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The Cook of the Halcyon
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The new novel in the transporting New York Times bestselling Inspector Montalbano mystery series
Giovanni Trincanato has brought ruin to the shipyard he inherited from his father and when a worker he fires hangs himself on the construction site, Inspector Montalbano is called to the scene. In short order, the inspector loses his temper with the crass Giovanni, delivers a slap to his face, and unfortunately, it won’t be the last he sees of Trincanato. Meanwhile, a mysterious schooner called Halcyon shows up in the harbor, seemingly deserted except for just one man. With its presence comes even more mysteries, another death, and the arrival of the FBI. Alongside Sicilian-American Agent Pennisi, Montalbano and his team must attempt a suspenseful infiltration operation in this new, page-turning Inspector Montalbano mystery.“You either love Andrea Camilleri or you haven’t read him yet. Each novel in this wholly addictive, entirely magical series, set in Sicily and starring a detective unlike any other in crime fiction, blasts the brain like a shot of pure oxygen. Aglow with local color, packed with flint-dry wit, as fresh and clean as Mediterranean seafood — altogether transporting. Long live Camilleri, and long live Montalbano.” —A.J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window
“The idiosyncratic Montalbano is totally endearing.” —The New York Times
“Camilleri is as crafty and charming a writer as his protagonist is an investigator.” —The Washington Post Book World
“Hailing from the land of Umberto Eco and La Cosa Nostra, Montalbano can discuss a pointy-headed book like Western Attitudes Toward Death as unflinchingly as he can pore over crime-scene snuff photos. He throws together an extemporaneous lunch of shrimp with lemon and oil as gracefully as he dodges advances from attractive women.” —Los Angeles Times
“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 outburst, fumbles, or threats are made only in the name of pursuing truth.” —The Nation
“Camilleri can do a character’s whole backstory in half a paragraph.” —The New Yorker
“Subtle, sardonic, and molto simpatico: Montalbano is the Latin re-creation of Philip Marlowe, working in a place that manages to be both more and less civilized than Chandler’s Los Angeles.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“The novels of Andrea Camilleri breathe out the sense of place, the sense of humor, and the sense of despair that fills the air of Sicily.” —Donna LeonAndrea Camilleri, a mega-bestseller in Italy and Germany, is the author of the New York Times bestselling Inspector Montalbano mystery series as well as historical novels that take place in nineteenth-century Sicily. His books have been made into Italian TV shows and translated into thirty-two languages. His thirteenth Montalbano novel, The Potter’s Field, won the Crime Writers’ Association International Dagger Award and was longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. He died in 2019.
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.
1
He was dancing a waltz at the edge of a swimming pool, all pomaded and fragrant, and he knew that the woman in his arms was Livia, who just a few hours earlier had become his wife. But he couldn’t see her face through the dense white veil covering it.
All at once a strong gust of wind blew in, moving the veil just enough for him to discover that it wasn’t Livia he was dancing with, but Signora Costantino, his third-grade schoolteacher, replete with mustache and crooked glasses. The fright drained him of strength; he felt faint and shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, he found himself lying in the hull of a small rowboat dancing dangerously over hair-raising breakers as tall as houses. He realized at once that the boat was on its side and might therefore capsize from one moment to the next. He had to do something, anything, without wasting another second.
He was still all dressed up, sporting even a fancy tie, but his clothes were so sodden with rain that they’d become practically waterproof.
The clouds were so low and black that they looked like a sort of shroud about to cover everything at any moment. A sign that the storm hadn’t yet vented all its rage.
He hadn’t the slightest idea how or why he’d ended up in such a situation. He vaguely recalled getting gussied up for his wedding, but that was all.
Suddenly he noticed that one of the oars was slipping out of the oarlock. He had to prevent this at all costs; if he lost the oar he would never be able to steer the boat.
He tried to stand up, but his clothes, sopping wet as they were, impeded his movements and kept him glued to the bottom of the boat.
He tried again, grabbing the sides of the boat with both hands, and managed to rise to a sitting position. Reaching out with one arm, he was able to touch the oar with the tips of his fingers, but then it slipped away and fell into the water.
How on earth was he going to get out of this now? He absolutely had to get that oar back.
In one painful bound, he leapt to his feet, but immediately the wind struck him just like a punch, forcing him to his knees, blowing so fiercely that he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
He kept them shut because they were burning so badly, but when he opened them again, in a flash he saw the prow of a gigantic sailing ship, heading straight for him. It looked like it was flying.
How could it not have been there just a minute before? Where had it come from?
Terrified, he decided at once that his only hope was to jump into the sea and swim as far away as he could.
And so he dove in, but the violence of the breakers, and the weight of his clothes, prevented him from swimming.
Desperate, he managed to go a few meters in the water.
Then he heard the crack of the wooden boat being cleft in two by the prow of the ship.
Maybe things would be all right now.
All at once, however, the waves began to grow in ferocity, reinforced by those created by the ship’s propeller.
A first wave dragged him under, but he managed, he didn’t know how, to come back up to the surface. He didn’t have time, however, to catch his breath before a second wave nearly tore his head off.
