“Salvo? Nicolò here. We did it. As soon as I left you, I phoned Ragona. Olcese told me he had no declarations to make to the press. I replied that I wanted to see him in my capacity as a private citizen. And he consented. An hour later I was in Ragona. I’ll tell you straight off that it’s more congenial talking to an iceberg than to that guy. I told him everything, and I told him to go into the workshop and see if the twenty meters of Xeron were still there. He replied that he would look into it. I didn’t tell you about this first discussion because I didn’t want you to get pissed off.”
“Did you mention my name?”
“Are you kidding? I wasn’t born yesterday. Anyway, around four o’clock this afternoon, he summoned me to Ragona. The first thing he said to me—though without seeming the least bit ruffled, since, after all, what he was about to tell me meant he’d got the investigation completely wrong—the first thing he said was that twenty meters of Xeron were found in Alberto Larussa’s workshop. Not one word more or one word less. He thanked me with the same human warmth as if I had told him what time it was, and he shook my hand. And as we were saying good-bye, he said: ‘Have you ever thought about joining the police force?’ I hesitated in surprise for a second, then said: ‘No, why do you ask?’ And you know what he replied? ‘Because I think your friend, Inspector Montalbano, would be very happy if you did.’ The son of a bitch!”
Giacomo Larussa was released, Lieutenant Olcese garnered heaps of praise, Nicolò Zito got a memorable scoop, and Salvo Montalbano celebrated with such a feast that he was sick for the next two days.
MONTALBANO’S RICE FRITTERS
The first to begin the litany, novena, or whatever it was, on that twenty-seventh day of December, was the commissioner.
“You, Montalbano, naturally will be spending New Year’s Eve with your Livia, I assume?”
No, he would not be spending New Year’s Eve with his Livia. They’d had a terrible spat, one of the dangerous ones that always begin with the statement “Let’s try to reason calmly” and invariably end up in the gutter. And so the inspector would be staying in Vigàta while Livia went off to Viareggio with her friends from the office. The commissioner noticed that something wasn’t right and was quick to spare Montalbano from having to give an embarrassed reply.
“Because otherwise we’d be delighted to have you at our place. My wife hasn’t seen you for a long time, and she’s always asking about you.”
The inspector was about to reply gratefully in the affirmative when the commissioner continued.
“Dr. Lattes will also be there. His wife had to rush to Merano to be with her mother, who’s unwell.”
Montalbano also felt unwell at the idea of spending an evening with Dr. Lattes, the chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, known as “Lattes e Mieles” for his unctuous manner. No doubt after the meal the doctor would start talking endlessly about the “problems of public safety in Italy,” which would have made a good title for his long monologues.
“Actually I’d already made—”
“Listen,” interrupted the commissioner, well familiar with Montalbano’s feelings about Lattes, “if you can’t make it, perhaps you could come for lunch on New Year’s Day.”
“I’ll be there,” the inspector promised.
Then it was Signora Clementina Vasile-Cozzo’s turn.
“If you haven’t got anything better to do, why don’t you come to my place? My son will be there with his wife and child.”
And what would his role be at such a nice little family gathering? He reluctantly declined.
Next it was Headmaster Burgio’s turn. He and his wife were going to Comitini, to their niece’s house.
“They’re very nice people, you know. Why don’t you tag along?”
They might be nicer than nice, but Montalbano didn’t want to tag along. Perhaps Burgio hadn’t used the right expression. If he’d said “join in the fun” or something similar, there might have been a chance.
Right on cue, the litany or novena or whatever it was began again at the station.
“What are you doing for New Year’s Eve, Salvo? Want to come with me?” asked Mimì Augello, sensing that he’d had a quarrel with Livia.
“And where are you going?” Montalbano asked in turn, defensively.
Being unmarried, Mimì would surely have taken him to a noisy party at the house of friends or in some anonymous, pretentious restaurant thundering with voices, laughter, and music at full volume.
He himself preferred to eat in silence. That sort of racket risked ruining his appreciation of any dish whatsoever, even if prepared by the best cook in creation.
“I’ve reserved a table at the Central Park,” Mimì replied.
He should have known. The Central Park! A great big restaurant out by Fela, ridiculous in name and furnishings, where they’d managed to poison Montalbano with the simplest of cutlets and some steamed vegetables.
He stared at his second-in-command but said nothing.
“Okay, okay, forget I ever mentioned it,” concluded Mimì, leaving the room. But then he poked his head back in. “The truth of the matter is that you prefer to eat alone.”
Mimì was right. The inspector recalled reading a short story, surely by an Italian author, whose name he couldn’t remember, that told of a country where eating in public was considered an affront to common decency. Whereas in reality it was the most normal thing in the world to eat in front of everybody. Deep down, however, he agreed with the concept. To savor a dish properly cooked, as God would have it, is one of the most exquisite solitary pleasures known to man, and not to be shared with anyone, not even the person you love most.
When he got home, he found a message from Adelina, his housekeeper, on the kitchen table.
