The Safety Net

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I’m just worried, that’s all.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Mimì went on. “I smell something fishy here. You’d better give us a better explanation, otherwise I really don’t give a shit whether Luigino skipped school, and Fazio probably doesn’t, either.”

  Montalbano said nothing.

  “Chief,” said Fazio, looking him in the eye. “Do you think there might be a connection between the kid’s lie and the attack on the school?”

  Reluctantly, Montalbano nodded yes.

  “And what would that be?” Augello pressed him.

  “I think that this kid, in one way or another, is up to his neck in the whole business of the attack.”

  “I don’t understand anything anymore,” said Fazio. “So what happened to this Luigino?”

  “He’s the kid from Salvuzzo’s class who’s been bullied by three classmates. He’s never told anyone about the problem. Apparently he’s an easygoing boy with an outstanding talent for computers. I can’t really give you any logical explanation for it, but I had an idea. Yesterday I started thinking that maybe there was some connection between the two guys who attacked the school and this Luigino who communicates with the whole world through his computer. I can’t really tell you more than that. I just got that idea, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s not all for me,” said Augello. “What connection are you talking about anyway? I was there, and the two attackers didn’t address anyone in the class in particular. So your suspicions must be based on something else that you don’t want to tell us.”

  Mimì’s reasoning made perfect sense. Montalbano had his back to the wall.

  “When I talked to Salvuzzo and his friend Tindaro, they started talking about this Luigino, his family, and the fact that he’s really very solitary. My curiosity was aroused when Salvuzzo told me that during the attack, Luigino was the only kid in the class who didn’t seem scared. He merely seemed very attentive, showing none of the fear, surprise, or confusion all his other classmates were feeling.”

  “Holy shit!” said Augello. “My son told you all that? I don’t think he’s spoken that many words to me over the last three years!”

  “And I’m telling you that it was in fact your boy’s words that raised the question in my mind: What if Luigi was expecting that attack on the class? That was my starting point. And so, wanting to pursue this idea and see if it was justified . . .”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, to make the kid come out in the open, yesterday evening, after you all left, I called Catarella and got him to help me send an email to Luigi. An anonymous email.”

  “What?” said Mimì, shocked, sticking his hands in his hair.

  “You heard right. Catarella and I wrote an anonymous email,” replied the inspector, in a tone at once resigned and dismissive.

  “And what did you say to him in the email?”

  “I blackmailed him. I don’t remember exactly what I said . . . Something like: ‘You’ve been discovered, we know it was you who organized the attack on the school, and if you don’t do what we say we’ll report you to the police.’ I think that was it, more or less. And, yes, I know, it was the wrong thing to do, stupid as fuck. Okay? I’ll say it first, before you do. And now I’m scared to death that the kid got freaked out by my message, ran away from home, and is going to do something stupid. And there you have it.”

  “My heartfelt congratulations,” said Mimì, “on your approach to this investigation, which you’re conducting with the valorous help of Catarella and my son. What do you plan to do next time? Resort to séances? Ask for help from a medium?”

  Montalbano ignored the insult. His head was too full of dark thoughts.

  “What can we do, Chief?” asked Fazio. “Shall we issue a general alert?”

  “No, no, no. Only as a last resort. The best thing to do, for now, is for the three of us to try to find him, but being as quiet as possible about it.”

  “I agree,” said Fazio.

  “Then here’s what we’ll do. We’ll each of us get in his car and start driving around town to try and—”

  “What I’m gonna do,” said Fazio, interrupting him, “is, as soon as I get the address, I’m gonna travel, on foot, the route the kid usually takes from home to school, and maybe ask the people who normally see him walk by if they have any information . . .”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ve got the address right here. Copy it down.”

  He handed him the piece of paper with the numbers that Beba had given him.

  “And then what?”

  “You, Mimì, should instead drive slowly around the side streets, to see—”

  “Wait a second,” said Mimì. “I know Luigino Sciarabba; Fazio doesn’t. Just wait here a second. I’ll be right back.”

  He went out of the room and returned a moment later with a photograph of the class, which he handed to Fazio.

  “Luigino’s the fourth on the left in the second row,” he said.

  Fazio studied it.

  “Lemme see, too,” said Montalbano.

  Luigino was a tall kid, with a head of bushy blond hair and round glasses like Harry Potter’s.

  “Everyone’s addresses and phone numbers are on the back of the photo,” said Augello.

  Fazio wrote down Luigino’s number, which the inspector then copied down on the paper he had with all the other numbers.

  “Okay,” said Montalbano, bringing his hand down on the desktop by way of conclusion. “Now let’s not waste any time. We’ll meet back up here in two hours, keeping in touch with one another all the while via our cell phones.”

  “And what are you going to do?” asked Augello.

