The Terra-Cotta Dog

'That's how things went, you can bet your ass on it.'

...

The plane pulled up very near to the gate, so the passengers didn't need to be shuttled by bus to the terminal. Montalbano saw Livia descend the ramp and walk towards the entrance with her head down. Hiding in the crowd, he watched Livia as she waited interminably for her baggage, collected it, loaded it onto a cart, and then headed towards the taxi stand. They had agreed the night before that she would take the train from Palermo to Montelusa and that he would limit himself to picking her up at the station. At the last minute, however, he had decided to surprise her and show up at Punta Ri airport.

'Are you alone? Need a lift?'

Livia, who was making her way towards the first cab in line, stopped in her tracks and shouted.

'Salvo!'

They embraced happily.

'But you look fantastic!' she commented.

'So do you,' said Montalbano. 'I've been watching you for over half an hour, ever since you got off the plane.'

'Why didn't you say something sooner?'

'I like seeing how you exist without me.'

They got in the car and immediately Montalbano, instead of starting the ignition, hugged and kissed her, put a hand on her breast and lowered his head, caressing her knees and stomach with his cheek.

'Let's get out of here,' said Livia, breathing heavily, 'or well get arrested for lewd behavior in public.'

On the road to Palermo, the inspector had an idea and made a suggestion.

'Shall we stop in town? I want to show you La Vuccir'

'I've already seen it. In the Guttuso painting.'

'That's a shitty painting, believe me. We'll book a hotel room, hang out a little, walk around, go to La Vuccir, get some sleep, and head back to Vig tomorrow morning. I don't have any work to do, in any case, so I can consider myself a tourist.'

Once inside the hotel, they failed in their intention to wash up quickly and go out. They did not go out. They made love and fell asleep. Then they woke up and made love again. When they finally left the hotel it was already getting dark.

They went to La Vuccir. Livia was shocked and overwhelmed by the shouts, the exhortations, the cries of the merchants calling out their wares, the speech, the arguments, the sudden brawls, the colors so bright they seemed unreal, painted. The smell of fresh fish mingled with that of tangerines, boiled lamb entrails sprinkled with caciocavallo cheese, a dish called ma, and fritters, all of them fusing into a unique, almost magical whole.

Montalbano stopped in front of a used-clothing shop.

'In my university days, when I used to come here to eat ma and bread, which today would only make my liver burst, this shop was the only one of its kind in the world. Now they sell used clothing, but back then the shelves were empty, all of them. The owner, Don Cesarino, used to sit there behind the counter which was also completely bare and receive clients.'

'Clients? But the shelves were all empty.'

'They weren't exactly empty. They were, well, full of purpose, full of requests. The man sold stolen goods to order. You'd go to Don Cesarino and say: I need a certain kind of watch; or, I want a painting, say, a nineteenth- century dock scene; or, I need this or that sort of ring. He'd take your order, write it down on a piece of pasta paper, the rough, yellow kind we used to have, he'd negotiate the price and then tell you when to come back. On the appointed date, and not one day later, he would pull the requested merchandise out from under the counter and hand it over to you. All sales were final.'

'But what need was there for him to have a shop? I mean, he could have done that sort of business anywhere, in a cafe on a street corner...'

'You know what his friends in La Vuccir used to call him? Don Cesarino u puti, the shop-owner. Because Don Cesarino didn't see himself as a front man, as they might call him today, nor as a receiver of stolen goods. He was a shopkeeper like any other, and his shop for which he paid rent and electricity was proof of this. It wasn't a fae.'

'You're all insane.'

...

'Like a son! Let me hug you like a son!' said the headmaster's wife, squeezing him to her breast and holding him there.

'You have no idea how worried you had us!' said the husband, echoing her sentiments.

Headmaster Burgio had phoned him that morning to invite him to dinner. Montalbano had declined, suggesting he drop by in the afternoon instead. They showed him into the living room.

'Let's get right to the point,' Burgio began,' we don't want to take up too much of your time.'

'I have all the time in the world, being unemployed for the moment.'

'My wife told you, when you were here that time for dinner, that I call her a woman of fantasy. Well, right after you left, she started fantasizing again. We had wanted to call you sooner, but then what happened happened.'

'Suppose we let the inspector decide whether or not they're fantasies?' the signora said, slightly piqued, before continuing in a polemical tone: 'Shall you speak, or shall I?'