The Snack Thief

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h2> “Inspector? Sorry to bother you at home. Could we meet this morning? I’d like to give you my report.”

“Certainly. I’ll come to Montelusa.”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll come down to Vigàta. Shall we meet in an hour at the office in Salita Granet?”

“Yes, thanks, Laganà.”

o o o

He went into the bathroom, trying to make as little noise as possible. Also to avoid disturbing Livia and François, he put on his clothes from the previous day, which were additionally rumpled from the nightlong stakeout. He left a note: there was a lot of stuff in the fridge, he’d be back by lunchtime. As soon as he’d written it, he remembered that the commissioner had invited them for lunch. That was out of the question now, with François there. He decided to phone at once, otherwise he might forget. He knew that the commissioner spent Sunday mornings at home, except in extraordinary circumstances.

“Montalbano? Don’t tell me you’re not coming for lunch!”

“Unfortunately I can’t, Mr. Commissioner, I’m sorry.”

“Is it something serious?”

“Quite. The fact is, early this morning, I became—I don’t know how to put this—sort of a father.”

“Congratulations!” was the commissioner’s reply. “So, Miss Livia . . . I can’t wait to tell my wife, she’ll be so happy.

But I don’t understand how this would prevent you from coming. Ah, I get it: the event is imminent.” Flummoxed by his superior’s misapprehension, Montalbano recklessly proceeded to entangle himself in a long, tor-tuous, stammering explanation that jumbled together murder victims and children’s snacks,Volupté perfume and the Mulone printing works. The commissioner gave up.

“All right, all right, you can explain it all later. Listen, when is Miss Livia leaving?”

“Tonight.”

“So we won’t have the pleasure of meeting her. Too bad.

It’ll have to wait till next time. Tell you what, Montalbano: when you think you’ll have a couple of free hours, give me a ring.”

Before going out, he went to take a last look at Livia and François, who were still asleep. Who would ever break their embrace? He frowned, gripped by a dark premonition.

o o o

The inspector was astonished to find everything in Lapècora’s office exactly as he had left it. Not one sheet of paper out of place, not a single clip where he hadn’t seen it last time. Laganà had understood.

“It wasn’t a search, Inspector. There was no need to turn the place upside down.”

“So, what can you tell me?”

“Well, the business was founded by Aurelio Lapècora in 1965. He’d worked as a clerk before that. The business was involved in importing tropical fruit and had a warehouse in Via Vittorio Emanuele Orlando, near the port, equipped with cold-storage rooms. They exported cereals, chickpeas, fava beans, pistachios, things of that sort. The volume of business was decent, at least until the second half of the eighties. Then things went steadily downhill. To make a long story short, in January of 1990, Lapècora was forced to liquidate, but it was all aboveboard. He even sold the warehouse and made a tidy profit. His papers are all on file. An orderly man, this Lapècora. If I’d had to do an inspection here, I wouldn’t have found anything wrong. Four years later, also in January, he obtained authorization to reopen the business, which was still incorporated. But he never bought another depository or warehouse, nothing whatsoever. And you know what?” “I think I already know. You found no trace of any business transaction from 1994 to the present.”

“Right. If Lapècora only wanted to come and spend a few hours at the office—I’m referring to what I saw in the next room—what need was there to reconstitute the business?” “Find any recent mail?”

“No, sir. All the mail’s at least four years old.” Montalbano picked up a yellowed envelope that had been lying on the desk and showed it to the sergeant.

“Did you find any envelopes like this, but new, with the words ‘Import-Export’ in the return address?”

“Not a single one.”

“Listen, Sergeant. Last month a local print shop sent Lapècora a package of stationery at this office. Since you found no trace of it, do you think it’s possible the whole stock got used up in four weeks?” “I wouldn’t think so. Even when things were going well, he couldn’t have written that many letters.”

“Did you find any letters from a foreign firm called Aslanidis, which exports dates?”

“Nothing.”

“And yet, according to the mailman, some were delivered here.”

“Did you search Lapècora’s home, Inspector?”

“Yes. There’s nothing related to his new business there.

You want to know something else? According to a very reli-able witness, on certain nights, when Lapècora wasn’t here, this place was buzzing with activity.”

He proceeded to tell him about Karima and the dark young man posing as a nephew, who used to make and receive phone calls and write letters, but only on his own portable typewriter.

“I get it,” said Laganà. “Don’t you?”

“I do, but I’d like to hear your idea first.”

“The business was a cover, a front, the receiving end of some kind of illegal trafficking. It certainly wasn’t used to import dates.”

“I agree,” said Montalbano. “And when they killed Lapècora, or the night before, they came here and got rid of everything.”

o o o

He dropped in at headquarters. Catarella was at the switchboard, working on a crossword puzzle.

“Tell me something, Cat. How long does it take you to solve a puzzle?”

“Ah, they’re hard, Chief, really hard. I been workin’ on this one for a month and I still can’t get it.”

“Any news?”

“Nothing serious, Chief. Somebody arsoned Sebastiano Lo Monaco’s parking garage by setting fire to it. The firemen went and put it out. Five motor vehicles got roasted. Then somebody shot at somebody by the name of Filippo Quaran-tino but they missed and got the window of the house where Mrs. Saveria Pizzuto lives and she got so scared she had to go to the merchancy room. Then there was another fire, an arson fire for sure. But just little shit, Chief, kid stuff, nothin’

important.”

“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 mania-cally 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.”

o o o

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!”

o o o

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.”

“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.

o o o

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, exchang-ing 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 con-centrate. 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.

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0p>

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 su permarket 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.”

o o o

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.

o o o

“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, comply-ing 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 lib-erty 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 under-scored that the inspector thought he could actually see it su-perimposed 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 broad-casting 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.

“Mon oncle,” he said.

Livia was about to tell Salvo to turn off the television because it bothered her when she was eating; for his part, Montalbano was about to reproach her for not having prepared anything for supper. Instead they just stood there dumbstruck, forefingers pointing at each other, while a third forefinger, the little boy’s, still pointed at the screen. It was as if an angel had passed, the one who says “Amen,” and everyone remains just as they were. The inspector pulled himself up and sought confirmation, doubting his scant understanding of French.

“What’d he say?”

“He said: ‘my uncle,’ ” replied a very pale Livia.

When the image vanished from the screen, François took his place at the table, anxious to start eating and in no way disturbed by having seen his uncle on TV.

“Ask him if the man he just saw is his uncle uncle.”

“What kind of idiotic question is that?”

“It’s not idiotic. They called me ‘uncle,’ too, even though I’m nobody’s uncle.”

François answered that the man he’d just seen was his uncle uncle, his mother’s brother.

“He has to come with me, right away.”

“Where do you want to take him?”

“To headquarters. I want to show him a photograph.”

“Forget it. Nobody’s going to steal your photograph.

François has to eat first. Afterwards, I’m going to come with you; you’re liable to lose the kid along the way.” The pasta came out overcooked, practically inedible.

o o o

At headquarters there was only Catarella, who, upon seeing the makeshift little family and the look on his superior’s face, took fright.

“All peaceable and quietlike here, Chief.”

“But not in Chechnya.”

The inspector opened a drawer and took out the photos he’d lifted from Karima’s house. He selected one and showed it to François. The boy, without a word, brought it to his lips and kissed his mother’s image.

Livia barely suppressed a sob. There was no need to ask any questions; the resemblance between the man shown on television and the uniformed man with Karima in the photo was obvious. But the inspector asked anyway.

“Is this ton oncle?”

“Oui.”

“Comment s’appelle-t-il?”

Montalbano felt pleased with his French, like a tourist at the Eiffel Tower or the Moulin Rouge.

“Ahmed,” said the little boy.

“Seulement Ahmed?”

“Oh, non. Ahmed Moussa.”

“Et ta mère? Comment s’appelle?”

“Karima Moussa,” said François, shrugging his shoulders at the obviousness of the question.

Montalbano poured out his anger at Livia, who was not expecting the violent assault.

“What the fuck! You’re with the child day and night, you play with him, teach him checkers, but it never occurs to you to find out his name! All you had to do was ask! And that fucking asshole Mimì! The big investigator! He brings the little bucket, the little shovel, the little sand molds, the little pastries, and instead of talking to the kid he only talks to you!” Livia didn’t react. Montalbano immediately felt ashamed of his outburst.

“Forgive me, Livia. I’m on edge.”

“I can see.”

“Ask him if he’s ever met this uncle in person, even recently.”

Livia and the boy spoke to each other softly. Livia then explained that he had not seen him recently, but that when François was three, his mother had taken him to Tunisia, and there he’d met his uncle along with some other men. But his memory of all this wasn’t very clear; he’d mentioned it only because his mother had spoken to him about it.

Therefore, Montalbano concluded, there had been a sort of summit two years earlier, in which, in some way, the fate of poor Mr. Lapècora had been decided.

“Listen. Take François to see a movie. There’s still time to make the last showing. Then come back here. I’ve got some work to do.”

o o o

“Hello, Buscaìno! Montalbano here. I’ve just found out the full name of the Tunisian woman who lives in Villaseta. Remember?”

“Of course. Karima.”

“Her name is Karima Moussa. Could you do a check there at your own office, at the Immigration Bureau?”

“Are you joking, Inspector?”

“No, I’m not. Why?”

“What? How can you ask me such a thing, with all your experience?”

“Explain yourself.”

“Look, Inspector, even if you were to tell me her parents’

names, her grandparents’ names on both sides, and her date and place of birth—”

“Pea soup?”

