Excursion to Tindari

“Yeah, but I thought it was worth it. I heard there was a place there where you eat like a god.”

“What’s it called?” Montalbano asked at once with keen interest.

“Peppuccio‘s, it’s called. But the cooking stinks. Maybe it wasn’t a good day, maybe the owner, who’s also the chef, was in a bad mood. If you’re ever out that way, be sure to avoid Peppuccio’s. Anyway, at ten to five I was back in the church. This time there were a few people there, two men and maybe seven, eight women. All old. At five o’clock sharp, Father Crucilla came out of the sacristy and looked over his parishioners. I had the impression he was looking for me. Then he went into the confessional and drew the curtain. A lady followed and stayed there at least fifteen minutes. What could she have to confess?”

“Nothing, I’m sure,” said Montalbano. “They go confess just to talk to somebody. You know how it is for old folks, don’t you?”

“So I got up and sat down in a pew near the confessional. After the first old lady came out, another old lady went in. This one took a good twenty minutes. When she finished, it was my turn. I knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said: ‘Don Crucilla, I’m the man sent by Inspector Montalbano.’ He didn’t say anything at first, then he asked me my name. I told him, and he said: ‘We can’t do it today. Tomorrow morning, before early Mass, come back here to confess.’ ‘I’m sorry, but what time is early Mass?’ I asked. He says: ‘At six. But you must come at quarter to six. And tell the inspector to be ready, because we’re definitely going to do it tomorrow, at nightfall.’ Then he said: ‘Now rise, make the sign of the cross, go back to where you were seated, and say five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers, make the sign of the cross again, and leave.’ ”

“So what’d you do?”

“What was I supposed to do? I said the five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers.”

“So why didn’t you get back sooner, if you took care of all this so quickly?”

“My car broke down and I lost some time. So how do we leave it?”

“We’re going to do as the priest says. Tomorrow morning, at quarter to six, you’re going to hear what he has to tell you and then report back to me. If he said we can do it at nightfall, that probably means around six-thirty or seven. Our actions will depend on what he tells us. Four of us will go, and we’ll take one car, to keep a low profile. It’ll be me, you, Mimi, and Gallo. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Now I’ve got some things to do.”

Fazio left, and Montalbano dialed Ingrid’s home phone number.

“You token I lissin,” said the same voice as before.

“Who’s tokens same man’s token before. Contrabando.”

It worked like a charm. Ingrid came to the phone in thirty seconds.

“Salvo, what is it?”

“Change of plan, sorry. We can’t meet tomorrow evening.”

“When can we, then?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“A big hug.”

That was Ingrid. And that was why Montalbano so liked and admired her. She demanded no explanations, and wouldn’t have given any herself, for that matter. She merely registered the situation. Never had he met a woman so womanly as Ingrid, who at the same time wasn’t at all like a woman.

At least according to the notions we little men have formed about our little women, Montalbano concluded in his mind.

In front of the Trattoria San Calogero, walking briskly along, he came to a sudden halt, the way donkeys do when they decide, for mysterious reasons, to stop and not move another inch, whippings and kicks to the belly notwithstanding. He looked at his watch. Barely eight o‘clock. Too early to eat. But the work that awaited him in Via Cavour promised to be long and would certainly take all night. Maybe he could start now and take a break around ten ... But what if he started feeling hungry before then?

“So, Inspector, you going to make up your mind or not?”

It was Calogero, the owner of the trattoria, watching him from the doorway. That was all he needed.

The room was totally empty. Eating at eight o‘clock in the evening was for the Milanese; Sicilians don’t start thinking about dinner until after nine.

“What’s good tonight, Calo?”

“Looky here,” Calogero replied proudly, pointing to the refrigerated display case.

Death strikes fish in the eyes, turning them milky. The eyes on these fish were bright and sparkly, like they were still swimming in water.

“Grill me four bass.”

“No first course?”

“No. What have you got for appetizers?”

“Purpiteddri that’ll melt in your mouth. You won’t need to use your teeth.”

It was true. The baby octopi, tender in the extreme, dissolved in his mouth. With the bass, after sprinkling it with a few drops of “carter’s dressing”—olive oil seasoned with garlic and hot pepper—he took his time.

The inspector had two ways to eat fish. The first, which he used reluctantly and only when he had little time, was to bone it, gather all the edible parts on his plate, and then set about eating them. The second, which gave him far more satisfaction, consisted of earning every single bite, removing the bones as he went along. It took longer, true, but that additional bit of time served to smooth the way, so to speak. As one was cleaning each already