Free The Track of Sand by Andrea Camilleri Page A

extending his hand.
    “Thank you,” said Montalbano, shaking it.
    “Are you enjoying yourself, Inspector?”
    “Quite.”
    “I’m glad.”
    The baron looked at him, smiling, then clapped his hands loudly.The inspector felt confused.What was he supposed to do? Should he clap his hands, too? Maybe it was a sign these people used on such occasions to express happiness. So he clapped his hands loudly. The baron gave him a puzzled look, and Ingrid started laughing. At that moment a servant in livery handed the baron a coiled horn. So that was why the baron clapped his hands! To call the manservant! As Montalbano was blushing for making a fool of himself, the baron brought the horn to his lips and blew. The blast was so loud that it sounded like the “charge” signal for the cavalry. As his head was about three inches away from the horn, it left Montalbano’s ears ringing.
    All fell suddenly silent.The baron passed the horn back to the manservant and took the microphone the other was handing to him.
    “ Mesdames et messieurs! A moment of attention, please! I hereby inform you that the betting booth will close in ten minutes, after which it will no longer be possible to make any wagers!”
    “Please excuse us, Barone,” said Ingrid, grabbing Montalbano by the hand and dragging him behind her.
    “Where are we going?”
    “To place our bets.”
    “But I don’t even know who’s racing!”
    “Look, there are two favorites. Benedetta di Santo Stefano and Rachele, even though she’s not racing her own horse.”
    “What’s this Benedetta like?”
    “She’s a midget with a mustache. You want to be kissed by her? Now don’t be silly; you must bet on Rachele, like me.”
    “And what is Beatrice della Bicocca like?”
    Ingrid stopped dead in her tracks, in disbelief.
    “Do you know her?”
    “No. I only wanted to know—”
    “She’s a slut. At this very moment she’s probably fucking some stableboy. She always does, before she races.”
    “Why?”
    “Because she says she can feel the horse better afterwards. You know how Formula 1 drivers feel with their buttocks how well the car is performing? Beatrice can feel how well the horse is performing with her—”
    “Okay, okay, I get it.”
    They filled out their checks at a small, unoccupied table.
    “You wait for me here,” said Ingrid.
    “No, please. I’ll go,” said Montalbano.
    “Look, there’s a queue. If I go, they’ll let me cut in front of the others.”
    Not knowing what to do, he approached one of the buffet tables. All that there had been to eat had been dispatched. Nobles, perhaps, but famished as a tribe from Burundi after a drought.
    “Would you like something?” a waiter asked him.
    “Yes, a J&B, neat.”
    “There’s no more whisky, sir.”
    He absolutely had to drink something if he was ever going to revive.
    “Then a Cognac.”
    “The Cognac’s finished, too.”
    “Have you any alcohol left?”
    “No, sir. All that’s left is orangeade and Coca-Cola.”
    “An orangeade,” he said, sinking into depression before he’d even had a sip.
    Ingrid came running up with two receipts in her hand, as the baron sounded the second cavalry charge.
    “Come, let’s go. The baron is calling us all to the hippodrome.”
    And she handed him his receipt.
    The hippodrome was small and rather simple. It consisted of a large, circular track surrounded on either side by a low fence of interwoven branches.
    There were also two wooden turrets with nobody in them yet.The starting gates, of which there were six, stood in a row behind the track, still empty. Guests were allowed to stand around the track.
    “Let’s stay here,” said Ingrid. “We’re near the finishing post.”
    They leaned against the fence. A short distance away, there was a white stripe on the ground, which must have been the finish line. Just above it, on the inside of the track, stood one of the turrets, probably reserved for the judges of the race.
    Atop the other turret, the