“But Russia’s no longer Communist.”
“Of course, but in the meantime he became a Communist. A revolutionary Communist. And so he was forbidden to teach again. So he decided to emigrate. But tell me about yourself. It’s been ages since I last saw you. I would really like to see you.”
“We can meet tonight, if you want—if you’re not already engaged.”
“I can get free. Shall we go out to dinner?”
“Yes. Meet me at eight, at the Marinella Bar.”
5
He hadn’t managed to take a single step before the phone rang.
“Ahh Chief! Ahh Chief Chief!”
Bad sign. Catarella was reciting the commissionerial lamentations.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ahh Chief Chief! The c’mishner called! An’ ’e was mad as a buff ’lo! Smoke was comin out ’is nostrils!”
“Wait a second, Cat. Who ever told you buffaloes blow smoke out their nostrils when they get mad?”
“Ivrybody says so, Chief. I even seen it on TV, in cartoons.”
“Okay, okay. What did he want?”
“He says as how you gotta go to his office, the c’mishner’s office, emergently right now! Jeesus, was ’e ever mad, Chief!”
And why should Bonetti-Alderighi be mad at him? he asked himself on his way to Montelusa. Lately there had been dead calm at work: only a few robberies, a few kidnappings, a few shootouts, a few torched cars and shops. The only new development had been the discovery of the body in the bag, too recent to provide the c’mishner with any reason to be pissed off. More than worried, the inspector was curious.
The first person he encountered in the corridor leading to the commissioner’s office was the priestlike, cloying cabinet chief, Dr. Lattes, also known as “Lattes e mieles.” As soon as he saw the inspector, Lattes opened his arms, like the pope when he greets the throng from his window.
And he ran up to Montalbano, grasped his hand, shook it vigorously, and, immediately changing expression, asked him in a conspiratorial tone:
“Any news of the wife?”
Lattes was fixated on the misconception that the inspector was married with children, and there was no way to convince him otherwise. Montalbano froze in terror at the question. What the hell had he told the man the previous time they had met? Luckily, he remembered he’d confessed that his wife had run off with an immigrant. Moroccan? Tunisian ? He couldn’t remember the details. He slapped a smile of contentment on his face.
“Ah, good Dr. Lattes! I have excellent news! My wife is back under the conjugal roof.”
Dr. Lattes went into raptures.
“How wonderful! How very wonderful! Giving thanks to the Blessed Virgin, the home fires are burning again!”
“Yes, and it’s getting pretty toasty in there now! We’re even saving on the utility bills!”
Lattes gave him a puzzled look. He hadn’t quite understood. Then he said:
“I’ll let the commissioner know you’re here.”
He disappeared, then reappeared.
“The commissioner will see you now.”
But he was still a bit perplexed.
Bonetti-Alderighi did not look up from the papers he was reading, and did not invite him to sit down. At last he leaned back in his armchair and looked at the inspector a long time without saying anything.
“Do you find me very different from the last time we saw each other?” Montalbano asked him, donning a worried expression.
He bit his tongue. Why could he never resist provoking the commissioner whenever he found himself standing before him?
“Montalbano, how old are you?”
“I was born in 1950. You do the math.”
“So we can say you’re a mature man.”
“If you want to say so, go right ahead.”
“Then can you explain to me why you behave like a child?”
What were these words supposed to mean? When had he behaved like a child? A quick review of his recent memory brought nothing to mind.
“I don’t understand.”
