“This is a little house on Via Garibaldi in Villaseta. No one is living there at the moment. Here behind it is a garden . . .”
He went on to illustrate every detail, the neighboring houses, the street intersections, the smaller cross streets. He had committed everything to memory the previous afternoon, when alone in Karima’s room. With the exception of Catarella, who would remain on duty at headquarters, they were all to have a part in the operation. Using the map, the inspector pointed out the position that each was to take up.
He ordered them to arrive at the scene one by one: no sirens, no uniforms—in fact, no police cars at all. They were to remain absolutely inconspicuous. If anybody wanted to bring his own car, he must leave it at least half a kilometer away from the house. They could bring along whatever they wanted, sandwiches, coffee, beer, because it was probably going to take a long time. They might have to lie in wait all night, and there wasn’t even any guarantee of success. Most likely the person they were looking for wouldn’t show up.
When the streetlights came on, that would signal the start of the operation.
“Weapons?” asked Augello.
“Weapons? What weapons?” Montalbano muttered, mo-mentarily bewildered.
“I don’t know, but since it seemed like something serious, I thought—”
“Who is it we’re looking to capture?” Fazio cut in.
“A snack thief.”
Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing. Beads of sweat appeared on Augello’s forehead.
I’ve been telling him for the last year he should have his head examined, he thought.
o o o
It was a clear, moonlit night, windless and still. It had only one flaw, in Montalbano’s eyes. It seemed as if time didn’t want to pass. Every minute was mysteriously expanding, di-lating into five more.
By the light of a cigarette lighter, Livia had put the gutted mattress back on the bedspring, lain down, and gradually fallen asleep. She was now sleeping in earnest.
The inspector, seated in a chair beside the window that looked out the back, had a clear view of the garden and the surrounding countryside. Fazio and Grasso were supposed to be in that area, but no matter how hard he squinted, he could see no trace of them. They were probably hidden among the almond trees. He felt pleased with his men’s professionalism; they’d embraced the assignment wholeheartedly after he told them the little boy was probably François, Karima’s son. He took a pull on his fortieth cigarette and glanced at his watch by the faint glow. He decided to wait another half hour, after which he would tell his men to go back home. At this exact moment he noticed a very slight movement at the point where the garden ended and the countryside began; but, more than a movement, it was a momentary break in the re-flection of the moon on the straw and yellow scrub. It couldn’t have been Fazio or Grasso. He had purposely wanted to leave that area unguarded, as if to favor, even suggest, that approach. The movement, or whatever it was, repeated itself, and this time Montalbano could make out a small, dark shape coming slowly forward. It was the kid, no doubt about it.
He moved slowly toward Livia, guided by her breath.
“Wake up, he’s coming.”
He returned to the window and was joined at once by Livia. Montalbano spoke into her ear:
“As soon as they catch him, I want you to go immediately downstairs. He’s going to be terrified, but when he sees a woman he might feel reassured. Stroke him, kiss him, tell him whatever you can think of.” The little boy was right next to the house now.They could see him clearly as he raised his head and looked up towards the window. Suddenly a man’s shape appeared, descended on the boy and grabbed him. It was Fazio.
Livia flew down the stairs. François, kicking, let out a long, heartrending wail, like an animal caught in a trap.
Montalbano turned on the light and leaned out the window.
“Bring him upstairs.You, Grasso, go round up the others.” Meanwhile the child’s wailing had stopped and turned into sobbing. Livia was holding him in her arms, talking to him.
o o o
He was still very tense but had stopped crying. Eyes glistening and ardent, he studied the faces around him, slowly regaining confidence. He was sitting at the same table where, only a few days before, he had sat with his mother beside him. This, perhaps, was why he clung to Livia’s hand and didn’t want her to leave him.
Mimì Augello, who had briefly absented himself, returned with a bag in his hand. Everyone immediately realized he’d been the only one with the right idea. Inside were some ham sandwiches, bananas, cookies, and two cans of Coca-Cola. As a reward, Mimì received an emotional glance from Livia, which naturally irritated Montalbano. The deputy inspector stammered: “I had somebody prepare it last night . . . I thought that, if we were dealing with a hungry little boy . . .” As he was eating, François gave in to fatigue and fell asleep. He didn’t manage to finish the cookies. All at once his head fell forward onto the table, as if someone had turned off a switch inside him.
“So where do we take him now?” asked Fazio.
“To our house,” Livia said decisively.
Montalbano was struck by that “our.” And as he was gathering up a pair of jeans and a T-shirt for the little boy, he couldn’t tell whether he should be pleased or upset.
The kid didn’t open his eyes once during the ride back to Marinella, or when Livia undressed him after making up a bed for him on the living room sofa.
“What if he wakes up and runs away while we’re asleep?” asked the inspector.
“I don’t think he will,” Livia reassured him.
Montalbano, in any case, wasn’t taking any chances. He closed the window, lowered the shutters, and gave the front-door key two turns.
They too went to bed. But despite how tired they were, it took them a long time to fall asleep. The presence of François, whom they could hear breathing in the next room, made them both inexplicably uneasy.
o o o
Around nine o’clock the next morning, very late for him, the inspector woke up, got quietly out of bed so as not to disturb Livia, and went to check on François. The kid wasn’t there.
Not on the couch, nor in the bathroom. He’d escaped, just as the inspector had feared. But how the hell did he do it, with the front door locked and the shutters still down? He started looking everywhere the kid might be hiding. Nothing. Vanished. He had to wake Livia and tell her what had happened, get her advice. He reached out and at that moment saw the child’s head resting against his woman’s breast. They were sleeping in each other’s arms.
1 1 6
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.”