IM03 - The Snack Thief

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Once a month, twice at the most.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “A friend of mine, retired like me, told me about her. Professor Mandrino, who lives with his daughter.”

  “So no extras for the professor?”

  “There were extras just the same. The daughter’s a teacher, so she’s out of the house every morning.”

  “What day did Karima go to the professor’s house?”

  “On Saturday.”

  “If you haven’t anything else to tell me, you can go, Mr. Finocchiaro.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding.”

  The man stood up awkwardly and eyed the inspector.

  “Tomorrow is Tuesday,” he said.

  “So?”

  “Do you think she’ll come?”

  He didn’t have the heart to disappoint him.

  “Maybe. If she does, let me know.”

  Then the procession began. Preceded by his howling mother, ’Ntonio, the little boy Montalbano met at Villaseta, who’d been punched because he wouldn’t hand over his food, walked in. He’d recognized the thief in the photo they showed on TV. That was him, no doubt about it. ’Ntonio’s mother, shouting loud enough to wake the dead and hurling curses and expletives, presented her demands to the horrified inspector: thirty years for the thief, life imprisonment for the mother. And in case earthly justice did not agree, from divine justice she demanded galloping consumption for the mother and a long, debilitating illness for the boy.

  The son, however, unfazed by his mother’s hysteria, shook his head.

  “Do you also want him to die in jail?” the inspector asked him.

  “No,” the boy said decisively. “Now that I seen him calm, he looks nice.”

  The “extras” granted Paolo Guido Mandrino, a seventy-year-old professor of history and geography, now retired, consisted of a little bath Karima would give him. On one of the four Saturday mornings when she came, the professor would wait for her under the bedcovers, naked. When Karima ordered him to go take his bath, Paolo Guido would pretend to be very reluctant. And so Karima, yanking down the sheets, would force the professor to turn over and would proceed to spank him. When he finally got in the tub, Karima would carefully cover him with soap and then wash him. That was all. Price of the extras: one hundred fifty thousand lire; price of the housecleaning: fifty thousand lire.

  “Montalbano? Listen, contrary to what I told you, I can’t see you today. I have a meeting with the prefect.”

  “Just say when, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “Well, it’s really not very urgent. Anyway, after what Inspector Augello said on TV—”

  “Mimì?!” he yelled, as if he were singing La Bohème.

  “Yes. Didn’t you know?”

  “No. I was in Mazàra.”

  “He appeared on the one o’clock news. He issued a firm, blunt denial. He said Ragonese hadn’t heard correctly. The man being sought wasn’t a snack thief, but a sneak thief, a dangerous drug addict who went around with dirty syringes for protection in case he got caught. Augello offered apologies for the entire police department. It was very effective. I think maybe Deputy Pennacchio will calm down now.”

  “We’ve already met,” said Vittorio Pandolfo, accountant, as he entered the office.

  “Yes,” said Montalbano. “What do you want?”

  Rude, and he wasn’t just playacting. If Pandolfo was there to talk about Karima, it meant he’d been lying when he said he didn’t know her.

  “I came because on TV they showed—”

  “A photograph of Karima, the woman you said you knew nothing about. Why didn’t you tell me anything sooner?”

  “Inspector, these are delicate matters, and sometimes one feels a little embarrassed. You see, at my age—”

  “You’re the Thursday-morning client?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much do you pay her to clean house?”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  “And for extras?”

  “One hundred fifty.”

  Fixed rate. Except that Pandolfo got extras twice a month. But the person being bathed, in this case, was Karima. Afterwards, the accountant would lay her down on the bed and sniff her all over. And now and then, a little lick.

  “Tell me something, Mr. Pandolfo. Were you, Lapècora, Mandrino, and Finocchiaro her regular playmates?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who was it that first mentioned Karima?”

  “Poor old Lapècora.”

  “And what was his financial situation?”

  “Awfully good. He had almost a billion lire in Treasury bonds, and he also owned his flat and office.”

  The three afternoon clients on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays lived in Villaseta, all widowers or bachelors getting on in years. The price was the same as in Vigàta. The extra granted Martino Zaccarìa, greengrocer, consisted of having her kiss the soles of his feet; with Luigi Pignataro, retired middle-school headmaster, Karima would play blindman’s buff. The headmaster would strip her naked, blindfold her, then go and hide somewhere. Karima would then look for him and find him, after which she would sit down in a chair, take the principal in her lap, and suckle him. When Montalbano asked Calogero Pipitone, an expert agronomist, what his extras were, the man looked at him, dumbfounded.

  “What do you think they were, Inspector? Me on top and her on the bottom.”

  Montalbano felt like embracing him.

  Since on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays Karima was employed full-time at Lapècora’s, there wouldn’t be any more clients. Oddly enough, Karima rested on Sundays, not Fridays. Apparently she’d adapted to local customs. Montalbano was curious to know how much she earned per month; but since he was hopeless with numbers, he opened the door to his office and asked in a loud voice:

  “Anybody got a calculator?”

