The Cook of the Halcyon (An Inspector Montalbano Mystery, Band 27) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Andrea 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.

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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...