The Other End of the Line Read online

  Praise for Andrea Camilleri and the Montalbano Series

  “Camilleri’s Inspector Montalbano mysteries might sell like hotcakes in Europe, but these world-weary crime stories were unknown here until the oversight was corrected (in Stephen Sartarelli’s salty translation) by the welcome publication of The Shape of Water . . . This savagely funny police procedural . . . prove[s] that sardonic laughter is a sound that translates ever so smoothly into English.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “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 wedges and oil as gracefully as he dodges advances from attractive women.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “[Camilleri’s mysteries] offer quirky characters, crisp dialogue, bright storytelling—and Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging protagonists in detective fiction.”

  —USA Today

  “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

  To access Penguin Readers Guides online, visit our website at www.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  A PENGUIN MYSTERY

  © Elvira Giorgianni

  THE OTHER END OF THE LINE

  Andrea Camilleri, a bestselling author in Italy and Germany, is the author of the popular 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.

  Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.

  Also by Andrea Camilleri

  Hunting Season

  The Brewer of Brewston

  Montalbano’s First Case and Other Stories

  THE INSPECTOR MONTALBANO SERIES

  The Shape of Water

  The Terra-Cotta Dog

  The Snack Thief

  Voice of the Violin

  Excursion to Tindari

  The Smell of the Night

  Rounding the Mark

  The Patience of the Spire

  The Paper Moon

  August Heat

  The Wings of the Sphinx

  The Track of Sand

  The Potter’s Field

  The Age of Doubt

  The Dance of the Seagull

  Treasure Hunt

  Angelica’s Smile

  Game of Mirrors

  A Beam of Light

  A Voice in the Night

  A Nest of Vipers

  The Pyramid of Mud

  Death at Sea

  The Overnight Kidnapper

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Sellerio Editore

  Translation copyright © 2019 by Stephen Sartarelli

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Originally published in Italian as L’altro capo del filo by Sellerio Editore, Palermo.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Camilleri, Andrea, author. | Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954– translator.

  Title: The other end of the line / Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli.

  Other titles: L’altro capo del filo. English

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019027158 (print) | LCCN 2019027159 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143133773 (paperback) | ISBN 9780525505617 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PQ4863.A3894 A6913 2019 (print) | LCC PQ4863.A3894 (ebook) | DDC 853/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019027158

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019027159

  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, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art: Andy Bridge

  Cover design: Paul Buckley

  Version_1

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Andrea Camilleri

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note

  Notes

  1

  They were sitting out on Livia’s little balcony in Boccadasse in silence, enjoying the cool evening air.

  Livia had been in a bad mood all day, as was always the case when Montalbano was about to return home to Vigàta.

  Out of the blue Livia, who was barefoot, said:

  “Would you do me a favor and get my slippers? My feet are cold. I guess I’m just getting old.”

  The inspector gawked at her.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’re starting to age from the feet up?”

  “Why, is there a law against that?”

  “No, but I thought it was some other body parts that started aging first.”

  “Cut the shit with your foul mouth,” said Livia.

  Montalbano balked.

  “Why are you talking like that?”

  “I’ll talk however I feel like talking! Is that okay with you?”

  “Anyway, I said nothing foul. The body parts I was referring to are, I dunno, the eyes, the ears . . .”

  “Are you going to get me those slippers or not?”

  “Where are they?”

  “Where do you think they are? Right beside the bed. The ones that look like cats.”

  Montalbano got up and headed for the bedroom.

  Those slippers no doubt kept her feet nice and warm, but he hated them, because they looked like two long-haired white cats with black tails. Naturally, they were nowhere to be seen.

  Surely they must
be under the bed.

  The inspector crouched down, thinking:

  The back! That’s another body part that gives you the first warning signs of aging!

  He reached out and started feeling around with one hand.

  It came up against a furry slipper and was about to grab it when a sharp pain took him by surprise.

  Jerking his hand back, he noticed he had a deep scratch on the back of it that was even bleeding a little.