He passed out and started sinking, sinking . . .
When he awoke he was sitting up in bed, out of breath, heart beating wildly, mouth agape, gasping for air.
Against the windowpanes, exposed by the open shutters, raindrops as big as chickpeas were drumming loudly. There was no light outside. It was unclear whether it was day or night.
He looked at the clock. Half past six.
Time to get up, in theory.
But what was the use of going out at that hour if all that awaited him at the office were stacks of papers to be signed?
His mood darkened. He got up, opened the windows, pulled the shutters shut, closed the windows, went and lay back down in bed, and closed his eyes.
“Isspector! Iss pass nine o’clock! Ya wan’ me to bring ya somma coffee?”
Adelina’s voice blared like the trumpet on Judgment Day, the one that wakes up the dead.
He sat up in bed again. Past nine o’clock?
True, there was nothing he had to do, but, all the same, it was bad form to show up at the office late in the morning.
“Sure! And make it snappy!”
The rain had stopped, but he could tell that the storm was merely taking a break.
His housekeeper came in with a steaming cup. He savored the coffee down to the last drop.
“There’s no watta, ya know,” Adelina informed him.
Montalbano took this hard.
“What do you mean, there’s no water?! How can that be? With the deluge we’ve been having the past few days!”
“Whattya wan’ me to say, Isspecter? There jest in’t any.”
“So how am I supposed to wash myself?”
“I collicted a li’l bit o’ water an’ put it inna sink anna bidŽ. Y’er gonna hafta mekki be enough.”
“Where’d you collect it?”
“Sints I awreddy been ‘ere f’r o’er an hour an’ it wazza still rainin’, I fill uppa tree pots an’ a bucket witta watta fro’ the gutta. Iss watta fro’ heaven, an’ so iss clean.”
Clean, my ass.
If it was from the gutters on the roof, chock-full as they were with the poop of rats, seagulls, and pigeons . . .
“You know what I say? I’m gonna go wash at the police station. And I’ll get dressed there, too.”
He left the house in a bad mood.
He’d managed to escape, but just outside the door he found a lake and got his shoes all muddy taking the four steps he needed to take to reach his car.
He hated it when he got mud on his shoes.
He could have gone back inside and grabbed another, clean pair of shoes. But was it right to show up at the police station with a pair of shoes in one hand and a little bag with clean underwear in the other? He turned the key in the ignition, but the engine didn’t start. He tried again. Nothing. The car seemed dead.
No point in getting out, raising the hood, and looking inside. After all, he didn’t know a damn thing about cars.
He let off some steam for five minutes straight, unleashing a stream of curses, head resting on the steering wheel. Then he got out and went back into the house.
“D’ja fuhget som’n?”
“No, it’s the car . . .”
He was about to phone the station to ask someone to come and pick him up, when Adelina said: “The watta jess cumma back, ya know.”
Water! This brought to mind a poem he learned in French class in junior high school:
Eau si claire et si pure,
bienfaisante pour tous . . .
He dashed into the bathroom. They were likely to shut the water off again at a moment’s notice. There was no time to waste. Whatever the case, better to turn up late at the office than to show up looking like some kind of refugee.
And now they even wanted to privatize water! The bastards!
But you could be sure there would still be shortages, no doubt about that, and they would make you pay a euro a drop.
Now all clean and shaven, he left the house again, made his way around the lake, and managed not to muddy his change of shoes.
Not until he stuck the key in the ignition did he remember that the car wouldn’t start.
Except that this time it did.
It is said that man, in a democracy, is free. Really?
But what if the car won’t start, the phone doesn’t work, the power is out, there’s no water or gas, and the computer, television, and refrigerator refuse to function?
It is probably better still to say that, yes, man is free, but it is a conditional freedom, dependent upon the whims of objects he can no longer live without.
And almost as if to prove him right, the car stopped running the moment he entered Vigˆta.
Apparently it wanted to mess with his head.
He got out and walked the rest of the way to the station.
“Cat, get me Fazio,” the inspector said as he was walking past the switchboard operator’s closet.
“‘E ain’t onna premisses, Chief.”
“Then get me Inspector Augello.”
“‘E ain’t onna premisses, neither.”
Had they all flown the coop? What was going on? Montalbano took two steps back.
“So where are they?” he asked.
“‘Ey was called by Signor Drincananato, oo’d a happen a be-“
“I know who he is. Wha’d he want them for?”
“‘E wannit ’em ‘cuzza woikers was raisin’ hell ousside the ‘stablishment.”
Montalbano made a snap decision.
“I’m gonna go there myself.”
He was about to set off when he remembered he didn’t have a car.
“Is Gallo around?”
“‘E’s onna premisses, Chief.”
“Then call him and tell him I need him to drive me there.”
“Bu’, Chief, I guess I din’t make myself clear. Gallo in’t onn ‘ese ‘ere premisses, but on th’ other premisses, atta Drincananato woiks, wit’ Isspector Augello.”
“Is there a squad car available?”