“What else would you expect? They can pass all the laws they want in Rome, but here Tunisians, Moroccans, Libyans, Cape Verdians, Senegalese, Nigerians, Rwandans, Albanians, Serbs, and Croats come and go as they please. We’re in the blasted Colosseum here: there aren’t any doors. The fact that we found this Karima’s address the other day is not in the normal order of things. It belongs to the realm of the miraculous.” “Well, try anyway.”

o o o

“Montalbano? What’s this business about you chasing after somebody who steals snacks from children? Is he some kind of maniac?”

“No, no, Mr. Commissioner. He was a little boy who was starving and so he started robbing schoolchildren of their morning snacks. That’s all.”

“What do you mean, that’s all? I’m well aware that every now and then you, how shall I say, go off on a tangent. But this time, frankly, I think—”

“Mr. Commissioner, I assure you it won’t happen again.

It was absolutely necessary that we catch him.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do with him?”

“I brought him home with me. Livia’s looking after him.”

“Are you mad, Montalbano? You must give him back to his parents at once!”

“He hasn’t got any. He may be an orphan.”

“What do you mean, ‘may be’? Do a search, for God’s sake!”

“I am. But François—”

“Who on earth is that?”

“The little boy; that’s his name.”

“He’s not Italian?”

“No, he’s Tunisian.”

“Listen, Montalbano, let’s drop it for the moment, I’m too confused. But I want you to come to my office tomorrow morning and explain everything to me.”

“I can’t, I have to go out of Vigàta. It’s very important, believe me. I’m not trying to slip away.”

“Then we’ll see each other in the afternoon. I’m serious; don’t let me down. I need you to provide me with a line of defense; Chamber Deputy Pennacchio is here . . .”

“The one charged with criminal association with mafiosi?”

“The very same. He’s preparing a motion to be sent to the minister of the Interior. He wants your head.” Indeed. It was Montalbano himself who had initiated the investigation of the honorable deputy.

o o o

“Nicolò? Montalbano here. I need to ask a favor of you.”

“So what else is new? Fire away.”

“Are you going to be much longer at the Free Channel?”

“I have to do the midnight report and then I’m going home.”

“It’s ten o’clock now. If I come by the studio in half an hour and bring you a photo, do you think you could still get it on the air for the midnight report?”

“Sure. I’ll wait for you.”

o o o

He had sensed immediately, at first whiff, that the story of the Santopadre fishing boat was bad news. In fact, he’d done everything he could to steer clear of it. But now chance had grabbed him by the hair and ground his face in it, as one does with cats to teach them not to pee in certain places. Livia and François would have needed only to return a few moments later, and the kid would never have seen his uncle’s picture on TV, the dinner would have proceeded peacefully, and everything would have gone just fine. He cursed himself for being such an incurable cop. Anyone else in his place would have said: “Oh yeah? The kid recognized his uncle, did he? How about that!”

And he would have brought the first forkful to his mouth. But he couldn’t. He had to dive in and butt his head against it. The instinct of the hunt, it was once called by Dashiell Hammett, who understood these things well.

“Where’s the photo?” asked Nicolò as soon as Montalbano walked in.

It was the one of Karima and her son.

“Do you want me to frame the whole thing? Or just a detail?”

“As is.”

Nicolò Zito left the room, then soon returned without the photograph and sat himself comfortably down.

“Tell me everything. But most of all, tell me about the snack thief, which Pippo Ragonese thinks is bullshit but I don’t.”

“I haven’t got the time, Nicolò, believe me.”

“No, I don’t believe you. Question: was the boy stealing snacks the one in the photo you just gave me?” He was dangerously intelligent, this Nicolò. Better play along.

“Yes, that’s him.”

“And who’s the mother?”

“She’s someone who was definitely involved in the murder the other day—you know, the guy found in the elevator.

But no more questions. As soon as I manage to make some sense of this, you’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

“Could you tell me at least what I’m supposed to say about the photo?”

“Right, of course. Your tone should be that of somebody telling a sad, sorrowful story.”

“So you’re a director now?”

“You should say that an elderly Tunisian woman came to you in tears, begging you to show that photo on TV. She’s had no news of either mother or child for three days. Their names are Karima and François. Anyone who’s seen them, etcetera, anonymity guaranteed, etcetera, should call Vigàta police headquarters, etcetera.” “Up yours, etcetera,” said Nicolò Zito.

o o o

Back home, Livia went immediately to bed, bringing the kid along with her. Montalbano, on the other hand, stayed up, waiting for the midnight news report. Nicolò did what he was supposed to do, keeping the photo on-screen as long as possible. When the program was over, the inspector called to thank him.

“Could you do me another favor?”

“I’ve half a mind to charge you a fee. What do you want?”

“Could you run the segment again tomorrow on the one p.m. news? I don’t think too many people saw it at this hour.”

“Yes, sir!”

He went into the bedroom, released François from Livia’s embrace, picked the child up, took him into the living room, and put him down to sleep on the sofa that Livia had already made up. He then took a shower and got into bed.

Livia, though asleep, felt him beside her and nudged closer with her back to him, pressing her whole body against him.

She had always liked to do it this way, half-asleep, in that pleasant no-man’s-land between the country of sleep and the city of consciousness. This time, however, as soon as Montalbano began to caress her, she moved away.

“No. François might wake up.”

For a moment, Montalbano stiffened, petrified. He hadn’t considered this other aspect of familial bliss.

o o o

He got up. Sleep, in any case, had abandoned him. On their way back to Marinella, he’d had something in mind that he wanted to do, and now he remembered what it was.

“Valente? Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you at home, especially at this hour. I need to see you at once, it’s extremely urgent. Would it be all right if I came to Mazàra tomorrow morning, around ten?” “Sure. Could you give me some—”

“It’s a complicated, confusing story. I’m going purely on a hunch. It’s about that Tunisian who was killed.”

“Ben Dhahab.”

“Just for starters, his name was Ahmed Moussa.”

“Holy shit.”

“Exactly.”

1 4 3

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11

“There’s not necessarily any connection,” observed Vice-Commissioner Valente after Montalbano had finished telling his story.

“If that’s your opinion, then do me a big favor. We’ll keep each to his own side: you go ahead and investigate why the Tunisian used an assumed name, and I’ll look for the reasons for Lapècora’s murder and Karima’s disappearance. And if we happen to cross paths along the way, we’ll pretend we don’t know each other and won’t even say hello. Okay?” “Jesus! Why don’t you fly straight off the handle!” Inspector Angelo Tomasino, a thirty-year-old with the look of a bank teller, the kind who hand-counts five hundred thousand lire in small bills ten times before handing them over to you, threw down his ace, in support of his boss: “Anyway, it’s not necessarily true.”

“What’s not necessarily true?”

“That Ben Dhahab is an assumed name. His full name might have been Ben Ahmed Dhahab Moussa. Who knows, with these Arab names?”

“I won’t bother you any longer,” said Montalbano, standing up.

His blood was boiling, and Valente, who had known him a long time, realized this.

“What should we do, in your opinion?” he asked simply.

The inspector sat back down.

“Find out, for example, who knew him here in Mazàra.

How he managed to sign on to that fishing boat. If his papers were in order. Go search his living quarters. Do I have to tell you to do these things?”

“No,” said Valente. “I just like to hear you say them.” He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to Montalbano. It was a search warrant for the home of Ben Dhahab, complete with stamp and signature.

“This morning I woke up the judge at the crack of dawn,” Valente said, smiling. “Care to come along for the ride?”

o o o

The widow Ernestina Locìcero, née Pipìa, was keen to point out that she wasn’t a landlady by profession. She did own, by the grace of her dear departed, a catojo, that is, a little ground-floor room that in its day had been a barbershop or, as they say now, a hair salon, though whatever they say, it was certainly not a salon. The gentlemen would see it soon enough, and anyway, what need was there for that whatdoyoucallit, that search warren? They had only to come and say, Signora Pipìa, this is how it is, and she wouldn’t have made any trouble. The only people who make trouble are the ones who got something to hide, whereas she, well, as anyone in Mazàra could testify—anyone except for the sons of bitches and bastards—she’d always led, and continued to lead, a clean life, squeaky clean. What was the late Tunisian man like? Look, gentlemen, on no account would she ever have rented a room to an African—not to one who was black as ink nor to one whose skin din’t look no different than a Mazarese’s.

Nothing doing. She was scared of those Africans. So why did she rent the room to Ben Dhahab? He was so well-bred, gentlemen! A real man of distinction, the likes of which you don’t find anymore, not even in Mazàra. Yes, sir, he spoke ’Talian, or least managed to get his point across most of the time. He even showed her his passport—“Just a second,” said Montalbano.

“Just a minute,” said Valente at the same time.

Yessirs, his passport. All in order. Written the way the Arabs write, and there were even words written in a foreign language. Ingrish? Frinch? Dunno. The photograph matched.

And if the gentlemen really, really wanted to know, she’d even filed an official rental statement, as required by law.

“When did he arrive, exactly?” Valente asked.

“Exactly ten days ago.”

And in ten days he’d had enough time to settle in, find work, and get killed.

“Did he tell you how long he planned to stay?” Montalbano asked.

“Another ten days. But . . .”

“But?”

“Well, he wanted to pay me for a whole month in advance.”

“And how much did you ask of him?”

“I asked him straightaway for nine hundred thousand.

But you know what Arabs are like, they bargain and bargain, and so I was ready to come down to, I dunno, six hundred, five hundred thousand . . . But the man didn’t even let me finish. He just put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills as fat as the belly of a bottle, took off the rubber band holding ’em together, and counted out nine one-hundred-thousand-lire bills.” “Give us the key and explain a little better where this place is,” Montalbano cut in. The Tunisian’s good breeding and distinction, in the eyes of the widow Locìcero, were con-centrated in that roll of bills as fat as the belly of a bottle.

