The Snack Thief

1 0 1

h2> He left the office, got in his car, and drove to Montelusa. At Customs Police headquarters, he asked for Captain Aliotta, who was his friend. They let him in immediately.

“It’s been so long since we spent an evening together!

I’m not blaming you. It’s my fault, too,” said Aliotta, embracing Montalbano.

“Let’s forgive each other and try to rectify the situation soon.”

“Okay. What can I do for you?”

“I need the name of that sergeant of yours I spoke to on the phone last year, the one who gave me that precious information about the supermarket in Vigàta. The case of the weapons traffic, remember?” “Of course. His name’s Laganà.”

“Could I speak with him?”

“What’s it about?”

“He would have to come to Vigàta for half a day at the most, I think. I’d like him to examine the files of a business owned by that guy who was murdered in an elevator.”

“I’ll call him for you.”

Sergeant Laganà was a burly fifty-year-old with a crew cut and gold-rimmed glasses. Montalbano took an immediate liking to him.

He explained in great detail what he wanted from him and gave him the keys to Lapècora’s office. The sergeant looked at his watch.

“I can be in Vigàta at three o’clock this afternoon, if the captain has no objection.”

o o o

Just to be thorough, once the inspector had finished chatting with Aliotta, he asked if he could use his phone and called headquarters, where he hadn’t shown his face since the previous evening.

“Chief, is that really you yourself ?”

“Cat, it’s really me myself. Been any calls?”

“Yessir, Chief. Two for Inspector Augello, one for—”

“Cat, I don’t give a fuck about other people’s phone calls!”

“But you asked me yourself just now!”

“All right, Cat: have there been any phone calls person ally for me myself ?”

By making the necessary linguistic adjustments, maybe he would get a sane answer.

“Yessir, Chief. There was one. But it didn’t make sense.”

“What do you mean, it didn’t make sense?”

“I couldn’t understand anything. But I think they were relatives.”

“Whose relatives?”

“Yours, Chief. They called you by your first name: Salvo, Salvo.”

“Then what?”

“Then they sounded like they were in pain, or sneezing or something. They said: ‘Aiee . . . sha! Aiee . . . sha!’ ”

“Wait, who was ‘they’? Was it a man or a woman?”

“An old woman, Chief.”

Aisha! He dashed out the door, forgetting to say good-bye to Aliotta.

o o o

Aisha was sitting in front of her house, upset and weeping.

No, Karima and François had not shown up; she’d called him for another reason. She stood up and led him inside. The room had been turned upside down; they’d even gutted the mattress. Want to bet they’d taken the bank book? No, that they didn’t find, Aisha said reassuringly.

Upstairs, where Karima lived, it was even worse. Some flagstones had been torn out of the floor; one of François’s toys, a little plastic truck, was in pieces. The photographs were all gone, including the ones advertising Karima’s charms. A good thing I took a few myself, the inspector thought. But they must have made a tremendous racket.

Where had Aisha run off to in the meantime? She hadn’t run off, the old woman explained. The previous day she’d gone to see a friend in Montelusa. It got late, and so she slept over.

A stroke of luck: if they’d found her at home, they would certainly have cut her throat. They must have had keys; neither of the doors, in fact, had been forced. Surely they’d come for the photos; they wanted to erase the very memory of what Karima looked like.

Montalbano told the old woman to gather her things together. He was going to take her himself to her friend’s house in Montelusa. She would have to remain there for a few days, just to be safe. Aisha glumly agreed to go. The inspector explained that while she was getting ready, he was going out to the nearest tobacco shop and would be back in ten minutes at most.

o o o

A short distance before the tobacco shop, in front of the Villaseta elementary school, there was a noisy gathering of ges-ticulating mothers and weepy children. They were laying siege to two municipal policemen from Vigàta who’d been detached to Villaseta and whom Montalbano knew. He drove on, bought his cigarettes, but on the way back, curiosity got the better of him. He pushed through the crowd, invoking his authority, deafened by the shouting.

“They bothered you about this bullshit too?” asked one of the policemen in amazement.

“No, I just happened to be passing by. What’s going on?” The mothers, who heard his question, answered all at once, with the result that the inspector understood nothing.

