about a blind photographer, and went back out on the veranda. He glanced at the cover, the jacket flaps, then closed it. He was unable to con-centrate. He could feel an acute malaise slowly growing inside him. And suddenly he understood the reason.
It was merely a foretaste, an advance installment, of the quiet, familial Sunday afternoons that awaited him, perhaps not even in Vigata but in Boccadasse. With a little boy who, upon awakening, would call him Papa and ask him to play . . .
Panic seized him by the throat.
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10
He had to run away at once, to flee the familial ambushes awaiting him in that house. As he got in his car, he couldn’t help but smile at the schizophrenic attack he was suffering.
His rational side told him he could easily control the new situation, which in any case existed only in his imagination; his irrational side was spurring him to flee, just like that, without a thought.
He arrived in Vigata and went to his office.
“Any news?”
Instead of answering, Fazio asked another question:
“How’s the kid?”
“Fine,” he replied, slightly annoyed. “Well?”
“Nothing serious. An unemployed man went into a su permarket with a big stick and started smashing up the shelves—”
“Unemployed? You mean there are still people without work in our country?”
Fazio looked stunned.
“Of course there are, Chief. Didn’t you know?”
“Frankly, I didn’t. I thought everyone had work these days.”
Fazio was clearly at sea.
“And how are they supposed to find this work?”
“By repenting, Fazio. Turning state’s witness against the Mafia. This unemployed guy smashing up supermarket shelves, he’s not out of work, he’s an asshole. Did you arrest him?” “Yes.”
“Go and tell him, on my behalf, that he should turn state’s witness.”
“For what case?”
“Anything! Tell him to make something up. But he has to say he’s repented. Any bullshit he feels like saying. Maybe you can suggest something to him. But as soon as he turns state’s witness, he’s set for life. They’ll pay him, find him a house, send his kids to school. Tell him.” Fazio eyed him in silence. Then he spoke: “Chief, it’s a beautiful day, and still you’re ornery as hell.
What gives?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
o o o
The owner of the shop where Montalbano usually supplied himself with
“Got fresh-roasted peanuts here, nice and hot,” the shopkeeper informed him.
The inspector had him add twenty or so to his
His solitary, ruminating stroll to the tip of the eastern jetty lasted longer than usual this time, until after sunset.
o o o
“This child is extremely intelligent!” Livia said excitedly as soon as she saw Montalbano enter the house. “I taught him how to play checkers just three hours ago, and now look: he’s already beat me once and is about to win again.” The inspector remained standing beside them, watching the final moves of the game. Livia made a devastating mistake and Francois gobbled up her two remaining chips. Consciously or unconciously, Livia had wanted the kid to win; if she’d been playing him instead of Francois, she would have fought tooth and nail to deny him the satisfaction of victory.
Once she even stooped to pretending she’d fainted, letting all the pieces fall to the floor.
“Are you hungry?”
“I can wait, if you want,” the inspector replied, comply-ing with her implicit request to delay supper.
“We’d love to go for a little walk.”
She and Francois, naturally. The idea that he might wish to tag along never even crossed her mind.
Montalbano set the table grandly, and when he finished he went into the kitchen to see what Livia had made. Nothing. An arctic desolation. The dishes and cutlery sparkled, uncontaminated. Lost in her preoccupation with Francois, she hadn’t even thought to make dinner. He drew up a rapid, unhappy inventory: as a first course, he