  “Me, Chief.”

  Catarella came in and pulled a calculator not much bigger than a calling card out of his pocket.

  “What do you calculate on that, Cat?”

  “The days,” was his enigmatic reply.

  “Come back for it in a little bit.”

  “I should warrant you the machine works by ammuttuna .”

  “What do you mean?”

  Catarella mistakenly thought his superior didn’t understand the last word. He stepped toward the door and called out:

  “How you say ammuttuna in Italian?”

  “Shove,” somebody translated.

  “And how am I supposed to shove this calculator?”

  “Same way you shove a watch when it don’t run.”

  Anyway, figuring Lapècora separately, Karima earned one million two hundred thousand per month as a housekeeper, to which was added another million two hundred thousand for extras. At the very least, for full-time service, Lapècora slipped her another million. Which comes to three million four hundred thousand lire monthly, tax-free. Forty-four million two hundred thousand annually.

  Karima, from what they could gather, had been working in the area for at least four years, so that made one hundred seventy-six million eight hundred thousand lire.

  What about the other three hundred twenty-four million that was in the bank book? Where had that come from?

  The calculator had worked fine; there was no need of ammuttuna.

  A burst of applause rang out from the other rooms. What was going on? He opened his door and discovered that the man of the hour was Mimì Augello. He started foaming at the mouth.

  “Knock it off! Clowns!”

  They looked at him in shock and horror. Only Fazio attempted to explain the situation.

  “Maybe you don’t know, Chief, but Inspector Augello—”

  “I already know! The commissioner called me personally, demanding an explanation. Mr. Augello, of his own initiative, without my authorization—as I made certain to emphasize to the commissioner—went on TV and spoke a pile of bullshit!”

  “Uh, if I may,” Augello ventured.


  “No, you may not! You told a pack of lies!”

  “I did it to protect all of us here, who—”

  “You can’t defend yourself by lying to someone who spoke the truth!”

  And he went back into his office, slamming the door behind him. Montalbano, man of ironclad morals, was in a murderous rage at the sight of Augello basking in applause.

  “May I come in?” asked Fazio, opening the door and cautiously sticking his head inside. “Father Jannuzzo’s here and wants to talk to you.”

  “Let him in.”

  Don Alfio Jannuzzo, who never dressed like a priest, was well known in Vigàta for his charitable initiatives. A tall, robust man, he was about forty years old.

  “I like to cycle,” he began.

  “I don’t,” said Montalbano, terrified at the thought that the priest might want him to participate in some sort of charity race.

  “I saw that woman’s photo on television.”

  The two things seemed in no way connected, and the inspector began to feel uncomfortable. Might this mean that Karima did work on Sundays after all, and that her client was none other than Don Jannuzzo?

  “Last Thursday, around nine o’clock in the morning, give or take fifteen minutes, I was near Villaseta, cycling down from Montelusa to Vigàta. On the other side of the road, a car was stopped.”

  “Do you remember the make?”

  “Yes, it was a BMW, metallic gray in color.”

  Montalbano pricked up his ears.

  “A man and a woman were inside the car. It looked like they were kissing, but when I passed right beside them, the woman broke free sort of violently, then looked at me and opened her mouth as if to say something. But the man pulled her back by force and embraced her again. I didn’t like the look of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it wasn’t just a lovers’ quarrel. The woman’s eyes, when she looked at me, were full of fear. It seemed as if she was asking for help.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Nothing, because the car left almost immediately. But when I saw the photograph on television today, I knew it was the woman I’d seen in the car, I could swear to it. I’m very good with faces, Inspector, and when I see a face, even for only a second, it’s forever etched in my memory.”

  Fahrid, pseudo-nephew of Lapècora, and Karima.

  “I’m very grateful to you, Father . . .”

  The priest raised a hand to stop him.

  “I haven’t finished yet. I took down the license-plate number. As I said, I didn’t like what I’d seen.”

  “Do you have the number with you?”

  “Of course.”

  From his pocket he extracted a notebook page neatly folded in four and held it out to the inspector.

  “It’s written down here.”

  Montalbano took it between two fingers, delicately, as one does with the wings of a butterfly.

  AM 237 GW.

  In American movies, the policeman had only to tell somebody the license-plate number, and in less than two minutes, he would know the owner’s name, how many children he had, the color of his hair, and the number of hairs on his ass.

  In Italy, things were different. One time they made Montalbano wait twenty-eight days, in the course of which the owner of the vehicle (as they later wrote to him) was goat-tied and burnt to a crisp. By the time the answer arrived, it had all come to nothing.

  His only choice was to turn to the commissioner, who by now had perhaps ended his meeting with the prefect.

  “Montalbano here, Commissioner.”

  “I just got back in the office. What is it?”

  “I’m calling about that woman who was kidnapped—”

  “What woman who was kidnapped?”

  “You know, Karima.”

  “Who’s that?”

  To his horror he realized he was talking to the wind. He hadn’t yet said an intelligible word to the commissioner about the case.

