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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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.