The Safety Net

by Andrea Camilleri

  Puleo smiled.

  “I did some very careful, detailed soul-searching to be able to make the statement I just did. But perhaps I should change the wording. I don’t think I have ever elicited in any other party such resentment as would warrant taking armed action.”

  “But you are not on other people’s minds, sir.”

  “You’re right,” Puleo said after a moment’s pause, seeming a little less self-assured.

  “To put it in your kind of language, there’s no way you can be mathematically certain of what you’re saying to me,” Montalbano added for emphasis. “Nowadays, in a world as neurotic as ours, all it takes is the slightest thing to set a person off. How often have we read in the papers about situations, say, where someone steals someone else’s parking spot, and the guy who feels cheated can’t help but get out of the car and beat the other person to death?”

  “Well,” said Puleo, “at this point I give up. If that’s the way it is, I would have to review every action I’ve ever taken in life and ask myself whether it might have yielded unforeseen and indeed unthinkable consequences. It is as if, in a quadratic equation . . .”

  The mere mention of the word “equation” sufficed to make Montalbano break out into a sweat and see himself back in class with the teacher at the blackboard writing down letters and numbers about which he understood not a thing.

  “Stop right there,” he said out of the blue.

  The room went silent, until the sound of Fazio’s voice broke in.

  “Uh, Mr. Puleo, about what you just said . . . I found out by chance that five or six years ago you published a book that stirred up some controversy . . .”

  Mr. Puleo first looked at him in wide-eyed bewilderment, then slapped himself in the forehead.

  “You’re right! But what are you thinking? I don’t think that has any connection with . . .”

  Montalbano, for his part, became immediately interested.

  “No, no. That’s up to us to decide. Do please tell us about it. I’m anxious to hear.”

  “A dear friend of mine opened a small publishing house in conjunction with his bookshop in Montelusa. And I wrote for him a sort of biography of a great Arab mathematician who’d served at the court of Frederick II in Palermo, and who gave a tremendous boost to mathematical scholarship by contributing a formula that I won’t bother to explain to you. According to this same mathematician, the inspiration for creating the formula, which is based on the plus sign, came to him in a dream in the form of the Christian cross. And this was the basic reason that led him shortly thereafter to abjure his own faith and convert to Christianity. I don’t know how, but my little book ended up in the hands of some Arab scholars, who basically dismissed the story of the conversion and the dream of the cross.”

  “The way things are these days,” Fazio observed, “don’t you think that might be a plausible motive?”

  “No, I would rule that out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Puleo said firmly, “the dismissal was couched in scholarly language and contained no threatening tone or language. The letter simply cited evidence, and the disputation was quite civilized and never ventured outside of the realm of academic discourse.”

  Then he blurted out:

  “That’s all we need! For every scholarly, historical, or religious argument to end up in bombings and shoot-outs! Sicilian culture is also part Arab at its origins, after all! And where are we going to put Frederick II of Swabia? Who are we kidding?” Puleo carried on, nervously taking his glasses off and on several times. “Anyway, the two guys didn’t at all speak the way they should have. They spoke generically, whereas we know that terrorists always take the name of Allah in vain. But they didn’t.”

  “I can’t say you’re wrong,” said Montalbano, who had already come to the same conclusion on his own.

  “On the other hand, what deeply disturbs me is how I managed not to notice that there was such a serious problem in my classroom. Could you tell me a little more about it?”

  “I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you,” said the inspector. “Oh, wait. Yes, I also remember that Salvo says the friend of his who’s the target of the bullying is a computer whiz.”

  “Luigino Sciarabba!” the teacher said at once. Then, as if to himself: “I would never have imagined it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, well, he never let anything show during class time. I’ve never seen him upset, angry, or particularly nervous . . . How odd, how very odd . . . But who are these bullies, anyway? How long has this been going on? Who knows about it? . . . I thank you for informing me. From now on I’m going to keep my eyes open . . . Please tell Salvo’s father that I’m entirely at his disposal, and would really like to know more about the whole situation . . . I don’t feel like asking the kids about it.”

  Montalbano was rather struck by the sincerity of Puleo’s concern.

  “I will of course do everything I can to learn more about this and I’ll pass any new information on to my second-in-command. I’ll keep you posted.”

  He then returned to what interested him most:

  “Tell me something: Are there computers in the school?”

  “Of course there are computers! As in all Italian schools. What’s a shame is that, as in all Italian schools, they’re hardly ever used. There’s not enough money to pay technicians, and our own computers have just been sitting there for years, gathering dust. Luckily the electronic blackboard hasn’t yet arrived here in the south . . .”

  With a hand gesture, Montalbano put an end to the schoolteacher’s grousing about school-related matters. Otherwise it might go on forever. He returned to the main subject.