“Gimme a minute to get ready and I’ll come with you.”

“No, signora, you stay here. We’ll bring the key back to you.”

o o o

A rusty iron bed, a wobbly table, an armoire with a piece of plywood in place of the mirror, three wicker chairs. A small bathroom with toilet and sink, and a dirty towel; and on a shelf, a razor, a can of shaving cream, and a comb.

They went back into the single room. There was a blue canvas suitcase on a chair. They opened it: empty.

Inside the armoire, a new pair of trousers, a dark, very clean jacket, four pairs of socks, four pairs of briefs, six handkerchiefs, two undershirts: all brand new, not yet worn.

In one corner of the armoire was a pair of sandals in good condition; in the opposite corner, a small plastic bag of dirty laundry. They emptied it onto the floor: nothing unusual.

They stayed about an hour, searching everywhere. When they’d lost all hope,Valente got lucky. Not hidden, but clearly dropped and left wedged between the iron headboard and the bed, was a Rome-Palermo plane ticket, issued ten days earlier and made out to Mr. Dhahab. So Ahmed had arrived in Palermo at ten o’clock in the morning, and two hours later, at the most, he was in Mazàra. To whom had he turned to find a place to rent?

“Did Montelusa send you the personal effects along with the body?”

“Of course,” replied Valente. “Ten thousand lire.”

“Passport?”

“No.”

“What about all that money he had?”

“If he left it here, I’m sure the signora took care of it. The one who leads a squeaky-clean life.”

“He didn’t even have his house keys in his pocket?”

“Not even. How do I have to say it? Should I sing it? He had ten thousand lire and nothing else.”

o o o

Summoned by Valente, Master Rahman, an elementary-school teacher who looked like a pure Sicilian and served as an unofficial liaison between his people and the Mazarese authorities, arrived in ten minutes.

Montalbano had met him the year before, when involved in the case later dubbed “the terra-cotta dog.”

“Were you in the middle of a lesson?” asked Valente.

In an uncommon show of good sense, a school principal in Mazàra, without involving the superintendency, had allowed some classrooms to be used to create a school for the local Tunisian children.

“Yes, but I called in a substitute. Is there a problem?”

“Perhaps you could help clarify something for us.”

“About what?”

“About whom, rather. Ben Dhahab.”

They had decided,Valente and Montalbano, to sing only half the Mass to the schoolteacher. Afterwards, depending on his reactions, they would determine whether or not to tell him the whole story.

Upon hearing that name, Rahman made no effort to hide his uneasiness.

“What would you like to know?”

It was up to Valente to make the first move; Montalbano was only a guest.

“Did you know him?”

“He came and introduced himself to me about ten days ago. He knew who I was and what I represent. You see, last January or thereabouts, a Tunis newspaper published an arti-cle on our school.” “And what did he say to you?”

“He said he was a journalist.”

Valente and Montalbano exchanged a very quick glance.

“He wanted to do a feature on the lives of our country-men in Mazàra. But he intended to present himself to everyone as somebody looking for a job. He also wanted to sign on with a fishing boat. I introduced him to my colleague El Madani. And he put him in touch with Signora Pipìa about renting a room.” “Did you ever see him again?”

“Of course. We ran into each other a few times by chance. We also were both at the same festival. He had become, well, perfectly integrated.”

“Was it you who set him up with the fishing boat?”

“No. It wasn’t El Madani, either.”

“Who paid for his funeral?”

“We did. We have a small emergency fund that we set up for such things.”

“And who gave the TV reporters the photos and information on Ben Dhahab?”

“I did. You see, at that festival I mentioned, there was a photographer. Ben Dhahab objected; he said he didn’t want anyone taking his picture. But the man had already taken one. And so, when the TV reporter showed up, I got hold of that photo and gave it to him, along with the bit of information Ben Dhahab had told me about himself.” Rahman wiped away his sweat. His uneasiness had increased. And Valente, who was a good cop, let him stew in his juices.

“But there’s something strange in all this,” Rahman decided.

Montalbano and Valente seemed not even to have heard him, looking as if their minds were elsewhere. But in fact they were paying very close attention, like cats that, keeping their eyes closed as if asleep, are actually counting the stars.

“Yesterday I called the newspaper in Tunis to tell them about the incident and to make arrangements for the body.

As soon as I told the editor that Ben Dhahab was dead, he started laughing and said my joke wasn’t very funny: Ben Dhahab was in the room right next to his at that very moment, on the telephone. And then he hung up.” “Couldn’t it simply be a case of two men with the same name?” Valente asked provocatively.

“Absolutely not! He was very clear with me! He specifically said he’d been sent by that newspaper. He therefore lied to me.”

“Do you know if he had any relatives in Sicily?” Montalbano stepped in for the first time.

“I don’t know, we never talked about that. If he’d had any in Mazàra, he certainly wouldn’t have turned to me for help.”

Valente and Montalbano again consulted each other with a glance, and Montalbano, without speaking, gave his friend the go-ahead to fire the shot.

“Does the name Ahmed Moussa mean anything to you?” It was not a shot, but an out-and-out cannon blast. Rahman jumped out of his chair, fell back down in it, then wilted.

“What . . . what . . . has . . . Ahmed Moussa got to do with this?” the schoolmaster stammered, breathless.

“Pardon my ignorance,” Valente continued implacably,

“but who is this man you find so frightening?”

“He’s a terrorist. Somebody who . . . a murderer. A blood-thirsty killer. But what has he got to do with any of this?”

“We have reason to believe that Ben Dhahab was really Ahmed Moussa.”

“I feel ill,” Schoolmaster Rahman said in a feeble voice.

o o o

From the earth-shaken words of the devastated Rahman, they learned that Ahmed Moussa, whose real name was more often whispered than stated aloud and whose face was practically unknown, had formed a paramilitary cell of desperadoes some time before. He had introduced himself to the world three years earlier with an unequivocal calling card, blowing up a small cinema that was showing French cartoons for children. The luckiest among the audience were the ones who died; dozens of others were left blinded, maimed, or disabled for life. The cell espoused, in its communiqués at least, a nationalism so absolute as to be almost abstract. Moussa and his people were viewed with suspicion by even the most intran-sigent of fundamentalists. They had access to almost unlimited amounts of money, the source of which remained unknown. A large bounty had been placed on Ahmed Moussa’s head by the Tunisian government. This was all that Master Rahman knew. The idea that he had somehow helped the terrorist so troubled him that he trembled and teetered as if suffering a violent attack of malaria.

“But you were deceived,” said Montalbano, trying to console him.

“If you’re worried about the consequences,” Valente added, “we can vouch for your absolute good faith.” Rahman shook his head. He explained that it wasn’t fear he was feeling, but horror. Horror at the fact that his own life, however briefly, had intersected with that of a cold-blooded killer of innocent children.

They comforted him as best they could, and as they were leaving they warned him not to repeat a word of their conversation to anyone, not even to his colleague and friend El Madani. They would call him if they needed him for anything else.

“Even at night, you call, no disturb,” said the schoolteacher, who suddenly had difficulty speaking Italian.

o o o

Before discussing everything they’d just learned, they ordered some coffee and drank it slowly, in silence.

“Obviously the guy didn’t sign on to learn how to fish,” Valente began.

“Or to get killed.”

“We’ll have to see how the captain of the fishing boat tells the story.”

“You want to summon him here?”

“Why not?”

“He’ll end up repeating what he already told Augello. It might be better first to try and find out what people down on the docks think. A word here, a word there, and we might end up learning a lot more.” “I’ll put Tomasino on it.”

Montalbano grimaced. He really couldn’t stand Valente’s second-in-command, but this wasn’t a very good reason, and it especially wasn’t something he could say.

“You don’t like that idea?”

“Me? It’s you who have to like the idea. Your men are yours. You know them better than I do.”

“C’mon, Montalbano, don’t be a shit.”

“Okay, I don’t think he’s right for the job. The guy acts like a tax collector, and nobody’s going to feel like confiding in him when he comes knocking.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll put Tripodi on it. He’s a smart kid, fearless. And his father’s a fisherman.”

“The important thing is to find out exactly what happened on the night the trawler crossed paths with the motor patrol. There’s something about the whole story that doesn’t add up, no matter which way you look at it.” “And what would that be?”

“Let’s forget, for the moment, how he managed to sign on with the boat. Ahmed set out with specific intentions, which are unknown to us. Here I ask myself: Did he reveal these intentions to the captain and the crew? And did he reveal them before they put out or when they were already at sea? In my opinion, he did state his intentions—though I don’t know exactly when—and everyone agreed to go along with him. Otherwise they would have turned around and put him ashore.” “He could have forced them at gunpoint.”

“But in that case, once they put in at Vigàta or Mazàra, the captain and crew would have said what happened. They had nothing to lose.”

“Right.”

“To continue. Unless Ahmed’s intention was to get killed off the shores of his native land, I can come up with only two hypotheses. The first is that he wanted to be put ashore at night, at an isolated spot along the coast, so he could steal back into his country undercover. The second is that he’d arranged some sort of meeting at sea, some secret conversation, which he absolutely had to attend in person.” “The second seems more convincing to me.”

“Me too. And then something unexpected happened.”

“They were intercepted.”

“Right. But here that hypothesis becomes more of a stretch. Let’s assume the Tunisian motor patrol doesn’t know that Ahmed’s aboard the fishing boat. They intercept a vessel fishing in their territorial waters, they order it to stop, the fishing vessel takes off, a machine gun is fired from the patrol boat, and purely by accident it happens to kill Ahmed Moussa. This, in any case, is the story we were told.” This time it was Valente who grimaced.

