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“What was the case?”

“Anonymous letter alleging Party membership at Ox-ford . . .”

And there, on page 139, was the beginning of the conclusion that Smiley would arrive at in his report:

“It was, however, possible that he had lost his heart for his work, and that his luncheon invitation to me was a first step to confession. With this in mind he might also have written the anonymous letter which could have been designed to put him in touch with the Department.” Following Smiley’s logic, it was therefore possible that Lapècora himself had written the anonymous letters exposing him. But if he was their author, why hadn’t he sent them to the police or carabinieri under some other pretext?

No sooner had he formulated this question than he smiled at himself for being so naïve. In the hands of the police or carabinieri, an anonymous letter might have triggered an investigation and have led to far graver consequences for Lapècora. By sending them to his wife, Lapècora was hoping to provoke a reaction of the more domestic variety, but one that would nevertheless rescue him from a situation that was becoming either too dangerous or unbearable. He wanted to pull out, and those were cries for help. But his wife had taken them at face value, that is, as anonymous letters denouncing a tawdry, common liaison. Offended, she had not reacted, but only withdrawn into a scornful silence. And so Lapècora, in despair, had written to his son, this time without hiding behind a veil of anonymity. But the son, blinded by egotism and the fear of losing a few lire, fled to New York.

Thanks to Smiley, it all made sense. He went back to sleep.

o o o

Commendatore Baldassare Marzachì, director of the Vigàta post office, was notorious for being a presumptuous imbecile.

And he didn’t fail to live up to his reputation this time, either.

“I cannot grant your request.”

“And why not, if I may ask?”

“Because you don’t have a judge’s authorization.”

“And why should I need that? Any other employee of your office would have given me the information I asked for.

It’s of no consequence whatsoever.”

“That’s your opinion. Had they given you this information, my employees would have committed a punishable in-fraction.”

“Commendatore, let’s be reasonable. I am merely asking you for the name of the postman who services the neighborhood in which Salita Granet is located. Nothing more.”

“And I’m not going to tell you, okay? Supposing I did tell you, what would you do?”

“I would ask the postman a few questions.”

“See? You want to violate the postal code of secrecy.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

An utter nitwit. Which isn’t so easy to find these days, now that nitwits disguise themselves as intelligent people.

The inspector decided to resort to a bit of high drama that would annihilate his adversary. Without warning, he let his body fall backwards, shoulders planted firmly against the back of the chair, and began shaking his hands and legs, trying desperately to open his shirt collar.

“Oh God,” he gasped.

“Oh God!” echoed Commendator Marzachì, standing up and rushing to the inspector. “Are you ill?”

“Please help me,” wheezed Montalbano.

The post office manager bent down, tried to loosen the inspector’s collar, and at that moment Montalbano started shouting.

“Let me go! For God’s sake, let me go!”

All at once he grabbed Marzachì’s hands, and as the commendatore was instinctively struggling to break free, he held them up around his own neck.

“What are you doing?” muttered Marzachì, totally confused, not understanding what was happening. Montalbano yelled again.

“Let me go! How dare you!” he bawled, still clutching the commendatore’s hands.

The door flew open, and two terrorized postal employees appeared, a man and a woman, who unmistakably saw their boss trying to strangle the inspector.

“Get out of here!” Montalbano yelled at the two. “Out!

It’s nothing! Everything’s fine!”

The employees withdrew, closing the door behind them.

Montalbano calmly readjusted his collar and glared at Marzachì, who, as soon as he’d released him, had backed up against a wall.

“You’re fucked, Marzachì. They saw you, those two. And since they hate you like the rest of your staff, I’m sure they’d be happy to testify. Assaulting a police officer. What shall we do? Do you want to be reported or not?” “Why do you want to ruin me?”

“Because I hold you responsible.”

“For what, for God’s sake?”

“For the worst things imaginable. For letters that take two months to go from one part of Vigàta to another, for packages that arrive torn apart with half the contents missing—and you talk to me of the postal code of secrecy, which you can stick straight up your ass—for books that I wait and wait for and that never come . . . You’re a piece of shit that dresses up in dignity to cover this cesspool. Is that enough?” “Yes,” said Marzachì, shattered.

o o o

“Yes, of course he used to receive mail. Not a lot, but some.

There was one company outside of Italy that used to write to him, but nobody else, really.”

“Where were they from?”

“I never noticed. But the stamps were foreign. I can tell you what the company was called, though, because its name was on the envelope. Aslanidis was the name. I remember it because my dad, rest his soul, who’d fought in Greece, met a girl from those parts whose name was Galatea Aslanidis. Used to talk about her all the time.” “Did the envelopes say what this company sold?”

“Yes. Dattes, they said. Dates.”

o o o

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” said Signora Antonietta Palmisano, lately become the widow Lapècora, as soon as she opened the door for Montalbano.

“Why? Did you want to see me?”

“Yes. Didn’t they tell you I called your office?”

“I haven’t been there yet today. I came here on my own.”

“Then it’s a case of kleptomania,” the woman concluded.

For a moment the inspector felt confused; then he understood that she’d intended to say “clairvoyance.” One of these days I’ll introduce her to Catarella, he thought, then I’ll transcribe the dialogue. Better than Ionesco!

“What did you want to see me about, signora?” Antonietta Palmisano Lapècora mischievously wagged a small forefinger.

“No, no, no. You have to talk first, since you thought to come on your own.”

“Signora, I would like you to show me exactly what you did the other morning when you were getting ready to go out to see your sister.”

The widow was dumbfounded, opening and closing her mouth.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Hardly.”

“Are you asking me to put on my nightgown?” said Signora Antonietta, blushing.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Well, let me think. I got out of bed as soon as the alarm went off. Then I took—”

“No, signora, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough.

I don’t want you to tell me what you did, I want you to show me. Let’s go in the other room.”

They went into the bedroom. The armoire was wide open, a suitcase full of women’s dresses on the bed. On one of the bedside tables was a red alarm clock.

“Do you sleep on this side of the bed?” asked Montalbano.

“Yes. What should I do, lie down?”

“No need. Just sit on the edge.”

The widow obeyed, but then:

“What’s any of this got to do with Arelio’s murder?” she asked.

“Please do as I say, it’s important. Just five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair. Tell me: did your husband also wake up when the alarm went off ?”