It was now time to eat. Okay, but where? The confirmation that the inspector’s world was starting to go to the dogs had come barely a month after the G8 meetings, when, after a meal of considerable magnitude, Calogero, the owner-cook-waiter of the Trattoria San Calogero, had announced he was retiring, however reluctantly.
“You shitting me, Calò?”
“No, Inspector. As you know, I’ve had two bypasses and am seventy-three years old and counting. Doctor don’t want me to work anymore.”
“And what about me?” Montalbano had blurted out.
He had suddenly felt as unhappy as a character in a pulp novel, like the girl seduced and abandoned and kicked out of her home with the child of sin in her womb, or the young woman selling matches in the snow, or the orphan rummaging through garbage for something to eat . . .
By way of reply, Calogero had thrown his hands up in despair. The terrible day had come when Calogero whispered:
“Don’t come by tomorrow. I’m closed.”
They had embraced, practically weeping. And his Via Crucis had begun. Between restaurants, trattorias, and osterias, he’d tried half a dozen new places in the days that followed, but they were no great shakes. Not that you could say, in all honesty, that their food was bad. The fact was that they all lacked that indefinable touch that Calogero’s dishes had. For a while he had opted to eat at home instead of going out. Adelina made him one meal a day, but this created a problem: If he ate that meal at midday, then in the evening he would have to make do with a little cheese and olives and salted sardines or salami; if, on the other hand, he ate it in the evening, that would mean that at midday he had made do with cheese, olives, salted sardines, or salami. In the long run, the situation became disheartening. He went out hunting again and found a good restaurant near Capo Russello. It was right on the beach, the dishes were civilized, and it didn’t cost a great deal. The problem was that between driving there, eating, and driving back, it took three hours at the very least, and he didn’t always have that kind of time.
That day he decided to try out a trattoria that Mimì had suggested.
“Have you eaten there?” Montalbano had asked him suspiciously, having a very low opinion of Mimì’s palate.
“Actually, no, but a friend who’s even a bigger pain in the ass than you spoke well of it.”
Since the trattoria, called Da Enzo, was in the uphill part of town, the inspector resigned himself to driving there. From the outside, the dining room looked like a corrugated sheet-metal construction; the kitchen must have been inside the house next to it. The whole thing had a temporary feeling about it, which Montalbano liked. He went in and sat down at an empty table. A thin man with blue eyes, about sixty years old, who’d been overseeing the activities of the two waiters, approached and planted himself in front of the inspector without a word of greeting. He was smiling.
Montalbano gave him a questioning look.
“I knew it,” the man said.
“You knew what?”
“That after all that running around, you would come here. I was waiting for you.”
Apparently word of his calvary following the closing of his usual trattoria had spread across town.
“Well, here I am,” the inspector said drily.
They looked each other in the eye. The shootout at the OK Corral had begun. Enzo summoned a waiter:
“Set the table for Inspector Montalbano and keep an eye on the room. I’m going into the kitchen. I’ll see to the inspector myself.”
The antipasto of salted octopus tasted as though it were made of condensed sea and melted the moment it entered his mouth. The pasta in squid ink could have held its own against Calogero’s. And the mixed grill of mullet, sea bass, and gilthead had that heavenly taste the inspector feared he had lost forever. Music began to play in his head, a kind of triumphal march. He stretched out blissfully in his chair and took a deep breath.
After a long and perilous journey over the sea, Odysseus had finally found his long lost Ithaca.
Partially reconciled with life, he got in his car and headed towards the port. There was no point dropping in at the càlia e simenza shop, which was closed at that hour. He left his car on the wharf and started to walk along the jetty. He ran into the usual angler, who greeted him with a wave of the hand.
“They biting?”
“Not even if you pay them.”
When he reached the rock under the lighthouse, he sat down. He fired up a cigarette and savored it. When he’d finished, he threw it into the sea. Jostled by the motion of the water, the butt grazed first the rock he was sitting on, then the rock behind it. An idea flashed into Montalbano’s brain. If that had been a human body instead of a butt, that body would not have grazed those rocks, but bumped against them, even if not very hard. Just as Ciccio Albanese had said. Looking up, he saw his car on the wharf in the distance. He realized he’d left it in the exact same spot where he’d stood with the little boy as his mother kicked up such a row that she broke her leg. He got up and headed back. He wanted to know how that whole business had turned out. The mother was surely in a hospital somewhere with her leg in a cast.
When he got back to the office, he immediately phoned Riguccio.
“Oh, God, Montalbano, I’m so embarrassed!”
“Why?”
“I still haven’t returned those glasses. I’d completely forgotten about them! It’s so chaotic here that—”
“Rigù, I wasn’t calling about the glasses. I wanted to ask you something. What hospitals are the sick, the injured, and pregnant women taken to?”
“To any one of the three hospitals in Montelusa, or else to—”
“Wait, I’m only interested in the ones who were put ashore yesterday.”
“Give me a minute.”
Apparently Riguccio had to flip through some papers before he could answer.
“Here, at the San Gregorio.”
Montalbano informed Catarella he’d be out for an hour or so, got in his car, stopped at a café, bought three slabs of chocolate, and headed towards Montelusa. San Gregorio Hospital was outside the city, but easy to reach from Vigàta. It took him about twenty minutes. He parked, went inside, and asked for directions to the orthopedic ward. He got in the elevator, got off at the third floor, and spoke to the first nurse he saw.
He told her he was looking for a non-European immigrant who had broken her leg the previous evening while disembarking at Vigàta. To help identify her, he added that the woman had three small children with her. The nurse looked a bit surprised.
“Would you wait here? I’ll go check.”
She returned about ten minutes later.
“Just as I thought. There aren’t any non-European women here for a broken leg. We do have one who broke her arm, however.”
“May I see her?”
“I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“Inspector Montalbano.”
The nurse looked him over and must have immediately decided that the man standing before her had the face of a cop, because she said only:
“Please follow me.”
But the immigrant woman with the broken arm was not black; she looked merely like she had a tan. Secondly, she was pretty, slender, and very young.
“You see,” said Montalbano, slightly flustered, “the fact is that yesterday evening, I saw an emergency medical crew take her away in the ambulance with my own eyes . . .”