“He spoke foreign. I din’t unnastand. So he pulled off my backpack and opened it. I tried to take it back, but he punched me, twice, and he grabbed my omelette sandwich and ran away.” “Continue the investigation,” Montalbano ordered the two police officers, managing by some miracle to keep a straight face.
o o o
At the time of the Muslim domination of Sicily, when Montelusa was called Kerkent, the Arabs built a district, on the outskirts of town, where they lived amongst themselves.
When the Muslims later fled in defeat, the Montelusians moved into their homes and the name of the district was Si-cilianized into Rabatu. In the second half of the twentieth century, a tremendous landslide swallowed it up. The few houses left standing were damaged and lopsided, remaining upright by absurd feats of equilibrium. When they returned, this time as paupers, the Arabs moved back into that part of town, replacing the roof tiles with sheet metal and using partitions of heavy cardboard for walls.
It was to this quarter that Montalbano accompanied Aisha with her paltry bundle of belongings. The old woman, still calling him “uncle,” wanted to kiss and embrace him.
o o o
It was three o’clock in the afternoon and Montalbano, who hadn’t had time to eat, was in the throes of a gut- twisting hunger. He went to the Trattoria San Calogero and sat down.
“Is there anything left to eat?”
“For you, sir, there’s always something.” At that exact moment he remembered about Livia. She’d completely slipped his mind. He rushed to the phone, trying feverishly to think of an excuse. Livia had said she’d be there by lunchtime. She was probably furious.
“Livia, darling.”
“I just got here, Salvo. The flight left two hours late, with no explanation. Were you worried, darling?”
“Of course I was worried,” Montalbano lied shamelessly, realizing the winds were favorable. “I’ve been phoning home every fifteen minutes without any answer. A little while ago I decided to call the airport, and they told me the flight was two hours late. That finally set my mind at rest.” “Sorry, love, but it wasn’t my fault. When are you coming home?”
“Unfortunately I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of a meeting in Montelusa; I’ll be at least another hour I’m sure.
Then I’ll come running. Oh, and listen: tonight we’re going to the commissioner’s for dinner.”
“But I didn’t bring anything to wear!”
“You can go in jeans. Have a look in the fridge, Adelina must have cooked something.”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll wait for you, we can eat together.”
“I’ve already made do with a sandwich. I’m not hungry.
See you soon.”
He sat back down at his table, where a pound of mullet awaited him, fried to a delicate crisp.
o o o
A little weary from her journey, Livia had gone to bed. Montalbano got undressed and lay down beside her. They kissed.
Suddenly Livia pulled away and started sniffing him.
“You smell like fried food.”
“Of course I do. I just spent an hour interrogating some guy in a fried-food shop.”
They made love calmly, knowing they had all the time in the world. Then they sat up in bed, pillows behind their heads, and Montalbano told her the story of Lapecora’s murder. Thinking he was amusing her, he told her how he’d had Mrs. Piccirillo and her daughter, who set such great store by their honor, brought in to the station. He also told her he’d had Fazio buy a bottle of wine for Mr. Culicchia, who’d lost his when it rolled next to the corpse. Instead of laughing, as Montalbano expected, Livia looked at him coldly.
“Asshole,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” Montalbano asked with the aplomb of an English lord.
“You’re an asshole and a sexist. First you disgrace those two wretched women, and then you buy a bottle of wine for the guy who had no qualms about riding up and down in the elevator with a corpse. Now tell me that’s not acting like a jerk.” “Come on, Livia, don’t look at it that way.” Unfortunately Livia insisted on looking at it that way. It was six o’clock before he managed to appease her. To distract her he told her the story of the little boy who was stealing other children’s late-morning snacks.
But Livia didn’t laugh this time, either. In fact, she seemed to turn melancholy.
“What’s wrong? What did I say? Did I do something wrong again?”
“No, I was just thinking of that poor little boy.”
“The one who got beat up?”
“No, the other one. He must be really famished and desperate. You say he didn’t speak Italian? He’s probably the child of some immigrants who can’t even put food on the table. Or maybe he was abandoned.” “Jesus Christ!” cried Montalbano, thunderstruck by the revelation, yelling so loudly that Livia gave a start.
“What’s got into you?”
“Jesus Christ!” the inspector repeated, eyes bulging out of his head.
“What on earth did I say?” Livia asked, concerned.
