five minutes, unable to do anything except curse.
5
Gallo returned about half an hour later.
“All taken care of.”
“So where are the papers?”
“They have to photocopy them.”
“And does it take so long?”
“Chief, don’t you know what people working in government offices are like? They wanted to give me them tomorrow, but I managed to persuade them to have them ready by four o’clock this afternoon. But they want ten euros. Six just for the copying, and four for the rush.”
“Here you go.”
Fucking treasure hunt.
And in the meantime he had to shell out ten euros. The mysterious riddler would have to be patient. He might even have to wait till tomorrow.
Montalbano dawdled about the office until lunchtime. By the time he went out he was dying of boredom.
How was it possible that there weren’t any more serious robberies, shootouts, or attempted murders? Had they all become saints?
At Enzo’s he stuffed his guts, partly because he had a good appetite despite the eggplant parmesan of the night before, partly because he wanted to make it up to Enzo for disappointing him the last time. A full battery of antipasti, in the sense that he had a sampling of every antipasto on the menu,
spaghetti alle vongole veraci
(and truly
veraci
), and five striped surmullet (and truly striped).
It occurred to him that Enzo, in the kitchen, had no imagination. He always made the same dishes. But the ingredients were always extremely fresh and Enzo could cook like a god. Montalbano liked a little imagination in the kitchen, but only in the hands of a culinary artist. Otherwise it was best to remain within the bounds of normality.
And this time he had to take his walk along the jetty, all the way to the lighthouse. He sat down on the flat rock and stayed about twenty minutes, relishing the smell of algae and
lippo
, that sort of aromatic green slime that covered the waterline of the rock and teemed with tiny little sea animals. Then he went back to the office.
Shortly after four o’clock, Gallo brought him the photocopies of the town planning scheme. Six enormous sheets, rolled up and numbered.
No, he couldn’t bring them home to Marinella. He already had the two dolls there. All that paper would only add to the confusion.
Taking a quick look around his office he calculated that if he moved the two armchairs and small sofa out of the way, he could create enough space to lay the six sheets out on the floor, lining them up in sequence, according to their numbering.
He pushed the furniture to the walls, unrolled the first sheet, and spread it out on the floor.
And immediately the problems started, because the goddamn sheet of paper didn’t want to stay in place and simply rolled itself back up. And so he grabbed the magnifying glass that was on the desk, three different instruction manuals, the penal code, two boxes of paper clips, a box of pens—in short, everything that might serve as a paperweight but didn’t take up too much space—and after some fifteen minutes of cursing the saints, he had managed to spread the sheets out in the proper order, holding them down with a variety of strategically placed objects.
But the whole turned out to be too big for him to look at while standing over it. So he grabbed a chair and climbed up on it.
Then he took the poem out of his pocket.
But how was it that Mimì Augello always happened to come in at moments like this?
“What movie is playing tonight?
Superman
?
Spider-Man
?
007: From Vigàta with Love
? Or is this going to be a speech to the nation?” he asked.
Montalbano didn’t answer, and Mimì left, shaking his head.
Surely,
thought the inspector,
he’s convinced I’m getting more senile with each day that goes by. Why doesn’t he just worry about himself? He’s the one who’s forced to wear glasses, even though he’s a lot younger . . .
The first quatrain of the poem served no purpose. The directions didn’t start until the second stanza, with
5
Gallo returned about half an hour later.
“All taken care of.”
“So where are the papers?”
“They have to photocopy them.”
“And does it take so long?”
“Chief, don’t you know what people working in government offices are like? They wanted to give me them tomorrow, but I managed to persuade them to have them ready by four o’clock this afternoon. But they want ten euros. Six just for the copying, and four for the rush.”
“Here you go.”
Fucking treasure hunt.
And in the meantime he had to shell out ten euros. The mysterious riddler would have to be patient. He might even have to wait till tomorrow.
Montalbano dawdled about the office until lunchtime. By the time he went out he was dying of boredom.
How was it possible that there weren’t any more serious robberies, shootouts, or attempted murders? Had they all become saints?
At Enzo’s he stuffed his guts, partly because he had a good appetite despite the eggplant parmesan of the night before, partly because he wanted to make it up to Enzo for disappointing him the last time. A full battery of antipasti, in the sense that he had a sampling of every antipasto on the menu,
spaghetti alle vongole veraci
(and truly
veraci
), and five striped surmullet (and truly striped).
It occurred to him that Enzo, in the kitchen, had no imagination. He always made the same dishes. But the ingredients were always extremely fresh and Enzo could cook like a god. Montalbano liked a little imagination in the kitchen, but only in the hands of a culinary artist. Otherwise it was best to remain within the bounds of normality.
And this time he had to take his walk along the jetty, all the way to the lighthouse. He sat down on the flat rock and stayed about twenty minutes, relishing the smell of algae and
lippo
, that sort of aromatic green slime that covered the waterline of the rock and teemed with tiny little sea animals. Then he went back to the office.
Shortly after four o’clock, Gallo brought him the photocopies of the town planning scheme. Six enormous sheets, rolled up and numbered.
No, he couldn’t bring them home to Marinella. He already had the two dolls there. All that paper would only add to the confusion.
Taking a quick look around his office he calculated that if he moved the two armchairs and small sofa out of the way, he could create enough space to lay the six sheets out on the floor, lining them up in sequence, according to their numbering.
He pushed the furniture to the walls, unrolled the first sheet, and spread it out on the floor.
And immediately the problems started, because the goddamn sheet of paper didn’t want to stay in place and simply rolled itself back up. And so he grabbed the magnifying glass that was on the desk, three different instruction manuals, the penal code, two boxes of paper clips, a box of pens—in short, everything that might serve as a paperweight but didn’t take up too much space—and after some fifteen minutes of cursing the saints, he had managed to spread the sheets out in the proper order, holding them down with a variety of strategically placed objects.
But the whole turned out to be too big for him to look at while standing over it. So he grabbed a chair and climbed up on it.
Then he took the poem out of his pocket.
But how was it that Mimì Augello always happened to come in at moments like this?
“What movie is playing tonight?
Superman
?
Spider-Man
?
007: From Vigàta with Love
? Or is this going to be a speech to the nation?” he asked.
Montalbano didn’t answer, and Mimì left, shaking his head.
Surely,
thought the inspector,
he’s convinced I’m getting more senile with each day that goes by. Why doesn’t he just worry about himself? He’s the one who’s forced to wear glasses, even though he’s a lot younger . . .
The first quatrain of the poem served no purpose. The directions didn’t start until the second stanza, with
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