thought Montalbano, what kind of daughter-bird is going to come from a cross between a parrot and a sparrow?
'I informed Michela. She's getting up and will be right in’ twittered the sparrow.
But where did she dredge up that voice she called her husband with? Montalbano wondered. Then he remembered reading in a travel book about certain tiny birds that could wail like sirens. The lady must belong to that species.
The coffee had so much sugar in it that the inspector's mouth turned sticky. The first to speak was the parrot, the one disguised as a man.
'I know why you wanna talk to my daughter. 'Cause of that damn son of a bitch Gargano. Am I right?'
‘ Yes’ yelled Montalbano. 'Were you also a victim of Gargano's sch—'
'Nahhh! ' said the man, violently thrusting his right arm forward and clapping his left hand into the hollow of the elbow.
‘Fili!’ his wife scolded him, using her second voice, the one from the Last Judgement
The windowpanes made a tinkling noise.
'Do you think Filippo Manganaro would be so stupid as to fall for Gargano's little shell game? You know, I didn't even want my daughter to go and work for that swindler!'
‘ You knew Gargano before all this?'
‘ No, but I didn't need to know him 'cause they're all swindlers: the banks, bankers, stock marketeers, everybody who works with money. They can't help it, it's the way things are. If you want, I’ll explain it to you. You by any chance ever read a book called Capital, by Marx?'
‘ Parts of it,' said Montalbano. 'Are you a communist?'
'Hit it, Turi! '
The inspector, not understanding his reply, looked at him dumbfounded. Who was this Turi? He found out a moment later, when the man's twin, the real parrot, whose name was apparently Turiddru, cleared his throat and started singing the 'Internationale'. He sang it rather well, and Montalbano began to feel a wave of nostalgia well up inside him. He was about to compliment the bird's teacher when Michela appeared in the doorway. At the sight of her, Montalbano's jaw dropped. The last thing he expected was this strapping, rather tall brunette with violet eyes, beautiful and full of life, nose slightly reddened from the flu, wearing a miniskirt halfway up her slightly but perfectly plump thighs and a white blouse that barely contained a pair of full breasts imprisoned by no bra. A quick, wicked thought, like a viper darting through the grass, flashed into
his mind. No question but that the handsome Gargano had wet his whistle, or tried to, with a girl like her. 'OK, I'm available now’
Available? She said it with a deep, slightl y gravelly voice. Marlene Dietrich style, which made Montalbano so hot and bothered that he could barely restrain himself from crowing like the professor in The Blue Angel The girl sat down, pulling her skirt as much as possible towards her knees, looking demure, eyes downcast, one hand on her leg and the other on the armrest. It was the pose of a good girl from an honest, hardworking family. The inspector recovered the power of speech.
‘I’m sorry to make you get out of bed.'
'Don t worry about it’
‘I’m here to ask you for some information on ragioniere Gargano and the agency where you used to work.'
'Go ahead. But you should know I was already questioned by someone from your office. Inspector Augello, if I'm not mistaken. Although I must say, frankly, he seemed more interested in other things.'
'Other things?'
He regretted his question even as he was asking it. He'd understood what she meant. And he imagined the scene in his mind: Mimì asking question after question, as his eyes, meanwhile, were delicately removing her blouse, bra (if she was wearing one that day), skirt, and pants. No way Mimì could have resisted, face to face with a beauty like this one.
He thought of Mimì 's future wife, Beatrice, and how many bitter pills the poor thing would have to swallow.
The girl didn't answer the question; she knew that the inspector had understood.
'I informed Michela. She's getting up and will be right in’ twittered the sparrow.
But where did she dredge up that voice she called her husband with? Montalbano wondered. Then he remembered reading in a travel book about certain tiny birds that could wail like sirens. The lady must belong to that species.
The coffee had so much sugar in it that the inspector's mouth turned sticky. The first to speak was the parrot, the one disguised as a man.
'I know why you wanna talk to my daughter. 'Cause of that damn son of a bitch Gargano. Am I right?'
‘ Yes’ yelled Montalbano. 'Were you also a victim of Gargano's sch—'
'Nahhh! ' said the man, violently thrusting his right arm forward and clapping his left hand into the hollow of the elbow.
‘Fili!’ his wife scolded him, using her second voice, the one from the Last Judgement
The windowpanes made a tinkling noise.
'Do you think Filippo Manganaro would be so stupid as to fall for Gargano's little shell game? You know, I didn't even want my daughter to go and work for that swindler!'
‘ You knew Gargano before all this?'
‘ No, but I didn't need to know him 'cause they're all swindlers: the banks, bankers, stock marketeers, everybody who works with money. They can't help it, it's the way things are. If you want, I’ll explain it to you. You by any chance ever read a book called Capital, by Marx?'
‘ Parts of it,' said Montalbano. 'Are you a communist?'
'Hit it, Turi! '
The inspector, not understanding his reply, looked at him dumbfounded. Who was this Turi? He found out a moment later, when the man's twin, the real parrot, whose name was apparently Turiddru, cleared his throat and started singing the 'Internationale'. He sang it rather well, and Montalbano began to feel a wave of nostalgia well up inside him. He was about to compliment the bird's teacher when Michela appeared in the doorway. At the sight of her, Montalbano's jaw dropped. The last thing he expected was this strapping, rather tall brunette with violet eyes, beautiful and full of life, nose slightly reddened from the flu, wearing a miniskirt halfway up her slightly but perfectly plump thighs and a white blouse that barely contained a pair of full breasts imprisoned by no bra. A quick, wicked thought, like a viper darting through the grass, flashed into
his mind. No question but that the handsome Gargano had wet his whistle, or tried to, with a girl like her. 'OK, I'm available now’
Available? She said it with a deep, slightl y gravelly voice. Marlene Dietrich style, which made Montalbano so hot and bothered that he could barely restrain himself from crowing like the professor in The Blue Angel The girl sat down, pulling her skirt as much as possible towards her knees, looking demure, eyes downcast, one hand on her leg and the other on the armrest. It was the pose of a good girl from an honest, hardworking family. The inspector recovered the power of speech.
‘I’m sorry to make you get out of bed.'
'Don t worry about it’
‘I’m here to ask you for some information on ragioniere Gargano and the agency where you used to work.'
'Go ahead. But you should know I was already questioned by someone from your office. Inspector Augello, if I'm not mistaken. Although I must say, frankly, he seemed more interested in other things.'
'Other things?'
He regretted his question even as he was asking it. He'd understood what she meant. And he imagined the scene in his mind: Mimì asking question after question, as his eyes, meanwhile, were delicately removing her blouse, bra (if she was wearing one that day), skirt, and pants. No way Mimì could have resisted, face to face with a beauty like this one.
He thought of Mimì 's future wife, Beatrice, and how many bitter pills the poor thing would have to swallow.
The girl didn't answer the question; she knew that the inspector had understood.
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