"Sorry about before. I had just received an unexpected phone call and had to go out."
"Never mind, Salvo, I know what your work is like. Actually, I'm sorry I got upset. I was just feeling disappointed."
Montalbano looked at his watch: he had at least three hours before he was supposed to meet Tano.
"If you want, we could talk now."
"Now? Look, Salvo, it's not to get back at you, but I'd rather not. I took a sleeping pill and can barely keep my eyes open."
"All right, all right. Till tomorrow, then. I love you, Livia."
Livias tone of voice suddenly changed, becoming more awake and agitated.
"Huh? What's wrong? Eh, what's wrong, Salvo?"
"Nothing's wrong. What could be wrong?"
"Oh, no you don't, you're hiding something. Are you about to do something dangerous? Don't make me worry, Salvo."
"Where do you get such ideas?"
"Tell me the truth, Salvo."
"I'm not doing anything dangerous."
"I don't believe you."
"Why not, for Christs sake?"
"Because you said I love you, and since I've known you, you've said it only three times. I've counted them, and every time it was for something out of the ordinary."
The only hope was to cut the conversation short; with Livia, one could easily end up talking till morning.
"Ciao, my love. Sleep well. Don't be silly. I have to go out again."
So how was he going to pass the time now? He took a shower, read a few pages of the book by Montalb understood little, shuffled from one room to the other, straightening a picture, rereading a letter, a bill, a note, touching everything that came within his reach. He took another shower and shaved, managing to cut himself right on the chin. He turned on the television and immediately shut it off. It made him feel nauseated. Finally, it was time. As he was on his way out, he decided he needed a mostacciolo. With sincere astonishment, he saw that the box on the table had been opened and not a single pastry was left in the cardboard tray. He had eaten them all, too nervous to notice. And what was worse, he hadn't even enjoyed them.
2
Montalbano turned around slowly, as if to offset the dull, sudden anger he felt at having let himself be caught unawares from behind like a beginner. For all that he'd been on his guard, he hadn't heard the slightest sound.
One to nothing in your favor, bastard! he thought.
Though he'd never seen him in person, he recognized him at once: as compared with the mug shots from a few years back, Tano had grown his mustache and beard, but the eyes remained the same, expressionless, like a statues, as Gege'd accurately described them.
Tano the Greek gave a short bow, and there wasn't the slightest hint of provocation or mockery in the gesture. Montalbano automatically returned the greeting. Tano threw his head back and laughed.
"We're like two Japanese warriors, the kind with swords and breast plates. What do you call them?"
"Samurai."
Tano opened his arms, as if wanting to embrace the man standing before him.
"What a pleasure to meet the famous Inspector Montalbano, personally in person."
Montalbano decided to dispense with the ceremonies and get straight to the point, just to put the encounter on the right footing.
"I'm not sure how much pleasure you'll get from meeting me, sir."
"Well, you've already given me one."
"Explain."
"You called me sir. That's no small thing. No cop, not a single one and I've met a lothas ever called me sir."
"You realize, I hope, that I'm a representative of the law, while you are a dangerous fugitive charged with several murders. And here we are, face-to-face."
"I'm unarmed. How about you?"
"Me too."
Tano threw his head back again and gave a full-throated laugh.
"I'm never wrong about people, never!"
"Unarmed or not, I have to arrest you just the same."
"And I am here, Inspector, to let you arrest me. That's why I wanted to see you."
He was sincere, no doubt about it. But it was this very sincerity that put Montalbano on his guard, since he couldn't tell where Tano wanted to go with this.
"You could have come to police headquarters and turned yourself in. Here or in Vig, it's the same thing."
"Ah, no, dear Inspector, it is not the same thing. You surprise me, you who know how to read and write. The words are not the same. I am letting myself be arrested, I am not turning myself in. Go get your jacket and we'll talk inside. I'll open the door in the meantime."
Montalbano took his jacket from the olive tree, draped it over his arm, and entered the house behind Tano. It was completely dark inside. The Greek lit an oil lamp and gestured to the inspector to sit down in one of two chairs beside a small table. In the room there was a cot with only a bare mattress, no pillow or sheets, and a glass-fronted cupboard with bottles, glasses, biscuits, plates, packets of pasta, jars of tomato sauce, and assorted tin cans. There was also a wood-burning stove with pots and pans hanging over it. But the inspectors eyes came to rest on a far more dangerous animal than the lizard sleeping in the glove compartment of his car: this was a veritable poisonous snake, a machine gun sleeping on its feet, propped against the wall beside the cot.
"I've got some good wine," said Tano, like a true host.
"All right, thanks," replied Montalbano.
What with the cold, the night, the tension, and the two-plus pounds of mostaccioli he wolfed down, he felt he could use some wine.
The Greek poured and then raised his glass.
"To your health."
The inspector raised his own and returned the toast.
"To yours."
The wine was something special; it went down beautifully, and on its way gave comfort and heat.
"This is truly good," Montalbano complimented him.
"Another glass?"
To avoid the temptation, the inspector gruffly pushed the glass away.
"Let's talk."
"Let's. As I was saying, I decided to let myself be arrested"
"Why?"
Montalbanos question, fired point-blank, left the other momentarily confused. After a pause, Tano collected himself:
"I need medical care. I'm sick."
"May I say something? Since you think you know me well, you probably also know that I'm not someone you can fuck with."
"I'm sure of it."
"Then why not show me some respect and stop feeding me bullshit?"
"You don't believe I'm sick?
"I do. But don't try to make me swallow this bullshit that you need to be arrested to get medical help. I'll explain, if you like. You spent a month and a half at Our Lady of Lourdes Clinic in Palermo, then three months at the Gethsemane Clinic of Trapani, where Dr. Amerigo Guarnera even operated on you. And although things today are a little different from a few years ago, if you want, you can find plenty of hospitals willing to look the other way and say nothing to the police if you stay there. So it's not because youre sick that you want to be arrested."
"What if I told you that times are changing and that the wheel is turning fast?"
"That would be a little more convincing."
"You see, when I was a little kid, my father who was a man of honor when the word honor still meant something, my father, rest his soul, used to tell me that the cart that men of honor traveled on needed a lot of grease to make the wheels turn, to make them go fast. When my fathers generation passed on and it was my turn to climb aboard the cart, some of our men said: Why should we keep on buying the grease we need from the politicians, mayors, bankers, and the rest of their kind? Let's make it ourselves! We'll make our own grease! Great! Bravo! Everyone agreed. Sure, there was still the guy who stole his friends horse, the guy who blocked the road for some associate of his, the guy who would start shooting blindly at some other gangs cart, horse, and horseman . . . But these were all things we could settle among ourselves.The carts multiplied in number, there were more and more roads to travel. Then some genius had a big idea, he asked himself: Whats it mean that were still traveling by cart? We're too slow, he explained, were getting screwed, left behind, everybody else is traveling by car, you cant stop progress! Great! Bravo! And so everybody ran and traded in their cart for a car and got a drivers license. Some of them, though, didn't pass the driving-school test and went out, or were pushed out.