“Quiet!” he yelled.

The mothers fell silent, but the children, now terrified, started wailing even louder.

“The whole thing’s ridiculous, Inspector,” said the same policeman as before. “Apparently, since yesterday morning, there’s been some little kid attacking the other kids on their way to school. He steals their food and then runs away. He did the same thing this morning.” “Looka here, looka here,” one mother butted in, showing Montalbano a little boy with puffy eyes from being punched. “My son din’t wanna give ’im ’is omelette, and so

’e ’it ’im! An’ ’e really ’urt ’im!”

The inspector bent down and stroked the little boy’s head.

“What’s your name?”

“ ’Ntonio,” said the little boy, proud to have been the one chosen from the crowd.

“Do you know this boy who stole your omelette?”

“No sir.”

“Is there anyone here who recognized him?” the inspector asked in a loud voice. There was a chorus of “No.” Montalbano leaned back down to ’Ntonio.

“What did he say to you? How did you know he wanted your omelette?”

“He spoke foreign. I din’t unnastand. So he pulled off my backpack and opened it. I tried to take it back, but he punched me, twice, and he grabbed my omelette sandwich and ran away.” “Continue the investigation,” Montalbano ordered the two police officers, managing by some miracle to keep a straight face.

o o o

At the time of the Muslim domination of Sicily, when Montelusa was called Kerkent, the Arabs built a district, on the outskirts of town, where they lived amongst themselves.

When the Muslims later fled in defeat, the Montelusians moved into their homes and the name of the district was Si-cilianized into Rabàtu. In the second half of the twentieth century, a tremendous landslide swallowed it up. The few houses left standing were damaged and lopsided, remaining upright by absurd feats of equilibrium. When they returned, this time as paupers, the Arabs moved back into that part of town, replacing the roof tiles with sheet metal and using partitions of heavy cardboard for walls.

It was to this quarter that Montalbano accompanied Aisha with her paltry bundle of belongings. The old woman, still calling him “uncle,” wanted to kiss and embrace him.

o o o

It was three o’clock in the afternoon and Montalbano, who hadn’t had time to eat, was in the throes of a gut-twisting hunger. He went to the Trattoria San Calogero and sat down.

“Is there anything left to eat?”

“For you, sir, there’s always something.” At that exact moment he remembered about Livia. She’d completely slipped his mind. He rushed to the phone, trying feverishly to think of an excuse. Livia had said she’d be there by lunchtime. She was probably furious.

“Livia, darling.”

“I just got here, Salvo. The flight left two hours late, with no explanation. Were you worried, darling?”

“Of course I was worried,” Montalbano lied shamelessly, realizing the winds were favorable. “I’ve been phoning home every fifteen minutes without any answer. A little while ago I decided to call the airport, and they told me the flight was two hours late. That finally set my mind at rest.” “Sorry, love, but it wasn’t my fault. When are you coming home?”

“Unfortunately I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of a meeting in Montelusa; I’ll be at least another hour I’m sure.

Then I’ll come running. Oh, and listen: tonight we’re going to the commissioner’s for dinner.”

“But I didn’t bring anything to wear!”

“You can go in jeans. Have a look in the fridge, Adelina must have cooked something.”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll wait for you, we can eat together.”

“I’ve already made do with a sandwich. I’m not hungry.

See you soon.”

He sat back down at his table, where a pound of mullet awaited him, fried to a delicate crisp.

o o o

A little weary from her journey, Livia had gone to bed. Montalbano got undressed and lay down beside her. They kissed.

Suddenly Livia pulled away and started sniffing him.

“You smell like fried food.”

“Of course I do. I just spent an hour interrogating some guy in a fried-food shop.”

They made love calmly, knowing they had all the time in the world. Then they sat up in bed, pillows behind their heads, and Montalbano told her the story of Lapècora’s murder. Thinking he was amusing her, he told her how he’d had Mrs. Piccirillo and her daughter, who set such great store by their honor, brought in to the station. He also told her he’d had Fazio buy a bottle of wine for Mr. Culicchia, who’d lost his when it rolled next to the corpse. Instead of laughing, as Montalbano expected, Livia looked at him coldly.

