"Did you know him?"
"I sure did. So did you. Cavaliere Misuraca."
...
"Montalbano? I just got a call from Palermo. They want us to hold a press conference. And that's not alclass="underline" they want it to make some noise. That's very important. It's part of their strategy. Journalists from other cities will be there, and it will be reported on the national news. It's going to be a big deal."
"They want to show that the new government is not letting up in the fight against the Mafia, and that, on the contrary, they will be more resolute, more relentless than ever"
"Is something wrong, Montalbano?"
"No. I was just imagining the next days headlines."
"The press conference is scheduled for noon tomorrow. I just wanted to give you advance warning."
"Thank you, sir, but what have I got to do with any of it?"
"Montalbano, I am a nice man, a kind man, but only up to a point. You have everything to do with it! Stop being so childish!"
"What am I supposed to say?"
"Good God, Montalbano! Say what you wrote in the report."
"Which one?"
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Nothing."
"Just try to speak clearly, don't mumble, and keep your head up. And...Oh, yes, your hands. Decide once and for all where youre going to put them and keep them there. Don't do like last time, where the correspondent of the Corriere offered aloud to cut them off for you, to make you feel more comfortable."
"And what if they question me?"
"Of course they'll question you, to use your odd phrasing. They're journalists, aren't they? Good day."
Too agitated by everything that was happening and was going to happen the following day, Montalbano had to leave the office. He went out, stopped at the usual shop, bought a small bag of caesimenza, and headed toward the jetty. When he was at the foot of the lighthouse and about to turn back, he found himself face-to-face with Ernesto Bonfiglio, the owner of a travel agency and a very good friend of the recently deceased Cavaliere Misuraca.
"Isn't there anything we can do?" Bonfiglio blurted out at him aggressively.
Montalbano, who was trying to dislodge a small fragment of peanut stuck between two teeth, merely looked at him, befuddled.
"I'm asking if theres anything we can do," Bonfiglio repeated resentfully, giving him a hostile look in return.
"Do about what?"
"About my poor dead friend."
"Would you like some?" asked the inspector, holding out the bag.
"Thanks," said the other, taking a handful of caesimenza.
The pause allowed Montalbano to put the man he was speaking to in better perspective: Bonfiglio, aside from being like a brother to the late Cavaliere, was a man who held extreme right-wing ideas and was not all there in the head.
"You mean Misuraca?"
"No, I mean my grandfather."
"And what am I supposed to do?"
"Arrest the murderers. It's your duty".
"And who would these murderers be?"
"Who they are, not would be. I'm referring to the local party leaders, who were unworthy to have him in their ranks. They killed him."
"I beg your pardon. Wasn't it an accident?"
"Oh, I suppose you think accidents just happen accidentally?"
"I would say so."
"You would be wrong. If someone's looking for an accident, there's always somebody else ready to send one his way. Let me cite an example to illustrate my point. This last February Mim Crapanzano drowned when he went for a swim. An accidental death, they said. But here I ask you: How old was Mim when he died? Fifty-five years old. Why, at that age, did he get this brilliant idea to go for a swim in the cold, like he used to do when he was a kid? The answer is because less than three months before, he had got married to a Milanese girl twenty-four years younger than him, and one day, when they were out strolling on the beach, she asked him: Is it true, darling, that you used to swim in this sea in February? It sure is, replied Crapanzano. The girl, who apparently was already tired of the old man, sighed. What's wrong? Crapanzano asked, like an idiot. I'm sorry I won't ever have a chance to see you do it again, said the slut. Without saying a word, Crapanzano took off his clothes and jumped into the water. Does that clarify my point?"
"Perfectly."
"Now, to get back to the party leaders of Montelusa province. After a first meeting ended with harsh words, they held another last night. The Cavaliere, along with a few other people, wanted the chapter to issue a press release protesting the governments ordinance granting amnesty to crooks. Others saw things differently. At a certain point, some guy called Misuraca a geezer, another said he looked like something out of the puppet theater, a third man called him a senile wreck. I learned all these things from a friend who was there. Finally, the secretary, some jerk who's not even Sicilian and goes by the name of Biragh asked him please to vacate the premises, since he had no authorization whatsoever to attend the meeting. Which was true, but no one had ever dared say this before. So Gerlando got in his little Fiat and headed back home to Vig. His blood was boiling, no doubt about it, but the others had made him lose his head on purpose. And youre going to tell me it was an accident?"
The only way to reason with Bonfiglio was to put oneself squarely on his level.The inspector knew this from experience.
"Is there one television personality you find particularly obnoxious?" he asked him.
"There are a hundred thousand, but Mike Bongiorno is the worst. Whenever I see him, my stomach gets all queasy and I feel like smashing the screen."
"Good. And if, after watching this particular MC, you get in your car, drive into a wall, and kill yourself, what am I supposed to do, in your opinion?"
"Arrest Mike Bongiorno," the other said firmly.
...
He went back to the office feeling calmer. His encounter with the logic of Ernesto Bonfiglio had distracted and amused him.
"Any news?" he asked as he walked in.
"There's a personal letter for you that came just now in the mail," said Catarella, repeating, for emphasis: Per- son-al.
On his desk he found a postcard from his father and some office memos.
"Hey, Cat! Where'd you put the letter?"
"I said it was personal!" Catarella said defensively.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you have to receive it in person, it being personal and all."
"Okay. The person is here in front of you. Where's the letter?"
"It's gone where it was supposed to go. Where the person personally lives. I told the postman to deliver it to your house, Chief, your personal residence, in Marinella."
...
Standing in front of the Trattoria San Calogero, catching a breath of air, was the cook and owner.
"Where you going, Inspector? Not coming in?
"I'm eating at home today."
"Whatever you say. But I've got some rock lobster ready for the grill that'll seem like youre not eating them, but dreaming them."
Montalbano went inside, won over by the image more than the desire. Then, after finishing his meal, he pushed the dishes away, crossed his arms on the table, and fell asleep. He always ate in a small room with three tables, and so it was easy for Serafino, the waiter, to steer customers towards the big dining room and leave the inspector in peace. Around four oclock, with the restaurant already closed, the proprietor, noticing that Montalbano was showing no signs of life, made him a cup of coffee, then gently woke him up.
6
As for the personally personal letter earlier announced by Catarella, he'd completely forgotten about it. It came back to him only when he stepped right on it upon entering his home: the postman had slipped it under the door. The address made it look like an anonymous letter: Montalbano Police Headquarters city. Then, on the upper left, the notice: personal. Which had then set Catarellas earthquake-damaged wits in motion.