Authors: Andrea Camilleri
7
Apparently, in his sleep, one part of his brain had kept working
on the Lapra case. Around four oclock in the morning,
in fact, a memory came back to him, and he got up and
started searching frantically among his books. Suddenly he
remembered that hed lent the book he was looking for to
Augello, after his deputy had seen the film made from it on
television. Hed now had it for six months and still hadnt
given it back. Montalbano got upset.
Hello, MimMontalbano here.
Ohmygod! Whats going on? What happened?
Do you still have that novel by Le Carrntitled Call for
the Dead? Im sure I lent it to you.
What the fuck?! Its four in the morning!
So what? I want it back.
Salvo, Im telling you this as a loving brother: why dont
you have yourself committed?
I want it back immediately.
But I was asleep! Calm down. Ill bring it to the office
in the morning. Otherwise I would have to put on my underwear,
start looking, get dressed
I dont give a shit.Youre going to look for it, find it, get
in your car, even in your underwear, and bring it to me.
He dragged himself about the house for half an hour,
doing pointless things like trying to understand the phone
bill or reading the label on a bottle of mineral water. Then he
heard a car screech to a halt, a dull thud against the door, and
the car leaving. He opened the door: the book was on the
ground, the lights of Augellos car already far away. He had a
mind to make an anonymous phone call to the carabinieri.
Hello, this is a concerned citizen. Theres some madman driving
around in his underwear...
He let it drop. He started leafing through the novel.
The story went exactly as hed remembered it. Page 8:
Smiley, Maston speaking. You interviewed Samuel
Arthur Fennan at the Foreign Office on Monday, am I
right?
Yes...yes I did.
What was the case?
Anonymous letter alleging Party membership at Ox
ford...
And there, on page 139, was the beginning of the conclusion
that Smiley would arrive at in his report:
It was, however, possible that he had lost his heart for his
work, and that his luncheon invitation to me was a first step to
confession. With this in mind he might also have written the
anonymous letter which could have been designed to put him
in touch with the Department.
Following Smileys logic, it was therefore possible that
Lapra himself had written the anonymous letters exposing
him. But if he was their author, why hadnt he sent them
to the police or carabinieri under some other pretext?
No sooner had he formulated this question than he
smiled at himself for being so na. In the hands of the police
or carabinieri, an anonymous letter might have triggered
an investigation and have led to far graver consequences for
Lapra. By sending them to his wife, Lapra was hoping
to provoke a reaction of the more domestic variety, but one
that would nevertheless rescue him from a situation that was
becoming either too dangerous or unbearable. He wanted to
pull out, and those were cries for help. But his wife had taken
them at face value, that is, as anonymous letters denouncing a
tawdry, common liaison. Offended, she had not reacted, but
only withdrawn into a scornful silence. And so Lapra, in
despair, had written to his son, this time without hiding behind
a veil of anonymity. But the son, blinded by egotism and
the fear of losing a few lire, fled to New York.
Thanks to Smiley, it all made sense. He went back to
sleep.
Commendatore Baldassare Marzachdirector of the Vig
post office, was notorious for being a presumptuous imbecile.
And he didnt fail to live up to his reputation this time, either.
I cannot grant your request.
And why not, if I may ask?
Because you dont have a judges authorization.
And why should I need that? Any other employee of
your office would have given me the information I asked for.
Its of no consequence whatsoever.
Thats your opinion. Had they given you this information,
my employees would have committed a punishable infraction.
Commendatore, lets be reasonable. I am merely asking
you for the name of the postman who services the neighborhood
in which Salita Granet is located. Nothing more.
And Im not going to tell you, okay? Supposing I did
tell you, what would you do?
I would ask the postman a few questions.
See? You want to violate the postal code of secrecy.
What on earth are you talking about?
An utter nitwit. Which isnt so easy to find these days,
now that nitwits disguise themselves as intelligent people.
The inspector decided to resort to a bit of high drama that
would annihilate his adversary. Without warning, he let his
body fall backwards, shoulders planted firmly against the
back of the chair, and began shaking his hands and legs, trying
desperately to open his shirt collar.
Oh God, he gasped.
Oh God! echoed Commendator Marzachstanding
up and rushing to the inspector. Are you ill?
Please help me, wheezed Montalbano.
The post office manager bent down, tried to loosen the
inspectors collar, and at that moment Montalbano started
shouting.
Let me go! For Gods sake, let me go!
All at once he grabbed Marzach hands, and as the commendatore
was instinctively struggling to break free, he held
them up around his own neck.
What are you doing? muttered Marzachtotally confused,
not understanding what was happening. Montalbano
yelled again.
Let me go! How dare you! he bawled, still clutching
the commendatores hands.
The door flew open, and two terrorized postal employees
appeared, a man and a woman, who unmistakably saw
their boss trying to strangle the inspector.
Get out of here! Montalbano yelled at the two. Out!
Its nothing! Everythings fine!
The employees withdrew, closing the door behind them.
Montalbano calmly readjusted his collar and glared at
Marzachwho, as soon as hed released him, had backed up
against a wall.
Youre fucked, MarzachThey saw you, those two. And
since they hate you like the rest of your staff, Im sure theyd
be happy to testify. Assaulting a police officer. What shall we
do? Do you want to be reported or not?
Why do you want to ruin me?
Because I hold you responsible.
For what, for Gods sake?
For the worst things imaginable. For letters that take
two months to go from one part of Vig to another, for
packages that arrive torn apart with half the contents miss-
ingand you talk to me of the postal code of secrecy, which
you can stick straight up your assfor books that I wait and
wait for and that never come...Youre a piece of shit that
dresses up in dignity to cover this cesspool. Is that enough?
Yes, said Marzachshattered.
Yes, of course he used to receive mail. Not a lot, but some.
There was one company outside of Italy that used to write to
him, but nobody else, really.
Where were they from?
I never noticed. But the stamps were foreign. I can tell
you what the company was called, though, because its name
was on the envelope. Aslanidis was the name. I remember it
because my dad, rest his soul, whod fought in Greece, met a
girl from those parts whose name was Galatea Aslanidis. Used
to talk about her all the time.
Did the envelopes say what this company sold?
Yes. Dattes, they said. Dates.
Thanks for coming so quickly, said Signora Antonietta
Palmisano, lately become the widow Lapra, as soon as she
opened the door for Montalbano.
Why? Did you want to see me?
Yes. Didnt they tell you I called your office?
I havent been there yet today. I came here on my own.
Then its a case of kleptomania, the woman concluded.
For a moment the inspector felt confused; then he understood
that shed intended to say clairvoyance.
One of these days Ill introduce her to Catarella, he thought,
then Ill transcribe the dialogue. Better than Ionesco!
What did you want to see me about, signora?
Antonietta Palmisano Lapra mischievously wagged a
small forefinger.
No, no, no. You have to talk first, since you thought to
come on your own.
Signora, I would like you to show me exactly what you
did the other morning when you were getting ready to go
out to see your sister.
The widow was dumbfounded, opening and closing her
mouth.
Is this some kind of joke?
Hardly.
Are you asking me to put on my nightgown? said Signora
Antonietta, blushing.
I wouldnt dream of it.
Well, let me think. I got out of bed as soon as the alarm
went off. Then I took
No, signora, perhaps I didnt make myself clear enough.
I dont want you to tell me what you did, I want you to show
me. Lets go in the other room.
They went into the bedroom. The armoire was wide
open, a suitcase full of womens dresses on the bed. On one
of the bedside tables was a red alarm clock.
Do you sleep on this side of the bed? asked Montalbano.
Yes. What should I do, lie down?
No need. Just sit on the edge.
The widow obeyed, but then:
Whats any of this got to do with Arelios murder? she
asked.
Please do as I say, its important. Just five minutes and
Ill be out of your hair. Tell me: did your husband also wake
up when the alarm went off ?
Normally he slept lightly. His eyes would pop open if I
made the slightest noise. But now that youve made me think
back on it, that morning he didnt hear the alarm. In fact, he
must have had a bit of a cold, a stuffed-up nose, because he
started snoring, which he hardly ever did.
A terrible actor, poor old Lapra. But it worked, at
least that time.
Go on.
I got up, picked up the clothes Id put on that chair over
there, and went into the bathroom.
Lets move.
Embarrassed, the woman led the way. When they were in
the bathroom, Signora Antonietta, looking at the floor, asked:
Do I have to do everything?
Of course not. You were dressed when you came out of
the bathroom, correct?
Yes, fully dressed, thats how I always do it.
Then what did you do?
I went into the dining room.
Having learned her lesson by now, she walked towards
the dining room, followed by the inspector.
I picked up my purse, which Id prepared on this couch
the night before, then I opened the door and went out on the
landing.
Are you sure you locked the door behind you when
you went out?
Absolutely certain. I called the elevator
Thatll be enough, thank you. What time was it, do you
remember?
Six twenty-five. I was late, actually, so late that I started
running.
What was the snag?
The woman gave him a questioning look.
For what reason were you running late? Let me put it
another way. If someone knows he has to go somewhere the
next morning, he usually sets the alarm clock, calculating the
amount of time it will take to
Signora Antonietta smiled.
A callus on my foot was hurting, she said. I put on
some ointment, wrapped it up, and lost some time I hadnt
figured on.
Thanks again, and sorry for the disturbance. Good
bye.
Wait! Where are you going? Are you leaving?
Oh, yes, of course. You had something to tell me.
Sit down a minute.
Montalbano did as she said. In any case, hed found out
what he wanted to know: that is, the widow Lapra had
not entered the study, where Karima almost certainly had
been hiding.
As you can see, the woman began, Im getting ready
to leave. As soon as I can give Arelio a proper funeral, Im
going away.
Where will you go, signora?
To stay with my sister. She has a big house, and shes
sick, as you know. Ill never set foot inVig again, even after
Im dead.
Why not go live with your son?
I dont want to inconvenience him. And I dont get
along with his wife, who spends money like water while my
poor son is always complaining that he cant make ends
meet. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was that, when I was
going through some old stuff I dont need anymore and want
to throw away, I found the envelope the first anonymous letter
came in. I thought Id burned it, but I must have destroyed
only the letter. And since you seemed particularly
interested...
The address had been typed.
May I keep this?
Of course. Well, thats all.
She stood up, as did the inspector, but then she went over
to the sideboard, picked up a letter that was lying on it, and
shook it at Montalbano.
Look at this, Inspector. Arelios been dead barely two
days and already I have to start paying the debts he ran up
with his filthy little arrangements. Just yesterday I received
apparently the post office already knows he was killedI received
two bills from the office. One for electricity: two
hundred twenty thousand lire! And one for the phone: three
hundred eighty thousand! But he wasnt the one using the
phone, you know. Who would he ever call anyway? It was
that Tunisian whore who was phoning, thats for sure, probably
calling her family in Tunisia. Then this morning, this
came. God only knows what kinds of ideas that dirty slut put
into my idiot husbands head!
So compassionate, the widow Antonietta Lapra, n
Palmisano. The envelope had no stamp on it; it had been
hand-delivered. Montalbano decided not to show too much
curiosity, only as much as was necessary.
When was this brought here?
This morning, as I said. A bill for one hundred seventy-
seven thousand lire, from the Mulone printing works. Incidentally,
Inspector, could you give me back the keys to the
office?
Do you need them right away?
Right this instant, I guess not. But Id like to start
showing it to people who might be interested in buying it. I
want to sell the apartment too. Ive already figured that the
funeral alone is going to cost me over five million lire between
one thing and the next.