The Snack Thief (22 page)

And up to this point it had gone well for him; he hadnt
had to pull any wool over the commissioners eyes. Hed
only left a few things out, told a few half-truths.

But why did you want to hold a press conference, you
who usually avoid them like the plague?

He had anticipated this question, and the answer he had
ready on his lips allowed him another at least partial omission,
if not an outright lie.

This Karima, you see, was a rather unusual sort of pros

titute. She went not only with Lapra, but with other people
as well. All well on in years: retirees, businessmen, professors.
By limiting the case to Lapra, Ive tried to prevent
the poison, the insinuations, from spreading to a bunch of
poor wretches who, in the end, didnt really do anything
wrong.

He was convinced it was a plausible explanation. And in
fact, the commissioners only comment was:

You have strange morals, Montalbano.

And then he asked:

But has this Karima really disappeared?

Apparently, yes. When she learned her lover had been
killed, she ran away with her little boy, fearing she might be
implicated in the homicide.

Listen, said the commissioner. What was that business
with the car all about?

What car?

Come on, Montalbano. The car that turned out to belong
to the secret services. Theyre nasty people, you know.

Montalbano laughed. Hed practiced the laugh the night
before, in front of a mirror, persisting until he got it right.
Now, however, contrary to his hopes, it rang false, too high-
pitched. But if he wanted to keep his excellent superior out
of this mess, he no longer had any choice. He had to tell a lie.

Why do you laugh? asked the commissioner, surprised.

Out of embarrassment, believe me. The person who
gave me that license number phoned me the next day and
said hed made a mistake. The letters were right, but hed got

the number wrong. It was 837, not 237. I apologize. I feel
mortified.

The commissioner looked him in the eye for what
seemed like an eternity. Then he spoke in a soft voice.

If you want me to swallow that, Ill swallow it. But be
very careful, Montalbano. Those people dont kid around.
Theyre capable of anything, and whenever they slip up, they
blame it on certain colleagues who went astray. Who dont
exist. Theyre the ones who go astray. Its in their nature.

Montalbano didnt know what to say. The commissioner
changed subject.

Tonight youll dine at my house. I dont want to hear
any arguments. Youll eat whatever there is. Ive got two
things I absolutely have to tell you. But I wont say them
here, in my office, because that would give them a bureaucratic
flavor, which I find unpleasant.

It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, and yet
Montalbano had the impression that a shadow had fallen
across the sun, making the room turn suddenly cold.

There was a letter addressed to him on the desk in his office.
He checked the postmark, as he always did, to try and discover
its provenance, but it was illegible. He opened the envelope
and read:

Inspector Montalbano,
You dont know me and I dont know what your like. My
name is Arcangelo Prestifilippo and I am your fathers busi

ness partner in the vineyard which is producing very well,
thank the Lord. Your father never talks about you but I found
out he collects all the newspapers that talk about you and
when he sees you on tv sometimes he starts crying but tries to
not let other people see.

Dear Inspector, I feel my heart give out because the news
I got to tell you isnt good. Ever since Signora Giulia, your fa-
thers second wife went up to Heaven four years ago, my partner
and friend hasnt been the same. Then last year he started
feeling bad, he would run out of breath even just from climbing
some stairs and he would get dizzy. He didnt want to go to the
doctor, nothing doing. And so I took advantage because my son
who works in Milan and is a good doctor, came to town, and I
took him to your fathers house. My son looked at him and got
upset because he wanted your father to go to the hospital. He
made such a big fuss and talked so much that he convinced your
father to go to the hospital with him before he went back to
Milan. I went to see him every night and ten days later the doctor
told me they did all the tests and your father had that terrible
lung disease. And so your father started going in and out of
the hospital for treatment which made all his hair fall out but
didnt make him one bit better. And he told me specially to not
tell you about it, he said he didnt want you getting all worried.
But last night I talked to the doctor and he said your father is
near the end now, he got only one month maybe, give or take a
few days. And so in spiter your dads strict orders I wanted you
to know whats happening. Your fathers in the Clinica Porticelli,
the telefone number is 341234. Theres a phone in his
room. But its better if you come see him in person and pretend

you dont know nuthin bout him being sick. You already got my

phone number, its the same as the vineyard office where I work

all day long.

I am very sorry.

Best regards,

arcangelo prestifilippo

A slight tremor in his hands made him struggle to put
the letter back in the envelope, and so he slipped it into his
pocket. A profound weariness came over him, forcing him to
lean heavily, eyes closed, against the back of his chair. He had
trouble breathing; there seemed suddenly to be no air in the
room. He stood up with difficulty, then went into Augellos
office.

Whats wrong? asked Mims soon as he saw his face.

Nothing. Listen, Ive got some work to do. I mean, I
need a little time alone, some peace and quiet.

Anything I can do to help?

Yes. Take care of everything yourself. Ill see you tomorrow.
Dont have anybody call me at home.

He passed by the ca e simenza shop, bought a sizable cornet,
and began his stroll along the jetty. A thousand thoughts
raced through his head, but he was unable to seize a single
one. When he arrived at the lighthouse he kept on walking.
Directly below the lighthouse was a large rock, slippery with

green moss. In danger of falling into the sea with each step,
he managed to reach the rock and sat down, cornet in hand.
But he didnt open it. He felt a kind of wave surge up from
some part of his lower body, ascend towards his chest, and
from there continue rising towards his throat, forming a knot
that took his breath away. He felt the need to cry, but the
tears wouldnt come. Then, amidst the jumble of thoughts
crowding his brain, a few words forced their way into clarity
until they came together in a line of verse:

Father, you die a little more each day...

What was it? A poem? By whom? And when had he read
it? He repeated the line under his breath:

Father, you die a little more each day...

