The Snack Thief

5 7

h2> “Mr. Commissioner? Montalbano here. I’m calling to say I’m very sorry, but I can’t make it to dinner at your house tomorrow evening.”

“Are you sorry because you won’t be able to see us, or because you’ll miss the pasta in squid ink?”

“Both.”

“Well, if it’s something to do with work, I can’t really—”

“No, it’s got nothing to do with work . . . It’s that I’m about to receive an impromptu twenty-four-hour visit from my . . .” Fiancée? That sounded downright nineteenth-century to the inspector’s ear. Girlfriend? At their age?

“Companion?” the commissioner suggested.

“Right.”

“Miss Livia Burlando must be very fond of you to un-dertake such a long and tedious journey to see you for just twenty-four hours.”

Never had he so much as mentioned Livia to his superior, who—officially, at least—should have been unaware of her existence. Not even when he was in the hospital, that time he’d been shot, had the two ever met.

“Listen,” said the commissioner, “why don’t you introduce her to us? My wife would love that. Bring her along with you tomorrow evening.”

Saturday’s feast was safe.

o o o

“Is this the inspector I’m speaking to? In person?”

“Yes, ma’am, this is he.”

“I wanted to tell you something about the gentleman who was murdered yesterday morning.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes and no. I never spoke to him. Actually, I only found out his name yesterday, on the TV news.”

“Tell me, ma’am, do you consider what you have to tell me truly important?”

“I think so.”

“All right. Come by my office this afternoon, around five.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, tomorrow, then.”

“I can’t tomorrow, either. I’m paralyzed.”

“I see. Then I’ll come to you, right away, if you wish.”

“I’m always at home.”

“Where do you live, signora?”

“Salita Granet 23. My name is ClementinaVasile Cozzo.”

o o o

Walking down the Corso on his way to the appointment, he heard someone call him. It was Major Marniti, sitting at the Caffè Albanese with a younger officer.

“Let me introduce to you Lieutenant Piovesan, commander of the Fulmine, the patrol boat that—”

“Montalbano’s the name, pleased to meet you,” said the inspector. But he wasn’t pleased at all. He had managed to dump that case. Why did they keep dragging him back in?

“Have a coffee with us.”

“Actually, I’m busy.”

“Just five minutes.”

“All right, but no coffee.”

He sat down.

“You tell him,” Marniti said to Piovesan.

“In my opinion, none of it’s true.”

“What’s not true?”

“I find the whole story of the fishing boat hard to swallow. We received the Santopadre’s Mayday signal at one in the morning; they gave us their position and said they were being pursued by the patrol boat Rameh.” “What was their position?” the inspector inquired in spite of himself.

“Just outside our territorial waters.”

“And you raced to the scene.”

“Actually it should have been up to the Lampo patrol boat, which was closer.”

“So why didn’t the Lampo go?”

“Because an hour earlier, an SOS was sent out by a fishing boat that was taking in water from a leak. The Lampo radioed the Tuono for backup, and so a big stretch of sea was left unguarded.” Fulmine, Lampo, Tuono: lightning, flash, thunder. It’s always bad weather for the coast guard, thought Montalbano. But he said:

“Naturally, they didn’t find any fishing boat in trouble.”

“Naturally. And me, too, when I arrived at the scene, I found no trace of the Santopadre or the Rameh, which, by the way, was certainly not on duty that night. I don’t know what to think, but the whole thing stinks to me.” “Of what?”

“Of smuggling.”

The inspector stood up, threw up his hands, and shrugged:

“Well, what can we do? The people in Trapani and Mazàra have taken over the investigation.” A consummate actor, Montalbano.

o o o

“Inspector! Inspector Montalbano!” Somebody was calling him again. Was he ever going to get to see Signora, or Signorina, Clementina before nightfall? He turned around; it was Gallo who was chasing after him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I saw you walking by so I called you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Galluzzo phoned me from Lapècora’s office. I’m going to buy some sandwiches and keep him company.” Number 23, Salita Granet, was directly opposite number 28. The two buildings were identical.

o o o

Clementina Vasile Cozzo was a very well-dressed seventy-year-old lady. She was in a wheelchair. Her apartment was so clean it glistened. With Montalbano following behind, she rolled herself over to a curtained window. She gestured to the inspector to pull up a chair and sit down in front of her.

“I’m a widow,” she began, “but my son Giulio sees to all my needs. I’m retired; I used to teach elementary school. My son pays for a housekeeper to look after me and my flat. She comes three times a day, in the morning, at midday, and in the evening, when I go to bed. My daughter-in-law, who loves me like a daughter, drops by at least once a day, as does Giulio. I can’t complain, except for this one misfortune, which befell me six years ago. I listen to the radio, watch television, but most of the time I read. You see?” She waved her hand toward two bookcases full of books.

So when was the signora—not signorina, that much was clear—going to get to the point?

