while that he’d been feeling the need to talk to an intelligent person. So he wanted to give him a sort of consolation prize.
“Listen, it’s true that something strange has been going on lately. But I should tell you straight off that it doesn’t involve a crime or anything.”
The kid looked like a starving dog who spots a bone with meat still attached to it.
“Anything’s fine with me.”
Montalbano pulled out of his pocket the three small sheets of paper with the poems about the treasure hunt, but not the other pages with his solutions. He told him what had happened so far, concluding:
“All right, these are the originals, which I want you to return to me. Solve one of the riddles on your own and then we can talk about it.”
Arturo very nearly kissed his hands.
The next day at the station it seemed as if absolutely nothing was going to happen, as had been the case for over a month. From eight o’clock in the morning until one—that is, over a five-hour period—Catarella received only one phone call, but even that was from someone who wanted to know what he had to do to enter the police force.
At this point Montalbano, who’d been feeling very hungry since noon, realized he had a problem.
Doing nothing the whole blessed day, lolling about, sitting in the office reading a whole year’s worth of Sunday supplements of the Milanese
Corriere della Sera
from 1920 that he’d bought from a street vendor, or staring fixedly at the wall in front of him in a state somewhere between yogic meditation and catatonia, plunged him into a sort of depressive melancholy. And so, as a way of warding off depression, his body instinctively began to feel a wolflike hunger that he was powerless to resist.
That very morning he’d had to loosen the belt on his trousers by a notch, a sign that his waist had grown disturbingly in circumference. The immediate upshot was that he’d quickly taken all his clothes off again, removed his plastic collar, slipped on a bathing suit and gone for an hour-long swim despite the fact that the water was so gelid he’d nearly had a heart attack.
At Enzo’s trattoria, though he’d resolved to keep within reasonable limits of gluttony, he cut loose with a dish of swordfish
involtini
and ordered a second helping, even though he’d already scarfed down a broad variety of seafood antipasti and a heaping plate of
spaghetti alle vongole
.
A walk along the jetty therefore become a dire necessity, along with a little rest on the usual flat rock, accompanied by the requisite cigarette.
Around six o’clock the phone rang. It was Catarella.
“Chief, ’at’t be ’at kid ’at came yisterday, the one sint by Signura Sciosciostrommi.”
“Put him on.”
“Chief, I can’t put’im on ’cuz the subject in quession is onna premisses.”
“Then show him in.”
That way, he could chat with Arturo until it was time to go home.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” said Montalbano.
“Since I was in the area, I thought I’d try. Sorry I didn’t call before coming.”
“But do you live in Montelusa or—”
“No, I live in Vigàta. My parents live in Montelusa. I live alone in an apartment here in Vigàta. I like the sea.”
Another point in the kid’s favor.
“Have you had a chance to look at—”
“Yes, I’ve solved the riddles. Pretty basic stuff.”
He took the pages out of his jacket pocket, laid them down on the desk, and continued.
“I didn’t go to the Marinella Bar, which I assumed to be pointless, but to make up for it I did find the wooden shack up on the hill, at the end of Via dei Mille, and I even went inside.”
“Did you notice the unusual wallpaper?”
Harry Potter smiled.
“Your challenger certainly seems to be creating a cult of personality around you.”
“Are all the photos still up?”
“Yes, all of them. Why?”
“I dunno, just wondering. Got any ideas?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Well, it’s clear that your
“Listen, it’s true that something strange has been going on lately. But I should tell you straight off that it doesn’t involve a crime or anything.”
The kid looked like a starving dog who spots a bone with meat still attached to it.
“Anything’s fine with me.”
Montalbano pulled out of his pocket the three small sheets of paper with the poems about the treasure hunt, but not the other pages with his solutions. He told him what had happened so far, concluding:
“All right, these are the originals, which I want you to return to me. Solve one of the riddles on your own and then we can talk about it.”
Arturo very nearly kissed his hands.
The next day at the station it seemed as if absolutely nothing was going to happen, as had been the case for over a month. From eight o’clock in the morning until one—that is, over a five-hour period—Catarella received only one phone call, but even that was from someone who wanted to know what he had to do to enter the police force.
At this point Montalbano, who’d been feeling very hungry since noon, realized he had a problem.
Doing nothing the whole blessed day, lolling about, sitting in the office reading a whole year’s worth of Sunday supplements of the Milanese
Corriere della Sera
from 1920 that he’d bought from a street vendor, or staring fixedly at the wall in front of him in a state somewhere between yogic meditation and catatonia, plunged him into a sort of depressive melancholy. And so, as a way of warding off depression, his body instinctively began to feel a wolflike hunger that he was powerless to resist.
That very morning he’d had to loosen the belt on his trousers by a notch, a sign that his waist had grown disturbingly in circumference. The immediate upshot was that he’d quickly taken all his clothes off again, removed his plastic collar, slipped on a bathing suit and gone for an hour-long swim despite the fact that the water was so gelid he’d nearly had a heart attack.
At Enzo’s trattoria, though he’d resolved to keep within reasonable limits of gluttony, he cut loose with a dish of swordfish
involtini
and ordered a second helping, even though he’d already scarfed down a broad variety of seafood antipasti and a heaping plate of
spaghetti alle vongole
.
A walk along the jetty therefore become a dire necessity, along with a little rest on the usual flat rock, accompanied by the requisite cigarette.
Around six o’clock the phone rang. It was Catarella.
“Chief, ’at’t be ’at kid ’at came yisterday, the one sint by Signura Sciosciostrommi.”
“Put him on.”
“Chief, I can’t put’im on ’cuz the subject in quession is onna premisses.”
“Then show him in.”
That way, he could chat with Arturo until it was time to go home.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” said Montalbano.
“Since I was in the area, I thought I’d try. Sorry I didn’t call before coming.”
“But do you live in Montelusa or—”
“No, I live in Vigàta. My parents live in Montelusa. I live alone in an apartment here in Vigàta. I like the sea.”
Another point in the kid’s favor.
“Have you had a chance to look at—”
“Yes, I’ve solved the riddles. Pretty basic stuff.”
He took the pages out of his jacket pocket, laid them down on the desk, and continued.
“I didn’t go to the Marinella Bar, which I assumed to be pointless, but to make up for it I did find the wooden shack up on the hill, at the end of Via dei Mille, and I even went inside.”
“Did you notice the unusual wallpaper?”
Harry Potter smiled.
“Your challenger certainly seems to be creating a cult of personality around you.”
“Are all the photos still up?”
“Yes, all of them. Why?”
“I dunno, just wondering. Got any ideas?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Well, it’s clear that your
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