  “So how did word get out about this Sciarabba kid’s talents?”

  “I can see, Inspector, that you think there’s still a need for computers, screens, hardware, plugs . . . But the kids now all have smartphones, tablets, and every manner of gadget perpetually connected to the internet, and Luigino, being quite the expert in all that, is always being consulted by everyone for help and advice. That’s how word got out about him. The kids talk about him among themselves, and they talk about him in class . . .”

  Montalbano couldn’t think of anything else to ask the man.

  “Well, Professor, I thank you for your help. We’ll be seeing each other again soon, since starting tomorrow I want to talk to the kids. Actually, Fazio, get the principal to assign a room to you that we can use for our talks.”

  Fazio looked doubtful.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the inspector.

  “I’m sorry, Chief, but shouldn’t the parents also be present for these talks?”

  “My intention is not to have genuine interrogations, and neither to record the transcripts of our discussions. I just want each of them to describe to me what they saw when those two burst into the classroom, what they felt, what they noticed in particular. I am sure they will each have a different perspective . . .”

  He stopped and looked questioningly at Puleo.

  “I think you’ll be able to do your job without any problem, and without any parents or psychologists having to be there,” said the schoolteacher.

  They both smiled.

  Montalbano held out his hand.

  Puleo shook it and said:

  “I really would like to be present at these meetings, if you think that would be possible.”

  “I’d love nothing more, but I fear your presence might in some way inhibit the kids from speaking freely. In their eyes you’re still ‘Mr. Puleo, the math teacher.’ Know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “But I promise to keep you informed as to how my talks are going, and I’m sure I’ll be needing your advice.”

  After Puleo went out, Fazio asked:

  “How are you going to talk to these
kids? One at a time? Two at a time? All at the same time?”

  “Do you know how many are in that class?”

  Fazio stuck one hand in his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper folded in four, unfolded it, looked at it, and said:

  “Twenty-six.”

  “What’ve you got there?”

  “I asked for a list of all the students in class III B.”

  Montalbano looked at him in admiration.

  “And I’m sure you also asked whether there were any absences that day.”

  “They were all present.”

  The inspector smiled.

  “Does any name jump out at you?”

  “Not really. But if you don’t need me at the moment, I think I’ll drop in at the records office after lunch. So I can check on family relations, cousins, grandparents, nephews, nieces, and so on.”

  The inspector was about to say “good idea,” but at the sound of the word “lunch,” he felt a hunger pang so powerful that all he could do was pat Fazio on the shoulder and run out of the room.

  He was about to get in his car and race off to Enzo’s when he noticed a dozen or so tables on the sidewalk opposite the school, most of them occupied by kids who looked about fifteen years old and were joking around, laughing, talking, and eating pizza.

  Montalbano looked up and read the sign: PIZZA AND SFINCIONE. It was clear this pizzeria was a meeting place for these teenagers, even though the school was closed.

  Lately he’d been speaking of nothing but teenagers, but he’d never actually heard these teenagers talking.

  He locked the car and went into the establishment.

  He ordered two piping-hot slices of sfincione with meat, which were promptly served on a plate, and holding a glass of beer in his other hand, he went and sat down at one of the tables outside.

  While eating he kept his ears pricked up to listen to what the kids at the table next to his were saying. But he didn’t understand a word of it.

  Maybe if he’d lived a little longer with François . . .

  But he immediately slammed that door shut.

  Good God, how long had it been since he’d had anything to do with adolescents?

  How did they talk nowadays? How did they think? What were their interests?

  And here he’d been thinking it would be so easy to question them!

  This represented a new problem.

  The sfincione, on the other hand, was good. He stood up and got himself another hefty serving.

  When he went to sit back down, the hum of voices died down a little, and Montalbano was able to hear a few phrases of what the two boys sitting close to him were saying.

  “Why, don’t you think that’s the raddest thing?”

  “No, I think it’s more hot than rad.”

  “Speaking of hot, I got a WhatsApp from Maria.”

  “Oh, goody! So you joined, too.”

  Now, Montalbano more or less knew what they meant by “hot,” but “rad” was entirely new to his ears. And a wotsap was something he couldn’t even conceive.

  The new problem was growing before his very eyes.

  Perhaps he should ask Salvuzzo to act as his interpreter.

  All of a sudden, like a flock of birds, in response to some sort of signal, all the kids got up and ran out, yelling and laughing, headed down to the end of the street, turned the corner, and disappeared.

  Left to himself, Montalbano finished eating and got in his car to drive to the port, to take his customary stroll.

  As he was about to set out onto the jetty, however, he was stopped by a barrier of wire fences. At this point a sort of paisàn King Kong bore down hard on him.