“Asshole,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” Montalbano asked with the aplomb of an English lord.

“You’re an asshole and a sexist. First you disgrace those two wretched women, and then you buy a bottle of wine for the guy who had no qualms about riding up and down in the elevator with a corpse. Now tell me that’s not acting like a jerk.” “Come on, Livia, don’t look at it that way.” Unfortunately Livia insisted on looking at it that way. It was six o’clock before he managed to appease her. To distract her he told her the story of the little boy who was stealing other children’s late-morning snacks.

But Livia didn’t laugh this time, either. In fact, she seemed to turn melancholy.

“What’s wrong? What did I say? Did I do something wrong again?”

“No, I was just thinking of that poor little boy.”

“The one who got beat up?”

“No, the other one. He must be really famished and desperate. You say he didn’t speak Italian? He’s probably the child of some immigrants who can’t even put food on the table. Or maybe he was abandoned.” “Jesus Christ!” cried Montalbano, thunderstruck by the revelation, yelling so loudly that Livia gave a start.

“What’s got into you?”

“Jesus Christ!” the inspector repeated, eyes bulging out of his head.

“What on earth did I say?” Livia asked, concerned.

Without answering, Montalbano dashed to the phone, completely naked.

“Catarella, get the fuck off the line and pass me Fazio on the double. Fazio? In one hour, at the latest, I want you all at the office. Got that? All of you. If anybody’s missing, I’m going to go nuts.” He hung up, then dialed another number.

“Commissioner? Montalbano here. I’m embarrassed to say, but I can’t make it to dinner tonight. No, it’s not because of Livia. It’s got to do with work. I’ll explain everything.

Lunch tomorrow? By all means. And please give your wife my apologies.”

Livia had got out of bed, trying to understand how her words could have provoked such a frantic reaction.

Montalbano’s only answer was to throw himself on the bed, dragging her along with him. His intentions were perfectly clear.

“But didn’t you say you’d be at the office in an hour?”

“Fifteen minutes more or less, what’s the difference?”

o o o

Crammed into Montalbano’s office, which was certainly not spacious, were Augello, Fazio, Tortorella, Gallo, Germanà, Galluzzo, and Grasso, who had begun working at the station less than a month ago. Catarella stood leaning against the door frame, an ear to the switchboard. Montalbano had brought along a reluctant Livia.

“But what am I going to do there?”

“Believe me, you might be very useful.”

But he hadn’t given her a single word of explanation.

In utter silence, he drew a rough but sufficiently precise street map of Villaseta, which he then showed to all present.

“This is a little house on Via Garibaldi in Villaseta. No one is living there at the moment. Here behind it is a garden . . .”

He went on to illustrate every detail, the neighboring houses, the street intersections, the smaller cross streets. He had committed everything to memory the previous afternoon, when alone in Karima’s room. With the exception of Catarella, who would remain on duty at headquarters, they were all to have a part in the operation. Using the map, the inspector pointed out the position that each was to take up.

He ordered them to arrive at the scene one by one: no sirens, no uniforms—in fact, no police cars at all. They were to remain absolutely inconspicuous. If anybody wanted to bring his own car, he must leave it at least half a kilometer away from the house. They could bring along whatever they wanted, sandwiches, coffee, beer, because it was probably going to take a long time. They might have to lie in wait all night, and there wasn’t even any guarantee of success. Most likely the person they were looking for wouldn’t show up.

When the streetlights came on, that would signal the start of the operation.

“Weapons?” asked Augello.

“Weapons? What weapons?” Montalbano muttered, mo-mentarily bewildered.

“I don’t know, but since it seemed like something serious, I thought—”

“Who is it we’re looking to capture?” Fazio cut in.

“A snack thief.”

Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing. Beads of sweat appeared on Augello’s forehead.

I’ve been telling him for the last year he should have his head examined, he thought.

o o o

It was a clear, moonlit night, windless and still. It had only one flaw, in Montalbano’s eyes. It seemed as if time didn’t want to pass. Every minute was mysteriously expanding, di-lating into five more.