“I’ve just given you this preamble to let you know I’m not some old gossip who spends all her time spying on what others are up to. Still, now and then I do see things I would rather not have seen.” A cordless phone rang on the shelf below the woman’s armrest.

“Giulio? Yes, the inspector’s here. No, I don’t need anything. See you later. Bye.”

She looked at Montalbano and smiled.

“Giulio was against our meeting. He didn’t want me getting mixed up in things that, in his opinion, were no concern of mine. For decades the respectable people here did nothing but repeat that the Mafia was no concern of theirs but only involved the people involved in it. But I used to teach my pupils that the ‘see-nothing, know-nothing’ attitude is the most mortal of sins. So now that it’s my turn to tell what I saw, I’m supposed to take a step back?” She fell silent, sighing. Montalbano was starting to like Clementina Vasile Cozzo more and more.

“You’ll have to forgive me for rambling. In my forty years as a schoolteacher, I did nothing but talk and talk. I never lost the habit. Please stand.”

Montalbano obeyed, like a good schoolboy.

“Come here behind me and lean forward; bring your head next to mine.”

When the inspector was close enough to whisper in her ear, the signora raised the curtain.

They were practically inside the front room of Mr.

Lapècora’s office, since the white muslin lying directly against the windowpanes was too light to act as a screen.

Gallo and Galluzzo were eating their sandwiches, which were actually more like half-loaves, with a bottle of wine and two paper cups between them. Signora Clementina’s window was slightly higher than the one across the street, and by some strange effect of perspective, the two policemen and the various objects in the room looked slightly en-larged.

“In winter, when they had the light on, you could see better,” the woman commented, letting the curtain drop.

Montalbano returned to his chair.

“So, signora, what did you see?” he asked.

Clementina Vasile Cozzo told him.

o o o

When she’d finished her story and he was already taking his leave, the inspector heard the front door open and close.

“The housekeeper’s here,” said Signora Clementina.

A girl of about twenty, short, stocky, and stern-looking, cast a stern glance at the intruder.

“Everything all right?” she asked suspiciously.

“Oh yes, everything’s fine.”

“Then I’ll go in the kitchen and put the water on,” she said. And she exited, in no way reassured.

“Well, signora, thank you so much . . . ,” the inspector began, standing up.

“Why don’t you stay and eat with me?”

Montalbano felt his stomach blanch. Signora Clementina was sweet and nice, but she probably lived on semolina and boiled potatoes.

“Actually, I have so much to—”

“Pina, the housekeeper, is an excellent cook, believe me.

For today she’s made pasta alla Norma, you know, with fried eggplant and ricotta salata.”

“Jesus!” said Montalbano, sitting back down.

“And braised beef for the second course.”

“Jesus!” repeated Montalbano.

“Why are you so surprised?”

“Aren’t those dishes a little heavy for you?”

“Why? I’ve got a stronger stomach than any of these twenty-year-old girls who can happily go a whole day on half an apple and some carrot juice. Or perhaps you’re of the same opinion as my son Giulio?” “I don’t have the pleasure of knowing what that is.”

“He says it’s undignified to eat such things at my age. He considers me a bit shameless. He thinks I should live on por-ridges. So what will it be? Are you staying?”

“I’m staying,” the inspector replied decisively.

o o o

Crossing the street, he climbed three steps and knocked at the door to the office. Gallo came and opened up.

“I relieved Galluzzo,” he explained. Then: “Did you come from the office, Chief ?”

“No, why?”

“Fazio phoned here asking if we’d seen you. He’s looking for you. Says he’s got something important to tell you.” The inspector ran to the phone.

“Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but it seems we have a serious new development. Do you remember, yesterday, you told me to put out an allpoints bulletin for this Karima?

Well, about half an hour ago, Mancuso of the Immigration Bureau called me from Montelusa. He says he’s managed to find out, purely by chance, where the girl lives.”

“Let’s have it.”

“She lives in Villaseta, at 70 Via Garibaldi.”

“I’ll be right over, we’ll go together.”

o o o

At the main entrance to headquarters he was stopped by a well-dressed man of about forty.

“Are you Inspector Montalbano?”

“Yes, but I’m in a rush.”

“I’ve been waiting for you for two hours. Your colleagues didn’t know if you were coming back or not. I’m Antonino Lapècora.”

“The son? The doctor?”

“Yes.”

“My condolences. Come inside. But I can only give you five minutes.”

Fazio appeared.

“Car’s ready.”

“We’ll leave in five minutes. I have to talk to this gentleman first.”

They went into his office. The inspector asked the doctor to sit down, then sat down himself, behind the desk.

“I’m listening.”

“Well, Inspector, I’ve been living in Valledolmo, where I practice my profession, for about fifteen years. I’m a pediatri-cian. I got married in Valledolmo. I mention this merely to let you know that I haven’t had a close relationship with my parents for some time. Actually, we’ve never been very inti-mate. We always spent the obligatory holidays together, of course, and we used to phone each other twice a month.

