“Who’s in the office?”
“Nobody, Chief. They’re all out taking care of these things.”
Montalbano went into his office. On the desk was a package wrapped in the paper of the Pipitone pastry shop. He opened it: cannoli, cream puffs, torroncini.
“Catarella!”
“At your orders, Chief.”
“Who put these pastries here?”
“Inspector Augello did. He says he bought ’em for the little boy from last night.”
How thoughtful and attentive to abandoned children Mr. Mimì Augello had suddenly become! Was he hoping for another glance from Livia?
The telephone rang.
“Chief? It’s His Honor Judge Lo Bianco. He says he wants to speak personally with you.”
“Put him on.”
A couple of weeks earlier, Judge Lo Bianco had sent the inspector a complimentary copy of the first tome, all seven hundred pages, of a work to which he’d been devoting himself for years: The Life and Exploits of Rinaldo and Antonio Lo Bianco, Masters of Jurisprudence at the University of Girgenti at the Time of King Martin the Younger (1402-1409). He’d got it in his head that these Lo Biancos were his ancestors. Montalbano had leafed through the book one sleepless night.
“Hey, Cat, are you going to put the judge on the line or not?”
“The fact is, Chief, I can’t put him on the line, seeing as he’s already here personally in person.”
Cursing, Montalbano rushed to the door, showed the judge into his office, and expressed his apologies. He already felt guilty towards the judge for having phoned him only once about the Lapècora murder, after which he’d completely forgotten he existed. No doubt he’d come to give him a tongue-lashing.
“Just a quick hello, my dear Inspector. Thought I’d drop in, since I was passing by on my way to see my mother who’s staying with friends at Durrueli. Let’s give it a try, I said to myself. And I was lucky: here you are.”
And what the hell do you want from me? Montalbano said to himself. Given the solicitous glance the judge cast his way, it didn’t take him long to figure it out.
“You know, Judge, lately I’ve been losing sleep.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“I spend the nights reading your book. It’s more gripping than a mystery novel, and so rich in detail.”
A lethal bore: dates upon dates, names upon names. By comparison, the railroad schedule book had more surprises and plot twists.
He remembered one episode recounted by the judge in which Antonio Lo Bianco, on his way to Castrogiovanni on a diplomatic mission, fell from his horse and broke a leg. To this insignificant event the judge devoted twenty-two maniacally detailed pages. To show he’d actually read the book, Montalbano foolishly quoted from it.
And so Judge Lo Bianco engaged him for two hours, adding other details as useless as they were minute. When he finally said good-bye, the inspector felt a headache coming on.
“Oh and, listen, dear boy, don’t forget to keep me posted on the Lacapra case.”
When he got to Marinella, neither Livia nor François were there. They were down by the water, Livia in her bathing suit and the boy in his underpants. They’d built an enormous sand castle and were laughing and talking. In French, of course, which Livia spoke as well as Italian. Along with English. Not to mention German, truth be told. The house ignoramus was he, who barely knew three or four words of French he’d learned in school.
He set the table, then looked in the fridge and found the pasta ’ncasciata and veal roulade from the day before. He put them in the oven at low heat, then quickly got undressed, put on his swimsuit, and joined the other two. The first things he noticed were a little bucket, a shovel, a sand-sifter, and some molds in the shapes of fish and stars. He, of course, didn’t have such things about the house, and Livia certainly hadn’t bought them, since it was Sunday. And there wasn’t a soul on the beach aside from the three of them.
“What are those?”
“What are what?”
“The shovel, the bucket—”
“Augello brought them this morning. He’s so sweet! They belong to his little nephew, who last year . . .”
He didn’t want to hear any more. He dived into the sea, infuriated.
When they returned to the house, Livia noticed the cardboard tray full of pastries.
“Why did you buy those? Don’t you know that sweets are bad for children?”
“Yes I do, it’s your friend Augello who doesn’t know it. He bought them. And now you’re going to eat them, you and François.”