“Yeah, we got one, Chief, ‘s far as ‘at goes, bu’ iss not in any condition to go nowheres, insomuch as iss got no gas. Bu’ ya c’n take mine, if ya want, I’ll give yiz the keys.”
As the inspector was starting up the car, it occurred to him that he should post a circular around town, saying:
Given the cuts in government funding,
every citizen desiring the protection of law enforcement is requested to come to the police station with two jerrycans of gasoline. Whoever does not contribute
will not be protected.
Trincanato, Inc., was a small factory specialized in making ships’ hulls, and things had gone well there until two years ago. The company employed about two hundred people, between office workers and manual laborers.
Then the old proprietor died, and the business was passed on to his son, Giovanni, who only had eyes for women and gambling.
Between Giovanni and the sudden economic crisis, it wasn’t long before the factory was in trouble.
Just three days earlier, in fact, Montalbano had learned that the layoffs were starting, and unemployment compensation claims were being filed.
Though he didn’t feel like it, he was going to the site because he was afraid to leave Fazio and Augello alone there. Mim“ was liable to say the wrong thing to the enraged workers, and that must be avoided.
He’d once had his head busted by angry strikers, but Mim“ wasn’t the type to learn his lessons gracefully.
There were about fifty people gathered round the gate of the large hangar, which stood practically at the water’s edge.
On the other hand, there was nobody outside the administrative building, which was protected by four private security guards with guns in their holsters.
Everything was calm. Nobody was shouting. On the contrary.
The workers as well as the clerks all seemed strangely uncomfortable, and were either clustered in small groups of two or three or standing alone, heads bowed and looking at the ground. They weren’t talking to one another.
Montalbano parked the car, got out, and headed towards Fazio, who had an arm around a man’s shoulder.
As he drew near, he noticed that the man was crying. Fazio, seeing the inspector, came up to him.
“So where’s all the commotion Signor Trincanato was talking about?” asked Montalbano. “It looks more like a funeral to me!”
“Indeed,” said Fazio.
“Speak more clearly,” replied Montalbano, feeling confused.
“Early this morning, a worker by the name of Carmine Spagnolo made his way inside the hangar and hung himself. He was fifty years old, and had a wife who’s sick and three kids. He’d just been laid off.”
“But are things really so bad here?”
“The workers were ready to make some sacrifices, even to take a pay cut by half, but Trincanato preferred just letting the whole thing go to shit.”
“But doesn’t he also lose out that way?”
“The workers say no; they say he gains from it. They say he made a deal with the competition.”
“Have you called the prosecutor and Dr. Pasquano?”
“Yeah, but the prosecutor can’t come before one o’clock.”
“I want to see the body. Who’s inside?”
“Gallo.”
Fazio then turned to the two guards standing stiffly outside the gate and said:
“Let us in.”
The dead man was hanging just three steps inside the entrance.
All Carmine Spagnolo’d had to do was to climb up a half-finished boat hull, run a rope through a pulley, tie it around his neck, and jump.
He must have been a rather short, delicate man in life. If one ignored his bulging, desperate eyes and his mouth agape in a silent scream, he looked a little like a rag doll.
Gallo, despite a giant no smoking sign, was standing there with a lit cigarette and a good ten butts on the floor at his feet.
“Chief, I’m just so upset. I can’t stand looking at the poor bastard.”
“Then go outside. What are you doing in here, anyway?”
“No, sir, I’m gonna stay here.”
“Why?”
“Since his mates aren’t allowed to come in, I don’t want to leave him all alone.”
Montalbano had to refrain from hugging him.
“Where’s Augello?”
“In Trincanato’s office.”
Montalbano went out. The sky was covered with black clouds again, and a cold wind was blowing.
“I’m going to talk to Trincanato,” he said to Fazio, heading off.
Three steps in front of the glass entrance of the office building, one of the four security guards blocked his path.
Though the man was wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that there was no sun, the inspector recognized him.
Just a few years earlier the man had appeared on television, on the TeleVigˆta channel, to tell the story of his services as a private contractor in Iraq. He was built like a tank, with red hair.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
And he made the mistake of putting a hand on Montalbano’s chest. The inspector looked first at the guard’s hand, then in his eyes.
“One . . .” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that when I get to three I’m going to crush your balls,” the inspector said ever so calmly.
And he smiled at him with affection, like a brother.
The guard jerked his hand away as if he’d burnt it. And he stepped aside.
US
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| Dimensions | 0.7000 × 5.1000 × 7.8000 in |
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| Subjects | cozy mystery, mystery books, suspense fiction, mystery novels, thriller books, suspense books, suspense thriller books, crime books, murder mystery, detective novels, mystery and suspense, mystery thriller suspense, murder mystery books, fiction books, mysteries and thrillers, books fiction, books mystery, mystery and thrillers, mystery and thriller, montalbano, short stories, adventure, crime, thriller, fiction, FIC030000, detective, suspense, mystery, novels, police, noir, crime fiction, thrillers, mysteries, french, FIC022080, iceland, cozy, betrayal |