  Could there possibly be a real cat under there?

  But Livia didn’t own any cats.

  So he turned on the lamp on the bedside table, grabbed it, and shone its light under the bed, to see what it was that had scratched him.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  One of the two slippers had remained a slipper, but the other one had turned into a cat, a cat cat, and was now glaring at him threateningly, ears pressed against its head and hackles raised.

  How could this be?

  He suddenly felt furious.

  And he got up, set down the lamp, went into the bathroom, opened the medicine chest, and disinfected his scratch with a bit of rubbing alcohol.

  Moments later he was back out on the balcony and sat down without a word.

  “So where are my slippers?” asked Livia.

  “You can go and get them yourself, if you have the courage.”

  Glancing at him scornfully, Livia shook her head as if in commiseration, got up, and went into the apartment.

  Montalbano contemplated the gash on his hand. The blood had clotted, but the scratch was deep.

  Livia returned, sat down, and crossed her legs. On her feet were the slippers.

  “Wasn’t there a cat under the bed?” asked Montalbano.

  “What are you saying?” said Livia. “I’ve never had a cat in this apartment.”

  “Then how did I get this scratch?” the inspector asked, showing her his wound.

  The only problem was that, to his great surprise, there was nothing on the back of his hand. The skin was perfectly intact.

  “What scratch? I don’t see anything.”

  Montalbano suddenly leaned down and took off one of her slippers.

  “My scratch, which your fake slipper gave me,” he said angrily, throwing it off the balcony.

  At this point, Livia yelled so loud that . . .

  . . . Montalbano woke up.

  They weren’t in Boccadasse but in Vigàta, and Livia was sleeping like a baby beside him, the morning’s faint first light filtering in through the window.

  Montalbano realized it was going to be a day of libeccio, the southwest wind.

  The sea was making a lot of noise.

  He got up and went into the bathroom.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later Livia joined him in the kitchen, where the inspector had made breakfast for her and prepared a mug of espresso for himself.

  “So, what’s the plan?” asked Livia. “I’ll be taking the three o’clock bus for Palermo airport.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t drive you there, but I can’t be away from the station for even an hour. You’ve seen for yourself the kind of situation we’re in. Let’s do this: When you’re ready, give me a ring, and I’ll come and give you a ride to the bus station.”

  “Okay,” said Livia. “But will you keep your promise to come to my place this time? I won’t accept any excuses.”

  “I said I would come, and I’ll come.”

  “With your new suit?” asked Livia.

  “All right, with my new suit,” Montalbano replied through clenched teeth.

  * * *

  They’d argued about this for at least two hours a day during Livia’s short stay in Vigàta.

  When she first got there, Livia, the moment she was off the plane, before even embracing Montalbano, had wanted to give him some good news.

  “Did you know that Giovanna is getting remarried in a few days?”

  Montalbano opened his eyes wide.

  “Giovanna? Which Giovanna? Your friend? Who’s she marrying? What about the kids?”

  Livia started laughing and gestured to him to go and get the car.

  “I’ll tell you the whole story on the drive home.”

  As soon as he’d put the car in gear, Montalbano asked his first question.

  “What about Stefano? How did Stefano take the news?”

  “How do you expect? He was delighted. They’ve been married for over twenty years.”

  Montalbano sank into complete incomprehension.

  “But how can a man who’s been married for over twenty years and has two kids be delighted that his wife is marrying another man?”

  Livia broke into a laughing fit so extreme that, through her tears, she’d had to undo her safety belt to hold her stomach.

  “What on earth are you imagining? Where do you get these ideas? Giovanna’s getting remarried to Stefano.”

  “Why, did they get divorced? You never said anything to me about it.”

  “No, they did not get divorced.”

  “So why are they getting married all over again?”

  “They’re not ‘getting married all over again.’ Quite the contrary. They want to reconfirm their marriage.”

  “Reconfirm . . . ?”