Im sorry but I teke tamarro off cuz its New Years an botha my boys ar free an I gonna meck arancini rice balls wich they lika so much. If you wanna do me the onner an come an eat some, you no the adress.
Adelina had two delinquent sons who were always in and out of jail. It was a lucky conjunction, as rare as Halley’s comet, that they were both out at the same time. One to be solemnly celebrated, therefore, with arancini.
Good God, Adelina’s arancini! He’d tasted them only once—but the memory had surely entered his DNA.
Adelina would take two whole days to prepare them. He knew the recipe by heart. On the first day you make a stew of bullock and pork in equal parts, which you cook on a very low flame for many hours with onions, tomatoes, celery, parsley, and basil. The following day you make a risotto, the kind they call alla milanese (but without saffron, for Chrissake!), and then you spread this out on a table, fold in some fresh eggs, and then let the whole thing cool. In the meantime you cook the peas, make a béchamel, take a few slices of salami, break them up into little pieces, and knead this all together with the stewed meat, which you will have chopped finely with a mezzaluna (no blenders, for heaven’s sake!). The meat’s juices will blend in with the risotto. At this point you take a bit of risotto, wedge it into your cupped hand, put a spoonful of the kneaded mixture inside it, and cover it with more rice until you’ve formed a nice round ball. As you make each ball, you roll it around in flour, then in egg white, and then in bread crumbs. When they’re ready, you put all the balls in a skillet with boiling olive oil and fry them until they take on the color of old gold. Then you blot them on absorbent paper. And finally, giving thanks to the Lord, you eat them!
There was no doubt in Montalbano’s mind as to whom he should dine with on New Year’s Eve. Only one question still nagged him before he fell asleep: Would both of Adelina’s delinquent sons manage to stay out of jail until the following day?
On the morning of the thirty-first, as Montalbano was entering his office, Fazio restarted the litany or novena or whatever it was.
“Listen, Chief,” he said, “if you got nothing better to do tonight—”
&
nbsp; Montalbano interrupted him and, since Fazio was a friend, told him how he would be spending his New Year’s Eve. Contrary to what he’d expected, Fazio frowned.
“What’s wrong?” the inspector asked, alarmed.
“Is your housekeeper’s surname Cirrinciò?”
“Yes.”
“And her sons are called Giuseppe and Pasquale?”
“Of course.”
“Wait just a second,” said Fazio, and he left the room.
Montalbano started getting nervous.
Fazio returned a few minutes later.
“Pasquale’s in trouble.”
The inspector felt a chill run down his spine. Good-bye arancini.
“What do you mean, he’s in trouble?”
“I mean there’s an arrest warrant out for him. The Montelusa Flying Squad. For robbing a supermarket.”
“Burglary or armed robbery?”
“Burglary.”
“Listen, Fazio, try to find out a little more. But not officially. Do you have any friends on the Flying Squad?”
“As many as you like.”
Montalbano really didn’t feel like working anymore.
“Chief, somebody torched the car of Salvatore Jacono, the engineer,” said Gallo, running in.
“Tell Inspector Augello about it.”
Then Galluzzo came in.
“Inspector, Ragioniere Pirrera’s house was broken into last night and they cleaned the place out.”
“Tell Inspector Augello about it.”
That way Mimì could kiss his New Year’s Eve at the Central Park good-bye. The guy should actually thank him for it, since he was being spared a sure case of food poisoning.
“Chief, it’s just like I said. On the night of the twenty-seventh, a band of burglars robbed a supermarket in Montelusa and loaded all the stuff onto a truck. The Flying Squad’s sure that Pasquale Cirrinciò was part of the gang. They’ve got proof.”
“What kind of proof?”
“They didn’t say.”
There was a pause, then Fazio grabbed the bull by the horns.
“Chief, I’m gonna talk to you straight. You can’t go and eat at Adelina’s tonight. I won’t say anything, you can count on that. But what if the arrest team gets the bright idea of going to look for Pasquale at his mother’s place and finds him eating arancini with you? I don’t think it’s advisable.”
The telephone rang.
“Is that you, Inspector Montalbano?”
“Yes.”
“Pasquale here.”
“Pasquale who?”
“Pasquale Cirrinciò.”
“Are you calling me from your cell phone?” Montalbano asked.
“Nosir, I ain’t that stupid.”
“It’s Pasquale,” the inspector said to Fazio, covering the receiver with his hand.
“I don’t want to know anything!” said Fazio, leaving the room.
“What is it, Pasquà?”
“Inspector, I need to talk to you.”
“I need to talk to you too. Where are you?”
“On the freeway to Montelusa. I’m calling from a phone booth outside Pepè Tarantello’s bar.”
“Try not to let anyone see you. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes, max.”
“Get in the car,” the inspector ordered, the moment he spotted Pasquale near the phone booth.
“Are we going far?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me take my own car and I’ll follow you.”
“You’re gonna leave your car here. What do you wanna do, make a convoy?”
Pasquale obeyed. He was a good-looking youngster, just over thirty, with dark hair and lively, dark eyes.
“Inspector, I wanna explain . . .”
“Later,” said Montalbano, starting up the car.
