“I’ll wait for you in the boat.”
He’d invited him to a useless half day of fishing, and the inspector had accepted. Montalbano put on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Sitting in a boat with a gentleman dressed to the nines, he would have felt silly in a bathing suit.
Fishing, for the professor, proved to be exactly like eating. He never opened his mouth, except, every now and then, to curse the fish for not biting.
Around nine in the morning, with the sun already high in the sky, Montalbano couldn’t hold back any longer.
“I’m losing my father,” he said.
“My condolences,” the professor said without looking up from his fishing line.
The words seemed flat and inappropriate to the inspector.
“He hasn’t died yet. He’s dying,” he clarified.
“It makes no difference. For you, your father died the very moment you learned he was going to die. Everything else is, so to speak, a bodily formality. Nothing more. Does he live with you?” “No, he’s in another town.”
“By himself ?”
“Yes. And I can’t summon the courage to go see him in this state, before he goes. I just can’t. The very idea scares me.
I’ll never have the strength to set foot in the hospital where he’s staying.”
The old man said nothing, limiting himself to replacing the bait the fishes had eaten with many thanks. Then he decided to talk.
“You know, I happen to have followed an investigation of yours, the one about the ‘terra-cotta dog.’ In that instance, you abandoned an investigation into some weapons trafficking to throw yourself heart and soul into tracking a crime from fifty years ago, even though solving it wasn’t going to yield any practical results. Do you know why you did it?” “Out of curiosity?” Montalbano guessed.
“No, my friend. It was a very shrewd, intelligent way for you to keep practicing your unpleasant profession, but by escaping from everyday reality. Apparently this everyday reality sometimes becomes too much for you to bear. And so you escape. As I do when I take refuge here. But the moment I go back home, I immediately lose half of the benefit. The fact of your father’s dying is real, but you refuse to confirm it by seeing it in person. You’re like the child who thinks he can blot out the world by closing his eyes.” Professor Liborio Pintacuda, at this point, looked the inspector straight in the eye.
“When will you decide to grow up?”
2 7 5
20
As he was going downstairs for supper, he decided he would head back to Vigata the following morning. He’d been away for five days. Luicino had set the table in the usual little room, and Pintacuda was already sitting at his place and waiting for him.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Montalbano announced.
“Not me. I need another week of detox.”
Luicino brought the first course at once, and thereafter their mouths were used only for eating. When the second course arrived, they had a surprise.
“Meatballs!” the professor exclaimed, indignant. “Meatballs are for dogs!”
The inspector kept his cool. The aroma floating up from the dish and into his nose was rich and dense.
“What’s with Tanino? Is he sick?” Pintacuda inquired with a tone of concern.
“No sir, he’s in the kitchen,” replied Luicino.
Only then did the professor break a meatball in half with his fork and bring it to his mouth. Montalbano hadn’t yet made a move. Pintacuda chewed slowly, eyes half closed, and emitted a sort of moan.
“If one ate something like this at death’s door, he’d be happy even to go to Hell,” he said softly.
The inspector put half a meatball in his mouth, and with his tongue and palate began a scientific analysis that would have put Jacomuzzi to shame. So: fish and, no question, onion, hot pepper, whisked eggs, salt, pepper, breadcrumbs. But two other flavors, hiding under the taste of the butter used in the frying, hadn’t yet answered the call. At the second mouthful, he recognized what had escaped him in the first: cumin and coriander.
“
“What did you say?” asked Pintacuda.
“We’re eating an Indian dish, executed to perfection.”
“I don’t give a damn where it’s from,” said the professor.
“I only know it’s a dream. And please don’t speak to me again until I’ve finished eating.”
o o o
Pintacuda waited for the table to be cleared and then suggested they play their now customary game of chess that, equally customarily, Montalbano always lost.
“Excuse me a minute; first I’d like to say good-bye to Tanino.”
