Fazio came back with a pair of glasses.
“The left eye’s a three, the right eye, two and a half.”
Montalbano passed this information on.
“Perfect,” said Riguccio. “Could you send them over to me? The patrol boats are docking right now.”
For whatever reason, Montalbano decided to take them himself, personally in person, as Catarella would say. All things considered, Riguccio was an excellent fellow, and it wasn’t the end of the world if the inspector got to Ciccio Albanese’s house a little late.
He was happy not to be in Riguccio’s shoes. The Montelusa commissioner’s office had asked the harbor authority that they be informed every time a new group of illegal immigrants arrived, and whenever this happened, Riguccio would head off to Vigata with the requisite convoy of buses, police vans full of policemen, ambulances, and Jeeps, and was greeted every time by the same scenes of tragedy, tears, and sorrow. There were women giving birth, children lost in the confusion, people who’d lost their wits or fallen ill during endless journeys outside on the deck, exposed to the wind and the rain, and they all needed help. When they disembarked, the fresh sea air wasn’t enough to dispel the unbearable stench they carried with them, which was a smell not of unwashed bodies but of fear, anguish, and suffering, of despair that had reached the point beyond which lies only the hope of death. It was impossible to remain indifferent to all this, and that was why Riguccio had admitted he couldn’t stand it any longer.
When he got to the port, the inspector noticed that the first patrol boat had already lowered its gangplank. The policemen had lined up in two parallel rows, forming a kind of human corridor all the way to the first bus, which was waiting with its motor running. Standing at the bottom of the gangplank, Riguccio thanked Montalbano and put the glasses on. The inspector got the impression his colleague was so intent on supervising the situation that he hadn’t even recognized him.
Riguccio then gave the signal to begin the disembarkation. The first person to come out was a black woman with a belly so big she looked like she might give birth at any moment. She was unable to walk on her own. A sailor from the patrol boat and a black man helped her along. When they got to the ambulance, there was some shouting when the black man wanted to get in with the woman. The sailor tried to explain to the police that the man was surely her husband, since he’d had his arms around her the whole time on the boat. Nothing doing, it couldn’t be allowed. The ambulance pulled away with its siren wailing. The black man started crying, and the sailor took his arm, accompanying him to the bus and talking to him all the while. Feeling curious, the inspector approached them. The sailor was speaking a dialect; he must have hailed from Venice or somewhere thereabouts, and the black man didn’t understand a thing, but clearly felt comforted by the friendly sound of the sailor’s words.
Montalbano had just decided to go back to his car when he saw a group of four refugees stumble and stagger as though drunk when they reached the end of the gangplank. For a moment he didn’t understand what was happening. Then he saw a small boy, not more than six years old, dart out between the legs of the four men. But the child disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared, passing through the formation of policemen in the twinkling of an eye. As two officers began to give chase, Montalbano saw the kid heading, with the instinct of a hunted animal, towards the less lighted area of the wharf, where stood the remains of an old silo that had been ringed by a wall for security. He never knew what made him shout to the two policemen:
“Stop! I’m Inspector Montalbano! Turn back! I’ll go after him myself!”
The policemen obeyed.
By now the inspector had lost sight of the kid, but the direction he’d taken could only have led him to one place, and that was an enclosed area, a kind of blind alley between the back of the old silo and the boundary wall of the port, which offered no path of escape. The space, moreover, was cluttered with empty jerry cans and bottles, hundreds of broken fish crates, and at least two or three scrapped outboard motors from fishing boats. It was hard enough to make one’s way through that jumble in the daytime, let alone by the faint glow of a street lamp. Certain that the kid was watching him, he assumed a falsely casual air, walking slowly, one step at a time. He even lit a cigarette. When he’d reached the entrance to the alley, he called out in a soft, calm voice:
“Come out, little guy, I’m not gonna harm you.”
No answer. But, listening very hard, he could distinctly hear, under the tide of shouts, wails, curses, car horns, sirens, and screeching tires that reached his ears from the wharf, the faint, panting breath of the little boy, who must have been hiding just a few yards away.
“Come on out now, I’m not gonna harm you.”
He heard some rustling. It came from a wooden crate right in front of him. The boy must have been huddled behind it. He could have leapt forward and nabbed him, but chose to keep still. Then he saw the hands, arms, head, and chest slowly appear. The rest of the little body remained hidden by the crate. The boy was holding his hands up, signaling surrender, eyes open wide in terror. But he was trying very hard not to cry, not to show any weakness.
What corner of hell could he have come from, Montalbano suddenly asked himself in dismay, if at his age he’d already learned the terrible gesture of throwing one’s hands in the air, something he certainly hadn’t seen on television or at the movies?
The answer came to him at once, in the form of a flash in his brain. And while it lasted, inside this flash—which was just like a photographer’s flash—the crate, the alley, the port, Vigata itself all disappeared and then reappeared in black and white and shrunken to the size of an old photo he had seen many years before but which had been taken many years before that, during the war, before he was born, and which showed a little Jewish or Polish boy with hands raised and the very same wide-open eyes, the very same desire not to cry, as a soldier pointed a gun at him.
The inspector felt a sharp pain in his chest, a twinge that took his breath away. Frightened, he closed his eyes tight, then reopened them. Finally, everything returned to normal size, to the light of reality, and the little boy was no longer Jewish or Polish but a little black boy again. Montalbano took a step forward, took the child’s freezing hands in his own and held them tight. And he remained that way, waiting for a little of his own warmth to pass into those tiny fingers. Only when he felt the little hands begin to relax did he take his first step, still holding him by one hand. The little boy followed, willingly entrusting himself to his care. In spite of himself, the inspector thought of Francois, the Tunisian boy who could have become his son, if Livia had had her way. He managed in time to suppress his emotion, biting his lower lip until it almost bled.
The disembarkation continued. In the distance he saw a rather diminutive woman making a scene with two small children hanging on her skirts. She was shouting incomprehensibly, pulling her hair out, stamping her feet, tearing her blouse. Three policemen tried to calm her down, with little success. Then the woman spotted the inspector and the little boy, and there was no stopping her: she shoved the policemen aside with all her might and rushed towards the two of them with her arms out. At that moment two things happened. First, Montalbano distinctly noticed that upon seeing his mother, the boy stiffened, ready to run away again. Why did he do this
