The Shape of Water

“How many were there?”

“Just one, or at least only one fired the gun. The poor counselor left his study at six-thirty this morning. He’d picked up some documents and headed toward Tabbita, where he had an appointment with a client. He left the study alone—this much is certain—

but along the way he picked up someone he knew in the car.”

“Maybe it was someone who thumbed a ride.”

Jacomuzzi burst into laughter so loud that a few people nearby turned and stared at him. “Can you picture Rizzo, with all the responsibilities he has on his shoulders, blithely giving a ride to a total stranger?

The guy had to beware of his own shadow! You know better than I that behind Luparello there was Rizzo.

No, no, it was definitely someone he knew, a mafioso.”

“A mafioso, you think?”

“I’d bet my life on it. The Mafia raised the price—they always ask for more—and the politicians aren’t always in a position to satisfy their demands.

But there’s another hypothesis. He may have made a mistake, now that he felt stronger after his recent appointment. And they made him pay for it.”

“Jacomuzzi, my congratulations, this morning you’re particularly lucid—apparently you had a good shit. How can you be so sure of what you’re saying?”

“By the way the guy killed him. First he kicked him in the balls, then had him kneel down, placed his gun against the back of his neck, and fired.”

Immediately a pang shot through Montalbano’s neck.

“What kind of gun?”

“Pasquano says that at a glance, considering the entrance and exit wounds and the fact that the barrel was practically pressed against his skin, it must have been a 7.65.”

“Inspector Montalbano!”

“The commissioner’s calling you,” said Jacomuzzi, and he stole away.

The commissioner held his hand out to Montalbano, and they exchanged smiles.

“What are you doing here?”

“Actually, Mr. Commissioner, I was just leaving. I happened to be in Montelusa when I heard the news, and I came out of curiosity, pure and simple.”

“See you this evening, then. Don’t forget! My wife is expecting you.”

It was a conjecture, only a conjecture, and so fragile that if he had stopped a moment to consider it well, it would have quickly evaporated. And yet he kept the accelerator pressed to the floor and even risked being shot at as he drove through a roadblock. When he got to Capo Massaria, he bolted out of the car without even bothering to turn off the engine, leaving the door wide open, easily opened the gate and the front door of the house, and raced into the bedroom. The pistol in the drawer of the bedside table was gone. He cursed himself violently. He’d been an idiot: after discovering the weapon on his first visit, he had been back to the house twice with Ingrid and hadn’t bothered to check if the gun was still in its place, not once, not even when he’d found the gate open and had set his own mind at rest, convinced that it was he who’d forgotten to shut it.

~

And now I’m going to dawdle a bit, he thought as soon as he got home. He liked the verb “dawdle,” tambasiare in Sicilian, which meant poking about from room to room without a precise goal, preferably doing pointless things. Which he did: he rearranged his books, put his desk in order, straightened a drawing on the wall, cleaned the gas burners on the stove. He was dawdling. He had no appetite, had not gone to the restaurant, hadn’t even opened the refrigerator to see what Adelina had prepared for him.

Upon entering, he had as usual turned on the television. The first item on the TeleVigata news gave the details surrounding the murder of Counselor Rizzo. Only the details, because the initial announcement of the event had already been given in an emergency broadcast. The newsman had no doubt about it, Rizzo had been ruthlessly murdered by the Mafia, which became frightened when the deceased had recently risen to a position of great political responsibility from which he could better carry on the struggle against organized crime. For this was the watchword of the political renewal: all-out war against the Mafia.

Even Nicolo Zito, having rushed back from Palermo, spoke of the Mafia on the Free Channel, but he did so in such contorted fashion that it was impossible to understand anything he said. Between the lines—

indeed, between the words—Montalbano sensed that Zito thought it had actually been a brutal settling of scores but wouldn’t say so openly, fearing yet another lawsuit among the hundreds he already had pending against him. Finally Montalbano got tired of all the empty chatter, turned off the television, closed the shutters to keep the daylight out, threw himself down on the bed, still dressed, and curled up. What he wanted to do now was accuttufarsi—another verb he liked, which meant at once to be beaten up and to withdraw from human society. At that moment, for Montalbano, both meanings were more than applicable.

15

More than a new recipe for baby octopus, the dish invented by Signora Elisa, the commissioner’s wife, seemed to Montalbano’s palate a truly divine inspiration. He served himself an abundant second helping, but when he saw that this one, too, was coming to an end, he slowed down the rhythm of his chewing, to prolong, however briefly, the pleasure that delicacy afforded him.

Signora Elisa watched him happily; like all good cooks, she took delight in the expressions that formed on the faces of her table companions as they tasted one of her creations. And Montalbano, because he had such an expressive face, was one of her favorite dinner guests.

“Thank you very, very much,” the inspector said to her at the end of the meal, sighing. The purpiteddri had worked a sort of partial miracle—partial because while it was true that