The Snack Thief
Inspector Montalbano [3]
Andrea Camilleri
Viking Press (1997)
Rating:
***
Tags:
Mystery, Mystery & Detective, Andrea Camilleri, General, Fiction, Thriller
Never has Inspector Montalbano's signature mix of humor, cynicism, compassion, earthiness, and love of good food been more compelling than in The Snack Thief. When an elderly man is stabbed to death in an elevator and a crewman on an Italian fishing trawler is machine-gunned by a Tunisian patrol boat off Sicily's coast, only Montalbano, with his keen insight into human nature, suspects the link between the two incidents. His investigation leads to the beautiful Karima, an impoverished housecleaner and sometime prostitute, whose young son is caught stealing other schoolchildren's midmorning snacks. But when Karima disappears, the young snack thief's life-as well as his own-is endangered when Montalbano exposes a viper's nest of government and international intrigue.
The Snack Thief
Inspector Montalbano [3]
Andrea Camilleri
Viking Press (1997)
Rating:
***
Tags:
Mystery, Mystery & Detective, Andrea Camilleri, General, Fiction, Thriller
Never has Inspector Montalbano's signature mix of humor, cynicism, compassion, earthiness, and love of good food been more compelling than in The Snack Thief. When an elderly man is stabbed to death in an elevator and a crewman on an Italian fishing trawler is machine-gunned by a Tunisian patrol boat off Sicily's coast, only Montalbano, with his keen insight into human nature, suspects the link between the two incidents. His investigation leads to the beautiful Karima, an impoverished housecleaner and sometime prostitute, whose young son is caught stealing other schoolchildren's midmorning snacks. But when Karima disappears, the young snack thief's life-as well as his own-is endangered when Montalbano exposes a viper's nest of government and international intrigue.
THE SNACK THIEF
A N D R E A C A M I L L E R I
Translated by Stephen Sartarelli
Viking
THE SNACK THIEF
v
A LS O BY A N D R EA CA M I LLE R I The Terra-Cotta Dog
The Shape of Water
THE SNACK THIEF
A N D R E A C A M I L L E R I
Translated by Stephen Sartarelli
Viking
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
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Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published in 2003 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Translation copyright © Stephen Sartarelli, 2003
All rights reserved.
Originally published in Italian as Il ladro di merendine by Sellerio editore. © 1996
Sellerio editore via Siracusa 50 Palermo.
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data Camilleri, Andrea.
[Ladro di merendine. English]
The snack thief Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli.p>
p. cm.
ISBN: 1-4362-7199-1
I. Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954– II. Title.
PQ4863.A3894L3313 2003
853'.914.dc21
2003041090
Set in Bembo
Designed by Jaye Zimet
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmit-ted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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THE SNACK THIEF
01
He woke up in a bad way. The sheets, during the sweaty, restless sleep that had followed his wolfing down three pounds of sardines a beccafico the previous evening, had wound themselves tightly round his body, making him feel like a mummy. He got up, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and guzzled half a bottle of cold water. As he was drinking, he glanced out the wide-open window. The dawn light promised a good day.
The sea was flat as a table, the sky clear and cloudless. Sensitive as he was to the weather, Montalbano felt reassured as to his mood in the hours to come. As it was still too early, he went back to bed and readied himself for two more hours of slumber, pulling the sheet over his head. He thought, as he always did before falling asleep, of Livia lying in her bed in Boccadasse, outside of Genoa. She was a soothing presence, propitious to any journey, long or short, “in country sleep,” as Dylan Thomas had put it in a poem he liked very much.
No sooner had the journey begun when it was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Like a drill, the sound seemed to enter one ear and come out the other, boring through his brain.
“Hello!”
“Whoozis I’m speaking with?”
“Tell me first who you are.”
“This is Catarella.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Sorry, Chief, I din’t rec’nize your voice as yours. You mighta been sleeping.”
“I certainly might have, at five in the morning! Would you please tell me what the hell is the matter without busting my balls any further?”
“Somebody was killed in Mazàra del Vallo.”
“What the fuck is that to me? I’m in Vigàta.”
“But, Chief, the dead guy—”
Montalbano hung up and unplugged the phone. Before shutting his eyes he thought maybe his friend Valente, vice-commissioner of Mazàra, was looking for him. He would call him later, from his office.
o o o
The shutter slammed hard against the wall. Montalbano sat bolt upright in bed, eyes agape with fright, convinced, in the haze of sleep still enveloping him, that he’d been shot at. In the twinkling of an eye, the weather had changed: a cold, humid wind was kicking up waves with a yellowish froth, the sky now entirely covered with clouds that threatened rain.
Cursing the saints, he got up, went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and lathered himself up. All at once the water ran out. In Vigàta, and therefore also in Marinella, where he lived, water was distributed roughly every three days.
Roughly, because there was no way of knowing whether you would have water the very next day or the following week.
For this reason Montalbano had taken the precaution of having several large tanks installed on the roof of his house, which would fill up when water was available. This time, however, there had apparently been no new water for eight days, for that was the maximum autonomy granted him by his reserves.