  “Mr. Commissioner, I’m simply mortified—”

  “Never mind. What did you want?”

  “I need to have a license-plate number traced as quickly as possible, and I want the owner’s name and address.”

  “Give me the number.”

  “AM 237 GW.”

  “I’ll have something for you by tomorrow morning.”

  13

  “I set a place for you in the kitchen. The dining room table is being used. We’ve already eaten.”

  He wasn’t blind. He couldn’t help but see that the table was covered by a giant jigsaw puzzle of the Statue of Liberty, practically life-size.

  “And you know what, Salvo? It took him only two hours to solve it.”

  She didn’t say whom, but it was clear she was talking about François, former snack thief, now family genius.

  “Did you buy it for him yourself?”

  Livia dodged the question.

  “Want to come down to the beach with me?”

  “Right now or after I’ve eaten?”

  “Right now.”

  There was a sliver of moon shedding its light. They walked in silence. In front of a little pile of sand, Livia sighed sadly.

  “You should have seen the castle he made! It was fantastic! It looked like Gaudì!”

  “He’ll have time to make another.”

  He was determined not to give up. Like a cop, and a jealous one at that.

  “What store did you find the puzzle in?”

  “I didn’t buy it myself. Mimì came by this afternoon,just for a second. The puzzle belongs to a nephew of his who—”

  He turned his back to Livia, thrust his hands in his pockets, and walked away, imagining dozens of Mimì’s nephews and nieces in tears, systematically despoiled of their toys by their uncle.

  “Come on, Salvo, stop acting like a jerk!” said Livia, running up to him.

  She tried to slip her arm in his; Montalbano pulled away.

  “Fuck you,” Livia said calmly, and she went back to the house.

  What was he going to do now? Livia had avoided the quarrel, and he would have to get it out of his system on his own. He walked irritably along the water’s edge, soaking his shoes and smoking ten cigarettes.

  I’m such a fucking idiot! he said to himself at a certain point. It’s obvious that Mimì likes Livia and Livia’s fond of Mimì. But, this aside, I’m only giving Mimì grist for his mill. It’s clear he enjoys pissing me off. He’s waging a war of attrition against me, as I do against him. I have to plan a counteroffensive.

  He went home. Livia was sitting in front of the television, which she had turned down very low in order not to wake François, who was sleeping in their bed.

  “I’m sorry, seriously,” he said to her as he walked past her on his way to the kitchen.

  In the oven he found a casserole of mullet and potatoes that smelled inviting. He sat down and tasted his first bite: exquisite. Livia came up behind him and stroked his hair.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Excellent. I must tell Adelina—”

  “Adelina came this morning, saw me, said ‘I don’ wanna disturb,’ turned around, and left.”

  “Are you telling me you made this casserole yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  For an instant, but only an instant, the casserole went down the wrong way when a thought popped into his head: that she’d made it only to win forgiveness for this business with Mimì. But then the deliciousness of the dish prevailed.

  Before sitting down beside Montalbano to watch television, Livia stopped a moment to admire the jigsaw puzzle. Now that Salvo had calmed down, she could freely talk about it.

  “You should have seen how fast he put it together. It was stunning. You or I would have taken longer.”

  “Or we would have got bored first.”

  “But that’s just it. François also thinks puzzles are boring, because they have fixed rules. Every little piece, he says, is cut so that it will fit with another. Whereas it would
be more fun if there were a puzzle with many different solutions!”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes. And he explained it better, since I was drawing it out of him.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “I think I understood what he meant. He was already familiar with the Statue of Liberty and therefore when he put the head together he already knew what to do; but he was forced to do it that way because the puzzle’s designer had cut out the pieces in a way that obliged the player to follow his design. Is that clear so far?”

  “Clear enough.”

  “It would be fun, he said, if the player could actually create his own alternative puzzle with the same pieces. Don’t you think that’s an extraordinary thought for so small a child?”

  “They’re precocious nowadays,” said Montalbano, immediately cursing himself for the banality of the expression. He’d never talked about children before, and couldn’t help but to resort to clichés.

  Nicolò Zito gave a summary of the Tunisian government’s official statement on the fishing-boat incident. Having conducted the necessary investigations, they had no choice but to reject the protest of the Italian government, since the Italians were powerless to prevent their own fishing boats from invading Tunisian territorial waters. That night, a Tunisian military patrol boat had sighted a trawler a few miles from Sfax. They gave the order to halt, but the fishing boat tried to flee. The patrol then fired a burst of warning from the ship’s machine gun that unfortunately struck and killed a Tunisian fisherman, Ben Dhahab, whose family had already been granted substantial aid by the government in Tunis. The tragic incident should serve as a lesson.

  “Have you managed to find out anything about François’s mother?”

  “Yeah, I have a lead, but don’t get your hopes up,” replied the inspector.

  “If . . . if Karima were never to come back . . . what . . . would happen to François?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “I’m going to bed,” said Livia, abruptly standing up.