The Snack Thief

“Salvo, I’m telling you this as a loving brother: why don’t you have yourself committed?”

“I want it back immediately.”

“But I was asleep! Calm down. I’ll bring it to the office in the morning. Otherwise I would have to put on my underwear, start looking, get dressed—”

“I don’t give a shit.You’re going to look for it, find it, get in your car, even in your underwear, and bring it to me.” He dragged himself about the house for half an hour, doing pointless things like trying to understand the phone bill or reading the label on a bottle of mineral water. Then he heard a car screech to a halt, a dull thud against the door, and the car leaving. He opened the door: the book was on the ground, the lights of Augello’s car already far away. He had a mind to make an anonymous phone call to the carabinieri.

Hello, this is a concerned citizen. There’s some madman driving around in his underwear . . .

He let it drop. He started leafing through the novel.

The story went exactly as he’d remembered it. Page 8:

“Smiley, Maston speaking. You interviewed Samuel Arthur Fennan at the Foreign Office on Monday, am I right?”

“Yes . . . yes I did.”

“What was the case?”

“Anonymous letter alleging Party membership at Ox-ford . . .”

And there, on page 139, was the beginning of the conclusion that Smiley would arrive at in his report:

“It was, however, possible that he had lost his heart for his work, and that his luncheon invitation to me was a first step to confession. With this in mind he might also have written the anonymous letter which could have been designed to put him in touch with the Department.” Following Smiley’s logic, it was therefore possible that Lapecora himself had written the anonymous letters exposing him. But if he was their author, why hadn’t he sent them to the police or carabinieri under some other pretext?

No sooner had he formulated this question than he smiled at himself for being so naive. In the hands of the police or carabinieri, an anonymous letter might have triggered an investigation and have led to far graver consequences for Lapecora. By sending them to his wife, Lapecora was hoping to provoke a reaction of the more domestic variety, but one that would nevertheless rescue him from a situation that was becoming either too dangerous or unbearable. He wanted to pull out, and those were cries for help. But his wife had taken them at face value, that is, as anonymous letters denouncing a tawdry, common liaison. Offended, she had not reacted, but only withdrawn into a scornful silence. And so Lapecora, in despair, had written to his son, this time without hiding behind a veil of anonymity. But the son, blinded by egotism and the fear of losing a few lire, fled to New York.

Thanks to Smiley, it all made sense. He went back to sleep.

o o o

Commendatore Baldassare Marzachi, director of the Vigata post office, was notorious for being a presumptuous imbecile.

And he didn’t fail to live up to his reputation this time, either.

“I cannot grant your request.”

“And why not, if I may ask?”

“Because you don’t have a judge’s authorization.”

“And why should I need that? Any other employee of your office would have given me the information I asked for.

It’s of no consequence whatsoever.”

“That’s your opinion. Had they given you this information, my employees would have committed a punishable in-fraction.”

“Commendatore, let’s be reasonable. I am merely asking you for the name of the postman who services the neighborhood in which Salita Granet is located. Nothing more.”

“And I’m not going to tell you, okay? Supposing I did tell you, what would you do?”

“I would ask the postman a few questions.”

“See? You want to violate the postal code of secrecy.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

An utter nitwit. Which isn’t so easy to find these days, now that nitwits disguise themselves as intelligent people.

The inspector decided to resort to a bit of high drama that would annihilate his adversary. Without warning, he let his body fall backwards, shoulders planted firmly against the back of the chair, and began shaking his hands and legs, trying desperately to open his shirt collar.

“Oh God,” he gasped.

“Oh God!” echoed Commendator Marzachi, standing up and rushing to the inspector. “Are you ill?”

“Please help me,” wheezed Montalbano.

The post office manager bent down, tried to loosen the inspector’s collar, and at that moment Montalbano started shouting.

“Let me go! For God’s sake, let me go!”