That was why I was so surprised to receive a letter from my father early last October. Here it is.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, took out the letter, and handed it to the inspector.

My dear Nino,

I know this letter will surprise you. I have tried to keep you from knowing anything about some business I’m involved in which is threatening to turn very serious. But now I realize I can’t go on like this. I absolutely need your help. Please come at once. And don’t say anything to Mama about this note. Kisses.

papa

“And what did you do?”

“Well, see, I had to leave for NewYork two days later . . .

I was away for a month. When I got back, I phoned Papa and asked him if he still needed my help, and he said no. Then we saw each other in person, but he never brought up the subject again.” “Did you have any idea what this dangerous business was that your father was referring to?”

“At the time I thought it had to do with the business he’d wanted to reopen in spite of the fact that I was strongly against it. We even quarreled over it. On top of that, Mama had mentioned he was involved with another woman and was being forced to spend a lot of money—” “Stop right there. So you were convinced that the help your father was asking you for was actually some sort of loan?”

“To be perfectly frank, yes.”

“And you refused to get involved, despite the desperate, disturbing tone of the letter.”

“Well, you see—”

“Do you make a good living, Doctor?”

“I can’t complain.”

“Tell me something: why did you want me to see the letter?”

“Because the murder put everything in a whole new light. I thought it might be useful to the investigation.”

“Well, it’s not,” Montalbano said calmly. “Take it back and treasure it always. Do you have any children, Doctor?”

“A son, Calogerino. Four years old.”

“I hope you never need him for anything.”

“Why?” asked Dr. Antonino Lapècora, bewildered.

“Because, if he’s his father’s son, you’re screwed, sir.”

“How dare you!”

“If you’re not out of my sight in ten seconds, I’ll have you arrested for the first thing I can think of.” The doctor fled so quickly he knocked over the chair he’d been sitting on.

Aurelio Lapècora had desperately asked his son for help, and the guy decided to put an ocean between them.

o o o

Until thirty years ago, Villaseta consisted of some twenty houses, or rather cottages, arranged ten on each side of the provincial road between Vigàta and Montelusa. In the boom years, however, the frenzy of construction (which seemed to be the constitutional foundation of our country: “Italy is a Republic founded on construction work”) was accompanied by a road-building fever, and Villaseta thus found itself at the intersection of three high-speed routes, one superhighway, one so-called link, two provincial roads, and two interprovin-cial roads. Several of these roads, after a few kilometers of picturesque landscape with guardrails appropriately painted red where judges, policemen, carabinieri, financiers, and even prison guards had been killed, often surprised the unwary traveler by suddenly ending inexplicably (or all too explicably) against a hillside so desolate as to feed the suspicion that it had never been trod by human foot. Others instead came to an abrupt halt at the seashore, on beaches of fine blond sand with not a single house as far as the eye could see, not a single boat on the horizon, promptly plunging the unwary traveler into the Robinson Crusoe syndrome.

Having always followed its primary instinct to build houses along any road that might appear,Villaseta thus rapidly turned into a sprawling, labyrinthine town.

“We’ll never find this Via Garibaldi!” complained Fazio, who was at the wheel.

“What’s the most outlying area of Villaseta?” inquired the inspector.

“The one along the road to Butera.”

“Let’s go there.”

“How do you know Via Garibaldi is that way?”

“Trust me.”

He knew he wasn’t wrong. He had learned from personal experience that in the years immediately preceding the aforementioned economic miracle, the central area of every town or city had streets named, as dutiful reminders, after the founding fathers of the country (such as Mazzini, Garibaldi, Cavour), the old politicians (Orlando, Sonnino, Crispi), and the classic authors (Dante, Petrarch, Carducci; Leopardi less often). After the boom, the street names changed. The fathers of the country were banished to the outskirts, while the town centers now featured Pasolini, Pirandello, De Filippo, Togli-atti, De Gasperi, and the ever-present Kennedy ( John, not Bobby, although Montalbano, in a lost village in the Nebrodi Mountains, once ended up in a “Piazza F.lli Kennedy,” that is, a “Kennedy Brothers Square”).

o o o

In reality, the inspector had guessed right on the one hand and wrong on the other. Right insofar as the centrifugal shift of street names had indeed occurred along the road to Butera; wrong insofar as the streets of that neighborhood, if you could call it a neighborhood, were named not after the fathers of the country, but, for reasons unknown, after Verdi, Bellini, Rossini, and Donizetti. Discouraged, Fazio decided to ask for directions from an old peasant astride a donkey laden with dried branches. Except that the donkey decided not to stop, and Fazio was forced to coast alongside him in neutral.

“Excuse me, can you tell me the way to Via Garibaldi?” The old man seemed not to have heard.

“The way to Garibaldi!” Fazio repeated more loudly.

The old man turned round and looked angrily at the stranger.

“Away to Garibaldi? You say, ‘Away to Garibaldi’ with the mess we got on this island? Away? Garibaldi should come back, and fast, and break all these sons of bitches’ necks!”