The Snack Thief

by Andrea Camilleri

  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.

  “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 prepar
ing 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.

  “Where’s the photo?” asked Nicolò as soon as Montalbano walked in.

  It was the one of Karima and her son.

  “Do you want me to frame the whole thing? Or just a detail?”

  “As is.”

  Nicolò Zito left the room, then soon returned without the photograph and sat himself comfortably down.

  “Tell me everything. But most of all, tell me about the snack thief, which Pippo Ragonese thinks is bullshit but I don’t.”

  “I haven’t got the time, Nicolò, believe me.”

  “No, I don’t believe you. Question: was the boy stealing snacks the one in the photo you just gave me?” He was dangerously intelligent, this Nicolò. Better play along.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “And who’s the mother?”

  “She’s someone who was definitely involved in the murder the other day—you know, the guy found in the elevator.

  But no more questions. As soon as I manage to make some sense of this, you’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

  “Could you tell me at least what I’m supposed to say about the photo?”

  “Right, of course. Your tone should be that of somebody telling a sad, sorrowful story.”

  “So you’re a director now?”

  “You should say that an elderly Tunisian woman came to you in tears, begging you to show that photo on TV. She’s had no news of either mother or child for three days. Their names are Karima and François. Anyone who’s seen them, etcetera, anonymity guaranteed, etcetera, should call Vigàta police headquarters, etcetera.” “Up yours, etcetera,” said Nicolò Zito.

  o o o

  Back home, Livia went immediately to bed, bringing the kid along with her. Montalbano, on the other hand, stayed up, waiting for the midnight news report. Nicolò did what he was supposed to do, keeping the photo on-screen as long as possible. When the program was over, the inspector called to thank him.

  “Could you do me another favor?”

  “I’ve half a mind to charge you a fee. What do you want?”

  “Could you run the segment again tomorrow on the one p.m. news? I don’t think too many people saw it at this hour.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He went into the bedroom, released François from Livia’s embrace, picked the child up, took him into the living room, and put him down to sleep on the sofa that Livia had already made up. He then took a shower and got into bed.

  Livia, though asleep, felt him beside her and nudged closer with her back to him, pressing her whole body against him.

  She had always liked to do it this way, half-asleep, in that pleasant no-man’s-land between the country of sleep and the city of consciousness. This time, however, as soon as Montalbano began to caress her, she moved away.

  “No. François might wake up.”

  For a moment, Montalbano stiffened, petrified. He hadn’t considered this other aspect of familial bliss.

  o o o

  He got up. Sleep, in any case, had abandoned him. On their way back to Marinella, he’d had something in mind that he wanted to do, and now he remembered what it was.

  “Valente? Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you at home, especially at this hour. I need to see you at once, it’s extremely urgent. Would it be all right if I came to Mazàra tomorrow morning, around ten?” “Sure. Could you give me some—”

  “It’s a complicated, confusing story. I’m going purely on a hunch. It’s about that Tunisian who was killed.”

  “Ben Dhahab.”

  “Just for starters, his name was Ahmed Moussa.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly.”

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  “There’s not necessarily any connection,” observed Vice-Commissioner Valente after Montalbano had finished telling his story.

  “If that’s your opinion, then do me a big favor. We’ll keep each to his own side: you go ahead and investigate why the Tunisian used an assumed name, and I’ll look for the reasons for Lapècora’s murder and Karima’s disappearance. And if we happen to cross paths along the way, we’ll pretend we don’t know each other and won’t even say hello. Okay?” “Jesus! Why don’t you fly straight off the handle!” Inspector Angelo Tomasino, a thirty-year-old with the look of a bank teller, the kind who hand-counts five hundred thousand lire in small bills ten times before handing them over to you, threw down his ace, in support of his boss: “Anyway, it’s not necessarily true.”

  “What’s not necessarily true?”

  “That Ben Dhahab is an assumed name. His full name might have been Ben Ahmed Dhahab Moussa. Who knows, with these Arab names?”

  “I won’t bother you any longer,” said Montalbano, standing up.

  His blood was boiling, and Valente, who had known him a long time, realized this.

  “What should we do, in your opinion?” he asked simply.

  The inspector sat back down.

  “Find out, for example, who knew him here in Mazàra.

  How he managed to sign on to that fishing boat. If his papers were in order. Go search his living quarters. Do I have to tell you to do these things?”

  “No,” said Valente. “I just like to hear you say them.” He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to Montalbano. It was a search warrant for the home of Ben Dhahab, complete with stamp and signature.

  “This morning I woke up the judge at the crack of dawn,” Valente said, smiling. “Care to come along for the ride?”

  o o o

  The widow Ernestina Locìcero, née Pipìa, was keen to point out that she wasn’t a landlady by profession. She did own, by the grace of her dear departed, a catojo, that is, a little ground-floor room that in its day had been a barbershop or, as they say now, a hair salon, though whatever they say, it was certainly not a salon. The gentlemen would see it soon enough, and anyway, what need was there for that whatdoyoucallit, that search warren? They had only to come and say, Signora Pipìa, this is how it is, and she wouldn’t have made any trouble. The only people who make trouble are the ones who got something to hide, whereas she, well, as anyone in Mazàra could testify—anyone except for the sons of bitches and bastards—she’d always led, and continued to lead, a clean life, squeaky clean. What was the late Tunisian man like? Look, gentlemen, on no account would she ever have rented a room to an African—not to one who was black as ink nor to one whose skin din’t look no different than a Mazarese’s.

 
Nothing doing. She was scared of those Africans. So why did she rent the room to Ben Dhahab? He was so well-bred, gentlemen! A real man of distinction, the likes of which you don’t find anymore, not even in Mazàra. Yes, sir, he spoke ’Talian, or least managed to get his point across most of the time. He even showed her his passport—“Just a second,” said Montalbano.

  “Just a minute,” said Valente at the same time.

  Yessirs, his passport. All in order. Written the way the Arabs write, and there were even words written in a foreign language. Ingrish? Frinch? Dunno. The photograph matched.

  And if the gentlemen really, really wanted to know, she’d even filed an official rental statement, as required by law.

  “When did he arrive, exactly?” Valente asked.

  “Exactly ten days ago.”

  And in ten days he’d had enough time to settle in, find work, and get killed.

  “Did he tell you how long he planned to stay?” Montalbano asked.

  “Another ten days. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “Well, he wanted to pay me for a whole month in advance.”

  “And how much did you ask of him?”

  “I asked him straightaway for nine hundred thousand.

  But you know what Arabs are like, they bargain and bargain, and so I was ready to come down to, I dunno, six hundred, five hundred thousand . . . But the man didn’t even let me finish. He just put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills as fat as the belly of a bottle, took off the rubber band holding ’em together, and counted out nine one-hundred-thousand-lire bills.” “Give us the key and explain a little better where this place is,” Montalbano cut in. The Tunisian’s good breeding and distinction, in the eyes of the widow Locìcero, were con-centrated in that roll of bills as fat as the belly of a bottle.

  “Gimme a minute to get ready and I’ll come with you.”

  “No, signora, you stay here. We’ll bring the key back to you.”

  o o o

  A rusty iron bed, a wobbly table, an armoire with a piece of plywood in place of the mirror, three wicker chairs. A small bathroom with toilet and sink, and a dirty towel; and on a shelf, a razor, a can of shaving cream, and a comb.