He immediately bit his tongue. That was a stupid thing to say. Even from ten thousand kilometers away, Livia, over the phone line, could immediately tell when he was lying.
“Don’t even try, Salvo. Come on, tell me.”
During the whole ten minutes he spoke, Montalbano felt like he was walking through a minefield. Livia did not interrupt him once, and made no comment whatsoever.
“. . . And so my colleague Riguccio’s convinced it was all for some kind of family reunion, as he calls it, and a successful one,” he concluded, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Not even the happy ending got a reaction from Livia. The inspector got worried.
“Livia. Are you still there?”
“Yes. I’m thinking.”
The tone was firm; her voice hadn’t cracked.
“About what? There’s nothing to think about. It’s just a little story like any other, of no importance whatsoever.”
“Stop talking nonsense. I also understand why you would have preferred to tell me face to face.”
“Come on, what kind of ideas are you getting in your head? I didn’t—”
“Never mind.”
Montalbano didn’t breathe.
“Of course, it
“What is?”
“Does it seem normal to you?”
“If you don’t tell me what you’re talking about—”
“The boy’s behavior.”
“It seemed strange to you?”
“Of course. Why did he try to run away?”
“Try to imagine the situation, Livia! That child was in a panic.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Because if a child in a panic has his mother beside him, he’s going to grab her skirts and hang on with all his might, as you said the other two kids were doing.”
“When he surrendered,” Livia continued, “he didn’t surrender to the enemy—which was you at that moment— but to the circumstances. He was lucid enough to realize there was no escape. It was the exact opposite of panic.”
“Tell me something,” said Montalbano. “Are you telling me that boy was taking advantage of the situation to run away from his mother and siblings?”
“If things were the way you tell me, I would say so, yes.”
“But why would he do that?”
“That, I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to go back to his father; that might be one logical explanation.”
“So he decides to run away in an unknown country where he can’t speak the language, without a penny or a helping hand, with nothing at all? The kid was barely six years old!”
“Salvo, you’d be right if you were talking about one of us, but those kinds of children . . . They may look six years old, but in terms of life experiences, they’re like grown men. Between famine, war, massacres, death, and fear, you grow up fast.”
He lifted the sheet with one hand, leaned on the bed with the other, raised his left leg, and froze. A chill ran down his spine. It all came back to him at once: the look the little boy had given him as his mother ran up to take him back. At the time, he hadn’t understood that look. Now, after talking to Livia, he did. The little boy’s eyes were imploring him. They were telling him: for pity’s sake, let me go, let me escape. And now, as he was about to get into bed, he felt bitterly guilty for not immediately understanding the meaning of that look. He was slipping. It was hard to admit, but true. How could he not have realized that, to use Dr. Pasquano’s words, things were not what they seemed?
“Chief? There’s a nurse from San Gregorio Hospital in Montelusa onna line . . .”
What was happening to Catarella? He’d said the hospital’s name right!
“What’s she want?”
“She wants to talk to you poissonally in poisson. Says her name is Agata Militello. Want me to put her on?”
“Yes.”
“Inspector Montalbano? My name is Agata Militello . . .” A miracle! That was really her name. What could be happening if Catarella got two names in a row right? “. . . I’m a nurse at San Gregorio. I was told you came here yesterday looking for information on a black woman with three small children and you couldn’t find her. I saw that woman with the three children.”