“Where you takin’ me?”
“To my place, in Marinella. Try to slouch down and keep your right hand on your face, as if you had a toothache. That way nobody outside will recognize you. Do you know there’s a warrant out for your arrest?”
“Yeah, ’ass why I called. I found out from a friend this morning, on my way back from Palermo.”
Settling in on the veranda with a mug of beer in front of him, courtesy of Montalbano, Pasquale decided the time had come to explain.
“I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this Omnibus supermarket thing. I swear on my mother’s head.”
Pasquale would never have sworn falsely on his beloved mother’s head. Montalbano became immediately convinced he was innocent.
“Swearing’s not going to help much. We need proof. And the Flying Squad say they’ve got some solid stuff in their hands.”
“Inspector, I can’t even guess wha’ they got in their hands, since I wasn’t there when the supermarket was robbed.”
“Wait a second,” said the inspector.
He went into the bedroom and made a phone call. When he came back out, he was frowning darkly.
“What’s wrong?” Pasquale asked nervously.
“What’s wrong is that the Flying Squad’s got evidence to nail you.”
“What evidence?”
“Your wallet. They found it near the cash register. There was even your ID card in it.”
Pasquale turned pale, then shot to his feet and slapped himself in the forehead.
“So tha’ss where I lost it!”
He sat back down immediately; he felt weak in the knees.
“So how’m I gonna get outta this now?” he wailed.
“Tell me what happened.”
“On the evening of the twenny-seventh, I went to that supermarket. They were just closing up. I bought two bottles of wine and a bottle of whisky, then some savory snacks an’ cookies, stuff like that. An’ I brought it all to a friend’s house.”
“Who’s this friend?”
“Peppe Nasca.”
Montalbano grimaced.
“And I’ll bet that Cocò Bellìa and Tito Farruggia were there too, right?”
“Yeah,” Pasquale admitted.
The whole gang, all with criminal records, all comrades in burglary.
“So why’d you get together?”
“To play cards.”
Montalbano’s hand flew through the air and struck Pasquale’s cheek.
“Now start talking. That’s the first.”
“Sorry,” said Pasquale.
“So: Why did you guys get together?”
Unexpectedly, Pasquale started laughing.
“You find this funny? I don’t.”
“No, Inspector, it really is funny. You know why we got together at Peppe Nasca’s place? We were planning a robbery for the night of the twenty-eighth.”
“Where?”
“A supermarket,” said Pasquale, laughing until the tears started rolling down his face.
Montalbano finally understood why he was laughing so hard.
“The same one? The Omnibus?”
Pasquale nodded in affirmation, choked with laughter. Montalbano refilled his mug with beer.
“And somebody beat you to it?”
Another nod.
“Look, Pasquà, you’re still in hot water. Who’s gonna believe you? If you tell them who you were with that evening, they’ll lock you up and throw away the key. Good God! Four hoods like you guys, serving as each other’s alibis! Now there’s something to split a gut over!”
He went back into the house and made another phone call. When he returned, he was shaking his head.
“You know who they’re looking for, besides you, in connection with the supermarket heist? Peppe Nasca, Cocò Bellìa, and Tito Farruggia. The whole gang.”
“Madunnuzza santa!” said Pasquale.
“And you know what�
�s amazing? That you and your pals are going to jail because you, like a stupid shit, went and lost your wallet in that very same supermarket. It’s like you put your name on the whole caper, like you were there casing the joint.”
“When the other guys are arrested and find out why, they’re gonna bust my ass the first chance they get.”
“I can see why,” said Montalbano. “So you’d better get your ass ready for it. Fazio also told me they’ve already got Peppe Nasca at the station. Galluzzo arrested him.”
Pasquale buried his face in his hands. While staring at him, Montalbano got an idea of how he might save the arancini dinner. He dashed inside, and Pasquale heard him rummaging about, opening and closing drawers.
“Come in here.”
Montalbano was in the dining room, waiting for him with a pair of handcuffs. Pasquale gawked at him in disbelief.
“I couldn’t remember where I’d put them,” said the inspector.
“What are you going to do?”
“Arrest you, Pasquà.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? You’re a thief and I’m a policeman. You’re wanted by the law, and I’ve found you. Don’t make a fuss.”
“Inspector, you know perfectly well that with me there’s no need for handcuffs.”
“There is this time.”
Resigned, Pasquale approached him, and Montalbano put a handcuff around his left wrist. Then he led him into the bathroom and locked the other cuff around the drainpipe.
“I’ll be back shortly,” said the inspector. “If nature calls, you can relieve yourself without any trouble.”
Pasquale couldn’t even manage to open his mouth.
“Have you informed the Flying Squad that we’ve arrested Peppe Nasca?” he asked as he entered the station.
“You asked me not to, and I didn’t,” Fazio replied.
“Bring him into my office.”
Peppe Nasca was about forty and had a huge nose. Montalbano sat him down and offered him a cigarette.
“You’re fucked, Peppe. You, Cocò Bellìa, Tito Farruggia, and Pasquale Cirrinciò.”
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 22