The inspector watched him disappear into the house. What was going on? Why had he read no joy in the little boy’s eyes? Montalbano tried to console himself; maybe it was some kind of childish resentment; Francois probably felt neglected by him.
At the two ends of the table sat the inspector and Aldo Gagliardo, Franca’s husband, a man of few words who was as hale and hearty as his name. To Montalbano’s right sat Franca, followed by the three children. Francois was the farthest away, sitting next to Aldo. To his left were three youths around twenty years of age, Mario, Giacomo and Ernst. The first two were university students who earned their daily bread working in the fields; the third was a German passing through who told Montalbano he hoped to stay another three months. The lunch, consisting of pasta with sausage sauce and a second course of grilled sausage, went rather quickly. Aldo and his three helpers were in a hurry to get back to work. They all pounced on the sweets the inspector had brought. Then, at a nod of the head from Aldo, they got up and went out.
‘Let me make you another coffee’ said Franca. Montalbano felt uneasy. He’d seen Aldo exchange a fleeting glance of understanding with his wife before leaving. Franca served the coffee and sat down in front of the inspector.
It’s a serious matter’ she began.
At that exact moment Francois came back in with a resolute expression on his face, hands clenched in fists at his sides. He stopped in front of Montalbano, looked him long and hard in the eye, and said in a quavering voice, ‘You’re not going to take me away from my brothers’
Then he turned and ran out.
It was a heavy blow. Montalbano felt his mouth go dry. He said the first thing that came into his head, and unfortunately it was something stupid.
‘His Italian’s become so good!’
‘What I was going to say, well, the boy just said it,’ said Franca. ‘And, mind you, both Aldo and I have done nothing but talk to him about Livia and you, and how eventually he’s going to live with the two of you, and how much you all love each other, and how much more you’ll all love each other one day. But there was nothing doing. The idea entered his head without warning one night about a month ago. I was sleeping, and then I felt something touch my arm. It was him.
‘“You feel sick?”
‘“No.”
‘“Then what’s wrong?” ‘ “I’m afraid.” ‘“Afraid of what?”
‘ “That Salvo’s going to come and take me away.”
‘And every now and then, when he’s playing, when he’s eating, the thought will pop into his head, and he’ll turn all gloomy and even start misbehaving.’
Franca kept on talking, but Montalbano was no longer listening. He was lost in a memory from the time he was the same age as Francois, actually one year younger. His grandmother was dying, his mother had fallen gravely ill (though he didn’t realize these things until later), and his father, to take better care of them, had taken him to the house of his sister Carmela, who was married to the owner of a chaotic shop, a kind, mild man named Pippo Sciortino. They didn’t have any children. Sometime later, his father came back to get him, wearing a black tie and, he remembered very clearly, a broad black band around his left arm. He refused to go.
‘I’m not coming. I’m staying with Carmela and Pippo. My name is Sciortino now.’
He could still see the sorrowful look on his father’s face, and the embarrassed expressions of Pippo and Carmela.
‘… because children aren’t just parcels that you can deposit here or there whenever you feel like it,’ Franca concluded.
On the way home he took the easier route and was already back in Vigata by nine o’clock. He decided to drop in on Mimi Augello.
‘You look better.’
‘This afternoon I managed to get some sleep. So, you couldn’t pull the wool over Franca’s eyes, eh? She called me all worried.’
‘She’s a very, very intelligent woman.’
‘What did she want to talk to you about?’
‘Francois. There’s a problem.’
‘The kid’s grown attached to them?’
‘How did you know? Did your sister tell you?’
‘She hasn’t said a thing about it to me. But is it so hard to figure out? I kind of imagined it would turn out this way.’
Montalbano made a dark face.
‘I can understand how you might feel hurt’ said Mimi, ‘but who’s to say it’s not actually a stroke of luck?’ Tor Francois?’
‘For Francois, too. But, above all, for you, Salvo. You’re not cut out to be a father, not even an adoptive father.’
Just past the bridge, he noticed that the lights were on in Anna’s house. He pulled up and got out of the car.
‘Who is it?’
‘Salvo.’
Anna opened the door and showed him into the dining room. She was watching a movie, but immediately turned off the television.
‘Want a little whisky?’
‘Sure. Neat’
‘You down?’
‘A little’
‘It’s not easy to stomach.’
‘No, it’s not.’
He thought a moment about what Anna had just said to him: it’s not easy to stomach. How on earth did she know about Francois.’
‘But, Anna, how did you find out?’
‘It was on TV, on the evening report.’
What was she talking about?
‘What station?’
‘TeleVigata. They said the commissioner had assigned the Licalzi murder case to the captain of the Flying Squad.’ Montalbano started laughing.
‘You think I give a shit about that? I was talking about something else.” ‘
“Then tell me why you’re feeling down.’ ‘I’ll tell you another time. I’m sorry.’ ‘Did you ever meet Michela’s husband?’ ‘Yeah, yesterday afternoon.’
‘Did he tell you about his unconsummated marriage?’ ‘You knew?’
‘Yes, Michela had told me about it. She was very fond of him, you know. But in those circumstances, taking a lover wasn’t really a betrayal. The doctor knew about it.’
The phone rang in another room. Anna went and answered, then returned in an agitated state.
‘ ‘That was a friend. She heard that about half an hour ago, this captain of the Flying Squad went to the home of Engineer Di Blasi and brought him into Montelusa headquarters. What do they want from him?’
‘Simple. They want to know where Maurizio is.’
‘So they already suspect him!’
‘It’s the most obvious thing, Anna. And Captain Ernesto Panzacchi, chief of the Flying Squad, is an utterly obvious man. Well, thanks for the whisky. Goodnight.’
‘What, you’re going to leave just like that?’
Tm sorry, I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
A dense, heavy gloom had suddenly come over him.
He opened the door to his home with a kick and ran to answer the telephone.
‘What the fuck, Salvo! Some friend!’
He recognized the voice of Nicolo Zito, newsman for the Free Channel, with whom he had a genuine friendship.
Is it true you’re no longer on the case? I didn’t report it because I wanted to check it with you first.
But if it’s true, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m sorry, Nicolo, it happened late last night, and I left the house early this morning. I went to see Francois.’