“What’d he say?”
“He said: ‘my uncle,’ ” replied a very pale Livia.
When the image vanished from the screen, François 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?”
“It’s not idiotic. They called me ‘uncle,’ too, even though I’m nobody’s uncle.”
François answered that the man he’d just seen was his uncle uncle, his mother’s 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. Nobody’s going to steal your photograph.
François has to eat first. Afterwards, I’m going to come with you; you’re liable to lose the kid along the way.” The pasta came out overcooked, practically inedible.
o o o
At headquarters there was only Catarella, who, upon seeing the makeshift little family and the look on his superior’s face, took fright.
“All peaceable and quietlike here, Chief.”
“But not in Chechnya.”
The inspector opened a drawer and took out the photos he’d lifted from Karima’s house. He selected one and showed it to François. The boy, without a word, brought it to his lips and kissed his mother’s 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 s’appelle-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 mère? Comment s’appelle?”
“Karima Moussa,” said François, 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! You’re 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 Mimì! The 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 didn’t react. Montalbano immediately felt ashamed of his outburst.
“Forgive me, Livia. I’m on edge.”
“I can see.”
“Ask him if he’s 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 François was three, his mother had taken him to Tunisia, and there he’d met his uncle along with some other men. But his memory of all this wasn’t very clear; he’d 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. Lapècora had been decided.
“Listen. Take François to see a movie. There’s still time to make the last showing. Then come back here. I’ve got some work to do.”
o o o
“Hello, Buscaìno! Montalbano here. I’ve 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, I’m 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. We’re in the blasted Colosseum here: there aren’t any doors. The fact that we found this Karima’s address the other day is not in the normal order of things. It belongs to the realm of the miraculous.” “Well, try anyway.”
o o o
“Montalbano? What’s 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. That’s all.”
“What do you mean, that’s all? I’m 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 won’t 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. Livia’s looking after him.”
“Are you mad, Montalbano? You must give him back to his parents at once!”
“He hasn’t got any. He may be an orphan.”
“What do you mean, ‘may be’? Do a search, for God’s sake!”
“I am. But François—”
“Who on earth is that?”
“The little boy; that’s his name.”
“He’s not Italian?”
“No, he’s Tunisian.”
“Listen, Montalbano, let’s drop it for the moment, I’m too confused. But I want you to come to my office tomorrow morning and explain everything to me.”
“I can’t, I have to go out of Vigàta. It’s very important, believe me. I’m not trying to slip away.”
“Then we’ll see each other in the afternoon. I’m serious; don’t 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. He’s 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.
o o o
“Nicolò? Montalbano 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 I’m going home.”
“It’s ten o’clock 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. I’ll wait for you.”
o o o
He had sensed immediately, at first whiff, that the story of the Santopadre fishing boat was bad news. In fact, he’d 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 François would have needed only to return a few moments later, and the kid would never have seen his uncle’s 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: “Oh yeah? The kid recognized his uncle, did he? How about that!”
And he would have brought the first forkful to his mouth. But he couldn’t. He had to dive in and butt his head against it. The instinct of the hunt, it was once called by Dashiell Hammett, who understood these things well.