“While we’re at it, your friend Ingrid called, the Swedish woman.”
Thrust, parry, counterthrust. And what was the meaning of that “while we’re at it”?
Those two liked each other, that was clear. It had started the previous year, when Mimì had driven Livia around in his car for an entire day. And now they were picking up where they’d left off. What did they do when he wasn’t there? Trade cute little glances, smiles, compliments?
They began eating, with Livia and François murmuring to each other from time to time, enclosed inside an invisible bubble of complicity from which Montalbano was utterly excluded. The delicious meal, however, prevented him from getting as angry as he would have liked.
“Excellent, this brusciuluni,” he said.
“What did you call it?”
“Brusciuluni. The roulade.”
“You nearly frightened me. Some of your Sicilian words . . .”
“You Ligurians don’t kid around either. Speaking of which, what time does your flight leave? I think I can drive you to Palermo.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I canceled my reservation and called Adriana, a colleague of mine, and asked her to fill in for me. I’m going to stay a few more days. It suddenly dawned on me that if I’m not here, who are you going to leave François with?”
The dark premonition he’d had that morning, when he saw them sleeping in each other’s arms, was beginning to take shape. Who would ever pry those two apart?
“You seem displeased . . . I don’t know . . . irritated.”
“Me? Come on, Livia!”
As soon as they’d finished eating, the little boy’s eyelids started to droop; he was sleepy and must still have been quite worn out. Livia took him into the bedroom, undressed him, and put him to bed.
“He told me something,” she said, leaving the door ajar.
“Tell me.”
“When we were building the sand castle, at a certain point he asked me if I thought his mother would ever return. I told him I didn’t know anything about what had happened, but I was sure that one day his mother would come back for him. He twisted up his face, and I didn’t say any more. A little while later, he brought it up again and said he didn’t think she was coming back. Then he dropped the subject. That child is darkly aware of something terrible. Then all of a sudden he started talking again. He told me that that morning, his mother had come home in a rush and seemed frightened. She told him they had to go away. They ran to the center of Villaseta; his mother told him they had to catch a bus.”
“A bus for where?”
“He doesn’t know. While they were waiting, a car drove up. He knew it well; it belonged to a bad man who would sometimes beat his mother. Fahrid.”
“What’s the name?”
“Fahrid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. He even told me that, when you write it, there’s an h between the a and the r.”
So Mr. Lapècora’s dear young nephew, the owner of the metallic gray BMW, had an Arab name.
“Go on.”
“This Fahrid then got out of the car, grabbed Karima’s arm, and tried to force her to get in. She resisted and shouted to François to run away. The boy fled; Fahrid was too busy with Karima and had to choose. François found a hiding place and was too terrified to come out. He didn’t dare go back to a woman he called his grandma.”
“Aisha.”
<
br /> “He got so hungry he had to rob other children of their schooltime snacks to survive. At night he would go up to the house, but he found it all dark and was afraid that Fahrid was lying in wait for him there. He slept outside. He felt hunted like an animal. The other night he couldn’t stand it any longer; he had to go back home at all costs. That’s why he came so close to the house.”
Montalbano remained silent.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked.
“I think we’ve got an orphan on our hands.”
Livia blanched; her voice began to tremble.
“Why do you think that?”
