“I’ll explain another time, Doctor.”
At Enzo’s Trattoria he decided he should celebrate the success of the drama he had performed for the commissioner. And that he should continue to distract himself from the worry that Livia’s phone call had caused him.
“Hello, Inspector. For antipasto today we’ve got fritters of
“I want ’em.”
He committed a massacre of
“What would you like for a first course, Inspector? We’ve got pasta in squid ink, pasta with shrimp, pasta with sea urchin, pasta with mussels, pasta with—”
“With sea urchin.”
“For the second course we’ve got striped surmullet, which you can have cooked in salt, fired, roasted, with a sauce of—”
“Roasted.”
“Will that be all, Inspector?”
“No. Have you got
“But, Inspector, that’s an antipasto.”
“And if I eat it as a post-pasto, what’ll happen? Will you start crying?”
He left the trattoria feeling rather
The customary stroll to the lighthouse repaired only some of the damage.
The pleasure of his feast immediately vanished when he entered the station. Upon seeing him, Catarella bent over as if to search for something on the floor and greeted him from that position, without looking at him. A rather ridiculous, infantile move. Why didn’t he want to show his face? The inspector pretended not to notice, went into his office, and called him on the phone.
“Catarella, could you come into my office for a moment?”
As soon as he entered the room, Montalbano looked at him and realized his eyes were red and moist.
“Do you have a fever?” he asked him.
“No, Chief.”
“What’s wrong? Were you crying?”
“A li’l bit, Chief.”
“Why?”
“Iss nuthin’, Chief. I’s jess cryin’.”
And he blushed from the lie he’d just told.
“Is Inspector Augello here?”
“Yessir, Chief. Fazio’s ’ere too.”
“Get me Fazio.”
So now even Catarella was hiding things from him? And suddenly nobody was his friend anymore? Why was everyone giving him the runaround? Had he perhaps become the old, tired lion who gets kicked around even by donkeys? This latter hypothesis, which seemed the most likely, made his hands tingle with rage.
“Fazio, come in, shut the door, and sit down.”
“Chief, I’ve got two things to tell you.”
“No, wait. First I want to know why Catarella was crying when I came in just now.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Yes, but he didn’t want to tell me.”
“So why are you asking me?”
So Fazio, too, was kicking him around now? A rage so furious came over him that the room started spinning about like a merry-go-round. Instead of crying out, he roared. A kind of low, deep roar. And, with a leap he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of making anymore, in a flash he found himself standing upright on top of the desk, from where he then flew like a bullet at Fazio—who, eyes bulging in terror, tried to stand up, got tangled in his chair, which fell, and so failed to get out of the way in time. Thus bearing the full brunt of Montalbano’s body, he crashed to the floor with the inspector on top of him. They lay there for a moment with their arms around each other. If someone walked in he might even think they were doing lewd things. Fazio didn’t move until Montalbano got up with some effort and, ashamed, went over to the window and looked outside. He was breathing heavily.
Without a word, Fazio set the chair back upright and sat down in it.
A moment later, Montalbano turned around, went up to Fazio, put his hand on his shoulder, and said:
“I apologize.”
Fazio then did something he would never have dared to do in ordinary circumstances. He lay his hand, palm down, on top of the inspector’s hand and said:
