The Snack Thief (25 page)

He put the little cassette inside the bigger one, as Nicolhad instructed him to do, then turned on the TV and the
VCR. After a few seconds with the screen still blank, he got
up and checked the appliances, certain hed made some
wrong connection. He was utterly hopeless with this sort of
thing, to say nothing of computers, which terrified him.
Nothing doing this time, either. He popped out the larger
cassette, opened it, looked at it. The little cassette seemed
poorly inserted, so he pushed it all the way in. He put the
whole package back into the VCR. Still nothing on the goddamn
screen. What the hell wasnt working? As he was asking
himself this, he froze, seized by doubt. He dashed to the
phone.

Hello? answered the voice at the other end, pronouncing
each letter with tremendous effort.

Nicolhis is Montalbano.

Who the hell else could it be, Jesus fucking Christ?

I have to ask you something.

Do you know what time it is?

Im sorry, really sorry. Remember the videocamera you
lent me?

Yeah?

Which button was I supposed to push to record? The
top one or the bottom one?

The top one, asshole.

Hed pushed the wrong button.

He got undressed again, put on his bathing suit, bravely entered
the freezing water, and began to swim. After tiring and
turning over to float on his back, he started thinking that it
was not, in the end, so terrible that he hadnt recorded anything.
The important thing was that the colonel believed he
had and would continue to do so. He returned to shore, went
back in the house, threw himself down on the bed, still wet,
and fell asleep.

When he woke up it was past nine, and he had the distinct
impression he couldnt go back to work and resume his
everyday chores. He decided to inform Mim

Hallo! Hallo! Whoozat talkin onna line?

Its Montalbano, Cat.

Izzat really n truly you in person, sir?
Its really and truly me in person. Let me speak with In

spector Augello.
Hello, Salvo. Where are you?
At home. Listen, MimI dont think I can come in to

work.
Are you sick?
No. I just dont feel up to it, not today nor tomorrow. I

need to rest for four or five days. Can you cover for me?
Of course.
Thanks.
Wait. Dont hang up.
What is it?
Im a little concerned, Salvo. Youve been acting weird

for the last couple of days. Whats the matter with you? Dont

make me start worrying about you.
MimI just need a little rest, thats all.
Where will you go?
I dont know yet. Ill call you later.

Actually, he knew exactly where he would go. He packed his
bag in five minutes, then took a little longer to select which
books to bring along. He left a note in block letters for
Adelina, the housekeeper, informing her hed be back within
a week. When he arrived at the trattoria in Maz, they
greeted him like the prodigal son.

The other day, I believe I understood that you rent
rooms.

Yes, weve got five upstairs. But its the off-season now,
so only one of ems rented.

They showed him a room, spacious and bright and looking
straight onto the sea.

He lay down on the bed, brain emptied of thoughts,
chest swelling with a kind of happy melancholy. He was
loosing the moorings, ready to sail out to the country of
sleep, when he heard a knock on the door.

Come in, its unlocked.

The cook appeared in the doorway. He was a big man of
considerable heft, about forty, with dark eyes and skin.

What are you doing? Arent you coming down? I heard
you were here and so I made something for you that...

What the cook had made, Montalbano couldnt hear, because
a sweet, soft melody, a heavenly tune, had started playing
in his ears.

For the last hour hed been watching a rowboat slowly approaching
the shore. On it was a man rowing in sharply
rhythmic, vigorous strokes. The boat had also been sighted by
the owner of the trattoria; Montalbano heard him cry out:

LuicThe cavalieres coming back!

The inspector then saw Luicino, the restaurateurs
sixteen-year-old son, enter the water to push the boat up
onto the sand so the passenger wouldnt get his feet wet. The
cavaliere, whose name Montalbano did not know, was
smartly dressed, tie and all. On his head he wore a white
Panama hat, with the requisite black band.

Cavaliere, did you catch anything? the restaurateur
asked him.

A pain in the ass, thats what I caught.

