was an odd sort of sentry box, odd because they looked like playhouses for children. And, in fact, one could see decals of Superman, Batman, and Hercules on their walls. But the sentry boxes also each had a little door and a window. The lawyer intercepted the inspector’s gaze.
“Those are playhouses Don Balduccio had built for his grandchildren, I mean, his great-grandchildren. One of them’s called Balduccio, like him, and the other is Tanino. They’re ten and eight years old. Don Balduccio’s just crazy about those kids.”
“Excuse me, Counsel,” Montalbano asked with an angelic expression on his face, “but that man with the beard who came to the window in the playhouse on the left, was that Balduccio or Tanino?”
Guttadauro gracefully ignored the question.
They were now in front of the main door, a monumental affair of copper-studded black walnut, vaguely reminiscent of an American-style coffin.
In one corner of the garden, all prissy beds of roses, vines, and flowers, and graced by a pool of goldfish (where the hell did the bastard get the water?), was a big, powerful cage with four Dobermans inside. In utter silence, they were sizing up the weight and texture of the guest, with a manifest desire to eat him alive with all his clothes on. Apparently the cage was opened at night.
“No, Inspector,” said Guttadauro when he saw Montalbano heading towards the coffin serving as the front door. “Don Balduccio is waiting for you in the parterre.”
They went towards the left-hand side of the villa. The “parterre” was a vast space, open on three sides, with the terrace of the floor above serving as the ceiling. Through the six slender arches that marked its boundary on the right, one enjoyed a splendid view of the landscape. Miles of beach and sea, interrupted on the horizon by the jagged profile of Capo Rossello. On the opposite side, the panorama left much to be desired: a prairie of cement without the slightest breath of green, and Vigata, distant, drowning in it.
In the “parterre” were a sofa, four comfortable armchairs, and a low, broad coffee table. Ten or so chairs were lined up against the only wall, for use, no doubt, in plenary meetings.
Don Balduccio, little more than a skeleton in clothes, was sitting on the two-seater sofa with a plaid blanket over his knees, even though it wasn’t cold and no wind was blowing. Sitting beside him in an armchair was a ruddy- faced priest of about fifty in collar and gown, who rose when the inspector came in.
“And here’s our dear Inspector Montalbano!” Guttadauro joyously announced in a shrill voice.
“Excuse me for not getting up,” said Don Balduccio in a faint voice, “but I can’t stand on my own two legs anymore.
He made no sign of wanting to shake the inspector’s hand.
“This is Don Saverio, Saverio Crucilla, who was and still is the spiritual father of Japichinu, my blessed young grandson, slandered and hounded by evil men. It’s a good thing he’s a boy of deep faith; he suffers his persecution by offering it up to God.”
“Having faith is always best!” sighed Father Crucilla.
“If you don’t sleep, you still can rest,” Montalbano chimed in.
Don Balduccio, Guttadauro, and the priest all looked at him in shock.
“I beg your pardon,” said Don Crucilla, “but I think you’re mistaken. The proverb is about the bed, and it goes like this:‘Of all things the bed is best/If you can’t sleep you still can rest.’ No?”
“You’re right, I was mistaken,” the inspector admitted.
He really was mistaken. What the fuck did he think he was doing, cracking a joke by mangling a proverb and paraphrasing the hackneyed line about religion being the opium of the people? If only religion actually was an opium for a murderous thug like Balduccio Sinagra’s precious grandson!
“I think I’ll be going,” said the priest.
He bowed to Don Balduccio, who gestured with both hands in reply, then he bowed to the inspector, who replied with a slight nod of the head, then he took Guttadauro by the arm.
“You’re coming with me, aren’t you, Counsel?”
They had clearly planned in advance to leave him alone with Don Balduccio. The lawyer would reappear later, after allowing enough time for his client—as he liked to call the man who in reality was his boss—to say what he had to say to Montalbano, without witnesses.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the old man said to the inspector, gesturing towards the armchair in which Father Crucilla had been sitting.
Montalbano sat down.
“Have anything to drink?” asked Don Balduccio, extending his hand towards a three-button control panel on the arm of the sofa.
“No, thank you.”
Montalbano couldn’t help but wonder what those other two buttons were for. If the first one rang for the maid, the second probably summoned the in-house killer. And the third? Maybe that one set off a general alarm capable of unleashing something along the lines of World War III.
“Tell me something, I’m curious,” said the old man, readjusting the blanket over his legs. “A moment ago, when you came in, if I‘da held out my hand to you, would you have shaken it?”
He decided at once to answer sincerely.
“No.”
“Can you tell me why?”
