Good God! Montalbano said to himself in terror.
He closed his eyes and escaped into sleep.
...
At 6:30 on what he thought was the next morning, two nurses washed him and changed his medication. At seven the chief physician appeared, accompanied by five assistants, all of them in white smocks. The chief physician examined the chart appended at the foot of the bed, pulled the sheet aside, and began to touch him on his injured side.
"Seems to be coming along very nicely," he declared. "The operation was a complete success."
Operation? What operation was he talking about? Ah, maybe to remove the bullet that had wounded him. But it's not often a machine-gun bullet stays inside the body instead of slicing right through it. He would have liked to ask questions, demand explanations, but the words wouldn't come out. The doctor, however, seeing his eyes, guessed what questions the inspector was formulating.
"We had to perform an emergency operation on you. The bullet passed through your colon."
Colon? And what the hell was his colon doing in his side? The colon had nothing to do with ones sides, it was supposed to be in the belly. But if it had to do with the belly, did this mean, and here he gave such a start that the doctors noticed that from this moment on, for the rest of his life, he could eat only mush?
...mush? Montalbano finally managed to mutter, the horror of that prospect reactivating his vocal cords.
"What did he say?" the chief physician asked, turning to his assistants.
"I think he said brush," said one.
"No, no, he said ambush," interjected another.
They left arguing over the question.
...
At 8:30 the door opened and Catarella appeared.
"Chief, how goes it? How you feeling?"
If there was one person in the entire world with whom Montalbano felt dialogue was useless, it was Catarella. He didn't answer, but merely moved his head as if to say that things were a little less bad.
"I'm on guard here, over you, I mean. This hospital's a revolving door, people come, people go, back and forth and back and forth. Somebody could maybe come in immotivated with bad intentions, trying to finish the job they didn't finish. You know what I mean?"
The inspector knew exactly what he meant.
"Know what, Chief ? I gave blood for the transfusal."
And he went back on guard against the badly immotivated. Montalbano thought bitterly of the dark years that lay ahead of him, surviving on Catarella's blood and eating semolina mush.
...
The first in the long series of kisses he would receive over the course of the day were from Fazio.
"Did you know, Chief, that you shoot like a god? You got one guy in the throat with a single shot, and you wounded the other."
"I also wounded the other guy?"
"You certainly did. We don't know in what part of the body, but you wounded him all right. It was Jacomuzzi who noticed a red puddle about ten yards from the cars. Blood."
"Have you identified the one who died?"
"Of course."
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.
"Muna first name Gerlando, born in Montelusa on the sixth of September, 1971, unmarried, resident of Montelusa, Via Crispi 43, no distinguishing features."
He still hasn't given up his Records Office fetish, thought Montalbano.
"And how did he stand with the law?"
"Not a thing. Clean record." Fazio put the sheet of paper back in his pocket. "For a job like that, they get half a million lire maximum."
He paused. He obviously had something to say but didn't have the courage to say it. Montalbano decided to help him out.
"Did Gege on the spot?"
"Didn't suffer at all. The volley took half his head off."
The others came in, and there was an orgy of kisses and embraces.
Jacomuzzi and Dr. Pasquano came from Montelusa to see him.
"All the papers are talking about you," said Jacomuzzi. He seemed moved but a little envious.
"I was truly sorry I didn't get to do your autopsy," said Pasquano. "I'd really like to know how you're put together inside."
"I was the first on the scene," said Mim Augello, "and when I saw you in that condition, in that situation, I got so scared I nearly shit my pants."
"How did you find out?"
"There was an anonymous call to headquarters saying there'd been some shooting at the foot of the Scala dei Turchi. Galluzzo was on duty and phoned me right away. He also said something I didn't know. He said you were in the habit of meeting Gege at the place where the shooting was heard."
"He knew that?!"
"Apparently everybody knew! Half the town knew! So, anyway, I didn't even get dressed, I went right outside in my pajamas"
Montalbano raised a tired hand, interrupting him.
"You sleep in pajamas?"
"Yes," said Augello, confused. "Why?"
"Never mind. Go on."
"As I was racing there in my car, I called an ambulance with my cell phone. Which was a good thing, because you were losing a lot of blood."
"Thanks," Montalbano said gratefully.
"What do you mean, thanks? Wouldn't you have done the same for me?"
Montalbano did a little rapid soul-searching and decided not to answer.
"Oh, I also wanted to mention something strange," Augello continued. "The first thing you asked me, when you were still lying on the sand, groaning, was to remove the snails that were crawling on you. You were sort of delirious, so I said yes, I'd remove them, but there wasn't a single snail on you."
...
Livia came and gave him a long hug, started crying, and lay down in the bed beside him as best she could.
"Stay like that," said Montalbano.
He liked the scent of her hair as she rested her head on his chest.
"How did you find out?"
"From the radio. Actually, it was my cousin who heard the news. What a way to wake up!"
"What did you do?"
"First I called Alitalia and booked a flight to Palermo, then I called your office in Vig. They put Augello on, and he was very nice. He reassured me and even offered to come get me at the airport. He told me the whole story in the car."
"Livia, how am I?"
"You're doing well, considering what happened."
"Am I ruined forever?"
"What are you talking about?!"
"Will I have to eat bland food for the rest of my life?"
...
"But you leave me no choice," the commissioner said, smiling.
"Why?"
"Because you've been going about things like a sheriff, or, if you prefer, like some kind of nocturnal avenger, and it's going to end up all over the television and newspapers."
"That's not my fault."
"No, it's not, but neither will it be my fault if I'm forced to promote you. You're just going to have to behave for a little while. Fortunately you won't be able to leave this place for another twenty days."
"Twenty days?!"
"By the way, Undersecretary Licalzis in Montelusa at the moment. He says he's here to sensitize public opinion to the struggle against the Mafia. He's made it known he intends to pay you a visit this afternoon."
"I don't want to see him!" Montalbano shouted, upset.
The undersecretary was someone who had been up to his ears in sweetheart deals with the Mafia and was now recycling himself, as always with the Mafias consent.
At that exact moment the head physician came in. Seeing there were six people in the room with Montalbano, he frowned.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but I beg you please to leave him alone. He needs to rest."
They were starting to say their good-byes when the doctor said to the nurse, in a loud voice:
"And no more visitors for the rest of the day."