Angelica's Smile by Andrea Camilleri Page A

some striking landscapes down here . . .”
    “Why, don’t you have any in Liguria?”
    A polite exchange, showing that all was well between them. Otherwise the same landscape would have been “crawling with bandits.”

    They arrived at Punta Raisi airport an hour early, just in time to find out that the flight would be leaving an hour late.
    Since they’d skipped lunch, Livia took advantage of the situation to stuff herself with cannoli.
    When her plane finally took off, Montalbano phoned the station from the airport, informing Catarella that he would not be coming by that afternoon. He also rang Adelina to tell her that the coast was clear and that she could come back the following morning.
    To return to Vigàta, he went the long way, which passed through the town of Fiacca. He got there around eight-thirty and headed straight for a restaurant that served langouste.
    He had a feast.
    By eleven he was back home. He had barely set foot inside when the telephone rang.
    It was Livia, who was very upset.
    “Where on earth were you? I called four times! I thought you must have had an accident!”
    He calmed her down, took a shower, and sat down on the veranda with cigarettes and whisky.
    He didn’t want to think about anything, just watch the sea in the night.
    After about an hour of this, he went inside, turned on the television, and sat down in an armchair.
    He was tuned in to TeleVigàta, which meant that the screen soon filled with the chicken-assed face of Pippo Ragonese, their editor-in-chief, whose editorials followed one ironclad rule: they were always on the side of whoever was in power.
    And the man had it in for Montalbano.
    “We’ve been informed, through unofficial channels, that a highly specialized, very well organized band of thieves has been at work in Vigàta over the past few days. Apparently a number of burglaries have taken place using an unusual technique that would be too complicated to explain in detail here. And supposedly the band is not made up of foreigners, as is often the case, but of Sicilians. What is most surprising is the silence of the police on the matter.
    “We do know, however, that the investigation is being handled by Chief Inspector Montalbano. In all honesty, we cannot say that it is in good hands, given the pre—”
    Montalbano zapped the screen with the remote, telling the guy to fuck off.
    One question lingered, however: How did Ragonese ever come to know about the burglaries? Surely nobody from the police department or the prosecutor’s office could have told him.
    Want to bet it was the ring’s mastermind himself who informed the newsman through an anonymous letter?
    Pretentious as he was, it was possible he didn’t like the fact that his deeds weren’t making headlines.
    Montalbano felt a little tired. Driving wore him out. He decided to go to bed.
    And he had a dream.

    Without knowing why or wherefore, he found himself in the middle of an arena,all dressed up like a paladin in the puppet theatre, on horseback, with his lance in rest.
    A great many ladies and knights were watching the joust, and they were all standing, looking at him, and shouting:
    “Hurrah for Salvo! Hurrah for Christendom’s champion!”
    Impeded in his movements by his armor, he couldn’t reply with a bow, and so he raised his arm, which weighed a ton, and waved his steel-gloved hand.
    Then the trumpets sounded and a knight clad entirely in black armor entered the arena, a frightening giant of a man with his face hidden by his lowered visor.
    Charlemagne himself stood up and said:
    “Let the battle begin!”
    And Montalbano immediately began to charge the black knight, who for his part remained as still as a statue.
    Then, just like that, the black knight’s lance struck his shoulder, knocking him off his horse.
    As he was falling, the black knight raised his visor.
    He had no face. In its place was a sort of rubber ball.
    Then Montalbano realized that the faceless knight was the