By the light of a cigarette lighter, Livia had put the gutted mattress back on the bedspring, lain down, and gradually fallen asleep. She was now sleeping in earnest.

The inspector, seated in a chair beside the window that looked out the back, had a clear view of the garden and the surrounding countryside. Fazio and Grasso were supposed to be in that area, but no matter how hard he squinted, he could see no trace of them. They were probably hidden among the almond trees. He felt pleased with his men’s professionalism; they’d embraced the assignment wholeheartedly after he told them the little boy was probably François, Karima’s son. He took a pull on his fortieth cigarette and glanced at his watch by the faint glow. He decided to wait another half hour, after which he would tell his men to go back home. At this exact moment he noticed a very slight movement at the point where the garden ended and the countryside began; but, more than a movement, it was a momentary break in the re-flection of the moon on the straw and yellow scrub. It couldn’t have been Fazio or Grasso. He had purposely wanted to leave that area unguarded, as if to favor, even suggest, that approach. The movement, or whatever it was, repeated itself, and this time Montalbano could make out a small, dark shape coming slowly forward. It was the kid, no doubt about it.

He moved slowly toward Livia, guided by her breath.

“Wake up, he’s coming.”

He returned to the window and was joined at once by Livia. Montalbano spoke into her ear:

“As soon as they catch him, I want you to go immediately downstairs. He’s going to be terrified, but when he sees a woman he might feel reassured. Stroke him, kiss him, tell him whatever you can think of.” The little boy was right next to the house now.They could see him clearly as he raised his head and looked up towards the window. Suddenly a man’s shape appeared, descended on the boy and grabbed him. It was Fazio.

Livia flew down the stairs. François, kicking, let out a long, heartrending wail, like an animal caught in a trap.

Montalbano turned on the light and leaned out the window.

“Bring him upstairs.You, Grasso, go round up the others.” Meanwhile the child’s wailing had stopped and turned into sobbing. Livia was holding him in her arms, talking to him.

o o o

He was still very tense but had stopped crying. Eyes glistening and ardent, he studied the faces around him, slowly regaining confidence. He was sitting at the same table where, only a few days before, he had sat with his mother beside him. This, perhaps, was why he clung to Livia’s hand and didn’t want her to leave him.

Mimì Augello, who had briefly absented himself, returned with a bag in his hand. Everyone immediately realized he’d been the only one with the right idea. Inside were some ham sandwiches, bananas, cookies, and two cans of Coca-Cola. As a reward, Mimì received an emotional glance from Livia, which naturally irritated Montalbano. The deputy inspector stammered: “I had somebody prepare it last night . . . I thought that, if we were dealing with a hungry little boy . . .” As he was eating, François gave in to fatigue and fell asleep. He didn’t manage to finish the cookies. All at once his head fell forward onto the table, as if someone had turned off a switch inside him.

“So where do we take him now?” asked Fazio.

“To our house,” Livia said decisively.

Montalbano was struck by that “our.” And as he was gathering up a pair of jeans and a T-shirt for the little boy, he couldn’t tell whether he should be pleased or upset.

The kid didn’t open his eyes once during the ride back to Marinella, or when Livia undressed him after making up a bed for him on the living room sofa.

“What if he wakes up and runs away while we’re asleep?” asked the inspector.

“I don’t think he will,” Livia reassured him.

Montalbano, in any case, wasn’t taking any chances. He closed the window, lowered the shutters, and gave the front-door key two turns.

They too went to bed. But despite how tired they were, it took them a long time to fall asleep. The presence of François, whom they could hear breathing in the next room, made them both inexplicably uneasy.

o o o

Around nine o’clock the next morning, very late for him, the inspector woke up, got quietly out of bed so as not to disturb Livia, and went to check on François. The kid wasn’t there.

Not on the couch, nor in the bathroom. He’d escaped, just as the inspector had feared. But how the hell did he do it, with the front door locked and the shutters still down? He started looking everywhere the kid might be hiding. Nothing. Vanished. He had to wake Livia and tell her what had happened, get her advice. He reached out and at that moment saw the child’s head resting against his woman’s breast. They were sleeping in each other’s arms.