called upon the inspector to baptize the kid, he’d also given him the wonderful surprise of naming him after him.
“Can’t you give him your father’s name, Mimi?”
“Right! Imagine that, my father’s called Eusebio.”
“So then name him after Beba’s father.”
“That’d be even worse. His name’s Adelchi.”
“Tell me, Mimi. So the real reason you’re naming him after me is because all the other available names seem too bizarre to you?”
“Cut the shit, Salvo! First of all, I’m very fond of you, you’re like a father to—”
A father? “With a son like Mimi?
“Oh, fuck off!”
Livia, on the other hand, upon learning that the new-born would be called Salvo, burst into tears. There were certain special circumstances that moved her deeply.
“Mimi loves you so much! “whereas you—”
“Oh, he loves me, does he? Do the names Eusebio and Adelchi mean anything to you?”
And ever since the kid was born, Mimi would appear at the station and disappear just as fast: One minute Salvo (junior, of course) had the runs, the next minute he had red spots on his bottom, the next he was throwing up, the next he didn’t want to suckle …
He’d complained about it, over the phone, with Livia.
“Oh, yeah? You’ve got a problem with Mimi? All that only means he’s a loving, conscientious father! I’m not so sure that you, in his position—”
He’d hung up on her.
He looked at the morning mail that Catarella had left on his desk. By prior agreement with the post office, the private mail addressed to his house in Marinella was being forwarded to the station, since sometimes he went a couple of days without returning home.
There were only official letters, which he set aside, not feeling like reading them. He would hand them over to Fazio as soon as he got back. The telephone rang.
“Chief, iss Dr. Latte wit’ an ‘s’at the end.”
Lattes, that is, chief of the commissioner’s cabinet. To his horror and shock, Montalbano had discovered a while back that Lattes had a clone in a government spokesman who frequently appeared on TV: the same air of the sacristy, the same porky-pink, beardless skin, the same little asshole-like mouth, the same unctuousness. An exact replica.
“My dear Montalbano, how’s it going?”
“Very well, Doctor.”
“And the family? The children? Everything all right?”
He’d told him a million times he neither was married nor had any children, legitimate or illegitimate. But it was hopeless. The man was obsessed.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Good, thank the Lord. Listen, Montalbano, the commissioner would like to talk to you at five o’clock this afternoon.”
Why did he want to talk to him? Usually Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi carefully avoided meeting him, preferring to summon Mimi instead. It must be some tremendous hassle.
The door flew violently open, crashed against the wall, and Montalbano jumped out of his chair. Catarella appeared.
“Beck y’pardon, Chief, my ‘and slipped. The ten minutes passed just now, just like you said.”
“Oh, yeah? Ten minutes have passed? What the hell do I care?”
“The lady, Chief.”
He’d completely forgotten.
“Is Fazio back?”
“Not yet so far, Chief.”
“Send her in.”
A woman just under forty, who looked, at first glance, like a former Sister of Mercy: downcast eyes behind her glasses, hair in a bun, hands clenching her purse, the whole wrapped up in a broad gray sack of a dress that made it impossible to tell what lay beneath. Her legs, however—despite thick stockings and flat shoes—were long and beautiful. She stood hesitantly in the doorway, staring at the strip of white marble separating the floor tiles of the corridor from those in Montalbano’s office.
“Come in, come in. Please close the door and make yourself comfortable.”
She obeyed, sitting down at the very edge of one of the two chairs in front of his desk.
“What can I do for you, signora?”
“Signorina.Michela Pardo. You’re Inspector Montalbano, correct?”
