The Snack Thief

He had anticipated this question, and the answer he had ready on his lips allowed him another at least partial omission, if not an outright lie.

“This Karima, you see, was a rather unusual sort of prostitute. She went not only with Lapecora, but with other people as well. All well on in years: retirees, businessmen, professors. By limiting the case to Lapecora, I’ve tried to prevent the poison, the insinuations, from spreading to a bunch of poor wretches who, in the end, didn’t really do anything wrong.” He was convinced it was a plausible explanation. And in fact, the commissioner’s only comment was:

“You have strange morals, Montalbano.”

And then he asked:

“But has this Karima really disappeared?”

“Apparently, yes. When she learned her lover had been killed, she ran away with her little boy, fearing she might be implicated in the homicide.”

“Listen,” said the commissioner. “What was that business with the car all about?”

“What car?”

“Come on, Montalbano. The car that turned out to belong to the secret services. They’re nasty people, you know.” Montalbano laughed. He’d practiced the laugh the night before, in front of a mirror, persisting until he got it right.

Now, however, contrary to his hopes, it rang false, too high-pitched. But if he wanted to keep his excellent superior out of this mess, he no longer had any choice. He had to tell a lie.

“Why do you laugh?” asked the commissioner, surprised.

“Out of embarrassment, believe me. The person who gave me that license number phoned me the next day and said he’d made a mistake. The letters were right, but he’d got the number wrong. It was 837, not 237. I apologize. I feel mortified.” The commissioner looked him in the eye for what seemed like an eternity. Then he spoke in a soft voice.

“If you want me to swallow that, I’ll swallow it. But be very careful, Montalbano. Those people don’t kid around.

They’re capable of anything, and whenever they slip up, they blame it on certain colleagues who went astray. Who don’t exist. They’re the ones who go astray. It’s in their nature.” Montalbano didn’t know what to say. The commissioner changed subject.

“Tonight you’ll dine at my house. I don’t want to hear any arguments. You’ll eat whatever there is. I’ve got two things I absolutely have to tell you. But I won’t say them here, in my office, because that would give them a bureaucratic flavor, which I find unpleasant.” It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, and yet Montalbano had the impression that a shadow had fallen across the sun, making the room turn suddenly cold.

o o o

There was a letter addressed to him on the desk in his office.

He checked the postmark, as he always did, to try and discover its provenance, but it was illegible. He opened the envelope and read:

Inspector Montalbano,

You dont know me and I dont know what your like. My name is Arcangelo Prestifilippo and I am your fathers business partner in the vineyard which is producing very well, thank the Lord. Your father never talks about you but I found out he collects all the newspapers that talk about you and when he sees you on tv sometimes he starts crying but tries to not let other people see.

Dear Inspector, I feel my heart give out because the news I got to tell you isnt good. Ever since Signora Giulia, your father’s second wife went up to Heaven four years ago, my partner and friend hasnt been the same. Then last year he started feeling bad, he would run out of breath even just from climbing some stairs and he would get dizzy. He didnt want to go to the doctor, nothing doing. And so I took advantage because my son who works in Milan and is a good doctor, came to town, and I took him to your father’s house. My son looked at him and got upset because he wanted your father to go to the hospital. He made such a big fuss and talked so much that he convinced your father to go to the hospital with him before he went back to Milan. I went to see him every night and ten days later the doctor told me they did all the tests and your father had that terrible lung disease. And so your father started going in and out of the hospital for treatment which made all his hair fall out but didnt make him one bit better. And he told me specially to not tell you about it, he said he didnt want you getting all worried.

But last night I talked to the doctor and he said your father is near the end now, he got only one month maybe, give or take a few days. And so in spiter your dad’s strict orders I wanted you to know whats happening. Your fathers in the Clinica Porticelli, the telefone number is 341234. Theres a phone in his room. But its better if you come see him in person and pretend you dont know nuthin bout him being sick. You already got my phone number, its the same as the vineyard office where I work all day long.

I am very sorry.

Best regards,

arcangelo prestifilippo

A slight tremor in his hands made him struggle to put the letter back in the envelope, and so he slipped it into his pocket. A profound weariness came over him, forcing him to lean heavily, eyes closed, against the back of his chair. He had trouble breathing; there seemed suddenly to be no air in the room. He stood up with difficulty, then went into Augello’s office.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mimi as soon as he saw his face.

“Nothing. Listen, I’ve got some work to do. I mean, I need a little time alone, some peace and quiet.”

“Anything I can do to help?”