  “You got it? You got it?”

  “What am I supposed to got?”

  “A pass. You got it?”

  Montalbano suddenly remembered the TV movie, turned around without answering, and walked away.

  * * *

  He’d just driven past the Caffè Castiglione when he suddenly slammed on the brakes. He’d noticed another group of teenagers hanging around outside the café, some of them sitting, some standing. Without getting out of the car, he started watching them. He sat there for a while that way, then started the car back up and returned to the station.

  He parked the car, but instead of going into his office, he went back out into the street and retraced his path on foot, slowly, one step at a time, back to the Caffè Castiglione.

  Stopping a short distance away, he fired up a cigarette and started watching again.

  These kids, unlike the ones at the pizzeria, who were the same age, were scattered about, some closer to the café, some farther away, but each in his or her own world, isolated. And they seemed so hypnotized by what they were doing that they never even raised their heads to look at one another.

  But what were they doing?

  Montalbano noticed that they all had more or less the same posture. Chin resting on the chest, elbows tucked tightly into the waist, both hands squeezing something they were caressing with their thumbs, the only part of their bodies that was moving.

  He went closer.

  He stepped onto the sidewalk.

  He was in their midst.

  The silence was unreal. He felt as if he was in an aquarium.

  Then he forced himself to look at their faces and managed to see their eyes. All of them had pinpoint pupils and looked lost.

  Nobody dared raise his or her head, as would have been natural, feeling oneself being eyed by another person.

  On the contrary, it seemed as if his extraneous presence among them made them flee even further into their personal bubbles of isolation.

  If the kids at the pizzeria were speaking a language Montalbano couldn’t understand, he felt even more excluded from these youths who never opened their mouths.

  He got discouraged.

  How would he ever manage to grasp the slightest thing about the way they thought and acted?

  As he walked away, he had one question in his head. How was it possible, in the age of global communication, where all cultural, linguistic, geographical, and economic borders had been erased from the face of the earth, that this vast new realm had only created a multitude of loners, infinite numbers of lonely people in communication with one another, yes, but still in a state of utter solitude?

  12

  At the office he found Augello waiting for him. One look was enough to tell him that every pore in Mimì’s body was exuding pure and total satisfaction.

  He was clearly keen to talk, so Montalbano gave him the green light.

  “Tell me what happened after the press conference.”

  Augello, who wanted nothing more, smiled and took a deep breath, like an actor before stepping onto the stage.

  “What happened was that Riccadonna didn’t keep his word. Contrary to what had been agreed, during the press conference he made a point of finding fault with my behavior. And the commissioner was so upset about it that he not only replied publicly, but, after the conference was over, he locked himself in a room with the chief prosecutor, and when they came back out, both frowning, the journalists, who’d gotten a whiff of something odd and therefore hadn’t budged from the premises, were told that Riccadonna had been replaced by his colleague, Judge Terranova.”

  “Congratulations on your sweet revenge! And for the commissioner’s words of praise,” said Montalbano. Then, continuing: “Terranova seems to me like an honest person who understands things.”

  “And who doesn’t bust people’s chops for no reason,” added Augello.

  Afterwards, the inspector informed him as to his meetings that morning with the custodian and the schoolteacher.

  “So, in essence, no new developments,” was Mimì’s final comment. “Let’s hope the kids give some answers . . .”

  “Well
, that’s just the problem,” said Montalbano.

  “Why do you say that? What problem is that?”

  “I’ve come to the conclusion it’s going to be very hard to talk to them. You know how when you start thinking intensely about something, you end up seeing it everywhere? Well, ever since the classroom incident, I see teenagers everywhere. I ran into some earlier, both before lunch and after, on my way here. I watched them, studied them, and listened to them, and the conclusion I came to was that they represent a world that is entirely foreign to me. I can’t even understand them when they speak.”

  “Man, are you telling me!” Mimì blurted out. “The same thing happens to me with Salvuzzo. Beba is constantly reproaching me for not talking enough to my son. I try, I swear to you, I try, but he always answers as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. I’ve started to wonder whether he’s stupid or just does it on purpose. And so, I end up losing patience and raising my voice, and he just clams up and that’s the end of that. Such is the daily situation at my house.”

  After knocking, Fazio came in.

  “Did you speak with the principal?”

  “Yeah, Chief. But there’s a big problem.”

  “Namely?”

  “The principal says she has to play by the rules, and that therefore, to talk with the students from class III B, the parents and one psychologist must be present.”

  “Man, what a fucking pain in the ass!” said Montalbano.

  “As far as the parents are concerned, the principal is willing to look the other way,” Fazio went on, “but she won’t budge on the psychologist.”

  “And so?”