And so, with his head in a fog of rage, he’d followed the guy, caught up with him, passed him, and then screeched to skidding halt, blocking the road crosswise with his car. He’d got out of the car with his hair standing on end and eyes bulging, and, yelling like a madman, he’d gone on the attack, charging at the enemy. Who, meanwhile, the moment he’d seen the inspector get out of his car, had thrown his own into reverse, then accelerated forward, shooting past Montalbano, who tried to stop the car with his bare hands, very nearly falling down. True, he had behaved just like the typical Italian driver, but as soon as he began to feel ashamed of this, he justified himself, thinking that, if nothing else, the episode had allowed him to vent his anger and frustration. As he was opening the front door, he heard the telephone ringing. He went to pick up, certain—for no reason in particular—that it was someone from the station.
