Rounding the Mark

Table of Contents

 

 

“The idiosyncratic Montalbano is totally endearing.”

 
“Like Mike Hammer or Sam Spade, Montalbano is the kind of guy who can’t stay out of trouble.... Still, deftly and lovingly translated by Stephen Sartarelli, Camilleri makes it abundantly clear that under the gruff, sardonic exterior our inspector has a heart of gold, and that any outbursts, fumbles, or threats are made only in the name of pursuing truth.”
—The Nation

 
“Once again, violence is muted, complications rule, politics roil, but humor ... prevail[s] in the end. Italy is good to visit, even if only in print. And what better way to shorten a flight to Palermo than by gobbling this tasty snack along the way?”

 
“[Camilleri’s mysteries] offer quirky characters, crisp dialogue, bright storytelling—and Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging protagonists in detective fiction. . . . Montalbano is a delightful creation, an honest man on Sicily’s mean streets.”

 
“The Montalbano mysteries offer
cose dolci
to the world-lit lover hankering for a whodunit.”
—The Village Voice

 
“The reading of these little gems is fast and fun every step of the way.”
—The New York Sun

 
“Wittily translated from the savory Italian, Camilleri’s mysteries ... feature the sardonic Inspector Salvo Montalbano, whose gustatory adventures are at least as much fun as his crime solving.”

 
“Camilleri once again thrills with his fluid storytelling and quirky characters.”
—Publishers Weekly

A PENGUIN MYSTERY

ROUNDING THE MARK

Andrea Camilleri is the author of many books, including his Montalbano series, which has been adapted for Italian television and translated into nine languages. He lives in Rome.

 
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator. He is also the author of three books of poetry, most recently
The Open Vault.

PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
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First published in Penguin Books 2006 

 
Translation copyright © Stephen Sartarelli, 2006

All rights reserved

 
Originally published in Italian as
Il giro di boa
by Sellerio Editore, Palermo.
Copyright © 2003 Sellerio Editore.

 
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

eISBN : 978-0-143-03748-4

 
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means
without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only
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1

Stinking, treacherous night. Thrashing and turning, twisting and drifting off one minute, jolting awake and then lying back down—and it wasn’t from having scarfed down too much octopus
a strascinasali
or sardines
a beccafico
the evening before. No, he didn’t even have that satisfaction. The evening before, his stomach had twisted up so tight that not even a blade of grass could have slipped through. It had all started when dark thoughts assailed him after he’d seen a story on the national evening news. When it rains it pours—
all’annigatu, petri di ’ncoddru
—or, “rocks on a drowned man’s back,” as Sicilians call an unrelenting string of bad breaks that drag a poor stiff down. And since he’d been desperately flailing in storm-tossed seas for a few months now, feeling at times like he’d already drowned, that news had been like a big rock thrown right at him, at his head, in fact, knocking him out and finishing off what feeble strength he had left.

With an air of utter indifference, the anchorwoman had announced, in reference to the police raid of the Diaz School during the G8 meetings in Genoa, that the public prosecutor’s office of that city had concluded that the two Molotov cocktails found inside the school had been planted there by the policemen themselves, to justify the raid. This finding, continued the anchorwoman, came after the discovery that an officer who claimed to have been the victim of an attempted stabbing by an antiglobalist during the same raid had, in fact, been lying. The cut in his uniform turned out to have been made by the policeman himself, to show just how dangerous these kids were, and it was now emerging that the only thing those young people were doing at the Diaz School was sleeping peacefully. After hearing this news, Montalbano had sat there in his armchair for a good half-hour, unable to think, shaking with rage and shame, drenched in sweat. He hadn’t even had the strength to get up and answer the telephone when it rang and rang. One needed only think a minute about this news—which the press and television were leaking out in dribs and drabs as the government watchfully looked on—and it became clear that his Genoese colleagues had committed an illegal action on the sly, a coldly calculated vendetta, fabricating false evidence into the bargain, the sort of thing that brought to mind long-buried episodes of the Fascist police or the Scelba period.

Then he’d made up his mind and decided to go to bed. As he got up from the armchair, the telephone resumed its irritating refrain of rings. Without even realizing, he picked up the receiver. It was Livia.

“Salvo! My God, I’ve tried calling you so many times! I was starting to get worried! Couldn’t you hear the phone?”

“I could, but I didn’t feel like answering. I didn’t know it was you.”

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing. Thinking about what I’d just seen on television.”

“You mean what happened in Genoa?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I saw the news, too.” She paused, then: “I wish I was there with you. Do you want me to catch a plane tomorrow and come down? That way we could talk in peace. You’ll see—”

“Livia, there’s not much left to say at this point. We’ve talked it over many times these last few months. This time I’m serious. I’ve made my decision.”

“What decision?”

“I’m resigning. Tomorrow I’m going to go to talk to Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi and turn in my resignation. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

Livia did not immediately react, and Montalbano thought perhaps they’d been cut off.

“Hello, Livia? Are you there?”

“I’m here. Salvo, in my opinion you’re making a big mistake to quit this way.”

“What way?”

“Out of anger and disappointment. You want to quit the police force because you feel betrayed, as if the person you trusted most—”

“Livia, I don’t
feel
betrayed, I
have been
betrayed. We’re not talking about feelings here. I’ve always done my job honorably. With integrity. If I gave a crook my word, I kept it. And that’s why I’m respected. That’s been my strength, can you understand that? But now I’m fed up, I’m sick of it all.”

“Please don’t yell,” said Livia, her voice quavering.

Montalbano didn’t hear her. There was a strange noise inside him, as if his blood had reached the boiling point. He continued:

“I never once fabricated evidence, not even against the worst criminals! Never! If I had, I would have been stooping to their level. And then you really could have said that this is a filthy job! Do you realize what happened, Livia? The people attacking that school and planting false evidence weren’t a bunch of stupid, violent beat-cops; they were commissioners and vice-commissioners, inspectors and captains and other paragons of virtue!”

Only then did he realize that the noise he was hearing in the receiver was Livia sobbing. He took a deep breath.

“Livia?”

“Yes?”

“I love you. Good night.”

He hung up. Then he went to bed. And the treacherous night began.

 
 
The truth of the matter was that Montalbano’s malaise had set in a while back, when the television had first shown the prime minister strolling up and down the narrow streets of Genoa, tidying the flower boxes and ordering the inhabitants to remove the underwear hung out to dry on balconies and windowsills while his interior minister was adopting security measures more suited for an imminent civil war than for a meeting of heads of state: setting up wire fences to block access to certain streets, soldering shut the manholes, sealing the country’s borders, closing certain railroad stations, establishing boat patrols at sea, and even installing a battery of missiles. This was such an excessive display of defense, thought the inspector, that it became a kind of provocation. Then what happened, happened: one of the demonstrators got killed, of course, but perhaps the worst of it was that certain police units had thought it best to fire tear gas at the most peaceable demonstrators, leaving the most violent ones, the so-called “black bloc,” free to do as they pleased. Then came the ugly episode at the Diaz School, which resembled not so much a police operation as a wicked and violent abuse of power with the sole purpose of venting a repressed lust for revenge.