Anonymous it was not, however. On the contrary. The signature that Montalbano immediately looked for at the end went off in his brain like a gunshot.Esteemed Inspector,It occurred to me that in all probability I won't be able to come see you tomorrow morning as planned. If the meeting of the Party leadership of Montelusa, which I shall attend upon completing this letter, were by chance as appears quite likely to spell failure for my positions, I believe it would be my duty to go to Palermo to try and awaken the souls and consciences of those comrades who make the decisions within the Party. I am even ready to fly to Rome to request an audience with the National Secretary. These intentions, if realized, would necessitate the postponement of our meeting, and thus I beg you please to excuse me for putting in writing what I ought properly to have told you in person.As you will surely recall, the day after the strange robbery/nonrobbery at the supermarket, I came of my own accord to police headquarters to report what I had happened to see that is, a group of men quietly at work, however odd the hour, with lights on and under the supervision of a uniformed man who looked to me like the night watchman. No passerby would have seen anything unusual in this scene; had I noticed anything out of the ordinary, I would have made sure to alert the police myself.The night following my testimony, I was too upset from the arguments I'd had with my Party colleagues to fall asleep, and thus I had occasion to review the scene of the robbery in my mind. Only then did I remember a detail that could prove to be very important. On my way back from Montelusa, agitated as I was, I took the wrong approach route for Vig, one that has been recently made very complicated by a series of incomprehensible one-way streets. Instead of taking the Via Granet, I turned onto the old Via Lincoln and found myself going against the flow of traffic. After realizing my mistake about fifty yards down the street, I decided to retrace my path in reverse, completing my maneuver at the corner of Vicolo Trup thinking I would back into this street, so that I could then point my car in the right direction. I was unable to do this, however, because the vicolo was entirely blocked by a large car, a model heavily advertised these days but available only in very limited quantities, the Ulysses, license plate Montelusa 328280. At this point I had no choice but to proceed in my directional violation. A few yards down the street, I came out into the Piazza Chiesa Vecchia, where the supermarket is.To spare you further investigation: that car, the only one of its kind in town, belongs to Mr. Carmelo Ingrassia. Now, since Ingrassia lives in Monte Ducale, what was his car doing a short distance away from the supermarket, also belonging to Mr. Ingrassia, at the very moment when it was being burgled? I leave the answer to you.Yours very sincerely,Cav. Gerlando Misuraca
You've fucked me royally this time, Cavaliere! was Montalbanos only comment as he glared at the letter he had set down on the dining table. And dining, of course, was now out of the question. He opened the refrigerator only to pay glum homage to the culinary mastery of his housekeeper, a deserved homage, for an enveloping fragrance of poached baby octopus immediately assailed his senses. But he closed the fridge. He wasn't up to it; his stomach was tight as a fist. He undressed and, fully naked, went for a walk along the beach; at that hour there was nobody around anyway. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. Around four oclock in the morning he dived into the icy water, swam a long time, then returned home. He noticed, laughing, that he had an erection. He started talking to it, trying to reason with it.
It's no use deluding yourself.
The erection told him a phone call to Livia might be just the thing. To Livia lying naked and warm with sleep in her bed.
Your'e just a dickhead telling me dickheaded things. Teenage jerk-off stuff.
Offended, the erection withdrew. Montalbano put on a pair of briefs, threw a dry towel over his shoulder, grabbed a chair and sat down on the veranda, which gave onto the beach.
He remained there watching the sea as it began to lighten slowly, then take on color, streaked with yellow sunbeams. It promised to be a beautiful day, and the inspector felt reassured and ready to act. He'd had a few ideas, after reading the Cavalieres letter; the swim had helped him to organize them.
"You can't show up at the press conference looking like that," pronounced Fazio, looking him over severely.
"What, are you taking lessons from the Anti-Mafia Commission now?" Montalbano opened the padded nylon bag he was holding. "In here I've got trousers, jacket, shirt, and tie. I'll change before I go to Montelusa. Actually, do me a favor. Take them out and put them on a chair; otherwise they'll get wrinkled."
"They're already wrinkled, Chief. But I wasn't talking about your clothes; I meant your face. Like it or not, you gotta go to the barber."
Fazio had said like it or not because he knew him well and realized how much effort it cost the inspector to go to the barber. Running a hand behind his head, Montalbano agreed that his hair could use a little trim, too. His face darkened.
"Not one fucking things going to go right today!" he predicted.
Before exiting, he left orders that, while he was out beautifying himself, someone should go pick up Carmelo Ingrassia and bring him to headquarters.
"If he asks why, what should I tell him?" asked Fazio.
"Don't tell him anything."
"What if he insists?"
"If he insists, tell him I want to know how long its been since he last had an enema. Good enough?"
"There's no need to get upset."
...
The barber, his young helper, and a client who was sitting in one of the two rotating chairs that barely fit into the shop, which was actually only a recess under a staircase, were in the midst of an animated discussion, but fell silent as soon as the inspector appeared. Montalbano had entered with what he himself called his barber-shop face, that is, mouth shrunken to a slit, eyes half-closed in suspicion, eyebrows furrowed, expression at once scornful and severe.
"Good morning. Is there a wait?"
Even his voice came out deep and gravelly.
"No sir. Have a seat, Inspector."
As Montalbano took his place in the vacant chair, the barber, in accelerated, Chaplinesque movements, held a mirror behind the clients head to let him admire the finished product, freed him of the towel round his neck, tossed this into a bin, took out a clean one and put it over the inspectors shoulders. The client, denied even the customary brush-down by the assistant, literally fled from the shop after muttering Good day.
The ritual of the haircut and shave, performed in absolute silence, was swift and funereal. A new client appeared, parting the beaded curtain, but he quickly sniffed the atmosphere and, recognizing the inspector, said:
"I'll pass by later." Then he disappeared.
On the street, as he headed back to his office, Montalbano noticed an indefinable yet disgusting odor wafting around him, something between turpentine and a certain kind of face powder prostitutes used to wear some thirty years back. The stink was coming from his own hair.
"Ingrassias in your office," Tortorella said in a low voice, sounding conspiratorial.
"Where'd Fazio go?"
"Home to change. The commissioners office called. They said Fazio, Gallo, Galluzzo, and German should also take part in the press conference."
I guess my phone call to that asshole Sciacchitano had an effect, thought Montalbano.
Ingrassia, who this time was dressed entirely in pastel green, started to rise.
"Don't get up," said the inspector, sitting down behind his desk. He distractedly ran a hand through his hair, and immediately the smell of turpentine and face powder grew stronger. Alarmed, he brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed them, confirming his suspicion. But there was nothing to be done; there was no shampoo in the office bathroom. Without warning, he resumed his barber-shop face. Seeing him suddenly transformed, Ingrassia became worried and started squirming in his chair.