All at once he grabbed Marzachi’s hands, and as the commendatore was instinctively struggling to break free, he held them up around his own neck.

“What are you doing?” muttered Marzachi, totally confused, not understanding what was happening. Montalbano yelled again.

“Let me go! How dare you!” he bawled, still clutching the commendatore’s hands.

The door flew open, and two terrorized postal employees appeared, a man and a woman, who unmistakably saw their boss trying to strangle the inspector.

“Get out of here!” Montalbano yelled at the two. “Out!

It’s nothing! Everything’s fine!”

The employees withdrew, closing the door behind them.

Montalbano calmly readjusted his collar and glared at Marzachi, who, as soon as he’d released him, had backed up against a wall.

“You’re fucked, Marzachi. They saw you, those two. And since they hate you like the rest of your staff, I’m sure they’d be happy to testify. Assaulting a police officer. What shall we do? Do you want to be reported or not?” “Why do you want to ruin me?”

“Because I hold you responsible.”

“For what, for God’s sake?”

“For the worst things imaginable. For letters that take two months to go from one part of Vigata to another, for packages that arrive torn apart with half the contents missing—and you talk to me of the postal code of secrecy, which you can stick straight up your ass—for books that I wait and wait for and that never come . . . You’re a piece of shit that dresses up in dignity to cover this cesspool. Is that enough?” “Yes,” said Marzachi, shattered.

o o o

“Yes, of course he used to receive mail. Not a lot, but some.

There was one company outside of Italy that used to write to him, but nobody else, really.”

“Where were they from?”

“I never noticed. But the stamps were foreign. I can tell you what the company was called, though, because its name was on the envelope. Aslanidis was the name. I remember it because my dad, rest his soul, who’d fought in Greece, met a girl from those parts whose name was Galatea Aslanidis. Used to talk about her all the time.” “Did the envelopes say what this company sold?”

“Yes. Dattes, they said. Dates.”

o o o

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” said Signora Antonietta Palmisano, lately become the widow Lapecora, as soon as she opened the door for Montalbano.

“Why? Did you want to see me?”

“Yes. Didn’t they tell you I called your office?”

“I haven’t been there yet today. I came here on my own.”

“Then it’s a case of kleptomania,” the woman concluded.

For a moment the inspector felt confused; then he understood that she’d intended to say “clairvoyance.” One of these days I’ll introduce her to Catarella, he thought, then I’ll transcribe the dialogue. Better than Ionesco!

“What did you want to see me about, signora?” Antonietta Palmisano Lapecora mischievously wagged a small forefinger.

“No, no, no. You have to talk first, since you thought to come on your own.”

“Signora, I would like you to show me exactly what you did the other morning when you were getting ready to go out to see your sister.”

The widow was dumbfounded, opening and closing her mouth.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Hardly.”

“Are you asking me to put on my nightgown?” said Signora Antonietta, blushing.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Well, let me think. I got out of bed as soon as the alarm went off. Then I took—”

“No, signora, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough.

I don’t want you to tell me what you did, I want you to show me. Let’s go in the other room.”

They went into the bedroom. The armoire was wide open, a suitcase full of women’s dresses on the bed. On one of the bedside tables was a red alarm clock.

“Do you sleep on this side of the bed?” asked Montalbano.

“Yes. What should I do, lie down?”

“No need. Just sit on the edge.”

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