake and agitated.
'Huh? What's wrong? Eh, what's wrong, Salvo?'
'Nothing's wrong. What could be wrong?'
'Oh, no you don't, you're hiding something. Are you about to do something dangerous? Don't make me worry, Salvo.'
'Where do you get such ideas?'
'Tell me the truth, Salvo.'
'I'm not doing anything dangerous.'
'I don't believe you.'
'Why not, for Christs sake?'
'Because you said I love you, and since I've known you, you've said it only three times. I've counted them, and every time it was for something out of the ordinary.'
The only hope was to cut the conversation short; with Livia, one could easily end up talking till morning.
'Ciao, my love. Sleep well. Don't be silly. I have to go out again.'
So how was he going to pass the time now? He took a shower, read a few pages of the book by Montalb understood little, shuffled from one room to the other, straightening a picture, rereading a letter, a bill, a note, touching everything that came within his reach. He took another shower and shaved, managing to cut himself right on the chin. He turned on the television and immediately shut it off. It made him feel nauseated. Finally, it was time. As he was on his way out, he decided he needed a mostacciolo. With sincere astonishment, he saw that the box on the table had been opened and not a single pastry was left in the cardboard tray. He had eaten them all, too nervous to notice. And what was worse, he hadn't even enjoyed them.
2
Montalbano turned around slowly, as if to offset the dull, sudden anger he felt at having let himself be caught unawares from behind like a beginner. For all that he'd been on his guard, he hadn't heard the slightest sound.
Though he'd never seen him in person, he recognized him at once: as compared with the mug shots from a few years back, Tano had grown his mustache and beard, but the eyes remained the same, expressionless, like a statues, as Gege'd accurately described them.
Tano the Greek gave a short bow, and there wasn't the slightest hint of provocation or mockery in the gesture. Montalbano automatically returned the greeting. Tano threw his head back and laughed.
'We're like two Japanese warriors, the kind with swords and breast plates. What do you call them?'