He was a thin, nervy man, about seventy years old. Later,
Montalbano heard him bustling about in the room next to his.

I set a table over here, said the cook as soon as Montalbano
appeared for dinner, and he led him into a tiny room with
space for only two tables. The inspector felt grateful for this,
since the big dining room was booming with the voices and
laughter of a large gathering.

Ive set it for two, the cook continued. Do you have
any objection if Cavaliere Pintacuda eats with you?

He certainly did have an objection: he feared he would
have to talk while eating.

A few minutes later, the gaunt septuagenarian introduced
himself with a bow.

Liborio Pintacuda, and Im not a cavaliere, he said, sitting
down. Theres something I must tell you, even at the
risk of appearing rude, the non-cavaliere continued. I,
when Im talking, do not eat. Conversely, when Im eating, I
dont talk.

Welcome to the club, said Montalbano, sighing with
relief.

The pasta with crab was as graceful as a first-rate ballerina,
but the stuffed bass in saffron sauce left him breathless,
almost frightened.

Do you think this kind of miracle could ever happen

again? he asked Pintacuda, gesturing towards his now empty
plate. They had both finished and therefore recovered the
power of speech.

Itll happen again, dont worry, just like the miracle of
the blood of San Gennaro, said Pintacuda. Ive been coming
here for years, and never, I repeat, never, has Taninos
cooking let me down.

At a top-notch restaurant, a chef like Tanino would be
worth his weight in gold, the inspector commented.

Yes he would. Last year, a Frenchman passed this way,
the owner of a famous Parisian restaurant. He practically got
down on his knees and begged Tanino to come to Paris with
him. But there was no persuading him. Tanino says this is
where hes from, and this is where hell die.

Someone must surely have taught him to cook like that.
He cant have been born with that gift.

You know, up until ten years ago, Tanino was a small-
time crook. Petty theft, drug dealing. Always in and out of
jail. Then, one night, the Blessed Virgin appeared to him.

Are you joking?

I try hard not to. As he tells it, the Virgin took his hands
in hers, looked him in the eye, and declared that from the
next day forward, he would become a great chef.

Come on!

You, for example, knew nothing of this story of the Virgin,
and yet after eating the bass, you specifically used the
word miracle. But I can see you dont believe in the supernatural,
so Ill change subject. What brings you to these parts,
Inspector?

Montalbano gave a start. He hadnt told anyone there
what he did for a living.

I saw your press conference on television, after you arrested
that woman for killing her husband, Pintacuda explained.

Please dont tell anybody who I am.

But they all know who you are, Inspector. Since theyve
gathered that you dont like to be recognized, however, they
play dumb.

And what do you do of interest?

I used to be a professor of philosophy. If you can call
teaching philosophy interesting.

Isnt it?

Not at all. The kids get bored. They no longer care
enough to learn how Hegel or Kant thought about things.
Philosophy instruction should probably be replaced with
some subject like, I dont know, Basic Management. Then it
still might mean something.

Basic management of what?

Life, my friend. Do you know what Benedetto Croce
writes in his Memoirs? He says that he learned from experience
to consider life a serious matter, as a problem to be
solved. Seems obvious, doesnt it? But its not. One would
have to explain to young people, philosophically, what it
means, for example, to smash their car into another car one
Saturday night. And to tell them how, philosophically, this
could be avoided. But well have time to discuss all this. Im
told youll be staying here a few days.

Yes. Do you live alone?

For the fifteen days I spend here, very much alone. The
rest of the time I live in a big old house in Trapani with my
wife and four daughters, all married, and eight grandchildren,
who, when theyre not at school, are with me all day. At
least once every three months I escape and come here, leaving
no phone number or forwarding address. I cleanse myself,
take the waters of solitude. For me this place is like a
clinic where I detoxify myself of an excess of sentiment. Do
you play chess?

On the afternoon of the following day, as he was lying in bed
reading Sciascias Council of Egypt for the twentieth time, it
occurred to him that hed forgotten to tell Valente about the
odd agreement hed made with the colonel. The matter
might prove dangerous for his colleague in Maz if he were
to continue investigating. He went downstairs where there
was a telephone.

