marshal said in a resigned tone.
And he repeated the sentence with the new words, but then he added: “Can you tell me why you asked me to do that?”
“Dear Marshal Verruso, in my opinion, words carry weight. And the heaviest ones are curse words. That’s all. And I apologize if I made you speak in a manner that made you uncomfortable. Can you tell me one last thing?”
“Of course.”
“Can you tell me Dimora’s license plate number?”
“Why do you need that?”
He could have said his binoculars weren’t powerful enough. Instead he just said: “Just in case.”
The marshal told him. Then he asked: “Do you have my home number?”
“No. Why do you want me to have it?”
“Just in case.”
They said their good-byes, and Montalbano handed the phone to Catarella.
“You turn it off, I can never figure it out. Now we can go.”
He reached for the keys and, all of a sudden, his instincts took over. He didn’t know how else to describe that phenomenon: his instincts told him not to leave that place and they did so through some form of somatization, making certain movements impossible or very difficult. His hands went soft; his feet felt like they were made of ricotta cheese, completely incapable of pressing the pedals. He managed, sweating profusely, to turn the keys but the force wasn’t enough; the engine purred shortly like a cat and turned itself off.
“What is it? It’s not starting?” Catarella asked, alarmed at the prospect of spending the night in that car.
“It’s me who can’t start,” Montalbano said.
Catarella was struck by that answer.
“You want me to go and call for help?”
“And who are you going to call?”
“Well, I don’t know, a mechanic, a doctor, whatever you prefer.”
“Listen, Catarè, let’s get to work. I’m going to get out of the car with my binoculars, and I’ll start watching the construction site.”
“But you, at night, when it’s really night-night, can you see?”
“No. But if the man the carabinieri didn’t find is still hiding inside the construction site, he’ll need to turn on a light to see where he’s going. And then I’ll see him. I’ll take watch for a half hour and then you’ll take over. We’ll take turns.”
After twenty minutes or so, his eyes started going pitter patter. Quick flashes of light started appearing everywhere; he felt as if it was the night of San Lorenzo when they say there are plenty of shooting stars. (He hadn’t seen one for years and years.) Finally, his shift was over. He got back in the car since it was getting chilly and lit a cigarette, taking all the precautions to hide the lighter’s flame and the red embers of the cherry. He must have dozed off a bit when Catarella came to wake him up.
“It’s your turn again, sir.”
Then it was Catarella’s turn again. And then, his again. When he got back in the car, the cold had penetrated his bones: he lit another cigarette, worried at seeing he had only two left. He had just put it out in the ashtray when he heard Catarella calling him softly. He rushed out.
“What did you see?”
“Sir, it was only a second, but someone turned something on for a second.”
“Are you sure?”
“Cross my heart, sir. You want the binoculars?”
“No, you keep at it; my eyes are tired.”
“Again, sir,” Catarella said at one point. “He did it again, he turned it on and off. If I’m not mistaken, he’s heading toward the main gate of the construction site.”
And Montalbano figured it out. Catarella wasn’t mistaken, as he put it. Dimora was making a break for his car, the only one left at the site.
As if to confirm his thoughts, he saw the car’s taillights brighten. They could clearly hear the car’s engine start.
“Sir, he’s getting away.”
“Let’s cut him off.”
They ran to the car; Montalbano started it and left with the headlights off. He stopped after a few yards. Dimora wasn’t driving up the road but was slowly making his way
And he repeated the sentence with the new words, but then he added: “Can you tell me why you asked me to do that?”
“Dear Marshal Verruso, in my opinion, words carry weight. And the heaviest ones are curse words. That’s all. And I apologize if I made you speak in a manner that made you uncomfortable. Can you tell me one last thing?”
“Of course.”
“Can you tell me Dimora’s license plate number?”
“Why do you need that?”
He could have said his binoculars weren’t powerful enough. Instead he just said: “Just in case.”
The marshal told him. Then he asked: “Do you have my home number?”
“No. Why do you want me to have it?”
“Just in case.”
They said their good-byes, and Montalbano handed the phone to Catarella.
“You turn it off, I can never figure it out. Now we can go.”
He reached for the keys and, all of a sudden, his instincts took over. He didn’t know how else to describe that phenomenon: his instincts told him not to leave that place and they did so through some form of somatization, making certain movements impossible or very difficult. His hands went soft; his feet felt like they were made of ricotta cheese, completely incapable of pressing the pedals. He managed, sweating profusely, to turn the keys but the force wasn’t enough; the engine purred shortly like a cat and turned itself off.
“What is it? It’s not starting?” Catarella asked, alarmed at the prospect of spending the night in that car.
“It’s me who can’t start,” Montalbano said.
Catarella was struck by that answer.
“You want me to go and call for help?”
“And who are you going to call?”
“Well, I don’t know, a mechanic, a doctor, whatever you prefer.”
“Listen, Catarè, let’s get to work. I’m going to get out of the car with my binoculars, and I’ll start watching the construction site.”
“But you, at night, when it’s really night-night, can you see?”
“No. But if the man the carabinieri didn’t find is still hiding inside the construction site, he’ll need to turn on a light to see where he’s going. And then I’ll see him. I’ll take watch for a half hour and then you’ll take over. We’ll take turns.”
After twenty minutes or so, his eyes started going pitter patter. Quick flashes of light started appearing everywhere; he felt as if it was the night of San Lorenzo when they say there are plenty of shooting stars. (He hadn’t seen one for years and years.) Finally, his shift was over. He got back in the car since it was getting chilly and lit a cigarette, taking all the precautions to hide the lighter’s flame and the red embers of the cherry. He must have dozed off a bit when Catarella came to wake him up.
“It’s your turn again, sir.”
Then it was Catarella’s turn again. And then, his again. When he got back in the car, the cold had penetrated his bones: he lit another cigarette, worried at seeing he had only two left. He had just put it out in the ashtray when he heard Catarella calling him softly. He rushed out.
“What did you see?”
“Sir, it was only a second, but someone turned something on for a second.”
“Are you sure?”
“Cross my heart, sir. You want the binoculars?”
“No, you keep at it; my eyes are tired.”
“Again, sir,” Catarella said at one point. “He did it again, he turned it on and off. If I’m not mistaken, he’s heading toward the main gate of the construction site.”
And Montalbano figured it out. Catarella wasn’t mistaken, as he put it. Dimora was making a break for his car, the only one left at the site.
As if to confirm his thoughts, he saw the car’s taillights brighten. They could clearly hear the car’s engine start.
“Sir, he’s getting away.”
“Let’s cut him off.”
They ran to the car; Montalbano started it and left with the headlights off. He stopped after a few yards. Dimora wasn’t driving up the road but was slowly making his way
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