Andrea Camilleri - The Age Of Doubt

“Poifectly, Chief.”

He noticed that the floor of the veranda looked dirty. For reasons entirely impenetrable to him, Adelina, who kept the house sparkling clean, considered the veranda off-limits and never bothered with it. This suddenly seemed unacceptable, perhaps because Laura would soon be there. Grabbing a broom from the closet, he swept the tiles and then scrubbed them hard until they began to shine.

Then he went and opened the refrigerator. Seafood salad. On to the oven: pasta with broccoli and mullet in saffron sauce. He would leave it up to Laura to decide whether they should eat in or go out.

He went and took a hot shower to try to calm his nerves. He changed into clean underwear and clothes.

Grabbing a book, he went and sat down on the veranda and began reading. But he couldn’t understand a word, because with each new line he’d already forgotten what he’d read in the previous line.

At last, at a quarter to eight, the telephone rang.

“Ciao, Laura. So, when are you coming?”

“This is Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi,” said Bonetti-Alderighi, sounding as Bonetti-Alderighi as humanly possible.

His heart sank.

It was hopeless: if Mr. C’mishner was breaking the inspector’s balls even at home, at that hour, then the problem must be very, very serious. And it would make him lose time and, as a result, miss his date with Laura.

The horizon went from being cloudless to darkening by the second. He was lost.

“Montalbano! What, aren’t you going to reply?”

“I’m right here, Mr. Commissioner.”

“I called your office.”

Meaningful pause.

“So?”

“And they told me you’d gone home several hours ago !” said the commissioner, emphasizing the last three words with a rising tone.

Was he reproaching the inspector for being a goof-off who cashed in his paychecks without earning them? Montalbano became incensed.

“Mr. Commissioner, I am not a shirker! I-”

“That’s not what I’m calling about.”

Ah, you see? It really was a serious matter! Better not fly off the handle. Take it easy.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I want to see you immediately!”

Shit! Take your time, Montalbà.

“Where?”

“What kind of question is that? Here, now!”

“Where, in your office?”

“Where do you think? In a bar?”

“Now?”

“Now!”

But Laura would be arriving in a few minutes!

If the commissioner thought he was going to get in his car and drive to Montelusa, he had another think coming! They couldn’t drag him away from there even in chains!

Montalbano assumed an apologetic tone.

“I really can’t, believe me.”

“And why not?”

He had to come up with a lie that would make it impossible for him to leave his house. He decided to throw in his lot with improvisation.

“Well, you see, when I got home I slipped and got a nasty ankle sprain which-”

“Which certainly won’t prevent you from seeing a certain Laura!” Bonetti-Alderighi interrupted him in a sarcastic tone.

Montalbano became incensed again.

“Aside from the fact that this Laura is a physical therapist who is going to try to remedy the situation with massages-and you really have no idea just how desperately I am hoping she succeeds-you should know that if it were indeed the sort of encounter you are insinuating, a sprained ankle would hardly prevent me from-”

“So you really can’t move?” Bonetti-Alderighi interrupted him, to stop him from getting lewd.

“No, I can’t.”

“What if I sent someone to pick you up?”

“I still don’t think I could make it.”

A brief pause for reflection on the commissioner’s part.

“Well, then, I’ll come to you.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“Nooooooooo!”

A wolflike sort of howl had escaped his lips. He absolutely had to prevent the commissioner from coming, whatever the cost.

“Why are you yelling?”

“A shooting pain in my foot.”

If the guy came to his house, he would certainly run into Laura. Who would even be in uniform. It would be hard to convince the commissioner that physical therapists wore the exact same uniform as naval officers. And things would turn nasty.

“No, don’t bother, sir. You see… with a little effort I can try to get up and come to your office.”

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

What was he going to do now?

First of all, he had to inform Laura. He rang the Harbor Office, but they told him she’d already left. He tried her cell phone, but it was turned off.

He immediately called Gallo and told him to come and pick him up in a squad car.

Cursing the saints, he removed the shoe and sock from his left foot, went into the bathroom, wrapped half a roll of cotton around his ankle and then fixed this in place with an entire roll of gauze. He’d actually done a pretty good job of it; the whole area looked quite swollen from the sprain.

Then he grabbed a slipper, but the foot was too fat to fit. So he cut the slipper with a pair of scissors. Now the foot fit, but the slipper was too loose and fell off with every step he took.

Desperate, he grabbed a roll of packing tape and wound this round and round his foot, slipper, and ankle.

To make his limp more convincing, he needed a cane. But he didn’t own one, and so he rummaged through the utility closet and came up with a red plastic broomstick.

Now he looked exactly like a Sardinian shepherd from Campidano.

When Gallo saw him, his jaw dropped.

“Chief! What happened to you?”

“Don’t give me any shit; just drive me to the commissioner’s office.”

His mood was so black that squid ink seemed grey by comparison. For the entire ride, Gallo didn’t dare open his mouth again.

Bonetti-Alderighi seemed not to notice the inspector’s pastoral getup. Though he didn’t tell him to sit down, Montalbano did so anyway, groaning and sighing as if from a script.

The commissioner, however, heard none of it, or pretended not to.

Without a word he raised his right hand, index and middle finger extended and spread. Montalbano looked first at the fingers and then, questioningly, at the commissioner’s angry face.

“Two,” Bonetti-Alderighi then said.

“You want to play morra ?” Montalbano asked with an angelic expression.

Would that he had never said it!

Bonetti-Alderighi’s hand then closed in a fist, and the fist came crashing down on the desktop, nearly breaking it.

“Jesus Christ, Montalbano! You are stark, raving mad! Don’t you realize it?”

“Realize what?”

“Two people have been murdered in Vigàta! And you…”

Choked with rage, the commissioner couldn’t finish his sentence and ended up coughing.

He was forced to stand up, go and open the minifridge, and drink a glass of water.

When he sat back down, he seemed a little calmer.

“Do you admit that you knew the man found in the dinghy had been murdered?”

“Yes, and in fact-”

“Silence! Do you admit that you knew a North African sailor was also murdered?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t have-”

“Quiet! Do you or don’t you admit that you then began to investigate the matter?”

“Of course. It was my duty to-”

“Shut up!”

Silence, quiet, and shut up. Montalbano began to admire the variety of the commissioner’s injunctions. He wanted to see if Bonetti-Alderighi could come up with any others.

“Look, Mr. Commissioner-”

“Button it! I’ll do all the talking, for now.”

Silence, quiet, shut up, and button it. He tried again.

“But I would like to-”