The Snack Thief (13 page)

Panic seized him by the throat.

10

He had to run away at once, to flee the familial ambushes
awaiting him in that house. As he got in his car, he couldnt
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 Vig and went to his office.
Any news?
Instead of answering, Fazio asked another question:
Hows 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. Didnt you know?
Frankly, I didnt. 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 states witness against the
Mafia. This unemployed guy smashing up supermarket shelves,
hes not out of work, hes an asshole. Did you arrest him?

Yes.

Go and tell him, on my behalf, that he should turn
states witness.

For what case?

Anything! Tell him to make something up. But he has
to say hes repented. Any bullshit he feels like saying. Maybe
you can suggest something to him. But as soon as he turns
states witness, hes set for life. Theyll pay him, find him a
house, send his kids to school. Tell him.

Fazio eyed him in silence. Then he spoke:

Chief, its a beautiful day, and still youre ornery as hell.
What gives?

None of your goddamn business.

The owner of the shop where Montalbano usually supplied
himself with ca e simenza had devised an ingenious system
for getting around the obligatory Sunday closing. He would
set up a well-stocked booth in front of the lowered shutter.

Got fresh-roasted peanuts here, nice and hot, the shopkeeper
informed him.

The inspector had him add twenty or so to his coppo,the
paper cornet already half-full of chickpeas and pumpkin
seeds.

His solitary, ruminating stroll to the tip of the eastern
jetty lasted longer than usual this time, until after sunset.

This child is extremely intelligent! Livia said excitedly as
soon as she saw Montalbano enter the house. I taught him
how to play checkers just three hours ago, and now look: hes
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 Frans gobbled up her two remaining chips. Consciously
or unconciously, Livia had wanted the kid to win; if
shed been playing him instead of Frans, she would have
fought tooth and nail to deny him the satisfaction of victory.
Once she even stooped to pretending shed fainted, letting all
the pieces fall to the floor.

Are you hungry?

I can wait, if you want, the inspector replied, complying
with her implicit request to delay supper.

Wed love to go for a little walk.

She and Frans, 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 Frans,
she hadnt 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 didnt 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 TeleVig. On the screen appeared the
chicken-ass mug of Pippo Ragonese, their editorialist. Montalbano
was about to change the channel when Ragoneses
first words paralyzed him.

What is going on at Vig 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,Vig these days
could be compared to the Chicago of the Prohibition era,
with all its shoot-outs, robberies, and arson. The life and liberty
of the common, honest citizen were in constant danger.
And did the viewers know what that overrated Police Inspector
Montalbano, in the midst of this tragic situation, was
working on? The question mark was so emphatically underscored
that the inspector thought he could actually see it superimposed
on the mans 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 wasnt working on this alone, our inspector. Hed
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, hed thought it must be a joke, a tasteless one, to be
sure, and so hed insisted.Yet in the end he understood that it
was not a prank, but the incredible truth. Did the viewers of
Vig 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 Channels news program, they were broadcasting
images of the funeral, in Maz, of the Tunisian fisherman
machine-gunned to death aboard the trawler
Santopadre. At the end of the report, the speaker commented
on the Tunisians 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 hadnt had the time to bring them to Maz.
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, Frans 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 boys, 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.

Whatd he say?
He said: my uncle, replied a very pale Livia.
When the image vanished from the screen, Frans 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?
Its not idiotic. They called me uncle, too, even though

Im nobodys uncle.
Frans answered that the man hed just seen was his

uncle uncle, his mothers 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. Nobodys going to steal your photograph.

Frans has to eat first. Afterwards, Im going to come with
you; youre liable to lose the kid along the way.
The pasta came out overcooked, practically inedible.

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

All peaceable and quietlike here, Chief.
But not in Chechnya.
The inspector opened a drawer and took out the photos

hed lifted from Karimas house. He selected one and showed
it to Frans. The boy, without a word, brought it to his lips
and kissed his mothers 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 sappelle-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 m? Comment sappelle?

Karima Moussa, said Frans, 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! Youre 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 MimThe 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 didnt react. Montalbano immediately felt ashamed
of his outburst.

Forgive me, Livia. Im on edge.

I can see.

Ask him if hes 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
Frans was three, his mother had taken him to Tunisia, and
there hed met his uncle along with some other men. But his
memory of all this wasnt very clear; hed 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. Lapra had been decided.

Listen. Take Frans to see a movie. Theres still time
to make the last showing. Then come back here. Ive got
some work to do.

Hello, Busca! Montalbano here. Ive 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, Im 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. Were in the
blasted Colosseum here: there arent any doors. The fact that
we found this Karimas address the other day is not in the
normal order of things. It belongs to the realm of the miraculous.

Well, try anyway.

Montalbano? Whats 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. Thats all.

What do you mean, thats all? Im 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 wont 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. Livias looking after him.

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

He hasnt got any. He may be an orphan.

What do you mean, may be? Do a search, for Gods
sake!

I am. But Frans

Who on earth is that?

The little boy; thats his name.

Hes not Italian?

No, hes Tunisian.

Listen, Montalbano, lets drop it for the moment, Im
too confused. But I want you to come to my office tomorrow
morning and explain everything to me.

I cant, I have to go out of Vig. Its very important,
believe me. Im not trying to slip away.

Then well see each other in the afternoon. Im serious;
dont 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. Hes 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.

Nicolontalbano 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 Im going
home.

Its ten oclock 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. Ill wait for you.

He had sensed immediately, at first whiff, that the story of the
Santopadre fishing boat was bad news. In fact, hed 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 Frans would have needed only to return a few moments
later, and the kid would never have seen his uncles
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: