The Dance of the Seagull by Andrea Camilleri Page A

which floor to get off at, which ward to visit, but . . . It was hopeless. In the brief distance traveled between the information desk and the elevator area, he would completely forget everything he’d been told. And so, once inside elevator A instead of elevator B, he would inevitably end up in the neurosurgery ward when he was supposed to go to the accident ward. And then began a veritable
via crucis
to find the right ward. He would go down the wrong corridors, open doors exposing bare-assed patients, and have endless insults heaped upon him . . .
    This time, too, the tradition was maintained. In short, after he’d been wandering the hallways for about half an hour, lost and covered in sweat, a nurse of about thirty, tall and blond with blue-green eyes and long legs like one of those unreal nurses one sees in hospital dramas, crossed paths with him for the second time and, noticing he looked unhappier than ever, like an orphan from Burundi, took pity on him and asked:
    “Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”
    “Yes.”
    “Just tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there.”
    In his mind Montalbano prayed that the Good Lord, after granting her the title in the worldwide Miss Nurse contest, would throw open the pearly gates for her when she died. The young woman left him outside the door to Fazio’s room, which was closed.
    He knocked discreetly, but nobody answered. Already agitated, he broke out in a cold sweat. Maybe they’d changed his room?
    So how was he going to figure out where they’d moved him to? Perhaps it was best to have a look first, and see if the room was actually empty. As he was reaching for the doorknob like a burglar trying not to make a sound, the door was suddenly opened from the inside, and Fazio’s wife appeared.
    “Let’s talk outside,” she whispered to him, closing the door behind her.
    “What’s wrong?” asked Montalbano, worried.
    The woman had two dark circles under her eyes, and the inspector thought he saw more white hair on her head than the last time he’d seen her.
    “I just wanted to let you know that my husband didn’t have a good sleep last night. He had nightmares. The doctor said he shouldn’t talk to you for more than five minutes. I’m so sorry, Inspector, but—”
    “That’s all right, signora, I understand. Don’t worry, I won’t tire him out, I promise.”
    At this point a dwarflike nurse materialized next to Fazio’s wife and, without saying hello, cast a malevolent glance at the inspector and then looked at her watch.
    “You have exactly five minutes, starting now.”
    What was this, a race against the clock?
    Signora Fazio opened the door for him, then slowly closed it behind him. She understood that the inspector wanted to be alone when talking to her husband. What a great woman!
    Fazio was either sleeping or keeping his eyes closed. The only part of his body not under the sheet was his head, which looked like that of a pilot from the early days of aviation, when they used to wear a kind of leather cap that covered the neck and ears as well, leaving only the face uncovered. The only difference was that Fazio’s head covering was made of gauze.
    To Montalbano it looked as if the visible part of his face between the cheekbones and mouth had changed, with the skin resting directly on the bone and no more flesh in between. Maybe it was the effect of the bandaging. Beside the head of the bed was a metal chair, which Montalbano quietly sat down in. What to do now? Wake him up or let him sleep? His curiosity was strong, but he overcame it out of affection for Fazio. Even if the investigation was held up for a day, no harm would be done. At that moment, Fazio opened his eyes, looked at him, and recognized him.
    “Chief . . .” he said in a weary, faraway voice that nevertheless had a note of happiness in it.
    “Hi,” said Montalbano, touched.
    And he took into his own the hand that Fazio had meanwhile pulled out from under the