“Basic management of what?”
“Life, my friend. Do you know what Benedetto Croce writes in his Memoirs? He says that he learned from experience to consider life a serious matter, as a problem to be solved. Seems obvious, doesn’t it? But it’s not. One would have to explain to young people, philosophically, what it means, for example, to smash their car into another car one Saturday night. And to tell them how, philosophically, this could be avoided. But we’ll have time to discuss all this. I’m told you’ll be staying here a few days.” “Yes. Do you live alone?”
“For the fifteen days I spend here, very much alone. The rest of the time I live in a big old house in Trapani with my wife and four daughters, all married, and eight grandchil-dren, who, when they’re not at school, are with me all day. At least once every three months I escape and come here, leaving no phone number or forwarding address. I cleanse myself, take the waters of solitude. For me this place is like a clinic where I detoxify myself of an excess of sentiment. Do you play chess?”
o o o
On the afternoon of the following day, as he was lying in bed reading Sciascia’s Council of Egypt for the twentieth time, it occurred to him that he’d forgotten to tell Valente about the odd agreement he’d made with the colonel. The matter might prove dangerous for his colleague in Mazàra if he were to continue investigating. He went downstairs where there was a telephone.
“Valente? Montalbano here.”
“Salvo, where the hell are you? I asked for you at the office and they said they had no news of you.”
“Why were you looking for me? Has something come up?”
“Yes. The commissioner called me out of the blue this morning to tell me my request for a transfer had been accepted. They’re sending me to Sestri.”
Valente’s wife, Giulia, was from Sestri, and her parents also lived there. Until now, every time the vice-commissioner had asked to be transferred to Liguria, his request had been denied.
“Didn’t I say that something good would come out of this affair?” Montalbano reminded him.
“Do you think—?”
“Of course. They’re getting you out of their hair, in such a way that you won’t object. And they’re right. When does the transfer take effect?”
“Immediately.”
“See? I’ll come say good-bye before you leave.” Lohengrin Pera and his little gang of playmates had moved very fast. It remained to be seen whether this was a good or a bad sign. He needed to do a foolproof test. If they were in such a hurry to put the matter to rest, then surely they had wasted no time in sending him a message as well.
The Italian bureaucracy, usually slow as a snail, becomes lightning-quick when it comes to screwing the citizen. With this well-known truth in mind, he called his commissioner.
“Montalbano! For God’s sake, where have you run off to?”
“Sorry for not letting you know. I’ve taken a few days off to rest.”
“I understand. You went to see—”
“No. Were you looking for me? Do you need me?”
“Yes, I was looking for you, but I don’t need you for anything. Just rest. Do you remember I was supposed to recommend you for a promotion?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, this morning Commendator Ragusa called me from the Ministry of Justice. He’s a good friend of mine. He told me that, apparently . . . some obstacles have come up—
of what kind, I have no idea. In short, your promotion has been blocked. Ragusa wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me any more than that. He also made it clear that it was useless, and perhaps even unwise, to insist. Believe me, I’m shocked and offended.” “Not me.”
“Don’t I know it! In fact, you’re happy, aren’t you?”
“Doubly happy, Commissioner.”
“Doubly?”
“I’ll explain when I see you in person.”
He set his mind at rest. They were moving in the right direction.
o o o
The following morning, Liborio Pintacuda, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, woke the inspector up when it was still dark outside.
“I’ll wait for you in the boat.”
He’d invited him to a useless half day of fishing, and the inspector had accepted. Montalbano put on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Sitting in a boat with a gentleman dressed to the nines, he would have felt silly in a bathing suit.
Fishing, for the professor, proved to be exactly like eating. He never opened his mouth, except, every now and then, to curse the fish for not biting.
Around nine in the morning, with the sun already high in the sky, Montalbano couldn’t hold back any longer.
“I’m losing my father,” he said.
“My condolences,” the professor said without looking up from his fishing line.
The words seemed flat and inappropriate to the inspector.
“He hasn’t died yet. He’s dying,” he clarified.
“It makes no difference. For you, your father died the very moment you learned he was going to die. Everything else is, so to speak, a bodily formality. Nothing more. Does he live with you?” “No, he’s in another town.”
“By himself ?”
“Yes. And I can’t summon the courage to go see him in this state, before he goes. I just can’t. The very idea scares me.
I’ll never have the strength to set foot in the hospital where he’s staying.”
The old man said nothing, limiting himself to replacing the bait the fishes had eaten with many thanks. Then he decided to talk.
“You know, I happen to have followed an investigation of yours, the one about the ‘terra-cotta dog.’ In that instance, you abandoned an investigation into some weapons trafficking to throw yourself heart and soul into tracking a crime from fifty years ago, even though solving it wasn’t going to yield any practical results. Do you know why you did it?” “Out of curiosity?” Montalbano guessed.
“No, my friend. It was a very shrewd, intelligent way for you to keep practicing your unpleasant profession, but by escaping from everyday reality. Apparently this everyday reality sometimes becomes too much for you to bear. And so you escape. As I do when I take refuge here. But the moment I go back home, I immediately lose half of the benefit. The fact of your father’s dying is real, but you refuse to confirm it by seeing it in person. You’re like the child who thinks he can blot out the world by closing his eyes.” Professor Liborio Pintacuda, at this point, looked the inspector straight in the eye.
“When will you decide to grow up?”
2 7 5
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20
As he was going downstairs for supper, he decided he would head back to Vigàta the following morning. He’d been away for five days. Luicino had set the table in the usual little room, and Pintacuda was already sitting at his place and waiting for him.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Montalbano announced.
“Not me. I need another week of detox.”
Luicino brought the first course at once, and thereafter their mouths were used only for eating. When the second course arrived, they had a surprise.
“Meatballs!” the professor exclaimed, indignant. “Meatballs are for dogs!”
The inspector kept his cool. The aroma floating up from the dish and into his nose was rich and dense.
“What’s with Tanino? Is he sick?” Pintacuda inquired with a tone of concern.
“No sir, he’s in the kitchen,” replied Luicino.
Only then did the professor break a meatball in half with his fork and bring it to his mouth. Montalbano hadn’t yet made a move. Pintacuda chewed slowly, eyes half closed, and emitted a sort of moan.
“If one ate something like this at death’s door, he’d be happy even to go to Hell,” he said softly.
The inspector put half a meatball in his mouth, and with his tongue and palate began a scientific analysis that would have put Jacomuzzi to shame. So: fish and, no question, onion, hot pepper, whisked eggs, salt, pepper, breadcrumbs. But two other flavors, hiding under the taste of the butter used in the frying, hadn’t yet answered the call. At the second mouthful, he recognized what had escaped him in the first: cumin and coriander.