  “I,” said Montalbano, “am going to poke around in the upper part of town, in Piano Lanterna.”

  * * *

  And such was his purpose until he got in his car, put the key in the ignition, and thought of something. He took the road to Montelusa. When he got there, he parked in the main lot of Central Police and headed towards the building’s new wing, where he knew the Postal Police had their offices. The new section had a separate entrance of its own, which delighted the inspector, since he was unlikely to run into anyone unpleasant. And, in fact, he didn’t see a living soul. It was as if the building was uninhabited. He didn’t hear any voices, ringing telephones, or footsteps in the hallways. He might be looking at one of those buildings the need for which lay entirely with the construction firm that had built it.

  After crossing a ghostly corridor, he finally found a sign at the foot of a staircase saying that the offices of the Postal Police were located on the second floor. Climbing two flights of stairs, he came to a landing with a desk and a uniformed policeman sitting at it.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  The man stood up and said:

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t recognize you. What can I do for you?”

  “I would like to speak with someone from the Postal Police.”

  “All right, Inspector. Just go down the hallway on the left, and it’ll be the third door on the right. There’ll be an officer there to help you.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Montalbano, and he went and knocked at the appointed door.

  “Come in,” said a woman’s voice.

  Montalbano turned the doorknob and went in.

  The first thing he saw was a great mass of red hair set aflame by the light pouring in from the window behind the female figure sitting at the desk.

  Then he saw the woman’s facial features and turned to stone, because this girl looked exactly like Anna Amato.

  So, was it true, after all, that when you mention someone after a great many years, that person will suddenly appear in the flesh? Except for the fact that while the young woman in front of him was indeed Anna Amato, s
he was Anna as a girl thirty years ago.

  The same Anna Amato whose memory he had so well preserved that he’d felt troubled at the idea of having to see her again after thirty years, inevitably changed by the passage of time.

  Meanwhile the girl had stood up and was coming towards him with her hand extended.

  “You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? I’m so pleased to meet you. Please come and sit down.”

  Still feeling a bit numb, Montalbano sat down in front of the desk. The girl took her place in the other chair next to the inspector, who still hadn’t recovered.

  “I’ve come to ask for some information.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “A lady friend of mine called me up, a woman who tends to get easily worried, and she’s very upset that her son didn’t show up at school today, even though he’d said that was where he was going.”

  The redhead smiled.

  “We’ve all played hooky at one time or another, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, of course, but, you see, the fact is that this boy, who’s thirteen, has never done so before. And since he’s from the class where the two masked gunmen broke in . . . in short, those kids all went through a troubling experience. So I just wanted to say that I’m a little anxious myself.”

  “I understand,” said the young woman. “So how can I help you?”

  “That’s just it. I wanted to know . . . whether, by any chance, it might be possible to locate him through his cell phone or computer.”

  The red-haired Venus smiled a thousand-watt smile.

  “Inspector, unfortunately we’re not in an American TV movie. If you can give me a little information on this boy, I can try to see what I can do, but I can’t promise you anything. You want this to remain a private matter?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then that limits my options somewhat. I’ll try to do a little research on my own. Do you have any useful information you can give me?”

  Montalbano took out the piece of paper on which he’d written all the data on Luigino and handed it to her.

  The girl circled around to the back of the desk and copied the information down on the computer.

  Then she said:

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much at all we can do. But, if you like, you can stay here with me and see what we can come up with.”

  It occurred to Montalbano that if he’d refused to see Anna Amato the grandmother, it would have been even more intolerable to sit there looking at Anna Amato the ravishing young woman.

  So he stood up and said:

  “I think I’d rather continue my search. Let’s exchange cell phone numbers. You can call me if you manage to find anything.”

  The girl took down his number, gave him hers, and then stood up. They shook hands.

  Montalbano went out, closing the door behind him, and just stood there in the hall. He needed to recover from the shock. Walking ever so slowly, with the step of a battered dog, he said good-bye to the policeman at the desk and turned to head down the stairs. But then he froze and turned back.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the policeman, “but I’ve already forgotten the young woman’s name . . .”

  “Her name is Laura Infantino.”

  Montalbano thanked him, descended the stairs, went into the parking lot, got in his car, and headed off to Vigàta.

  * * *

  After he’d combed three or four streets in Piano Lanterna, his cell phone rang. Montalbano answered without looking first at who it was.

  “Hello,” he said wearily.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. This is Mr. Puleo. I got your number from the switchboard operator at the station. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  From the frying pan and into the fire, thought the inspector.

  “I’m all ears, sir. Is it about Luigino?”

  “Indirectly,” Puleo replied, adding: “I did something stupid.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, your phone call got me a little worried, and so, when class was over I called the Sciarabba home to find out where Luigino was. I know, I know, it was the wrong thing to do.”