  Montalbano was so confused by this point that he was afraid to keep on driving, so he pulled over and stopped.

  “Listen,” he snapped, “I haven’t understood a fucking thing in all this!”

  “Don’t start spouting obscenities or I won’t explain anything to you!”

  They’d resumed driving, and Livia began to fill him in on the story of Giovanna and Stefano.

  Happily married for twenty-five years, the couple was about to celebrate the renewal of their vows.

  At the sound of the word “renewal,” Montalbano couldn’t restrain himself.

  “Renewal?” he said. “You mean like renewing a lease on a car? Or renewing your membership in a club?”

  Bewailing Salvo’s lack of romantic sentiment, Livia proceeded to explain the whole ceremony of matrimonial renewal.

  “When a couple has been married for twenty-five years, they celebrate their silver anniversary, which in fact means renewing their vows. They go to a church, with their relatives, and their children if there are any, and whoever else they want to invite, and they reenact the service. They reconfirm their vows: Do you take, as your lawfully wedded husband . . . and so on. It’s all very romantic. The wedding rings are blessed again, and I’m told the couple take two candles and light a third, which symbolizes their union. Then there’s a proper wedding feast afterwards, with all the usual celebrations as well as silver confetti. And you have to come, because I promised Giovanna and Stefano you would be there. You can come first to Boccadasse to get me, and then we’ll go to Udine together.”

  * * *

  This had been the first blow.

  The second came that same evening, as they were eating, and it was enough to extinguish Montalbano’s appetite in an instant.

  “I had a look in your closet,” Livia said, all serious.

  “And did you find any skeletons?”

  “Worse. I found the corpses of your old suits. You haven’t got a single decent one. For this occasion I want you to have one tailor-made.”

  Montalbano broke out in a cold sweat. In all his life he had never been to a tailor. He felt so discouraged he didn’t even have the strength to open his mouth.

  Only after recovering from the shock had he managed to speak, and he tried to change the subject.

  “Livia, I want you to come to the police station with me tomorrow. I’ve already informed Beba.”

  “What for?”

  “You know, it’s possible that living in Boccadasse you don’t have a clear sense of just how drama
tic things are down here. Lately the migrant landings on our shores are more punctual than the bus from Montelusa. They come by the hundreds every single night. No matter the weather. Men, women, children, old folks. Freezing, starving, thirsty, and frightened. And in need of everything. Every single one of us at the station is busy twenty-four hours a day trying to manage these arrivals. And in town people have formed committees of volunteers who collect living necessities, cook warm meals, provide clothing, shoes, and blankets. Beba directs one of these committees. Do you feel up to lending her a hand?”

  “Of course,” said Livia.

  The inspector was hoping, and feeling like less than a worm in so doing, that Livia, in helping those poor wretches, might forget about the “marriage renewal” and the concomitant need for a new suit.

  * * *

  The following day, Montalbano had taken Livia to Beba’s place and didn’t see her or hear back from her for the rest of the day.

  They’d met back up that evening at his place in Marinella, and before telling him what she’d been doing, Livia saw fit to deal the third and decisive blow, once again at dinnertime, as if she’d decided to impose a crash diet on him.

  “In spite of everything else I had to do today, I managed to drop in at the tailor’s. Unfortunately, they’re really busy tomorrow and can’t see you. But they were very nice and promised me that they’ll manage to make you a suit in time for the celebration. They’ll be expecting you day after tomorrow—in other words, the day I leave—at three in the afternoon. I’m sorry I won’t be able to come with you, but will you promise me you’ll go?”

  Montalbano bristled.

  “That’s all I’ve been doing for the past two days, is making promises. I promise I’ll go. Just give me this tailor’s address.”

  “Via Roma, 32. It’s right next door to the stationery shop, but there’s no sign outside. They’re right on the ground floor. You’ll see, I think you’ll find Elena quite charming.”

  “Elena?!”

  “Yes, Elena. Why do you ask?”