Valente? Montalbano here.

Salvo, where the hell are you? I asked for you at the office
and they said they had no news of you.

Why were you looking for me? Has something come
up?

Yes. The commissioner called me out of the blue this
morning to tell me my request for a transfer had been accepted.
Theyre sending me to Sestri.

Valentes wife, Giulia, was from Sestri, and her parents also

lived there. Until now, every time the vice-commissioner had
asked to be transferred to Liguria, his request had been denied.

Didnt I say that something good would come out of
this affair? Montalbano reminded him.

Do you think?

Of course. Theyre getting you out of their hair, in such
a way that you wont object. And theyre right. When does
the transfer take effect?

Immediately.

See? Ill come say good-bye before you leave.

Lohengrin Pera and his little gang of playmates had
moved very fast. It remained to be seen whether this was a
good or a bad sign. He needed to do a foolproof test. If they
were in such a hurry to put the matter to rest, then surely
they had wasted no time in sending him a message as well.
The Italian bureaucracy, usually slow as a snail, becomes
lightning-quick when it comes to screwing the citizen. With
this well-known truth in mind, he called his commissioner.

Montalbano! For Gods sake, where have you run off to?

Sorry for not letting you know. Ive taken a few days
off to rest.

I understand. You went to see

No. Were you looking for me? Do you need me?

Yes, I was looking for you, but I dont need you for anything.
Just rest. Do you remember I was supposed to recommend
you for a promotion?

How could I forget?

Well, this morning Commendator Ragusa called me

from the Ministry of Justice. Hes a good friend of mine. He
told me that, apparently . . . some obstacles have come up
of what kind, I have no idea. In short, your promotion has
been blocked. Ragusa wouldnt, or couldnt, tell me any
more than that. He also made it clear that it was useless, and
perhaps even unwise, to insist. Believe me, Im shocked and
offended.

Not me.

Dont I know it! In fact, youre happy, arent you?

Doubly happy, Commissioner.

Doubly?

Ill explain when I see you in person.

He set his mind at rest. They were moving in the right
direction.

The following morning, Liborio Pintacuda, a steaming cup
of coffee in hand, woke the inspector up when it was still
dark outside.

Ill wait for you in the boat.

Hed invited him to a useless half day of fishing, and the
inspector had accepted. Montalbano put on a pair of jeans
and a long-sleeved shirt. Sitting in a boat with a gentleman
dressed to the nines, he would have felt silly in a bathing suit.

Fishing, for the professor, proved to be exactly like eating.
He never opened his mouth, except, every now and
then, to curse the fish for not biting.

Around nine in the morning, with the sun already high
in the sky, Montalbano couldnt hold back any longer.

Im losing my father, he said.

My condolences, the professor said without looking
up from his fishing line.

The words seemed flat and inappropriate to the inspector.

He hasnt died yet. Hes dying, he clarified.

It makes no difference. For you, your father died the
very moment you learned he was going to die. Everything
else is, so to speak, a bodily formality. Nothing more. Does
he live with you?

No, hes in another town.

By himself ?

Yes. And I cant summon the courage to go see him in
this state, before he goes. I just cant. The very idea scares me.
Ill never have the strength to set foot in the hospital where
hes staying.

The old man said nothing, limiting himself to replacing
the bait the fishes had eaten with many thanks. Then he decided
to talk.

You know, I happen to have followed an investigation
of yours, the one about the terra-cotta dog. In that instance,
you abandoned an investigation into some weapons trafficking
to throw yourself heart and soul into tracking a crime
from fifty years ago, even though solving it wasnt going to
yield any practical results. Do you know why you did it?

Out of curiosity? Montalbano guessed.

No, my friend. It was a very shrewd, intelligent way for
you to keep practicing your unpleasant profession, but by escaping
from everyday reality. Apparently this everyday reality
sometimes becomes too much for you to bear. And so you