“No, Chief, it wasn’t on nominus, it was onna wall outside. An’ ’at was why Fazio, foist ting this morning, called for the painers to come cover it up.”
At last the inspector understood why the two painters were there.
“What’d they write on the wall?”
Catarella turned beet-red and attempted an evasion.
“They wrote some bad words with black spray paint.”
“Yeah, like what?”
“Sleazeball cops,” replied Catarella, keeping his eyes lowered.
“Is that all?”
“No, sir. They also wrote ‘murderers.’ Sleazeballs and murderers.”
“Why you taking it so hard, Cat?”
Catarella looked like he was about to burst into tears.
“’Cause nobody in here’s no sleazeball or murderer, startin’ wit’ you, sir, and endin’ wit’ me, the smallest wheel on the cart.”
By way of consolation, Montalbano patted Catarella’s shoulder and headed towards his office. Catarella called him back.
“Oh, Chief! I almost forgot. They also wrote ‘goddamn cuckolds.’ ”
Imagine ever finding any obscene graffiti in Sicily without the word “cuckold” in it! The word was a guarantee of authenticity, a classic expression of so-called Sicilitude. The inspector had just sat down when Mimi Augello came in. He was cool as a cucumber, his face relaxed and serene.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Did you hear what they wrote on the wall last night?”
“Yeah, Fazio told me.”
“Doesn’t that seem like news to you?”
Mimi gave him a befuddled look.
“Are you joking or serious?”
“I’m serious.”
“Well, then, swear to me on a stack of Bibles. Do you think Livia cheats on you?”
This time it was Montalbano who gave Mimi a puzzled look.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“So you’re not a cuckold. And I don’t think Beba cheats on me, either. Okay, on to the next word: sleazeball. True, two or three women have called me a sleaze, I won’t deny it. But I bet nobody’s ever called you one, so that word doesn’t refer to you. Murderer, forget it. So what’s the problem?”
“Well, aren’t you the razor wit, with your Sunday crossword-puzzle logic!”
“Wait a second, Salvo. Is this somehow the first time we’ve been called bastards, sons of bitches, and murderers?”
“The difference is that this time, it’s true.”
“Ah, so that’s how you see it?”
“Yes, it is. Explain to me why we acted that way in Genoa, after years and years without any incidents of that sort.”
Mimi looked at him, eyelids drooping so low that they nearly covered his eyes, and said nothing.
“Oh, no you don’t!” said the inspector. “Answer me verbally, not with that little ‘cop stare’ of yours.”
“All right. But first I want to make something clear. I’m in no mood to pick any bones with you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I know what’s bugging you. The fact that all this happened under a government that you don’t trust and openly oppose. You figure the political leaders are up to their necks in this affair.”
“Excuse me, Mimi, but have you read the newspapers? Have you watched the TV news? They have all said, more or less clearly, that at the time, there were people in the command rooms in Genoa that had no business being there: ministers, members of parliament, all from the same party. The party that’s always calling for law and order. Their law and their order, mind you.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means that part of the police force, the most fragile part—even though they think they’re the strongest—felt protected. So they went wild. And this, in the best of cases.”
“Could there be any worse?”
“Of course. Maybe we were manipulated, like marionettes on a stage, by people who wanted to conduct a kind of test.”
“What kind of test?”
