what you have to say.”
The man looked around with the bewildered air of one who, awakened from a leaden sleep, can’t figure out where he is.
“Well?” the inspector exhorted him.
“Ah, yes, right. Excuse me. I’ve taken the liberty of disturbing you to ask you for a word of advice. You may not be the most suitable person, but since I didn’t know who to—”
“I’m listening,” Montalbano cut him off.
“You, I’m sure, yes, you don’t know it, but I am the nephew of Gregorio and Caterina Palmisano.”
“Oh, really? I wasn’t aware they had any relatives.”
“We haven’t seen each other for some twenty years. Family matters, inheritance . . . I don’t know whether . . . In short, my mother didn’t inherit a thing; everything went to the other two children, Gregorio and Caterina, and so . . .”
“Listen, please try to organize your thoughts.”
“Forgive me . . . I’m so mortified. . . . My maternal grandparents, Angelo and Matilde Palmisano, had a daughter, Antonia, one year after getting married. Bear in mind that when she had Antonia, Nonna Matilde wasn’t yet nineteen years old. Then Antonia, when she was eighteen, married Mario Cavazzone, and I was born. But then eighteen years after she’d had Antonia, Nonna Matilde unexpectedly had a son, Gregorio. She was thirty-seven at the time. And then Caterina came along. I’m not sure I’ve made myself clear.”
“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear,” said Montalbano, who at some point had completely lost the thread, but he didn’t feel like hearing the whole genealogy repeated.
“And so, being the closest relative, I want you to tell me whether . . . with things as they are . . . since, apparently, things . . . but, of course, all in strict accordance with the law . . .”
“I’m sorry, but what ‘things’ are you talking about?”
“It’s just that . . . I don’t want to seem like someone taking advantage of . . . misfortune is always misfortune, for Heaven’s sake, and must be respected. There. But since . . . legally speaking, of course, the implication . . .”
He stopped, took a breath, then blurted out:
“Couldn’t they perhaps be considered dead?”
“Who?”
“My aunt and uncle, Gregorio and Caterina Palmisano.”
“They’re crazy, they’re not dead.”
“But they’re not in full possession of their faculties, and therefore . . .”
“Listen, Signor Cacazzone . . .” Montalbano said in exasperation, purposely getting the name wrong.
“Cavazzone.”
“Can we talk straight? You’ve come to me to ask me if there’s any chance you could inherit the possessions of your aunt and uncle, who, though still alive, could be declared not in full possession of their faculties. Is that right?”
“Well, in a certain sense . . .”
“No, Signor Cavazzone, that’s the only sense possible. And so my answer is that I don’t know the first thing about such matters. You should see a lawyer. Good day.”
He didn’t even hold out his hand. That old octogenarian with one foot in the grave, who wanted to scavenge the lives of a wretched pair of crazies, had deeply disturbed him.
The man stood up, more bewildered than when he’d come in.
“Good day,” he said.
And he left.
“They haven’t got any maps of Vigàta at city hall,” said Gallo, coming in. “And no street guides or aerial photographs, either.”
“So what have they got? Anything?”
“They have the new town planning design—six big sheets that cover the whole town—but since the plan hasn’t been fully approved yet, they’re not allowed to grant any public requisitioning of it.”
“You mean the public can’t request to see it?”
“No, Chief, they said ‘public requisitioning.’”
“And what does ‘public requisitioning’ mean?”
“Asking for a copy.”
Another word to add to his list.
“An’ you have to put in an explicit request for it, in writing and on the
The man looked around with the bewildered air of one who, awakened from a leaden sleep, can’t figure out where he is.
“Well?” the inspector exhorted him.
“Ah, yes, right. Excuse me. I’ve taken the liberty of disturbing you to ask you for a word of advice. You may not be the most suitable person, but since I didn’t know who to—”
“I’m listening,” Montalbano cut him off.
“You, I’m sure, yes, you don’t know it, but I am the nephew of Gregorio and Caterina Palmisano.”
“Oh, really? I wasn’t aware they had any relatives.”
“We haven’t seen each other for some twenty years. Family matters, inheritance . . . I don’t know whether . . . In short, my mother didn’t inherit a thing; everything went to the other two children, Gregorio and Caterina, and so . . .”
“Listen, please try to organize your thoughts.”
“Forgive me . . . I’m so mortified. . . . My maternal grandparents, Angelo and Matilde Palmisano, had a daughter, Antonia, one year after getting married. Bear in mind that when she had Antonia, Nonna Matilde wasn’t yet nineteen years old. Then Antonia, when she was eighteen, married Mario Cavazzone, and I was born. But then eighteen years after she’d had Antonia, Nonna Matilde unexpectedly had a son, Gregorio. She was thirty-seven at the time. And then Caterina came along. I’m not sure I’ve made myself clear.”
“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear,” said Montalbano, who at some point had completely lost the thread, but he didn’t feel like hearing the whole genealogy repeated.
“And so, being the closest relative, I want you to tell me whether . . . with things as they are . . . since, apparently, things . . . but, of course, all in strict accordance with the law . . .”
“I’m sorry, but what ‘things’ are you talking about?”
“It’s just that . . . I don’t want to seem like someone taking advantage of . . . misfortune is always misfortune, for Heaven’s sake, and must be respected. There. But since . . . legally speaking, of course, the implication . . .”
He stopped, took a breath, then blurted out:
“Couldn’t they perhaps be considered dead?”
“Who?”
“My aunt and uncle, Gregorio and Caterina Palmisano.”
“They’re crazy, they’re not dead.”
“But they’re not in full possession of their faculties, and therefore . . .”
“Listen, Signor Cacazzone . . .” Montalbano said in exasperation, purposely getting the name wrong.
“Cavazzone.”
“Can we talk straight? You’ve come to me to ask me if there’s any chance you could inherit the possessions of your aunt and uncle, who, though still alive, could be declared not in full possession of their faculties. Is that right?”
“Well, in a certain sense . . .”
“No, Signor Cavazzone, that’s the only sense possible. And so my answer is that I don’t know the first thing about such matters. You should see a lawyer. Good day.”
He didn’t even hold out his hand. That old octogenarian with one foot in the grave, who wanted to scavenge the lives of a wretched pair of crazies, had deeply disturbed him.
The man stood up, more bewildered than when he’d come in.
“Good day,” he said.
And he left.
“They haven’t got any maps of Vigàta at city hall,” said Gallo, coming in. “And no street guides or aerial photographs, either.”
“So what have they got? Anything?”
“They have the new town planning design—six big sheets that cover the whole town—but since the plan hasn’t been fully approved yet, they’re not allowed to grant any public requisitioning of it.”
“You mean the public can’t request to see it?”
“No, Chief, they said ‘public requisitioning.’”
“And what does ‘public requisitioning’ mean?”
“Asking for a copy.”
Another word to add to his list.
“An’ you have to put in an explicit request for it, in writing and on the
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