tell you that Headmaster Burgio phoned to remind, you of something you're supposed to know about'
Burgio, the retired secondary-school headmaster, had called the inspector some ten days earlier to invite him to a debate between those in favour of and those against building a bridge over the Strait of Messina. Burgio was to be spokesman for those in favour. At the end of the meeting, who knows why, there was going to be a projection of Roberto Benigni's Life Is Beautiful Montalbano had promised to attend to please his friend, but also to see the film, about which he'd heard contrasting opinions.
He decided to go to Marinella to change clothes, since the jeans he was wearing seemed a little out of place. He got in his car, drove home, and had the unfortunate idea to lie down on his bed for a moment, not more than five minutes. He slept for three hours straight. Waking up with a start, he realized that if he hurried, he could get there just in time for the film.
The auditorium was jam-packed. The inspector arrived just as the lights were dimming. He remained standing. Every now and then he laughed. But things changed towards the end, and he began to feel a sadness welling up in his throat... Never before had he cried while watching a film. He left the auditorium before the lights came back on, embarrassed that someone might see that his eyes were wet with tears. So why had it happened to him this t ime? Because of his age? Was it a sign of ageing? It's true that as one gets older one becomes more easily moved. But that wasn't the only reason. Was it because of the story the film told and the way it told it? Of course, but that didn't explain it, either. He waited outside for the people to exit so he could say hello to Burgio in passing. He felt like being alone and went straight home.
The wind was blowing on the veranda, and it was cold. The sea had eaten up almost the whole beach. He kept a raincoat in the front cupboard, the kind with a lining. He put it on, went back out on the veranda, and sat down. He was unable, in the gusts, to light a cigarette. He would have to go back in his bedroom to do so. Rather than get up, he decided not to smoke. Out on the water he saw some distant lights that every few moments would disappear. If they were fishermen, they were having a rough time of it, on that sea. He sat there motionless, hands thrust in the pockets of his raincoat, rehashing what had come over him while watching the film. All at once, the true and sole reason for his weeping became perfectly clear to him. And just as quickly, he rejected it as unbelievable. Yet little by little, in spite of the fact that he kept circling around it, to attack it from every angle, that reason stood firm. In the end, he had to give in to it. And so he made up his mind.
Before setting out the next morning, he had to wait at the Bar Albanese for the fresh ricotta cannoli to arrive. He bought about thirty of them, along with a few kilos of biscotti regno, marzipan pastries, and mostaccioli. Rolling along, his car left an aromatic cloud in its wake. He had no choice but to keep the windows open, otherwise the intense smell would have given him a headache.
To get to Calapiano he chose to take the longest, roughest road, the one he'd always taken the few times he'd gone there, since it allowed him a glimpse of a Sicily that was disappearing a little more each day, made up of land spare in vegetation and men spare in words. After he'd been driving for two hours, just past Gagliano he found himself at the back of a line of cars moving very slowly along the beat-up tarmac A handwritten sign on a lamppost ordered:
SLOW DOWN.
Then a man with the face of an escaped convict (but are we so sure escaped convicts have faces like that?), in civilian dress and with a whistl e in his mouth, blew his whistl e hard like a referee and raised his arm. The car in front of Montalbano immediately stopped. After a minute or two in which nothing
Burgio, the retired secondary-school headmaster, had called the inspector some ten days earlier to invite him to a debate between those in favour of and those against building a bridge over the Strait of Messina. Burgio was to be spokesman for those in favour. At the end of the meeting, who knows why, there was going to be a projection of Roberto Benigni's Life Is Beautiful Montalbano had promised to attend to please his friend, but also to see the film, about which he'd heard contrasting opinions.
He decided to go to Marinella to change clothes, since the jeans he was wearing seemed a little out of place. He got in his car, drove home, and had the unfortunate idea to lie down on his bed for a moment, not more than five minutes. He slept for three hours straight. Waking up with a start, he realized that if he hurried, he could get there just in time for the film.
The auditorium was jam-packed. The inspector arrived just as the lights were dimming. He remained standing. Every now and then he laughed. But things changed towards the end, and he began to feel a sadness welling up in his throat... Never before had he cried while watching a film. He left the auditorium before the lights came back on, embarrassed that someone might see that his eyes were wet with tears. So why had it happened to him this t ime? Because of his age? Was it a sign of ageing? It's true that as one gets older one becomes more easily moved. But that wasn't the only reason. Was it because of the story the film told and the way it told it? Of course, but that didn't explain it, either. He waited outside for the people to exit so he could say hello to Burgio in passing. He felt like being alone and went straight home.
The wind was blowing on the veranda, and it was cold. The sea had eaten up almost the whole beach. He kept a raincoat in the front cupboard, the kind with a lining. He put it on, went back out on the veranda, and sat down. He was unable, in the gusts, to light a cigarette. He would have to go back in his bedroom to do so. Rather than get up, he decided not to smoke. Out on the water he saw some distant lights that every few moments would disappear. If they were fishermen, they were having a rough time of it, on that sea. He sat there motionless, hands thrust in the pockets of his raincoat, rehashing what had come over him while watching the film. All at once, the true and sole reason for his weeping became perfectly clear to him. And just as quickly, he rejected it as unbelievable. Yet little by little, in spite of the fact that he kept circling around it, to attack it from every angle, that reason stood firm. In the end, he had to give in to it. And so he made up his mind.
Before setting out the next morning, he had to wait at the Bar Albanese for the fresh ricotta cannoli to arrive. He bought about thirty of them, along with a few kilos of biscotti regno, marzipan pastries, and mostaccioli. Rolling along, his car left an aromatic cloud in its wake. He had no choice but to keep the windows open, otherwise the intense smell would have given him a headache.
To get to Calapiano he chose to take the longest, roughest road, the one he'd always taken the few times he'd gone there, since it allowed him a glimpse of a Sicily that was disappearing a little more each day, made up of land spare in vegetation and men spare in words. After he'd been driving for two hours, just past Gagliano he found himself at the back of a line of cars moving very slowly along the beat-up tarmac A handwritten sign on a lamppost ordered:
SLOW DOWN.
Then a man with the face of an escaped convict (but are we so sure escaped convicts have faces like that?), in civilian dress and with a whistl e in his mouth, blew his whistl e hard like a referee and raised his arm. The car in front of Montalbano immediately stopped. After a minute or two in which nothing
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