'Do about what?'
'About my poor dead friend.'
'Would you like some?' asked the inspector, holding out the bag.
'Thanks,' said the other, taking a handful of caesimenza.
The pause allowed Montalbano to put the man he was speaking to in better perspective: Bonfiglio, aside from being like a brother to the late Cavaliere, was a man who held extreme right-wing ideas and was not all there in the head.
'You mean Misuraca?'
'No, I mean my grandfather.'
'And what am I supposed to do?'
'Arrest the murderers. It's your duty'.
'And who would these murderers be?'
'Who they are, not would be. I'm referring to the local party leaders, who were unworthy to have him in their ranks. They killed him.'
'I beg your pardon. Wasn't it an accident?'
'Oh, I suppose you think accidents just happen accidentally?'
'I would say so.'
'You would be wrong. If someone's looking for an accident, there's always somebody else ready to send one his way. Let me cite an example to illustrate my point. This last February Mim Crapanzano drowned when he went for a swim. An accidental death, they said. But here I ask you: How old was Mim when he died? Fifty-five years old. Why, at that age, did he get this brilliant idea to go for a swim in the cold, like he used to do when he was a kid? The answer is because less than three months before, he had got married to a Milanese girl twenty-four years younger than him, and one day, when they were out strolling on the beach, she asked him: Is it true, darling, that you used to swim in this sea in February? It sure is, replied Crapanzano. The girl, who apparently was already tired of the old man, sighed. What's wrong? Crapanzano asked, like an idiot. I'm sorry I won't ever have a chance to see you do it again, said the slut. Without saying a word, Crapanzano took off his clothes and jumped into the water. Does that clarify my point?'
'Perfectly.'
'Now, to get back to the party leaders of Montelusa province. After a first meeting ended with harsh words, they held another last night. The Cavaliere, along with a few other people, wanted the chapter to issue a press release protesting the governments ordinance granting amnesty to crooks. Others saw things differently. At a certain point, some guy called Misuraca a geezer, another said he looked like something out of the puppet theater, a third man called him a senile wreck. I learned all these things from a friend who was there. Finally, the secretary, some jerk who's not even Sicilian and goes by the name of Biragh asked him please to vacate the premises, since he had no authorization whatsoever to attend the meeting. Which was true, but no one had ever dared say this before. So Gerlando got in his little Fiat and headed back home to Vig. His blood was boiling, no doubt about it, but the others had made him lose his head on purpose. And youre going to tell me it was an accident?'
The only way to reason with Bonfiglio was to put oneself squarely on his level.The inspector knew this from experience.
'Is there one television personality you find particularly obnoxious?' he asked him.
'There are a hundred thousand, but Mike Bongiorno is the worst. Whenever I see him, my stomach gets all queasy and I feel like smashing the screen.'
'Good. And if, after watching this particular MC, you get in your car, drive into a wall, and kill yourself, what am I supposed to do, in your opinion?'
'Arrest Mike Bongiorno,' the other said firmly.
...
He went back to the office feeling calmer. His encounter with the logic of Ernesto Bonfiglio had distracted and amused him.
'Any news?' he asked as he walked in.
'There's a personal letter for you that came just now in the mail,' said Catarella, repeating, for emphasis:
On his desk he found a postcard from his father and some office memos.
'Hey, Cat! Where'd you put the letter?'
'I said it was personal!' Catarella said defensively.
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'It means that you have to receive it in person, it being personal and all.'
'Okay. The person is here in front of you. Where's the letter?'
'It's gone where it was supposed to go. Where the person personally lives. I told the postman to deliver it to your house, Chief, your personal residence, in Marinella.'
...
Standing in front of the Trattoria San Calogero, catching a breath of air, was the cook and owner.
'Where you going, Inspector? Not coming in?