“Unconvinced?”

“It reminds me of the Warren Commission’s reconstruction of the Kennedy assassination.”

“Here’s another version. In the place of the man he’s supposed to meet, Ahmed finds someone else, who then shoots him.”

“Or else it is in fact the man he’s supposed to meet, but they have a difference of opinion, an altercation, and it ends badly, with the guy shooting him.”

“With the ship’s machine gun?”

He immediately realized what he’d just said. Without even asking Valente’s permission, and cursing under his breath, he grabbed the phone and asked for Jacomuzzi in Montelusa. While waiting for the connection, he asked Valente: “In the reports you were sent, did they specify the caliber of the bullets?”

“They spoke generically of firearms.”

“Hello? Who’s this?” asked Jacomuzzi at the other end of the line.

“Listen, Baudo—”

“Baudo? This is Jacomuzzi.”

“But you wish you were Pippo Baudo. Would you tell me what the fuck they used to kill that Tunisian on the fishing boat?”

“Firearms.”

“How odd! I thought he’d been suffocated with a pillow!”

“Your jokes make me puke.”

“Tell me exactly what kind of firearm.”

“A submachine gun, probably a Skorpion. Didn’t I write that in the report?”

“No. Are you sure it wasn’t the ship’s machine gun?”

“Of course I’m sure. Those patrol boats, you know, are equipped with weapons that can shoot down an airplane.”

“Really? Your scientific precision simply amazes me, Jacomù.”

“How do you expect me to talk to an ignoramus like you?”

o o o

After Montalbano related the contents of the phone call, they sat awhile in silence. When Valente finally spoke, he said exactly what the inspector was thinking.

“Are we sure the patrol boat was Tunisian?”

o o o

Since it was getting late,Valente invited the inspector to his house for lunch. But as Montalbano already had firsthand experience of the vice-commissioner’s wife’s ghastly cooking, he declined, saying he had to leave for Vigàta at once.

He got in his car and, after a few miles, saw a trattoria right on the shore. He stopped, got out, and sat down at a table. He did not regret it.

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12

It had been hours since he last spoke with Livia. He felt guilty for this; she was probably worried about him. While waiting for them to bring him a digestivo of anisette (the double serving of bass was beginning to weigh on his stomach), he decided to call her.

“Everything okay there?”

“Your phone call woke us up.”

So much for being worried about him.

“You were asleep?”

“Yes. We had a very long swim. The water was warm.” They were living it up, without him.

“Have you eaten?” asked Livia, purely out of politeness.

“I had a sandwich. I’m on the road. I’ll be back in Vigàta in an hour at the most.”

“Are you coming home?”

“No, I have to go to the office. I’ll see you this evening.” It was surely his imagination, but he thought he heard something like a sigh of relief at the other end.

o o o

But it took him more than an hour to get back to Vigàta. Just outside of town, five minutes away from the office, the car suddenly decided to go on strike. There was no way to get it started again. Montalbano got out, opened the hood, looked at the motor. It was a purely symbolic gesture, a sort of rite of exorcism, since he didn’t know a thing about cars. If someone had told him the motor consisted of a string or a twisted rubber band as on certain toy vehicles, he might well have believed it. A carabinieri squad car with two men inside passed by, then stopped and backed up. They’d had second thoughts. One was a corporal, the other a ranking officer at the wheel. The inspector had never seen them before, and they didn’t know Montalbano.

“Anything we can do?” the corporal asked politely.

“Thanks. I don’t understand why the engine suddenly died.”

They pulled up to the edge of the road and got out. The afternoon Vigàta-Fiacca bus stopped a short distance away, and an elderly couple got on.

“Motor looks fine to me,” was the officer’s diagnosis.

Then he added with a smile: “Shall we have a look at the gas tank?”

There wasn’t a drop.

“Tell you what, Mr. . . .”

“Martinez, Claudio Martinez. I’m an accountant,” said Montalbano.

No one must ever know that Inspector Montalbano was rescued by the carabinieri.

“All right, Mr. Martinez, you wait here. We’ll go to the nearest filling station and bring back enough gasoline to get you back to Vigàta.”

“You’re very kind.”

He got back in the car, fired up a cigarette, and immediately heard an ear-splitting horn blast behind him. It was the Fiacca-Vigàta bus wanting him to get out of the way. He got out and used gestures to indicate that his car had broken down. The bus driver steered around him with a great show of effort and, once past the inspector’s car, stopped at the same point where the other bus, going in the other direction, had stopped. Four people got off.

Montalbano sat there staring at the bus as it headed towards Vigàta. Then the carabinieri returned.

o o o

By the time he got to the office it was already four o’clock.

Augello wasn’t in. Fazio said he’d lost track of him since morning; Mimì’d stuck his head in at nine and then disappeared. Montalbano flew into a rage.

“Everybody does whatever he pleases around here! Anything goes! Ragonese will turn out to have been right, just wait and see!”

News? Nothing. Oh yes, the widow Lapècora phoned to inform the inspector that her husband’s funeral would be held Wednesday morning. And there was a land surveyor by the name of Finocchiaro who’d been waiting since two to speak to him.

“Do you know him?”

“By sight. He’s retired, an old guy.”

“What’s he want?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. But he seems a tad upset.”

“Let him in.”

Fazio was right. The man looked shaken. The inspector asked him to sit down.

“Could I have some water, please?” asked the land surveyor, whose throat was obviously dry.

After drinking his water, he said his name was Giuseppe Finocchiaro, seventy-five years old, unmarried, former land surveyor, now retired, residing at Via Marconi 38. Clean record, not even a traffic ticket.

He stopped, drank the last gulp of water remaining in the glass.

“On TV today, on the afternoon news, they showed a photograph. A woman and child.You know how they said to inform you if we recognized them?”

“Yes.”

Yes, period. One more syllable, at that moment, might have sparked a doubt, a change of mind.

“I know the woman. Her name’s Karima. The kid I’ve never seen before. In fact I never knew she had a son.”

“How do you know her?”

“She comes to clean my house once a week.”

“What day?”

“Tuesday mornings. She stays for four hours.”

“Tell me something. How much did you pay her?”

“Fifty thousand. But . . .”

“But?”

“Sometimes as much as two hundred thousand for extras.”

“Like blow jobs?”

The calculated brutality of the question made the surveyor first turn pale, then red.

“Yes.”

“So, let me get this straight. She would come to your house four times a month. How often did she perform these

‘extras’?”

“Once a month, twice at the most.”

“How did you meet her?”

“A friend of mine, retired like me, told me about her.

Professor Mandrino, who lives with his daughter.”

“So no extras for the professor?”

“There were extras just the same. The daughter’s a teacher, so she’s out of the house every morning.”

“What day did Karima go to the professor’s house?”

“On Saturday.”

“If you haven’t anything else to tell me, you can go, Mr.

Finocchiaro.”

“Thank you for being so understanding.”

The man stood up awkwardly and eyed the inspector.

“Tomorrow is Tuesday,” he said.

“So?”

“Do you think she’ll come?”

He didn’t have the heart to disappoint him.

“Maybe. If she does, let me know.”

o o o

Then the procession began. Preceded by his howling mother, ’Ntonio, the little boy Montalbano met at Villaseta, who’d been punched because he wouldn’t hand over his food, walked in. He’d recognized the thief in the photo they showed on TV. That was him, no doubt about it. ’Ntonio’s mother, shouting loud enough to wake the dead and hurling curses and expletives, presented her demands to the horrified inspector: thirty years for the thief, life imprisonment for the mother. And in case earthly justice did not agree, from divine justice she demanded galloping consumption for the mother and a long, debilitating illness for the boy.

The son, however, unfazed by his mother’s hysteria, shook his head.

“Do you also want him to die in jail?” the inspector asked him.

“No,” the boy said decisively. “Now that I seen him calm, he looks nice.”

o o o

The “extras” granted Paolo Guido Mandrino, a seventy-year-old professor of history and geography, now retired, consisted of a little bath Karima would give him. On one of the four Saturday mornings when she came, the professor would wait for her under the bedcovers, naked. When Karima ordered him to go take his bath, Paolo Guido would pretend to be very reluctant. And so Karima, yank-ing down the sheets, would force the professor to turn over and would proceed to spank him. When he finally got in the tub, Karima would carefully cover him with soap and then wash him. That was all. Price of the extras: one hundred fifty thousand lire; price of the housecleaning: fifty thousand lire.

o o o

“Montalbano? Listen, contrary to what I told you, I can’t see you today. I have a meeting with the prefect.”

“Just say when, Mr. Commissioner.”

“Well, it’s really not very urgent. Anyway, after what Inspector Augello said on TV—”

“Mimì?!” he yelled, as if he were singing La Bohème.

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

“No. I was in Mazàra.”

“He appeared on the one o’clock news. He issued a firm, blunt denial. He said Ragonese hadn’t heard correctly.

The man being sought wasn’t a snack thief, but a sneak thief, a dangerous drug addict who went around with dirty syringes for protection in case he got caught. Augello offered apologies for the entire police department. It was very effective. I think maybe Deputy Pennacchio will calm down now.”

o o o

“We’ve already met,” said Vittorio Pandolfo, accountant, as he entered the office.

“Yes,” said Montalbano. “What do you want?” Rude, and he wasn’t just playacting. If Pandolfo was there to talk about Karima, it meant he’d been lying when he said he didn’t know her.

