“The second question is this: When Mimi Augello confided in you that he planned to get married—”
“Oh, God, Salvo, you’re such a bore when you put your mind to it!”
“Let me finish. Did he also say he was going to ask to be transferred? Did he?”
This time the pause was even longer than before. But Montalbano knew she was still at the other end, because her breathing had grown heavy. Then, in a faint voice, she asked:
“Did he do that?”
“Yes, Livia, he did. Then, because the commissioner made an asinine comment, he withdrew his request. But only temporarily, I think.”
“Salvo, believe me, he never said anything to me about leaving Vigata. And I don’t think he had that in mind when he talked about his marriage plans. I’m sorry. Very sorry. And I realize how sorry you must be. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“That I miss you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“A lot a lot.”
There, that’s how you do it. Trust in the most utterly obvious thing. And surely the truest.
He went to bed with the book by Vazquez Montalban and began rereading it from the beginning. At the end of the third page, the telephone rang. He thought about it a moment; the desire not to answer was strong, but the caller was liable to persist until his nerves were frayed.
“Hello? Am I speaking with Inspector Montalbano?”
He didn’t recognize the voice.
“Yes.”
“Inspector, I beg your pardon for disturbing you at this hour, when you’re finally enjoying some much-desired rest with your family ...”
What family? Had everyone gone batty, from Dr. Lattes to this stranger, with this idea of his nonexistent family?
“Who is this?”
“... but I was certain to find you at home. I am Orazio Guttadauro, the lawyer. I don’t know if you remember me ...”
How could he not remember Guttadauro, the Mafia’s favorite lawyer, who during the investigation into the murder of the beautiful Michela Licalzi had tried to entrap the then captain of the Montelusa Flying Squad? A worm had a deeper sense of honor than Orazio Guttadauro.
“Would you excuse me a moment, sir?”
“By all means! I should be the one asking you ...”
He let him go on talking, went into the bathroom, emptied his bladder, and gave his face a good washing. When talking to Guttadauro one had to be alert and vigilant, to catch even the most fleeting nuances in the words he used.
“Here I am, Counsel.”
“This morning, my dear Inspector, I went to see my old friend and client Don Balduccio Sinagra, whom you certainly must know, at least, by name, if not personally.”
Not only by name, but also by reputation. Sinagra was head of one of the two Mafia families—the other being the Cuffaro family—that were vying for territorial control over the Montelusa province. Leading to at least one death per month, on each side of the fence.
“Yeah, I know the name.”
“Good. Don Balduccio is very advanced in years, and celebrated his ninetieth the day before yesterday. He’s got a few aches and pains, as is normal for his age, but his mind is still extremely lucid. He remembers everything and everyone, and keeps up with the newspapers and television. I go to see him often because the man simply charms me with his memories and, I humbly confess, with his enlightened wisdom. Just think—”
Was this lawyer joking? Had he called him at home at one o‘clock in the morning just to bust his balls with details on the mental and physical health of a hood like Balduccio Sinagra, who would make the world a better place if he were to die tomorrow?
“Mr. Guttadauro, don’t you think—”
“Forgive me the long digression, Inspector, but when I start talking about Don Balduccio, for whom I harbor feelings of deep veneration—”
“Look, Mr. Guttadauro—”
“Please please please excuse me. Forgiven? Forgiven. I’ll get to the point. This morning, when talking of this and that, Don Balduccio mentioned your name.”
“Was it during the this or the that?”
The remark came out before Montalbano could stop it.
