Rounding the Mark

and got dressed as if to go to the office. But, calm and determined, he phoned the commissioner’s office instead.

“Hello? Inspector Montalbano here. I want to speak to the commissioner. It’s urgent.”

He had to wait a few seconds.

“Montalbano? This is Lattes. How are you? How’s the family?”

Good God, what a pain in the ass! This Dr. Lattes, informally known as “Caffe-Lattes,” was an avid reader of such publications as L’Avvenire and Famiglia Cristiana. He was convinced that any respectable man had to have a wife and children. And since, in his own way, he admired Montalbano, he simply couldn’t get it into his head that the inspector wasn’t married.

“They’re all fine, thanking the Lord,” said Montalbano.

By now he’d learned that invoking the Lord was the best way to achieve maximum cooperation on Lattes’s part.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to confer with the commissioner.”

Confer! Montalbano felt a twinge of self-loathing. But when dealing with bureaucrats it was best to talk like them.

“The commissioner’s not in. He was summoned to Rome by (pause) His Excellency the Minister of Justice.”

The pause—Montalbano could see it clearly in his mind’s eye—had been prompted by Dr. Lattes’s respectful need to stand at attention when invoking His Excellency the Minister.

“Oh,” said Montalbano, feeling his body go limp. “Do you know how long he’ll be away?”

“Another two or three days, I think. Can I be of any help?”

“Thank you, Doctor, it’s all right. I can wait till he returns.”

E passeranno i giorni . . . ,he sang to himself angrily, slamming down the receiver. The minute he decided to hand in—or rather, to use the proper expression, to tender—his resignation, something arose to thwart his intention.

He realized that, despite his fatigue, which was aggravated by the phone call, he felt hungry as a wolf. It was ten past six, not yet dinnertime. But who ever said you have to eat at an appointed time of day? He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Adelina had prepared a dish fit for a convalescent: boiled cod. On the other hand, they were huge, extremely fresh, and six in number. He didn’t bother to reheat them; he liked them cold, dressed with olive oil, a few drops of lemon, and salt. Adelina had bought the bread that morning: a round scanata loaf covered with giuggiulena, those delicious sesame seeds you are supposed to eat one by one as they fall onto the tablecloth, picking them up with your forefinger moistened by saliva. He set the table on the veranda and had himself a feast, savoring each bite as though it were his last.

When he cleared the table, it was a little past eight. So now what was he going to do to kill time until bedtime? The question was answered at once when Fazio knocked at the door.

“Good evening, Chief. I’m here to report. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better, thanks. Have a seat. What did you do with Bausan?”

Fazio got comfortable in his chair, pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket, and began to read.

“Angelo Bausan, son of the late Angelo Bausan senior and Angela Crestin, born at—”

“Nothing but angels up there,” the inspector interrupted. “But now you have to decide. Either you put that piece of paper back in your pocket, or I’m going to start kicking you.”

Fazio suppressed his “records office complex,” as the inspector called it, put the piece of paper back in his pocket with dignity, and said:

“After you called, Chief, I immediately went to the house where Angelo Bausan is staying. It’s a few hundred yards from here and belongs to his son-in-law, Maruizio Rotondo. Bausan’s got no gun license. But you have no idea what I had to go through to get him to turn in his pistol. His wife even bashed me in the head with a broom. And a broom, in Signora Bausan’s hands, becomes an improvised weapon. That old lady is so strong . . . You know a little about that yourself.”

“Why didn’t he want to give you the gun?”

“Because he said he had to give it back to the friend who lent it to him. The friend’s name is Roberto Pausin. I sent his vital statistics on to Treviso Police and put the old man in jail. He’s the judge’s baby now.”

“Any news on the corpse?”

“The one you found?”

“What other ones are there?”

“Look, Chief, while you were here recovering, two more bodies were found in or around Vigata.”

“I’m interested in the one I found.”

“No news, Chief. He must have been an illegal alien who drowned before reaching land. In any case, Dr. Pasquano’s probably done the autopsy by now.”

As if on cue, the telephone rang.

“You answer,” said Montalbano.

Fazio reached out and picked up the receiver.