“Let me explain the opinion I’ve formed of the whole affair thus far, also based on what you’ve just told me. Five years ago, more or less, this attractive, beautiful Tunisian woman comes to our country with her baby boy. She looks for work as a house cleaner and has no trouble finding it, because, among other things, she grants favors, upon request, to older men. That’s how she meets Lapècora. But at a certain point this Fahrid enters her life. He’s probably a pimp or something similar. Fahrid then comes up with a scheme to force Lapècora to reopen his old import-export business as a front for some sort of shady dealings, probably drugs or prostitution. Lapècora, who’s basically an honest man, senses that something’s not right and gets scared. He tries to wiggle out of a nasty situation by rather ingenuous means. Just imagine, he writes anonymous letters to his wife denouncing himself. Things go on this way for a while, but at a certain point, and I don’t know why, Fahrid is forced to clear out. At this point, however, he has to eliminate Lapècora. He arranges for Karima to spend a night at Lapècora’s house, hiding in his study. Lapècora’s wife has to go to Fiacca the following day, to visit her sister who’s sick. Karima had probably filled Lapècora’s brain with visions of wild sex in the marriage bed when the wife was away. Who knows. Early the next morning, after Mrs. Lapècora has left, Karima opens the front door and lets in Fahrid, who then kills the old man. Lapècora may have attempted to escape; perhaps that was why he was found in the elevator. Except that, based on what you just told me, Karima must not have known that Fahrid intended to kill him. When she sees that her accomplice has stabbed Lapècora, she flees. But she doesn’t get very far; Fahrid tracks her down and kidnaps her. In all probability, he later kills her, to keep her from talking. And the proof of this is that he went back to Karima’s place to remove all the photos of her. He didn’t want her to be identified.”
Silently, Livia started crying.
He was alone. Livia had gone to lie down next to François. Montalbano, not knowing what to do, went and sat on the veranda. In the sky, two seagulls were engaged in some sort of duel; on the beach, a young couple was strolling, exchanging a kiss from time to time, but wearily, as if following a script. He went back inside, picked up the last novel written by the late Gesualdo Bufalino, the one about a blind photographer, and went back out on the veranda. He glanced at the cover, the jacket flaps, then closed it. He was unable to concentrate. He could feel an acute malaise slowly growing inside him. And suddenly he understood the reason.
It was merely a foretaste, an advance installment, of the quiet, familial Sunday afternoons that awaited him, perhaps not even in Vigàta but in Boccadasse. With a little boy who, upon awakening, would call him Papa and ask him to play . . .
Panic seized him by the throat.
10
He had to run away at once, to flee the familial ambushes awaiting him in that house. As he got in his car, he couldn’t help but smile at the schizophrenic attack he was suffering. His rational side told him he could easily control the new situation, which in any case existed only in his imagination; his irrational side was spurring him to flee, just like that, without a thought.
He arrived in Vigàta and went to his office.
“Any news?”
Instead of answering, Fazio asked another question:
“How’s the kid?”
“Fine,” he replied, slightly annoyed. “Well?”
“Nothing serious. An unemployed man went into a supermarket with a big stick and started smashing up the shelves—”
“Unemployed? You mean there are still people without work in our country?”
Fazio looked stunned.
“Of course there are, Chief. Didn’t you know?”
“Frankly, I didn’t. I thought everyone had work these days.”
Fazio was clearly at sea.
“And how are they supposed to find this work?”
“By repenting, Fazio. Turning state’s witness against the Mafia. This unemployed guy smashing up supermarket shelves, he’s not out of work, he’s an asshole. Did you arrest him?”
“Yes.”
“Go and tell him, on my behalf, that he should turn state’s witness.”
“For what case?”
“Anything! Tell him to make something up. But he has to say he’s repented. Any bullshit he feels like saying. Maybe you can suggest something to him. But as soon as he turns state’s witness, he’s set for life. They’ll pay him, find him a house, send his kids to school. Tell him.”
Fazio eyed him in silence. Then he spoke:
“Chief, it’s a beautiful day, and still you’re ornery as hell. What gives?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
The owner of the shop where Montalbano usually supplied himself with càlia e simenza had devised an ingenious system for getting around the obligatory Sunday closing. He would set up a well-stocked booth in front of the lowered shutter.
“Got fresh-roasted peanuts here, nice and hot,” the shopkeeper informed him.
The inspector had him add twenty or so to his coppo, the paper cornet already half-full of chickpeas and pumpkin seeds.
