The Terra-Cotta Dog by Andrea Camilleri Page B

level.The inspector knew this from experience.
    â€œIs there one television personality you find particularly obnoxious?” he asked him.
    â€œThere are a hundred thousand, but Mike Bongiorno is the worst. Whenever I see him, my stomach gets all queasy and I feel like smashing the screen.”
    â€œGood. And if, after watching this particular MC, you get in your car, drive into a wall, and kill yourself, what am I supposed to do, in your opinion?”
    â€œArrest Mike Bongiorno,” the other said firmly.
    He went back to the office feeling calmer. His encounter with the logic of Ernesto Bonfiglio had distracted and amused him.
    â€œAny news?” he asked as he walked in.
    â€œThere’s a personal letter for you that came just now in the mail,” said Catarella, repeating, for emphasis: “Person-al.”
    On his desk he found a postcard from his father and some office memos.
    â€œHey, Cat! Where’d you put the letter?”
    â€œI said it was personal!” Catarella said defensively.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œIt means that you have to receive it in person, it being personal and all.”
    â€œOkay. The person is here in front of you. Where’s the letter?”
    â€œIt’s gone where it was supposed to go. Where the person personally lives. I told the postman to deliver it to your house, Chief, your personal residence, in Marinella.”
    Â 
 
Standing in front of the Trattoria San Calogero, catching a breath of air, was the cook and owner.
    â€œWhere you going, Inspector? Not coming in?”
    â€œI’m eating at home today.”
    â€œWhatever you say. But I’ve got some rock lobster ready for the grill that’ll seem like you’re not eating them, but dreaming them.”
    Montalbano went inside, won over by the image more than the desire. Then, after finishing his meal, he pushed the dishes away, crossed his arms on the table, and fell asleep. He always ate in a small room with three tables, and so it was easy for Serafino, the waiter, to steer customers towards the big dining room and leave the inspector in peace. Around four o’clock, with the restaurant already closed, the proprietor, noticing that Montalbano was showing no signs of life, made him a cup of coffee, then gently woke him up.

6
    As for the personally personal letter earlier announced by Catarella, he’d completely forgotten about it. It came back to him only when he stepped right on it upon entering his home: the postman had slipped it under the door. The address made it look like an anonymous letter: MONTALBANO—POLICE HEADQUARTERS—CITY. Then, on the upper left, the notice: PERSONAL . Which had then set Catarella’s earthquake-damaged wits in motion.
    Anonymous it was not, however. On the contrary. The signature that Montalbano immediately looked for at the end went off in his brain like a gunshot.
    Â 
Esteemed Inspector,
    It occurred to me that in all probability I won’t be able to come see you tomorrow morning as planned. If the meeting of the Party leadership of Montelusa, which I shall attend upon completing this letter, were by chance—as appears quite likely—to spell failure for my positions, I believe it would be my duty to go to Palermo to try and awaken the souls and consciences of those comrades who make the decisions within the Party. I am even ready to fly to Rome to request an audience with the National Secretary. These intentions, if realized, would necessitate the postponement of our meeting, and thus I beg you please to excuse me for putting in writing what I ought properly to have told you in person.
    As you will surely recall, the day after the strange robbery /nonrobbery at the supermarket, I came of my own accord to police headquarters to report what I had happened to see—that is, a group of men quietly at work, however odd the hour, with lights on and under the supervision of a uniformed