Andrea Camilleri - The Age Of Doubt

“Sshhh!” said the commissioner, bringing his index finger to his lips.

No, sshhh didn’t count. It had to be verbal. But Montalbano didn’t feel like playing anymore and clammed up.

“Now I want you to answer a question I have for you, but without equivocating, without digressing, without-”

“-stalling, cavilling, changing the subject, beating around the bush?” Montalbano suggested in a rapid-fire burst to put any thesaurus to shame.

The commissioner looked at him, nonplussed.

“Are you mocking me?”

Montalbano assumed a demure expression.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Then cut the shit and answer!”

“May I make an observation?”

“No.”

Montalbano fell silent.

“Answer!”

“If you won’t let me make my observation…”

“All right, make your observation and then answer my question!”

“The observation is the following. I only wanted to point out, in all humility, that you forgot to ask your question.”

“Ah, yes. You see? You are the only person here with the ability to make me so furious that I get all-”

“Confused? Distracted? Disoriented? Muddled?”

“Stop it, for Christ’s sake! I don’t need your stupid suggestions! At any rate, why didn’t you deign to inform either the public prosecutor or myself of these investigations? Can you tell me?”

“And how did you find out?”

“Don’t ask idiotic questions! Just answer!”

With all his talking, the guy was making him miss his appointment with Laura. Montalbano decided to cut things short.

“I completely forgot.”

“You forgot ?” the commissioner repeated, dumbfounded.

Montalbano threw his hands up.

Bonetti-Alderighi turned red as a beet and emitted first a sort of roar and then an elephantine trumpet blast. It sounded like they were at the zoo.

“But what… exactly… do you think you’re doing? Runn… running your own private inves… tigating firm?” the commissioner yelled, stammering in rage and standing up, index finger pointed at the inspector.

“No, but-”

“Silence!”

What? Was he going to restart, da capo, the ball-busting litany of silence, quiet, and shut up? They wouldn’t get out of there before dawn!

“And you listen to me, Montalbano,” the commissioner continued. “As of this moment you are removed!”

“From what?”

“From the investigations. Inspector Mazzamore will handle them.”

Never heard of him. Must be a new arrival. They changed every two weeks. Montelusa Central Police was a revolving door.

The only one who never left was pain in the ass Bonetti-Alderighi.

Montalbano was about to object when he realized that this new development would allow him more time to devote to Laura.

“All right, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll remove myself,” said Montalbano, anxious to leave.

Leaning on the broomstick, he stood up, groaning and twisting his mouth as though in great pain.

The commissioner was unmoved.

“Where are you going?”

“Home to lie down, so-”

“Ha ha ha!” the commissioner laughed, sounding just like Mephistopheles.

“Why are you laughing, may I ask?”

“You’re not going home!”

Montalbano turned pale. For a brief moment he was afraid that Bonetti-Alderighi would have him arrested. The man was capable of it. But the commissioner continued:

“Now you are going to go into Dr. Lattes’s office-he’s already waiting for you, in fact-and the two of you are going to reconstruct the list of the documents that were destroyed.”

And since Montalbano, annihilated, could no longer move, the commissioner prodded him.

“Go on! Out with you!”

While crossing the waiting room, still limping to keep up appearances, Montalbano managed to curse all the saints in heaven.

Upon seeing him, Dr. Lattes, without even noticing the Sardinian shepherd getup, immediately asked him:

“How’s the little one?”

“He’s dead,” Montalbano answered mournfully.

With his cojones already in a blinding spin, he’d be damned if he was going to keep the promise he’d made to Livia!

Lattes stood up, ran up to him, and embraced him.

“I’m so terribly sorry.”

Maybe there was a way out. Montalbano buried his face in Lattes’s shoulder and emitted a sobbing sound.

“And instead of being with my little boy… I have to be here and-”

“Good heavens, no!” said Lattes, hugging him even more tightly. “Go straight home! We’ll talk about it some other time!”

It was all the inspector could do not to kiss his hand.

When he left Lattes’s office it was already past ten. He dashed down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator, which was slow, and raced to the car.

“We’re going to Marinella, quick!”

“Shall I turn on the siren?” asked Gallo, pleased.

“Yes.”

Montalbano would have suffered less inside a race car on the track at Indianapolis. At a certain point it occurred to him that if he wasn’t going to be handling the case any longer, there was no need for Mimì to engage in another night of gymnastics with La Giovannini. He might as well spare himself the effort.

He dialed Augello’s cell phone number.

“Montalbano here. Can you talk?”

“Ah, Gianfilippo! How good to hear from you!” said Augello. “Where are you calling from? Tell me, what can I do for you?”

In other words, he couldn’t talk. Obviously La Giovannini was right beside him.

“I wanted to tell you that if you want to bail out, you can.”

“Why?”

“Because the boss has decided to take me off the case. So it’s not our concern anymore.”

“Listen, Gianfilippo, I don’t think you can back out at this point, you know what I mean? It’s too late. Once you’re out on the dance floor, you have to dance. I’m sorry, but that’s the way I see it. So you take care now, and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Which meant that his phone call had arrived past regulation playing time.

He immediately noticed that there was no sign of Laura’s car in front of the house. He bade Gallo a hasty goodbye, opened the door, and went inside.

Laura wasn’t on the veranda, either, like last time.

She hadn’t waited for him. Or, more likely, she had waited for him but then became convinced he wasn’t going to come any time soon and had left.

He went and stuck his head under the bathroom faucet to cool his anger, then plucked up his courage and dialed her number.

“Hi, Salvo here.”

“Yes?” she said cold as ice.

He had to stay calm and try to explain clearly what had happened.

“Forgive me, Laura, I’m truly sorry, but I got a call from the commissioner and-”

“I figured that something had come up.”

Then why was she so distant?

“Listen, I’ll tell you what we can do to set things right. Wait for me outside the front door of your building in fifteen minutes, and I’ll come by and pick you up.”

“No.”

She’d said it without hesitation. A “no” as crisp and clean as a gunshot to the chest.

“It’s not that late, you know,” he insisted. “Have you already had dinner?”

“I don’t feel hungry anymore.”

Her voice sounded strange, neither indifferent nor angry. It was like a smooth barrier against which all words slid off, leaving no trace.

“Come on, once you sit down, your hunger will return.”

“It’s too late.”

“All right, but I’ll come anyway.”

“No.”

“We could at least spend half an hour together, no?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong? Are you upset? You know, I did call you at the Harbor Office to tell you I was running late, then I tried your cell phone, but I-”