And at last, out of his previously blocked, closed throat
came the cry, but more than a cry it was the shrill wail of a
wounded animal, followed, at once, by a rush of unstoppable,
liberating tears.

A year before, when hed been wounded in a shoot-out and
ended up in the hospital, Livia had told him his father was
phoning every day. Hed come only once to see him in person,
when he was convalescing. He must have already been
sick at the time. To Montalbano hed merely looked a little
thinner, nothing more. He was, in fact, even better dressed
than usual, having always made a point of looking smart. On
that occasion hed asked his son if he needed anything. I can
help, hed said.

When had they started to grow silently apart? His father had
always been a caring, affectionate parent. That, Montalbano
could not deny. Hed done everything in his power to lessen
the pain of the loss of his mother. Whenever Montalbano fell
ill as an adolescentwhich luckily was not very oftenhis
father used to stay home from work so he wouldnt be alone.
What was it, then, that hadnt worked? Perhaps there had always
been a nearly total lack of communication between the
two; they never could find the words to express their feelings
for each other. So often, when very young, Montalbano had
thought: My father is a closed man. And probablythough he
realized it only nowhis father had sat on a rock by the sea
and thought the same of him. Still, hed shown great sensitivity;
before remarrying, for example, hed waited for his son to
finish university and win the placement competition. And
yet when his father finally brought his new wife home, Montalbano
had felt offended for no reason. A wall had risen between
them; a glass wall, its true, but a wall nonetheless. And
so their meetings had gradually decreased in number to one
or two a year. His father would usually arrive with a case of
the wines produced by his vineyard, stay half a day, and then
leave. Montalbano would always find the wine excellent and
proudly offer it to his friends, telling them his father had
made it. But had he ever told his father the wine was excellent?
He dug deep in his memory. Never. Just as his father
collected the newspapers that talked about him and felt like
crying whenever he saw him on television, and yet had

never, in person, congratulated him on the success of an investigation.

He sat on that rock for over two hours, and when he got up
to go back into town, his mind was made up. He would not
go to visit his father. The sight of him would surely have
made his father realize how gravely ill he was. It would have
made things worse. Anyway, he didnt really know if his father
would be happy to see him. Montalbano, moreover, had
a fear, a horror, of the dying. He wasnt sure he could stand
the fear and horror of seeing his father die. On the brink of
collapse, he might run away.

When he got back to Marinella he still had that harsh, heavy
feeling of weariness inside. He undressed, put on his bathing
suit, and dived into the sea. He swam until his legs began to
cramp. Returning home, he realized he was in no condition
to go to the commissioners for dinner.

Hello? Montalbano here. Im very sorry, but
You cant come?
No, Im really very sorry.
Work?
Why not tell him the truth?
No, Mr. Commissioner. Its my father. Somebody sent

me a letter. It looks like hes dying.
At first the commissioner said nothing; the inspector
only heard him heave a long sigh.

Listen, Montalbano. If you want to go see him, even for
an extended stay, go ahead, dont worry about anything. Ill
find a temporary replacement for you.

No, Im not going. Thanks anyway.

Again the commissioner didnt speak. He must have
been shocked by some of the inspectors words; but he was a
polite, old-fashioned man, and did not bring the subject up
again.

Montalbano, I feel awkward.
Please dont, not with me.
Do you remember I said I had two things to say to you

at dinner?
Of course.
Well, Ill say them to you over the phone, even though,

as I said, I feel awkward doing so. And this probably isnt the
most appropriate moment, but Im afraid you might find out
from another source, like the newspapers....You dont
know this, of course, but almost a year ago I put in a request
for early retirement.

Oh God, dont tell me they
Yes, they granted it.
But why do you want to retire?
Because I no longer feel in step with the world, and be

cause I feel tired. To me, the betting service for soccer

matches is still called Sisal.
The inspector didnt understand.
Im sorry, I dont get it.
What do you call it?
Totocalcio.

You see? Therein lies the difference. A while ago, some
journalist accused Montanelli of being too old, and as proof,
he cited the fact that Montanelli still called Totocalcio Sisal, as
he used to call it thirty years ago.

But that doesnt mean anything! It was only a wisecrack!

It means a lot, Montalbano, a lot. It means unconsciously
holding on to the past, not wanting to see certain
changes, even rejecting them. And I was barely a year away
from retirement, anyway. Ive still got my parents house in
La Spezia, which Ive been having refurbished. If you like,
when you come to Genoa to see Miss Livia, you can drop in
on us.

And when are

When am I leaving? Whats todays date?

The twelfth of May.

I officially leave my job on the tenth of August.

The commissioner cleared his throat, and the inspector
understood that they had now come to the second thing,
which was perhaps harder to say.

About the other matter...

He was hesitant, clearly. Montalbano bailed him out.

It couldnt possibly be worse than what you just told
me.

Its about your promotion.

No!

Listen to me, Montalbano. Your position can no longer
be justified. In addition, now that Ive been granted early retirement,
Im not, well, in a strong bargaining position. I have

to recommend your promotion, and there wont be any ob

stacles.

Will I be transferred?

Theres a ninety-nine percent chance of it. Bear in
mind that if I didnt recommend you for the appointment,
with all your successes, the ministry might see that in a negative
light and could end up transferring you anyway, but
without a promotion. Couldnt you use a raise?

The inspectors brain was running at full speed, smoking,
in fact, trying to find a possible solution. He glimpsed one
and pounced on it.

And what if, from this moment on, I no longer arrested
anyone?

I dont understand.

I mean, what if I pretend not to solve any more cases, if
I mishandle investigations, if I let slip

rubbish, Montalbano, the only thing youre letting
slip is idiocies. I just dont understand. Every time I talk to
you about promotion, you suddenly regress and start reasoning
like a child.