His solitary, ruminating stroll to the tip of the eastern jetty lasted longer than usual this time, until after sunset.
“This child is extremely intelligent!” Livia said excitedly as soon as she saw Montalbano enter the house. “I taught him how to play checkers just three hours ago, and now look: he’s already beat me once and is about to win again.”
The inspector remained standing beside them, watching the final moves of the game. Livia made a devastating mistake and François gobbled up her two remaining chips. Consciously or unconciously, Livia had wanted the kid to win; if she’d been playing him instead of François, she would have fought tooth and nail to deny him the satisfaction of victory. Once she even stooped to pretending she’d fainted, letting all the pieces fall to the floor.
“Are you hungry?”
“I can wait, if you want,” the inspector replied, complying with her implicit request to delay supper.
“We’d love to go for a little walk.”
She and François, naturally. The idea that he might wish to tag along never even crossed her mind.
Montalbano set the table grandly, and when he finished he went into the kitchen to see what Livia had made. Nothing. An arctic desolation. The dishes and cutlery sparkled, uncontaminated. Lost in her preoccupation with François, she hadn’t even thought to make dinner. He drew up a rapid, unhappy inventory: as a first course, he could make a little pasta with garlic and oil; as a second course, he could throw something together using sardines in brine, olives, caciocavallo cheese, and canned tuna. The worst, in any case, would come the following day, when Adelina, showing up to clean house and cook, found Livia there with a little boy. The two women didn’t take to each other. Once, because of certain comments Livia had made, Adelina had abruptly dropped everything, half finished, to return only after she was certain her rival was gone and already hundreds of miles away.
It was time for the evening news. He turned on the television and tuned into TeleVigàta. On the screen appeared the chicken-ass mug of Pippo Ragonese, their editorialist. Montalbano was about to change the channel when Ragonese’s first words paralyzed him.
“What is going on at Vigàta police headquarters?” the newsman asked himself and the entire universe in a
tone that would have made Torquemada, in his best moments, seem like he was telling jokes.
He went on to say that in his opinion,Vigàta these days could be compared to the Chicago of the Prohibition era, with all its shoot-outs, robberies, and arson. The life and liberty of the common, honest citizen were in constant danger. And did the viewers know what that overrated Police Inspector Montalbano, in the midst of this tragic situation, was working on? The question mark was so emphatically underscored that the inspector thought he could actually see it superimposed on the man’s chicken-ass face. Having caught his breath, the better to express due wonder and indignation, Ragonese then stressed every syllable:
“On-chas-ing-af-ter-a-snack-thief!”
But he wasn’t working on this alone, our inspector. He’d dragged all his men along with him, leaving police headquarters unprotected, with only a sorry switchboard operator on duty. How did he, Ragonese, come to learn of this seemingly comical but surely tragic situation? Needing to speak with Assistant Inspector Augello to get some information, he had telephoned the central police station, only to receive the extraordinary answer given him by the switchboard operator. At first, he’d thought it must be a joke, a tasteless one, to be sure, and so he’d insisted. Yet in the end he understood that it was not a prank, but the incredible truth. Did the viewers of Vigàta realize what sort of hands they were in?
“What have I ever done to deserve Catarella?” the inspector asked himself bitterly as he changed channel.
On the Free Channel’s news program, they were broadcasting images of the funeral, in Mazàra, of the Tunisian fisherman machine-gunned to death aboard the trawler Santopadre. At the end of the report, the speaker commented on the Tunisian’s misfortune to have died so tragically his first time out on the fishing boat. Indeed, he had only just arrived in town, and hardly anyone knew him. He had no family, or at least hadn’t had the time to bring them to Mazàra. He was born thirty-two years ago in Sfax, and his name was Ben Dhahab. They showed a photo of him, and at that moment Livia and the little boy walked in, back from their stroll. Seeing the face on the television screen, François smiled and pointed a small finger.
IM03 - The Snack Thief Page 10