wasnât talking about your clothes; I meant your face. Like it or not, you gotta go to the barber.â
Fazio had said âlike it or notâ because he knew him well and realized how much effort it cost the inspector to go to the barber. Running a hand behind his head, Montalbano agreed that his hair could use a little trim, too. His face darkened.
âNot one fucking thingâs going to go right today!â he predicted.
Before exiting, he left orders that, while he was out beautifying himself, someone should go pick up Carmelo Ingrassia and bring him to headquarters.
âIf he asks why, what should I tell him?â asked Fazio.
âDonât tell him anything.â
âWhat if he insists?â
âIf he insists, tell him I want to know how long itâs been since he last had an enema. Good enough?â
âThereâs no need to get upset.â
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The barber, his young helper, and a client who was sitting in one of the two rotating chairs that barely fit into the shopâwhich was actually only a recess under a staircaseâwere in the midst of an animated discussion, but fell silent as soon as the inspector appeared. Montalbano had entered with what he himself called his âbarber-shop face,â that is, mouth shrunken to a slit, eyes half-closed in suspicion, eyebrows furrowed, expression at once scornful and severe.
âGood morning. Is there a wait?â
Even his voice came out deep and gravelly.
âNo sir. Have a seat, Inspector.â
As Montalbano took his place in the vacant chair, the barber, in accelerated, Chaplinesque movements, held a mirror behind the clientâs head to let him admire the finished product, freed him of the towel round his neck, tossed this into a bin, took out a clean one and put it over the inspectorâs shoulders. The client, denied even the customary brush-down by the assistant, literally fled from the shop after muttering âGood day.â
The ritual of the haircut and shave, performed in absolute silence, was swift and funereal. A new client appeared, parting the beaded curtain, but he quickly sniffed the atmosphere and, recognizing the inspector, said:
âIâll pass by later.â Then he disappeared.
On the street, as he headed back to his office, Montalbano noticed an indefinable yet disgusting odor wafting around him, something between turpentine and a certain kind of face powder prostitutes used to wear some thirty years back. The stink was coming from his own hair.
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âIngrassiaâs in your office,â Tortorella said in a low voice, sounding conspiratorial.
âWhereâd Fazio go?â
âHome to change. The commissionerâs office called. They said Fazio, Gallo, Galluzzo, and Germanà should also take part in the press conference.â
I guess my phone call to that asshole Sciacchitano had an effect , thought Montalbano.
Ingrassia, who this time was dressed entirely in pastel green, started to rise.
âDonât get up,â said the inspector, sitting down behind his desk. He distractedly ran a hand through his hair, and immediately the smell of turpentine and face powder grew stronger. Alarmed, he brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed them, confirming his suspicion. But there was nothing to be done; there was no shampoo in the office bathroom. Without warning, he resumed his âbarber-shop face.â Seeing him suddenly transformed, Ingrassia became worried and started squirming in his chair.
âIs something wrong?â he asked.
âIn what sense do you mean?â
âWell . . . in every sense, I suppose,â said Ingrassia, flustered.
Montalbano shrugged evasively and went back to sniffing his fingers. The conversation stalled.
âHave you heard about poor Cavaliere Misuraca?â the inspector asked, as if chatting among friends in his living room.
âAh! Such is life!â The other sighed
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