“I came because on TV they showed—”

“A photograph of Karima, the woman you said you knew nothing about. Why didn’t you tell me anything sooner?”

“Inspector, these are delicate matters, and sometimes one feels a little embarrassed. You see, at my age—”

“You’re the Thursday-morning client?”

“Yes.”

“How much do you pay her to clean house?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“And for extras?”

“One hundred fifty.”

Fixed rate. Except that Pandolfo got extras twice a month. But the person being bathed, in this case, was Karima. Afterwards, the accountant would lay her down on the bed and sniff her all over. And now and then, a little lick.

“Tell me something, Mr. Pandolfo. Were you, Lapècora, Mandrino, and Finocchiaro her regular playmates?”

“Yes.”

“And who was it that first mentioned Karima?”

“Poor old Lapècora.”

“And what was his financial situation?”

“Awfully good. He had almost a billion lire in Treasury bonds, and he also owned his flat and office.”

o o o

The three afternoon clients on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays lived in Villaseta, all widowers or bachelors getting on in years. The price was the same as in Vigàta. The extra granted Martino Zaccarìa, greengrocer, consisted of having her kiss the soles of his feet; with Luigi Pignataro, retired middle-school headmaster, Karima would play blindman’s buff. The headmaster would strip her naked, blindfold her, then go and hide somewhere. Karima would then look for him and find him, after which she would sit down in a chair, take the principal in her lap, and suckle him. When Montalbano asked Calogero Pipitone, an expert agronomist, what his extras were, the man looked at him, dumbfounded.

“What do you think they were, Inspector? Me on top and her on the bottom.”

Montalbano felt like embracing him.

o o o

Since on Mondays,Wednesdays, and Fridays Karima was employed full-time at Lapècora’s, there wouldn’t be any more clients. Oddly enough, Karima rested on Sundays, not Fridays. Apparently she’d adapted to local customs. Montalbano was curious to know how much she earned per month; but since he was hopeless with numbers, he opened the door to his office and asked in a loud voice: “Anybody got a calculator?”

“Me, Chief.”

Catarella came in and pulled a calculator not much bigger than a calling card out of his pocket.

“What do you calculate on that, Cat?”

“The days,” was his enigmatic reply.

“Come back for it in a little bit.”

“I should warrant you the machine works by ammuttuna.”

“What do you mean?”

Catarella mistakenly thought his superior didn’t understand the last word. He stepped toward the door and called out:

“How you say ammuttuna in Italian?”

“Shove,” somebody translated.

“And how am I supposed to shove this calculator?”

“Same way you shove a watch when it don’t run.” Anyway, figuring Lapècora separately, Karima earned one million two hundred thousand per month as a housekeeper, to which was added another million two hundred thousand for extras. At the very least, for full-time service, Lapècora slipped her another million. Which comes to three million four hundred thousand lire monthly, tax-free. Forty-four million two hundred thousand annually.

Karima, from what they could gather, had been working in the area for at least four years, so that made one hundred seventy-six million eight hundred thousand lire.

What about the other three hundred twenty-four million that was in the bank book? Where had that come from?

The calculator had worked fine; there was no need of ammuttuna.

o o o

A burst of applause rang out from the other rooms. What was going on? He opened his door and discovered that the man of the hour was Mimì Augello. He started foaming at the mouth.

“Knock it off ! Clowns!”

They looked at him in shock and horror. Only Fazio attempted to explain the situation.

“Maybe you don’t know, Chief, but Inspector Augello—”

“I already know! The commissioner called me personally, demanding an explanation. Mr. Augello, of his own initiative, without my authorization—as I made certain to emphasize to the commissioner—went on TV and spoke a pile of bullshit!” “Uh, if I may,” Augello ventured.

“No, you may not! You told a pack of lies!”

“I did it to protect all of us here, who—”

“You can’t defend yourself by lying to someone who spoke the truth!”

And he went back into his office, slamming the door behind him. Montalbano, man of ironclad morals, was in a murderous rage at the sight of Augello basking in applause.

o o o

“May I come in?” asked Fazio, opening the door and cau-tiously sticking his head inside. “Father Jannuzzo’s here and wants to talk to you.”

“Let him in.”

Don Alfio Jannuzzo, who never dressed like a priest, was well known in Vigàta for his charitable initiatives. A tall, ro-bust man, he was about forty years old.

“I like to cycle,” he began.

“I don’t,” said Montalbano, terrified at the thought that the priest might want him to participate in some sort of charity race.

“I saw that woman’s photo on television.” The two things seemed in no way connected, and the inspector began to feel uncomfortable. Might this mean that Karima did work on Sundays after all, and that her client was none other than Don Jannuzzo?

“Last Thursday, around nine o’clock in the morning, give or take fifteen minutes, I was near Villaseta, cycling down from Montelusa to Vigàta. On the other side of the road, a car was stopped.” “Do you remember the make?”

“Yes, it was a BMW, metallic gray in color.” Montalbano pricked up his ears.

“A man and a woman were inside the car. It looked like they were kissing, but when I passed right beside them, the woman broke free sort of violently, then looked at me and opened her mouth as if to say something. But the man pulled her back by force and embraced her again. I didn’t like the look of it.” “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t just a lovers’ quarrel. The woman’s eyes, when she looked at me, were full of fear. It seemed as if she was asking for help.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing, because the car left almost immediately. But when I saw the photograph on television today, I knew it was the woman I’d seen in the car, I could swear to it. I’m very good with faces, Inspector, and when I see a face, even for only a second, it’s forever etched in my memory.” Fahrid, pseudo-nephew of Lapècora, and Karima.

“I’m very grateful to you, Father . . .”

The priest raised a hand to stop him.

“I haven’t finished yet. I took down the license-plate number. As I said, I didn’t like what I’d seen.”

“Do you have the number with you?”

“Of course.”

From his pocket he extracted a notebook page neatly folded in four and held it out to the inspector.

“It’s written down here.”

Montalbano took it between two fingers, delicately, as one does with the wings of a butterfly.

am 237 gw.

o o o

In American movies, the policeman had only to tell somebody the license-plate number, and in less than two minutes, he would know the owner’s name, how many children he had, the color of his hair, and the number of hairs on his ass.

In Italy, things were different. One time they made Montalbano wait twenty-eight days, in the course of which the owner of the vehicle (as they later wrote to him) was goat-tied and burnt to a crisp. By the time the answer arrived, it had all come to nothing.

His only choice was to turn to the commissioner, who by now had perhaps ended his meeting with the prefect.

“Montalbano here, Commissioner.”

“I just got back in the office. What is it?”

“I’m calling about that woman who was kidnapped—”

“What woman who was kidnapped?”

“You know, Karima.”

“Who’s that?”

To his horror he realized he was talking to the wind. He hadn’t yet said an intelligible word to the commissioner about the case.

“Mr. Commissioner, I’m simply mortified—”

“Never mind. What did you want?”

“I need to have a license-plate number traced as quickly as possible, and I want the owner’s name and address.”

“Give me the number.”

“am 237 gw.”

“I’ll have something for you by tomorrow morning.” 1 7 1

0p>

13

“I set a place for you in the kitchen. The dining room table is being used. We’ve already eaten.”

He wasn’t blind. He couldn’t help but see that the table was covered by a giant jigsaw puzzle of the Statue of Liberty, practically life-size.

“And you know what, Salvo? It took him only two hours to solve it.”

She didn’t say whom, but it was clear she was talking about François, former snack thief, now family genius.

“Did you buy it for him yourself ?”

Livia dodged the question.

“Want to come down to the beach with me?”

“Right now or after I’ve eaten?”

“Right now.”

There was a sliver of moon shedding its light. They walked in silence. In front of a little pile of sand, Livia sighed sadly.

“You should have seen the castle he made! It was fantas-tic! It looked like Gaudì!”

“He’ll have time to make another.”

He was determined not to give up. Like a cop, and a jealous one at that.

“What store did you find the puzzle in?”

“I didn’t buy it myself. Mimì came by this afternoon, just for a second. The puzzle belongs to a nephew of his who—” He turned his back to Livia, thrust his hands in his pockets, and walked away, imagining dozens of Mimì’s nephews and nieces in tears, systematically despoiled of their toys by their uncle.

“Come on, Salvo, stop acting like a jerk!” said Livia, running up to him.

She tried to slip her arm in his; Montalbano pulled away.

“Fuck you,” Livia said calmly, and she went back to the house.

What was he going to do now? Livia had avoided the quarrel, and he would have to get it out of his system on his own. He walked irritably along the water’s edge, soaking his shoes and smoking ten cigarettes.

I’m such a fucking idiot! he said to himself at a certain point. It’s obvious that Mimì likes Livia and Livia’s fond of Mimì. But, this aside, I’m only giving Mimì grist for his mill. It’s clear he enjoys pissing me off. He’s waging a war of attrition against me, as I do against him. I have to plan a counteroffensive.

He went home. Livia was sitting in front of the television, which she had turned down very low in order not to wake François, who was sleeping in their bed.

“I’m sorry, seriously,” he said to her as he walked past her on his way to the kitchen.

In the oven he found a casserole of mullet and potatoes that smelled inviting. He sat down and tasted his first bite: exquisite. Livia came up behind him and stroked his hair.

“Do you like it?”

“Excellent. I must tell Adelina—”

“Adelina came this morning, saw me, said ‘I don’ wanna disturb,’ turned around, and left.”

“Are you telling me you made this casserole yourself ?”

“Of course.”

For an instant, but only an instant, the casserole went down the wrong way when a thought popped into his head: that she’d made it only to win forgiveness for this business with Mimì. But then the deliciousness of the dish prevailed.

o o o

Before sitting down beside Montalbano to watch television, Livia stopped a moment to admire the jigsaw puzzle. Now that Salvo had calmed down, she could freely talk about it.

