‘Hello, Livia? Salvo here.
How are you doing?’ ‘All right, I guess.’
‘What’s with this tone? The other night you hung up on me before I had a chance to say anything.’ ‘You phoned me in the middle of the night’ ‘But it was the first free moment I had!’
‘Poor thing! Allow me to point out that you, between thunderstorms, shoot-outs and ambushes, have very cleverly managed to avoid answering the very specific question I asked you last Wednesday evening.’
‘I wanted to tell you I’m going to see Francois tomorrow.’
‘With Mimi?’
‘No, Mimi was hit—’
‘Oh my God.’ Is it serious?’
She and Mimi had a soft spot for each other.
‘Let me finish! He was hit on the head with a stone. Chickenshit, three stitches. So I’m going to go alone. Mimi’s sister wants to talk to me.’
‘About Francois?’
‘Who else?’
‘Oh my God. He must be sick. I’m going to phone her right away!’
‘Come on, those people go to bed at sunset! I’ll phone you tomorrow evening, as soon as I get home.’
‘Let me know. I mean it.
I’m not going to sleep a wink tonight.’
NINE
To go from Vigata to Calapiano, anyone with any sense, and with an even superficial knowledge of Sicilian roads, would first have taken the superhighway to Catania, exited onto the road that turns back inland towards Troina at 1,120 metres’ elevation, descended to Gagliano at 751 metres by way of a sort of mule track that received its first and last layer of tarmac fifty years ago in the early days of regional autonomy, and finally reached Calapiano via a provincial road that clearly refused to be known as such, its true aspiration being to resume the outward appearance of the earthquake-ravaged country trail it had once been.
But that wasn’t the end of it. The farm belonging to Mimi’s sister and her husband was four kilometres outside town, and one reached it by following a winding strip of gravel on which even goats had doubts about setting a single one of their four available hooves. This was what one might call, for lack of a better term, the best route, the one Mimi Augello always took, its difficulties and discomforts not coming entirely to the fore until the final stretch.
Naturally, Montalbano did not take it. He chose instead to cut across the island, and thus found himself, from the start, travelling roads along which the few surviving peasants interrupted their labours to gaze in amazement at the car passing recklessly by. They would talk about it at home in the evening with their children, ‘Know what? This mornin’ a car drove by!’
This, however, was the Sicily the inspector liked best: harsh, spare in vegetation, on whose soil it seemed (and was) impossible to live, and where he could still run across, though more and more rarely, a man in gaiters and cap, rifle on shoulder, who would raise two fingers to his visor and salute him from the back of a mule.
The sky was clear and bright and openly declared its determination to remain so until evening. It was almost hot. But the open windows did not prevent the interior of the car from becoming permeated with the delightful aromas filtering out of the packages large and small literally stuffed into the backseat. Before leaving, Montalbano had stopped at the Cafre Albanese, which made the best pastries in all of Vigata, and bought twenty cannoli, fresh out of the oven, ten kilos’ worth of tetu, taralli, viscotti regina and Palermitan mostaccioli — all long-lasting cookies — as well as some marzipan fruits, and, to crown it all, a colourful cassata that weighed five kilos all by itself.
He arrived in the early afternoon and worked out that the journey had taken him more than four hours.
The big farmhouse looked empty to him; only the smoking chimney said there was someone at home. He tooted his horn, and a moment later Franca, Mimi’s sister, appeared in the doorway. She was a blonde Sicilian over forty, a strong, tall woman. She eyed the car, which she didn’t recognize, as she wiped her hands on her apron.
It’s Montalbano,’ said the inspector, opening the car
door and getting out. ,
Franca ran up to him with a big smile on her face and embraced him.
‘Where’s Mimi?’
‘At the last minute he couldn’t come. He felt really bad about it.’
Franca looked at him.
Montalbano was unable to tell a lie to people he respected; he would stammer, blush and look away.
Tm going to phone Mimi,’
Franca said decisively, walking back into the house. By some miracle Montalbano managed to load himself up with all the packages, big and small, and followed her inside a few minutes later.
Franca was just hanging up.
‘He’s still got a headache.’
‘Reassured now? Believe me, it was nothing,’ said the inspector, unloading the parcels onto the table.
‘And what’s this?’ said Franca. fAre you trying to turn this place into a pastry shop?’
She put the sweets in the fridge.
‘How are you, Salvo?’ ‘Fine.
And how’s everybody here?’ ‘We’re all fine, thank Goch And you won’t believe Francois. He’s shot right up, getting taller by the day.’ ‘Where are they?’
‘Out and about. But when I ring the bell for lunch, they’ll all come running. Are you staying the night with us? I prepared a room for you.’
‘Thanks, Franca, but you know I can’t. I have to leave by five at the latest. I can’t be like your brother and race along these roads like a madman.’
‘Go and wash, then.’
He returned fifteen minutes later, refreshed. Franca was setting the table for nine people. The inspector decided this was perhaps the right moment.
‘Mimi said you wanted to talk to me’
‘Later, later’ Franca said brusquely. ‘Hungry?’
‘Well, yes’
‘Want a little wheat bread?
I took it out of the oven less than an hour ago. Shall I prepare you some?’
Without waiting for an answer, she cut two slices from a loaf, dressed them in olive oil, salt and black pepper, adding a slice of pecorino cheese, put this all together to form a sandwich, and handed it to him,
Montalbano went outside, sat down on a bench next to the door, and, at the first bite, felt forty years younger. He was a little kid again. This was bread the way his grandmother used to make it for him.
It was meant to be eaten in the sun, while thinking of nothing, only relishing being in harmony with one’s body, the earth, and the smell of the grass. A moment later he heard shouting and saw three children chasing after each other, pushing and trying to trip one another. They were Giuseppe, nine years old, his brother, Domenico, namesake of his uncle Mimi and the same age as Francois, and Francois himself.
The inspector gazed at him, wonders truck. He’d become the tallest of the lot, the most energetic and pugnacious. How the devil had he managed to undergo such a metamorphosis in the two short months since the inspector had last seen him?
Montalbano ran over to him, arms open wide. Francois, recognizing him, stopped at once as his companions turned and headed towards the house. Montalbano squatted down, arms still open.
‘Hi, Francois.’
The child broke into a sprint, swerving around him. ‘Hi,’ he said.