"Something on my level," Montalbano muttered to himself.
"If you, then, are a police inspector, and you find a man who's been shot and killed, and in whose mouth the killers have placed a stone, what conclusion might you draw?"
"That's old stuff, you know," said Montalbano, "bent on regaining the upper hand. Nowadays they murder without giving any explanations."
"I see. So for you that stone in the mouth is a kind of explanation."
"Of course."
"And what does it mean?"
"It means the dead man talked too much, said things he wasn't supposed to say, or was an informer."
"Exactly. You, therefore, understood the explanation because you possessed the code of that language, which in this case was a metaphorical language. But if you'd been ignorant of the code, what would you have understood? Nothing. To you, that man would have been a murder victim in whose mouth the killers had in-ex-pli-ca-bly placed a stone."
"I'm beginning to understand."
"Now, to return to our discussion: somebody kills two young people for reasons we don't know. He could make the bodies disappear in many different ways, in the sea, underground, under the sand. But, no, he puts them in a cave instead. Not only, but he arranges a bowl, a jug, and a terra-cotta dog around them. What, therefore, has he done?"
"He's made a statement, sent a message," said Montalbano in a soft voice.
"That's right, a message, which you, however, can't read because you don't possess the code," concluded the priest.
"Let me think," said Montalbano. "But the message must have been directed at someone, just not at us, fifty years after the fact."
"And why not?"
Montalbano thought about this a moment, then stood up.
"I'm going to go, I don't want to take up any more of your time. What you've told me has been very valuable to me."
"I'd like to be even more useful to you."
"How so?"
"You just said that nowadays they kill without providing any explanations. There is always an explanation and it is always provided, otherwise you wouldn't be in the line of work youre in. It's just that the codes have multiplied and diversified."
"Thank you," said Montalbano.
...
For dinner they'd eaten fresh anchovies allagretto, which Signora Elisa, the commissioner's wife, had cooked with art and skill, the secret of success lying in correctly determining the infinitesimal length of time to keep the pan in the oven. Then, after the meal, the signora had retired to the living room to watch television, but not before having arranged, on the desk in her husbands study, a bottle of Chivas, another of bitters, and two glasses.
While they were eating, Montalbano had spoken enthusiastically of Alcide Maraventano and his peculiar way of life, his erudition, his intelligence. The commissioner, however, had shown only lukewarm curiosity, more out of politeness to his guest than out of real interest.
"Listen, Montalbano," he broke in as soon as they were alone, "I can easily understand the sense of urgency you might feel about the two murder victims you found in the cave. I daresay I've known you too long not to expect you to become fascinated by a case like this, because it defies explanation, but also, and I think this is the real reason, because even if you were to find the solution, it would prove utterly useless. Just the sort of uselessness that you would find amusing and excuse me for saying so almost congenial."
"Useless in what way?"
"Useless, useless, don't play innocent. To be generous since fifty or more years have since passed the murderer, or murderers, are either dead or, in the best of cases, little old men at least seventy years old. Right?"
"Right," Montalbano reluctantly agreed.
"Therefore forgive me, because what I'm about to say is not normally part of my vocabulary but what you're engaged in is not an investigation, but an act of mental masturbation."
Montalbano, lacking the strength or arguments to rebut him, took it all in.
"Now, I could allow you this little exercise," the commissioner continued, "if I wasn't afraid you'd end up devoting the best of your brainpower to it, and neglecting other investigations of greater significance and reach."
"No! That's not true!" the inspector bridled.
"But it is. Look, none of this is intended, in any way, as a reproach. We're here talking, at my home, between friends. Why, for example, did you assign the weapons-trafficking case, an extremely delicate case, to your deputy, who is a very capable officer but certainly not on your level?"
"But I haven't assigned him anything! It's he who"
"Don't be childish, Montalbano. You've been throwing the better part of the investigation on his shoulders. Because you're well aware that you can't devote all your energies to it, since three-fourths of your brain is tied up with the other case. Tell me, quite honestly, if you think I'm wrong."
"You're right," Montalbano honestly admitted, after a pause.
"So let's leave it at that, and move on to other matters. Why the hell don't you want me to recommend you for a promotion?"
"You really want to keep crucifying me."
He left the commissioners house pleased with the anchovies allagretto, but also because he'd managed to obtain a postponement of the recommendation of promotion. There was no rhyme or reason to the arguments he'd cited, but his superior politely pretended to accept them. Could Montalbano very well have told him that the mere idea of a transfer, of a change of habits, gave him a fever?
...
It was still early. His appointment with Gege wasn't for another two hours. He dropped by the Free Channel studios, wanting to learn more about Alcide Maraventano.
"Extraordinary, isn't he?" said Nicolto. "Did he suck milk from a baby bottle in front of you? And how. It's all a put-on, you know. He's just playacting."
"What do you mean? He has no teeth."
"You have heard of an invention called dentures, I presume? He owns a set, and they work perfectly well. I'm told he sometimes wolfs down a quarter of veal or a roast suckling goat when nobodys looking."
"So why does he do it?"
"Because he's a born tragedian. Or comedian, if you prefer."
"Is he really a priest?"
"He quit the priesthood."
"And the things he says, are they true or made up?"
"You don't have to worry about that. His knowledge is limitless, and when he says something, it's better than gospel."
"Did you know he shot somebody about ten years ago?"
"Come on."
"Really. Some thief broke into his house, on the ground floor. He bumped into a pile of books and they came crashing down, making an infernal racket. Maraventano, who'd been asleep upstairs, woke up, came down, and shot him with a muzzle-loading rifle, a kind of household cannon. The blast made half the village jump out of bed. When the smoke cleared, the robber was wounded in the leg, a dozen or so books were ruined, and the old man had a fractured shoulder from the guns tremendous kick. The robber, however, maintained he'd entered the house not with any criminal intent, but because he'd been invited there by the priest, who at a certain point, for no apparent reason, picked up a rifle and shot him. And I believe him."
"Whom?"
"The supposed thief."
"But why would he shoot him?"
"I suppose you know what goes on inside the head of Alcide Maraventano? Maybe it was to see if the rifle still worked. Or just to make a scene, which is more likely."
"Listen, before I forget, do you have Umberto Eco's Treatise of General Semiotics?"
"Me? Are you crazy?"
...
On his way to the car, which he'd left in the Free Channels parking lot, Montalbano got soaked. It had started raining without warning,very fine drops but very dense. He got home with time to spare before the appointment. He changed clothes and sat down in the armchair in front of the TV, but then immediately got up again and went to his desk to fetch a postcard that had arrived that morning.