“Yes, yesterday. It was right in front of me at a stoplight. This time I took down the license number.”
“Now, are you quite sure that it was the same car, Mr. Giacchetti?”
A careless question, in which Giacchetti got lost and drowned.
“
“Let’s pretend this is one of the moments when you feel absolutely certain.”
“Well, all right . . . On top of everything else, I have to tell you that the car from the other night had a broken left taillight, and this one did, too.”
“You should know, Mr. Giacchetti, that nothing else has come of the episode you witnessed the other night.”
“Oh, really?” Giacchetti asked, disappointed.
“Yes. So, if you want, you can go ahead and give me the license plate number, but I don’t think it will serve any purpose.”
“So, what should I do? Give you the number or not?”
“Please do.”
“BG 329 ZY,” Mr. Giacchetti said rather listlessly.
“A kiss for the baby.”
Had everyone finally finished breaking his balls? Could he now go home and think quietly about everything he had just learned, sitting on the veranda as the hissing surf slowly untied the knot of thoughts in his brain?
He closed the door to his office.
“I’ll be seeing you, Cat.”
“ ’Ave a g’night, Chief.”
He went outside and headed to his car. Mimi Augello must have come back to the office, since his car was parked so close to the inspector’s that Montalbano had to turn sideways to squeeze between them. He got in the car, turned on the ignition, and drove off. He had gone barely ten yards down the street when he slammed on the brakes, eliciting a riot of curses and horn blasts behind him.
He had seen something. And half of his brain wanted to bring what he had seen into focus, while the other half refused, not wanting to believe the information his eyes had transmitted to it.
“Get out of the way, asshole!” yelled an angry motorist, passing close by.
Montalbano threw the car into reverse though he couldn’t see a thing, a sudden deluge of sweat pouring down from his brow and forcing him to keep his eyes half shut. At last he was back in the police station’s parking lot. He stopped, ran his arm over his face to wipe away the sweat, opened the car window, and looked. And there was the broken taillight, there the license plate BG 329 ZY.
The car belonged to Mimi Augello.
A violent cramp like the stab of a knife seized his entrails and twisted them, triggering a gush of acidic, sickly sweet liquid that rose up into his throat. He got out of the car in a hurry and, leaning on the trunk, started vomiting, throwing up his very soul.
Back home in Marinella, he realized that not only had his appetite completely vanished, but he also no longer felt like thinking. He opened the French door to the veranda. The evening was too cold for a swim. He grabbed a bottle of whisky and two glasses, unplugged the telephone, went into the bathroom, took off his clothes, filled up the tub, and got in.
It was a good remedy. Two hours later, he had nearly emptied the bottle, the water had turned cold, but he had closed his eyes and was sleeping.
He woke up around four in the morning, freezing to death in the tub. So he took a scalding hot shower and drank a big mugful of espresso coffee.
Now he was ready to do some thinking, even though he could still feel a bit of nausea lurking at the back of his throat. He took a sheet of paper and pen, sat down at the diningroom table, and started writing a letter to himself to put his thoughts in order.
’u critaru,
