“Well, Doctor,” Strazzera’s voice hesitantly begins, “the fact is, one of the inspector’s men told us that a few days ago he’d had a serious episode of . . .”
Of what? Montalbano can no longer hear Strazzera. Maybe he’s telling the next installment in Di Bartolo’s ear. Installment? This isn’t some soap opera. Strazzera said “episode.” But isn’t a soap opera installment called an episode?
“Pull him up for me,” orders Dr. Di Bartolo.
They remove the sheets of paper covering him and gently lift him up. A circle of doctors in white surround the bed, religiously silent. Di Bartolo applies the stethoscope to Montalbano’s chest, moves it a few centimeters, then moves it a few more centimeters and stops. Seeing his face so close, the inspector notices that the doctor’s jaws are moving continuously, as if he were chewing gum. All at once, he understands.The doctor is ruminating. Dr. Di Bartolo actually is a goat. Who now hasn’t moved for a long time. He’s listening, immobile. What do his ears hear in there? Montalbano wonders. Buildings collapsing? Fis-sures suddenly opening up? Subterranean rumbles? Di Bartolo keeps listening interminably, not moving one millimeter from the spot he’s singled out. Doesn’t it hurt his back to stay bent over like that? The inspector begins to sweat from fear.The doctor straightens up.
“That’s enough.”
The other doctors set Montalbano back down.
“In my opinion,” the luminary concludes, “you could shoot him another three or four times, extract the bullets without anesthesia, and his heart would definitely stand up to it.” Then he leaves, without saying goodbye to anyone.
Ten minutes later, the inspector’s in the operating room.There’s a bright white light. A man stands over him, holding a kind of mask in his hand, which he places over Montalbano’s face.
“Breathe deeply,” he says.
He obeys. And can’t remember anything else.
o o o
How is it, he asks himself, they haven’t yet invented an aerosol car-tridge for when you can’t sleep? Something you stick it in your nose and push, and the gas or whatever it is comes out, and you fall asleep right away?
That would be handy, an anti-insomnia anesthesia. He suddenly feels thirsty, gets out of bed gingerly, to avoid waking Livia, goes into the kitchen, and pours himself a glass of mineral water from an already open bottle. Now what? He decides to exercise his right arm a little, the way the physical therapist taught him. One, two, three, and four. One, two, three, and four. The arm works fine. Well enough for him to drive with ease.
Strazzera was absolutely right. Except that sometimes his arm falls asleep, the way your leg does when you stay in the same position for too long without moving and the whole limb feels full of pins and needles. Or armies of ants. He drinks another glass of water and goes back to bed. Feeling him slip under the covers, Livia murmurs something and turns her back to him.
o o o
“Water,” he implores, opening his eyes.
Livia pours him a glass, holding his head up with her hand at the base of the skull so he can drink.Then she puts the glass back on the nightstand and disappears from the inspector’s field of vision. He manages to sit up a little in bed. Livia’s standing in front of the window, and Dr. Strazzera is beside her, talking to her at great length.
Montalbano hears a little giggle come from Livia.What a witty guy, this Dr. Strazzera! And why is he hanging all over Livia? And why doesn’t she feel the need to take a step back? Okay, I’ll show them.
“Water!”he yells in rage.
Livia jumps, startled.
“Why is he drinking so much?” Livia asks.
“It must be an effect of the anesthetic,” says Strazzera. And he adds: “But, you know, Livia, the operation was child’s play. I was even able to make it so that the scar will be practically invisible.” Livia gives the doctor a grateful smile, which infuriates the inspector even more.
An invisible scar! So he won’t have any problem entering the next Mr. Muscle competition.
o o o
Speaking of muscle, or whatever you want to call it . . . He slides over, ever so gently, until his body is pressed up against Livia’s back. She seems to appreciate the contact, to judge by the way she moans in her sleep.
Montalbano extends a cupped hand and places it over one of her tits. As if by conditioned reflex, Livia puts her hand over his. But here the operation grinds to a halt. Because Montalbano knows perfectly well that if he proceeds any further, Livia will put an immediate stop to it. It’s already happened once, on his first night back from the hospital.
“No, Salvo. Out of the question. I’m afraid you might hurt yourself.”
“Come on, Livia. It’s my shoulder that was injured, not my—”
“Don’t be vulgar. Don’t you understand? I wouldn’t feel comfortable, I’d be afraid to . . .”
But his muscle, or whatever you want to call it, doesn’t understand these fears. It has no brain, is not used to thinking.
It refuses to listen to reason. So it just stays there, bloated with rage and desire.
o o o
Fear.Terror. He begins to feel this the second day after the operation, when, around nine in the morning, the wound starts to throb painfully.Why does it hurt so much? Did they forget a piece of gauze in there, as so often happens? Or maybe not gauze, but a ten-inch scalpel? Livia notices at once and calls Strazzera.Who comes running, probably leaving in the middle of some open-heart surgery. But that’s how things are now: The moment Livia calls, Strazzera comes running.The doctor says the reaction was to be expected, there’s no reason for Livia to be alarmed. And he sticks another needle into Montalbano. Less than ten minutes later, two things happen: first, the pain starts to subside; and second, Livia says: “The commissioner’s here.”
And she leaves. Bonetti-Alderighi enters the room accompanied by the chief of his cabinet, Dr. Lattes, whose hands are folded in prayer, as if he were at a dying man’s bedside.
“How are you? How are you?” asks the commissioner.
“How are you? How are you?” Lattes echoes him, as in a litany.
The commissioner begins to speak, but Montalbano hears only scraps of what he’s saying, as if a strong wind were carrying away his words.
“. . . and therefore I’ve recommended you be given a solemn citation . . .”
“. . . solemn citation . . .” echoes Lattes.
“La-de-da-de-da-de-ation,” says a voice in Montalbano’s head.
Wind.
“. . . while awaiting your return, Inspector Augello . . .”
“Oh good fellow, good fellow,” says the same voice in his head.