“You should have seen how fast he put it together. It was stunning. You or I would have taken longer.”

“Or we would have got bored first.”

“But that’s just it. François also thinks puzzles are boring, because they have fixed rules. Every little piece, he says, is cut so that it will fit with another. Whereas it would be more fun if there were a puzzle with many different solutions!” “He said that?”

“Yes. And he explained it better, since I was drawing it out of him.”

“And what did he say?”

“I think I understood what he meant. He was already familiar with the Statue of Liberty and therefore when he put the head together he already knew what to do; but he was forced to do it that way because the puzzle’s designer had cut out the pieces in a way that obliged the player to follow his design. Is that clear so far?” “Clear enough.”

“It would be fun, he said, if the player could actually create his own alternative puzzle with the same pieces. Don’t you think that’s an extraordinary thought for so small a child?” “They’re precocious nowadays,” said Montalbano, immediately cursing himself for the banality of the expression.

He’d never talked about children before, and couldn’t help but to resort to clichés.

o o o

Nicolò Zito gave a summary of the Tunisian government’s official statement on the fishing-boat incident. Having conducted the necessary investigations, they had no choice but to reject the protest of the Italian government, since the Italians were powerless to prevent their own fishing boats from invading Tunisian territorial waters. That night, a Tunisian military patrol boat had sighted a trawler a few miles from Sfax. They gave the order to halt, but the fishing boat tried to flee. The patrol then fired a burst of warning from the ship’s machine gun that unfortunately struck and killed a Tunisian fisherman, Ben Dhahab, whose family had already been granted substantial aid by the government in Tunis. The tragic incident should serve as a lesson.

“Have you managed to find out anything about François’s mother?”

“Yeah, I have a lead, but don’t get your hopes up,” replied the inspector.

“If . . . if Karima were never to come back . . . what . . .

would happen to François?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“I’m going to bed,” said Livia, abruptly standing up.

Montalbano took her hand and brought it to his lips.

“Don’t get too attached to him.”

o o o

He delicately freed François from Livia’s embrace and laid him down to sleep on the sofa, which had already been made up. When he got into bed, Livia pressed her back against him, and this time did not resist his caresses. On the contrary.

“And what if the kid wakes up?” Montalbano asked at the crucial moment, still acting the swine.

“If he wakes up, I’ll go console him,” Livia said, breathing heavily.

o o o

At seven o’clock in the morning, he slipped softly out of bed and locked himself in the bathroom. As always, the first thing he did was look at himself in the mirror and twist up his mouth. He didn’t like his own face. So why the hell was he looking at it?

He heard Livia scream sharply, rushed to the door, and opened it. Livia was in the living room; the sofa was empty.

“He’s run away!” she said, trembling.

In one bound, the inspector was on the veranda. He could see him: a tiny little dot at the edge of the water, walking towards Vigàta. Dressed as he was, in only his underpants, he dashed off in pursuit. François was not running, but walking with determination. When he heard footsteps coming up behind him, he stopped in his tracks, without turning round.

Montalbano, gasping for air, crouched down before him but said nothing.

The little boy wasn’t crying. His eyes were staring into space, past Montalbano.

“Je veux maman, ” he said. I want Mama.

Montalbano saw Livia approaching at a run, wearing one of his shirts; he stopped her with a single gesture, giving her to understand she should go back to the house. Livia obeyed.

The inspector took the boy by the hand, and they began to walk very, very slowly. For fifteen minutes neither of them said a word. When they came to a beached boat, Montalbano sat down on the sand, François sat beside him, and the inspector put his arm around him.

“Iu persi a me matri ch’era macari cchiù nicu di tia, ” he began, telling the child he’d lost his own mother when he was even smaller than François.

They started talking, the inspector in Sicilian and the boy in Arabic, and they understood each other perfectly.

Montalbano confided things he’d never told anyone before, not even Livia.

He told him about the nights when he used to cry his heart out, head under the pillow so that his father wouldn’t hear him, and the despair he would feel every morning, knowing his mother wasn’t in the kitchen to make him breakfast, or, a few years later, to make him a snack to take to school. It’s an emptiness that can never be filled again; you carry it with you to the grave. The child asked him if he had the power to bring his mother back. No, replied Montalbano, nobody has that power. He had to resign himself. But you had your father, observed François, who really was intelligent, and not only because Livia said so. True, I had my father. And so, the boy asked, am I really going to end up in one of those places where they put children who have no father or mother?

“That will never happen, I promise you,” said the inspector. And he held out his hand. François shook it, looking him in the eye.

o o o

When he emerged from the bathroom, all ready to go to work, he saw that François had taken the puzzle apart and was cutting the pieces into different shapes with a pair of scissors. He was trying, in his naïve way, to avoid following the set pattern. All of a sudden Montalbano staggered, as if struck by an electrical charge.

“Jesus!” he whispered.

Livia looked over at him and saw him trembling, eyes popping out of his head. She became alarmed.

“My God, Salvo, what is it?”

His only answer was to pick up the boy, lift him over his head, look at him from below, put him back down, and kiss him.

“François, you’re a genius!” he said.

o o o

Entering the office, he nearly slammed into Mimì Augello, who was on his way out.

“Ah, Mimì. Thanks for the puzzle.”

Mimì only gaped at him, dumbfounded.

“Fazio, on the double!”

“At your service, Chief !”

Montalbano explained to him in great detail what he was supposed to do.

“Galluzzo, in my office!”

“Yes, sir.”

He explained to him in great detail what he was supposed to do.

“Can I come in?”

It was Tortorella, pushing the door open with his foot since his hands were busy carrying a stack of papers three feet high.

“What is it?”

“Didìo’s complaining.”

Didìo was the administrative manager of the Police Commissioner’s Office of Montelusa. He was nicknamed “The Scourge of God” and “The Wrath of God” for his punctil-iousness.

“What’s he complaining about?”

“Says you’re behind. Says you gotta sign some papers.” And he dropped the stack of papers on the desk. “Better take a deep breath and get started.”

o o o

After an hour of signing, with his hand already beginning to ache, Fazio came in.

“You’re right, Chief. The Vigàta-Fiacca bus makes a stop just outside of town, in the Cannatello district. And five minutes later, the bus coming from the other direction, the Fiacca-Vigàta, also stops at Cannatello.” “So somebody could, in theory, get on the bus for Fiacca in Vigàta, get off at Cannatello, and, five minutes later, get on the Fiacca-Vigàta bus and return to town.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Fazio. Well done.”

“Wait a minute, Chief. I brought back the ticket man from the morning line, the Fiacca-Vigàta. His name is Lopipàro. Should I have him come in?”

“By all means.”

Lopipàro, a reed-thin, surly man of about fifty, was keen to point out at once that he was not a ticket man, but a driver whose duties included collecting tickets. As the tickets were bought in tobacco shops, he did nothing more than collect them once the passengers had boarded the bus.

“Mr. Lopipàro, everything that’s said in this room must remain confidential.”

The driver/ticket man brought his right hand to his heart, as if taking a solemn oath.

“Silent as the grave,” he said.

“Mr. Lopìparo —”

“Lopipàro,” he corrected, stressing the penultimate syllable.

“Mr. Lopipàro, do you know Mrs. Lapècora, the lady whose husband was murdered?”

“I sure do. She’s got a season ticket for that line. She goes back and forth to Fiacca at least three times a week. She goes to visit her sister who’s sick; she’s always talking about her on the bus.” “I’m going to ask you to make an effort to remember something.”

“I’ll give it my best, since you ask.”

“Last Thursday, did you see Mrs. Lapècora?”

“No need to make any effort. I certainly did see her. We even had a little run-in.”

“You quarreled with Mrs. Lapècora?”

“Yessir, I sure did! Mrs. Lapècora, as everybody knows, is a little tight. She’s cheap. Well, on Thursday morning she caught the six-thirty bus for Fiacca. But when we stopped at Cannatello, she got off and told Cannizzaro, the driver, that she had to go back because she forgot something she was supposed to take to her sister. Cannizzaro, who told me all this that same evening, let her out. Five minutes later, on my way to Vigàta, I stopped at Cannatello, and the lady got on my bus.” “What did you argue about?”

“She didn’t want to give me a ticket for going from Cannatello to Vigàta. She claimed she shouldn’t have to use up two tickets for a little mistake. But I gotta have a ticket for every person on the bus. I couldn’t just look the other way, like Mrs. Lapècora wanted me to.” “It’s only right,” said Montalbano. “But tell me something. Let’s say the lady manages in half an hour to get what she forgot at home. How’s she going to get to Fiacca that same morning?” “She catches the Montelusa-Trapani bus, which stops in Vigàta at exactly seven-thirty. Which means she would arrive in Fiacca only an hour late.”

o o o

“Ingenious,” Fazio commented after Lopipàro had left.

“How did you figure it out?”

“The little kid, François, tipped me off when he was working on a jigsaw puzzle.”

“But why did she do it? Was she jealous of the Tunisian maid?”

“No. Mrs. Lapècora’s a cheapskate, as the man said. She was afraid her husband would spend everything he had on that woman. But there was something else that triggered the whole thing.” “What was that?”

“I’ll tell you later. As Catarella says, ‘Aravice is a nasty vice.’ It was greed, you see, that brought her to Lopipàro’s attention, when she should have been making every effort to remain unnoticed.”

o o o

“First it took me half an hour to find out where she lived, then I wasted another half hour trying to persuade the old lady, who didn’t trust me. She was afraid of me, but she calmed down when I asked her to come out of the house and she saw the police car. She made a small bundle of her things and then got in the car. You should have heard how the kid cried with delight when, to his surprise, she appeared out of nowhere! They gave each other a big hug. And your lady friend was also very moved.” “Thanks, Gallù.”

