He realized that, despite his fatigue, which was aggravated by the phone call, he felt hungry as a wolf. It was ten past six, not yet dinnertime. But who ever said you have to eat at an appointed time of day? He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Adelina had prepared a dish fit for a convalescent: boiled cod. On the other hand, they were huge, extremely fresh, and six in number. He didn’t bother to reheat them; he liked them cold, dressed with olive oil, a few drops of lemon, and salt. Adelina had bought the bread that morning: a round scanata loaf covered with giuggiulena, those delicious sesame seeds you are supposed to eat one by one as they fall onto the tablecloth, picking them up with your forefinger moistened by saliva. He set the table on the veranda and had himself a feast, savoring each bite as though it were his last.
When he cleared the table, it was a little past eight. So now what was he going to do to kill time until bedtime? The question was answered at once when Fazio knocked at the door.
“Good evening, Chief. I’m here to report. How are you feeling?”
“A lot better, thanks. Have a seat. What did you do with Bausan?”
Fazio got comfortable in his chair, pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket, and began to read.
“Angelo Bausan, son of the late Angelo Bausan senior and Angela Crestin, born at—”
“Nothing but angels up there,” the inspector interrupted. “But now you have to decide. Either you put that piece of paper back in your pocket, or I’m going to start kicking you.”
Fazio suppressed his “records office complex,” as the inspector called it, put the piece of paper back in his pocket with dignity, and said:
“After you called, Chief, I immediately went to the house where Angelo Bausan is staying. It’s a few hundred yards from here and belongs to his son-in-law, Maruizio Rotondò. Bausan’s got no gun license. But you have no idea what I had to go through to get him to turn in his pistol. His wife even bashed me in the head with a broom. And a broom, in Signora Bausan’s hands, becomes an improvised weapon. That old lady is so strong . . . You know a little about that yourself.”
“Why didn’t he want to give you the gun?”
“Because he said he had to give it back to the friend who lent it to him. The friend’s name is Roberto Pausin. I sent his vital statistics on to Treviso Police and put the old man in jail. He’s the judge’s baby now.”
“Any news on the corpse?”
“The one you found?”
“What other ones are there?”
“Look, Chief, while you were here recovering, two more bodies were found in or around Vigàta.”
“I’m interested in the one I found.”
“No news, Chief. He must have been an illegal alien who drowned before reaching land. In any case, Dr. Pasquano’s probably done the autopsy by now.”
As if on cue, the telephone rang.
“You answer,” said Montalbano.
Fazio reached out and picked up the receiver.
“Inspector Montalbano’s residence. Who am I? I’m Sergeant Fazio. Oh, it’s you? Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. I’ll put him on right away.” He handed the inspector the receiver. “It’s Pasquano.”
Pasquano? When had Dr. Pasquano ever called him at home before? It must be something big.
3
“Hello? Montalbano here. What is it, Doctor?”
“Could you explain something for me?”
“I’m at your service.”
“How is that every other time you’ve kindly sent a corpse my way, you busted my balls demanding immediately to know the results of the autopsy, and this time you don’t give a flying fuck?”
“Well, what happened is—”
“I’ll tell you what happened. You decided that the dead body you hauled ashore belonged to some poor third-world bastard whose boat had capsized, one of the five hundred-plus corpses that are lately so crowding the Sicilian Channel that you can practically walk to Tunisia across the water. And you just washed your hands of it. Since, one more, one less, what’s the difference?”
“Doctor, if you want to vent your frustrations on me for something that didn’t go right, be my guest. But you know perfectly well that’s not how I feel about these things. Furthermore, this morning—”
“Ah, yes, this morning you were busy displaying your masculine attributes for the ‘Mr. Police Universe’ competition. I saw you on TeleVigàta. I’m told you got very high—what’re they called?—very high audience ratings. My sincerest compliments.”
Pasquano was like that. Crass, obnoxious, aggressive, offputting. The inspector knew, however, that it was an instinctive, exasperated form of self-defense against everyone and everything. Montalbano counterattacked, adopting the requisite tone of voice.
“Doctor, could you tell me why you’re harassing me at home at this hour?”
Pasquano was appreciative.
“Because things are not what they seem.”
“Meaning?”
“For one, the dead man’s one of us.”
“Oh.”
“And secondly, in my opinion, he was murdered. I’ve only done a superficial examination, mind you; I haven’t opened him up yet.”
“Find any gunshot wounds?”
“No.”
“Stab wounds?”
“No.”
“Atom-bomb wounds?” asked Montalbano, losing patience. “What is this, Doc, a quiz? Would you just come out with it?”
“Come by tomorrow morning, and my illustrious colleague Mistretta, who’ll be performing the autopsy, will give you my opinion—which he doesn’t share, mind you.”
“Mistretta? Why, won’t you be there?”
“No, I won’t. I’m leaving tomorrow morning to see my sister, who’s not doing so well.”
Montalbano now understood why Pasquano had phoned him. As a gesture of courtesy and friendship. The doctor knew how much Montalbano detested Dr. Mistretta, an arrogant, presumptuous man.
“As I was saying,” Pasquano went on, “Mistretta doesn’t agree with me about the case, and I wanted to tell you in private what I thought.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Where?”
“Over there, to your office.”
“I’m not at my office, I’m at home. We’re packing our bags.”
“Then I’ll come to your place.”
“No, it’s too messy here. Listen, let’s meet at the first bar on Viale Libertà, okay? But don’t make me waste too much time, because I have to get up early tomorrow.”
He got rid of Fazio, who had grown curious and demanded to know more, then quickly washed up, got in his car, and headed off to Montelusa. The first bar on Viale Libertà tended towards the squalid. Montalbano had been there only once, and that was more than enough. He went inside and immediately spotted Pasquano sitting at a table.
He sat down beside him.
“What’ll you have?” asked Pasquano, who was drinking an espresso.
“Same as you.”
They sat there in silence until the waiter arrived with the second demitasse.
“So?” Montalbano began.
“You saw the shape the corpse was in?”
“Well, as I was towing it I was afraid his arm would fall off.”
“If you’d dragged it any further, it would have,” said Pasquano. “The poor bastard had been in the water for over a month.”
“So he probably died sometime last month?”
“More or less. Given the state of the body, it’s hard for me to—”
“Did it still have any distinguishing marks?”
“He’d been shot.”
“So why did you tell me there weren’t—”
“Would you let me finish, Montalbano? He had an old gunshot wound in his left leg. The bullet had splintered the bone. It must have happened a few years ago. I only noticed it because the saltwater had eaten the flesh off the bone. He probably had a slight limp.”