  “Go on,” the inspector said drily.

  “The moment I told his mother that he hadn’t come to school, she started wailing like a madwoman, as if I’d just said that Luigi was dead or something. She started yelling: ‘Oh, my God, he’s been kidnapped, probably murdered!’ And so, not knowing what to do, I got in my car and dashed over to her place. But when I got there I saw that Luigino’s mother was luckily being assisted by a neighbor, Signora Amato, who was just great and managed to calm her down a little. She put her into bed, gave her a sedative, and called the doctor.”

  Montalbano’s cojones were in a tight spin. He’d done everything possible to leave Luigino’s mother out of this affair, and now Mr. Puleo had gone and . . .

  “Yes, that was stupid, what you did,” Montalbano said gruffly. “How is she now?”

  “A little better. We’re all waiting for the doctor to get here, and I decided it was my duty to stay with her until things calmed down a little.”

  Feeling more than defeated by this point, Montalbano cut him off.

  “Very well, sir. Thank you very much for keeping me informed, but now I really have to go.”

  “Just a second,” said Puleo. “I was wondering if maybe you yourself should also come here to Luigino’s place, for just a few seconds, to try to calm his mother down a little more. Just to say a couple of words to her, to tell her that you’re doing everything in your power to find the boy—”

  “No, that would be a pointless waste of time. I have to continue my search,” he said, even more harshly than before, cutting him off.

  Meet with Anna Amato the grandmother? What was this, a conspiracy? A plot to persecute him? He would never set foot in that apartment, not even dead.

  “I beg you, just for a couple of minutes—”

  “No. I said no. But I can assure you that as soon as we find Luigino—and I am certain that we will find him—the first thing I’ll tell him to do is to call his mother to set her mind at rest. That’s all I can do for you. Good-bye,” and he hung up.

  Since he already had his cell phone in his hand, he rang Fazio.

  “Any news?”

  “None whatsoever, Chief. But the newspaper seller, the one with the kiosk on the road to Luigino’s school, told me that around eight-thirty this morning, the kid stopped by to buy his favorite computer magazine. He said he was the same as all the other times, nothing strange about him: backpack on his shoulders and computer in view. The kid said hello and then went on his way.”

  “Did he see what direction he went in?”

  “No, he didn’t. I asked him the same thing, but no dice.”

  The inspector then called Mimì.

  And got the same dismaying reply.

  No news.

  And so he started up the car and continued his search.

  He saw a computer store, which he’d driven past hundreds of times before without ever experiencing the slightest desire to stop and look in the display window, which featured computers straight out of science-fiction movies and cell phones capable of doing everything, even preparing your morning coffee. This time, however, following his instinct, he stopped, pulled up, got out of the car, and went into the store.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Inspector,” said a well-dressed man of about fifty who was looking into a glowing computer screen.

  “I need some information.”

  “If I can be of help . . .”

  “Do you know a boy by the name of Luigi Sciarabba?”

  “Luigino? Of course! He comes in here at least two, three times a week.”

  “What does he come for?”

  “He like
s to inform himself on the latest things. He’s a real expert, you know.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Just this morning, at around a quarter to nine, he dropped in at the store.”

  “Did he ask for anything in particular?”

  “Actually he came to bring me the solution to a technical problem a customer of mine has been having with his computer.” The man smiled and continued: “Keep this between us, but sometimes I use Luigino as a consultant.”

  “And how did he seem this morning?”

  The salesman gave him a confused look.

  “What do you mean by that, Inspector?”

  “Didn’t you ask him why he wasn’t in school?”

  “Of course. He said he’d be going in for the second class of the day. Luigino seemed the same as always this morning. Why, has something happened?”

  “No. I just needed to talk to him, but since he never went to school and isn’t at home, either . . .”

  “How strange,” said the man. “Skipping school isn’t really Luigi’s style. Does this have anything to do with the shoot-out that occurred at the school the other day?”

  “Yes,” said Montalbano, leaving it at that. “Do you have any idea where he may have gone?”

  “Inspector, all we ever talk about is computers. What I can tell you, though, is that he sometimes goes to the port in the afternoon.”

  17

  The inspector’s heart sank.

  “To the port?”

  Maybe Luigino, through his computer, had got in contact with somebody in Tunisia or Morocco and embarked clandestinely on a ship. And was now navigating through real water, after the internet’s open sea of virtuality.

  And it was anyone’s guess where they should poke their noses next.

  “What does he do at the port?”

  “I remember he once told me he had a lot of friends among the guys that work on the trawlers.”

  “Thanks so much for your help,” said Montalbano, and he rushed out of the store, got in his car, and headed for the port.