“When do you want me to come by to drive her back to Montelusa?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it.” Their little family was growing without mercy. Now Grandma Aisha was also at Marinella.

o o o

He let the phone ring a long time, but nobody answered. The widow Lapècora wasn’t home. She must certainly be out shopping. There might, however, be another explanation. He dialed the number to the Cosentino household. The security guard’s likable, mustachioed wife answered, speaking in a soft voice.

“Is your husband asleep?”

“Yes, Inspector. Do you want me to call him?”

“There’s no need. You can give him my regards. Listen, signora: I tried calling Mrs. Lapècora, but there was no answer. Do you know by any chance if she—”

“You won’t find her in this morning, Inspector. She went to Fiacca to see her sister. She went today because tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock, she’s got the funeral of the dear—” “Thanks, signora.”

He hung up. Maybe this would simplify what needed to be done.

“Fazio!”

“At your orders, Chief.”

“Here are the keys to Lapècora’s office, Salita Granet 28.

Go inside and take the set of keys that are in the middle drawer of the desk. There’s a little tag attached to them that says ‘home.’ It must be an extra set that he used to keep at the office. Then go to Mrs. Lapècora’s house and let yourself in with those keys.” “Wait a second. What if she’s there?”

“She’s not. She’s out of town.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“In the dining room there’s a glass cupboard with dishes, cups, trays, and whatnot. Take something from it, anything you like, but make sure it’s something she can’t deny is hers.

The ideal would be a cup from a complete set. Then bring it here. And don’t forget to put the keys back in their drawer at the office.”

“And what if the widow notices a cup is missing when she comes back?”

“We don’t give a fuck. Then you must do one more thing. Phone Jacomuzzi and tell him that by the end of the day, I want the knife that was used to kill Lapècora. If he doesn’t have anyone who can bring it to me, go get it yourself.”

o o o

“Montalbano? This is Valente. Could you be here in Mazàra by four o’clock this afternoon?”

“If I leave immediately. Why?”

“The captain of the fishing boat is coming, and I’d like you to be there.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. Has your man managed to find anything out?”

“Yes, and it didn’t take much. He said the fishermen are quite willing to talk.”

“What did they say?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“No, tell me now, so I can give it some thought on the way.”

“Okay. We’re convinced the crew knew little or nothing about the whole business. They all claim the vessel was just outside our territorial waters, that it was a very dark night, and that they clearly saw a vessel approaching them on the radar screen.” “So why did they keep going?”

“Because it didn’t occur to any of the crew that it might be a Tunisian patrol boat or whatever it was. I repeat, they were in international waters.”

“And then?”

“Then, without warning, came the signal to halt. Our fishing boat—or its crew at least, I can’t speak for the captain—thought it was our Customs Police making a routine check. So they stopped, and they heard people speaking Arabic. At this point the Tunisian on the Italian boat went astern and lit a cigarette. And got shot. Only then did the fishing boat turn and flee.” “And then?”

“And then what, Montalbà? How long is this phone call going to last?”

1 8 6

0p>

14

Unlike most men of the sea, Angelo Prestìa, crew chief and owner of the Santopadre motor trawler, was a fat, sweaty man.

But he was sweating because it was natural for him, not because of the questionsValente was asking him. Actually, in this regard, he seemed not only calm, but even slightly put out.

“I don’t understand why you suddenly wanna drag this story out again. It’s water under the bridge.”

“We’d merely like to clear up a few small details, then you’ll be free to go,” Valente said to reassure him.

“Well, out with it then, for God’s sake!”

“You’ve always maintained that the Tunisian patrol boat was acting illegally, since your vessel was in international waters. Is that correct?”

“Of course it’s correct. But I don’t see why you’re interested in questions that are the concern of the Harbor Office.”

“You’ll see later.”

“But I don’t need to see anything, if you don’t mind!

Did the Tunisian government issue a statement or didn’t they? And in this statement, did they say they killed the Tunisian themselves or didn’t they? So why do you want to hash it all out again?” “There’s already a discrepancy,” Valente observed.

“Where?”

“You, for example, say the attack occurred in international waters, whereas they say you’d already crossed their border. Is that a discrepancy or isn’t it, as you might say?” “No, sir, it is not a discrepancy. It’s a mistake.”

“On whose part?”

“Theirs. They obviously took their bearings wrong.” Montalbano and Valente exchanged a lightning-quick glance, which was the signal to begin the second phase of their prearranged interrogation.

“Mr. Prestìa, do you have a criminal record?”

“No, sir.”

“But you have been arrested.”

“You guys really have a thing for old stories, don’t you!

Yes, sir, I was arrested, because some faggot, some sonofabitch had a grudge against me and reported me. But then the judge realized the bastard was a liar, and so he let me go.” “What were you accused of ?”

“Smuggling.”

“Cigarettes or drugs?”

“The second.”

“And your whole crew also ended up in the slammer, didn’t they?”

“Yessir, but they all got out ’cause they were innocent like me.”

“Who was the judge that threw the case out of court?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it Antonio Bellofiore?”

“Yeah, I think it was him.”

“Did you know he was thrown in jail himself a year later for rigging trials?”

“No, I didn’t know. I spend more time at sea than on land.”

Another lightning-quick glance, and the ball was passed to Montalbano.

“Let’s forget these old stories,” the inspector began. “Do you belong to a cooperative?”

“Yes, the Mafico.”

“What does it stand for?”

“Mazarese Fishermen’s Cooperative.”

“When you sign up a Tunisian fisherman, do you choose him yourself or is he referred to you by the cooperative?”

“The co-op tells us which ones to take,” Prestìa replied, starting to sweat more than usual.

“We happen to know that the cooperative furnished you with a certain name, but you chose Ben Dhahab instead.”

“Listen, I didn’t know this Ben Dhahab, never seen ’im before in my life. When he showed up on board five minutes before we put out, I thought he was the one sent by the co-op.” “You mean Hassan Tarif ?”

“I think that was ’is name.”

“Okay. Why didn’t the cooperative ask you for an explanation?”

Captain Prestìa smiled, but his face was drawn and by now he was bathed in sweat.

“But this kind of stuff happens every day! They trade places all the time! The important thing is to avoid com-plaints.”

“So why didn’t Hassan Tarif complain? After all, he lost a day’s wages.”

“You’re asking me? Go ask him.”

“I did,” Montalbano said calmly.

Valente looked at him in astonishment. This part had not been prearranged.

“And what did he tell you?” Prestìa asked almost defi-antly.

“He said Ben Dhahab came to him the day before and asked if he was signed on with the Santopadre, and when he said yes, Dhahab told him not to show up for three days and gave him a whole week’s pay.” “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Let me finish. Given this fact, Dhahab certainly didn’t sign on because he needed work. He already had money.

Therefore he must have come on your boat for another reason.”

Valente paid very close attention to the trap Montalbano was setting. The bit about this mysterious Tarif taking money from Dhahab had clearly been invented by the inspector, and Valente needed to know what he was driving at.

“Do you know who Ben Dhahab was?”

“A Tunisian looking for work.”

“No, my friend, he was one of the biggest names in nar-cotics traffic.”

While Prestìa was turning pale,Valente understood that it was now his turn. He secretly smiled to himself. He and Montalbano made a formidable duo, like Totò and Peppino.

“Looks like you’re in a fix, Mr. Prestìa,” Valente began in a compassionate, almost fatherly tone.

“But why?!”

“Come on, can’t you see? A drug trafficker the caliber of Ben Dhahab signs on with your fishing boat, sparing no expense. And you have the past record you do. I, therefore, have two questions. First: what is one plus one? And second: what went wrong that night?” “You’re trying to mess me up! You want to ruin me!”

“You’re doing it yourself, with your own two hands.”

“No! No! This has gone too far!” said Prestìa, very upset.

“They guaranteed me that . . .”

He stopped short, wiped off his sweat.

“Guaranteed you what?” Montalbano and Valente asked at the same time.

“That I wouldn’t have any trouble.”

“Who did?”

Captain Prestìa stuck his hand in his pocket, dug out his wallet, extracted a calling card, and threw it ontoValente’s desk.

o o o

Having disposed of Prestìa,Valente dialed the number on the calling card. It belonged to the prefecture of Trapani.

“Hello? This is Vice-Commissioner Valente from Mazàra.

I’d like to speak with Commendator Mario Spadaccia, chief of the cabinet.”

“Please hold.”

“Hello, Commissioner Valente. This is Spadaccia.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Commendatore, but I have a question concerning the killing of that Tunisian on the fishing boat—”

“Hasn’t that all been cleared up? The government in Tunis—”

“Yes, I know, Commendatore, but—”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because the crew chief of the fishing boat—”

“He gave you my name?”

“He gave us your card. He was keeping it as some sort of . . . guarantee.”

“Which indeed it was.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me explain. You see, some time ago, His Excellency . . .” ( Wasn’t that title abolished half a century ago?

Montalbano wondered while listening in on an extension.)

“. . . His Excellency the prefect received an urgent request.

He was asked to give his full support to a Tunisian journalist who wanted to conduct a sensitive investigation among his compatriots here, and who, for this reason, among others, also wished to sign on with one of our fishing boats. His Excellency authorized me to oversee the matter. Captain Prestìa’s name was brought to my attention; I was told he was very re-liable. Prestìa, however, had some worries about getting in trouble with the employment office. That’s why I gave him my card. Nothing more.” “Commendatore, I thank you very much for your thorough explanation,” said Valente. And he hung up.

They sat there in silence, eyeing each other.

“The guy’s either a fuckup or he’s putting one over on us,” said Montalbano.

“This whole thing’s beginning to stink,” Valente said pensively.

“Yeah,” said Montalbano.

o o o

They were discussing what their next move should be when the phone rang.

“I told them I wasn’t here for anyone!” Valente shouted angrily. He picked up, listened a moment, then passed the receiver to Montalbano.

Before leaving for Mazàra, the inspector had left word at the office as to where he could be found if needed.

“Hello? Montalbano here. Who’s this? Ah, is that you, Mr. Commissioner?”

“Yes, it’s me. Where have you run off to?” He was irritated.

“I’m here with my colleague, Vice-Commissioner Valente.”

“He’s not your colleague. He’s a vice-commissioner and you’re not.”

Montalbano started to feel worried.

“What’s going on, Commissioner?”

“No, I’m asking you what the hell is going on!” Hell? The commissioner said “hell”?

“I don’t understand.”

“What kind of crap have you been digging up?” Crap? Did the commissioner say “crap”? Was this the start of the Apocalypse? Would the trumpets of Judgment soon begin to sound?

“But what have I done wrong?”

“Yesterday you gave me a license-plate number, remember?”

“Yes. am 237 gw.”

“That’s the one. Well, I immediately asked a friend of mine in Rome to look into it, to save time, at your request, and he just called me back, very annoyed. They told him that if he wants to know the name of the car’s owner, he must submit a written request specifying in detail the reasons for said request.” “That’s not a problem, Commissioner. I’ll explain the whole story to you tomorrow, and you, in the request, can—”

“Montalbano, you don’t understand, or perhaps you won’t understand. That’s a cloaked number.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the car belongs to the secret services. Is that so hard to understand?”

That was no mere stink, what they had smelled. The air itself was turning foul.

o o o

As he was telling Valente about Lapècora’s murder, Karima’s abduction, Fahrid, and Fahrid’s car, which actually belonged to the secret services, a troubling thought occurred to him.

He phoned the commissioner in Montelusa.

“Excuse me, Commissioner, but when you spoke with your friend in Rome about the license plate, did you tell him what it was about?”

“How could I? I don’t know the first thing about what you’re doing.”

The inspector heaved a sigh of relief.

“I merely said,” the commissioner continued, “that it involved an investigation that you, Inspector Montalbano, were conducting.”

The inspector retracted his sigh of relief.

o o o

“Hello, Galluzzo? Montalbano here. I’m calling from Mazàra. I think I’m going to be here late, so, contrary to what I said, I want you to go immediately to Marinella, to my house, pick up the old Tunisian lady, and take her to Montelusa. All right? You haven’t got a minute to lose.”

o o o

“Hello, Livia? Listen very carefully to what I say, and do exactly what I tell you to do, without arguing. I’m in Mazàra at the moment, and I don’t think they’ve bugged our phone yet.” “Oh my God, what are you saying?”

“I asked you, please don’t argue, don’t ask questions, don’t say anything. You must only listen to what I say. Very soon Galluzzo will be there. He’s going to pick up the old woman and take her back with him to Montelusa. No long good-byes, please; you can tell François he’ll see her again soon. As soon as Galluzzo leaves, call my office and ask for Mimì Augello. You absolutely must find him, no matter where he is. And tell him you need to see him at once.” “What if he’s busy?”

“For you, he’ll drop everything and come running. You, in the meantime, will pack François’s few possessions into a small suitcase, then—”

“But what do you want—”

“Quiet, understand? Quiet. Tell Mimì that, on my orders, the kid must disappear from the face of the earth. Vanish. He should hide him somewhere safe, where he’ll be all right. And don’t ask where he intends to take him. Is that clear? You mustn’t know where François has gone. And don’t start crying, it bothers me. Listen closely. Wait for about an hour after Mimì has left with the kid, then call Fazio. Tell him, in tears—you won’t have to fake it since you’re crying already—tell him the kid has disappeared, maybe he ran off in search of the old lady, you don’t know, but in short you want him to help you find him. In the meantime, I’ll have returned. And one last thing: call Palermo airport and reserve a seat on the flight to Genoa, the one that leaves around noon tomorrow. That’ll give me enough time to find someone to take you there. See you soon.” He hung up, and his eyes met Valente’s troubled gaze.

“You think they’d go that far?”

“Farther.”

o o o

“Is the story clear to you now?” asked Montalbano.

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” replied Valente.

“Let me explain better,” said the inspector. “All in all, things may have gone as follows: Ahmed Moussa, for his own reasons, has one of his men, Fahrid, set up a base of operations. Fahrid enlists the help—whether freely offered or not, I don’t know—of Ahmed’s sister, Karima, who’s been living in Sicily for a few years. Then they blackmail a man from Vigàta named Lapècora into letting them use his old import-export business as a front. Are you following?” “Perfectly.”

“Ahmed, who needs to attend an important meeting involving weapons or political support for his movement, comes to Italy under the protection of our secret services.

The meeting takes place at sea, but in all likelihood it’s a trap.

Ahmed didn’t have the slightest suspicion that our services were double-crossing him, and that they were in cahoots with the people in Tunis who wanted to liquidate him.

Among other things, I’m convinced that Fahrid himself was part of the plan to do away with Ahmed. The sister, I don’t think so.”

“Why are you so afraid for the boy?”

“Because he’s a witness. He could recognize Fahrid the way he recognized his uncle on TV. And Fahrid has already killed Karima, I’m sure of it. He killed her after taking her away in a car that turns out to belong to our secret services.” “What are we going to do?”

“You, for now, are going to sit tight. I’m going to get busy creating a diversion.”

“Good luck.”

“Good luck to you, my friend.”

o o o

By the time he got back to headquarters it was already evening. Fazio was there waiting for him.

“Have you found François?”

“Did you go home before coming here?” Fazio asked instead of answering.

“No. I came directly from Mazàra.”

“Chief, could we go into your office for a minute?” Once they were inside, Fazio closed the door.

“Chief, I’m a cop. Maybe not as good a cop as you, but still a cop. How did you know the kid ran away?”

“What’s with you, Fazio? Livia phoned me in Mazàra and I told her to call you.”

“See, Chief, the fact is, the young lady told me she was asking me for help because she didn’t know where you were.”

“Touché,” said Montalbano.

“And then, she was really and truly crying, no doubt about that. Not because the kid had run away, but for some other reason, which I don’t know. So I figured out what it was you wanted me to do, and I did it.” “And what did I want you to do?”

“To raise a ruckus, make a lot of noise. I went to all the houses in the neighborhood and asked every person I ran into.

Have you seen a little kid like so? Nobody’d seen him, but now they all know he ran away. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Montalbano felt moved. This was real friendship, Sicilian friendship, the kind based on intuition, on what was left un-said. With a true friend, one never needs to ask, because the other understands on his own and acts accordingly.

“What should I do now?”

“Keep raising a ruckus. Call the carabinieri, call every one of their headquarters in the province, call every police station, hospital, anybody you can think of. But do it unofficially, only by phone, nothing in writing. Describe the boy, show them you’re worried.” “But are we sure they won’t end up finding him, Chief ?”

“Not to worry, Fazio. He’s in good hands.”

o o o

He took a sheet of paper with the station’s letterhead and typed:

to the ministry of transportation and automobile registration:

for delicate investigation into abduction and probable homicide of woman answering to name karima moussa need name owner automobile

license-plate number am 237 gw. kindly reply promptly. inspector salvo montalbano.

God only knew why, whenever he had to write a fax, he composed it as if it were a telegram. He reread it. He’d even written out the woman’s name to make the bait more appetizing. They would surely have to come out in the open now.

“Gallo!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find the fax number for Auto Registration in Rome and send this right away. Galluzzo!”

“At your orders.”

“Well?”

“I took the old lady to Montelusa. Everything’s taken care of.”

“Listen, Gallù. Tell your brother-in-law to be in the general vicinity of headquarters after Lapècora’s funeral tomorrow. And tell him to bring a cameraman.”

“Thanks, Chief, with all my heart.”

“Fazio!”

“I’m listening.”

“It completely slipped my mind. Did you go to Mrs.

Lapècora’s apartment?”

“Sure did. And I took a small cup from a set of twelve.

I’ve got it over there. You wanna see it?”

“What the hell for? Tomorrow I’ll tell you what to do with it. For now, put it in a cellophane bag. Oh, and, did Jacomuzzi send you the knife?”

“Yessirree.”

o o o

He didn’t have the courage to leave the office. At home the hard part awaited him. Livia’s sorrow. Speaking of which, if Livia was leaving, then . . . He dialed Adelina’s number.

“Adelì? Montalbano here. Listen, the young lady’s leaving tomorrow morning; I need to recuperate. And you know what? I haven’t eaten a thing all day.”

One had to live, no?

2 0 1

0p>

15

Livia was on the veranda, sitting on the bench, utterly still, and seemed to be looking out at the sea. She wasn’t crying, but her red, puffy eyes said that she’d used up her supply of tears. The inspector sat down beside her, took one of her hands, and squeezed it. To Montalbano it felt as if he’d picked up something dead; he found it almost repulsive. He let it go and lit a cigarette. Livia, he’d decided, should know as little as possible about the whole affair. But it was clear she’d given the matter some thought, and her question went right to the point.

“Do they want to harm him?”

“Actually harm him, probably not. Make him disappear for a while, yes.”