The Snack Thief

“Yes. Take care of everything yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t have anybody call me at home.”

o o o

He passed by the calia e simenza shop, bought a sizable cornet, and began his stroll along the jetty. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, but he was unable to seize a single one. When he arrived at the lighthouse he kept on walking.

Directly below the lighthouse was a large rock, slippery with green moss. In danger of falling into the sea with each step, he managed to reach the rock and sat down, cornet in hand.

But he didn’t open it. He felt a kind of wave surge up from some part of his lower body, ascend towards his chest, and from there continue rising towards his throat, forming a knot that took his breath away. He felt the need to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Then, amidst the jumble of thoughts crowding his brain, a few words forced their way into clarity until they came together in a line of verse: Father, you die a little more each day . . .

What was it? A poem? By whom? And when had he read it? He repeated the line under his breath:

“Father, you die a little more each day . . .” And at last, out of his previously blocked, closed throat came the cry, but more than a cry it was the shrill wail of a wounded animal, followed, at once, by a rush of unstoppable, liberating tears.

o o o

A year before, when he’d been wounded in a shoot-out and ended up in the hospital, Livia had told him his father was phoning every day. He’d come only once to see him in person, when he was convalescing. He must have already been sick at the time. To Montalbano he’d merely looked a little thinner, nothing more. He was, in fact, even better dressed than usual, having always made a point of looking smart. On that occasion he’d asked his son if he needed anything. “I can help,” he’d said.

o o o

When had they started to grow silently apart? His father had always been a caring, affectionate parent. That, Montalbano could not deny. He’d done everything in his power to lessen the pain of the loss of his mother. Whenever Montalbano fell ill as an adolescent—which luckily was not very often—his father used to stay home from work so he wouldn’t be alone.

What was it, then, that hadn’t worked? Perhaps there had always been a nearly total lack of communication between the two; they never could find the words to express their feelings for each other. So often, when very young, Montalbano had thought: My father is a closed man. And probably—though he realized it only now—his father had sat on a rock by the sea and thought the same of him. Still, he’d shown great sensitiv-ity; before remarrying, for example, he’d waited for his son to finish university and win the placement competition. And yet when his father finally brought his new wife home, Montalbano had felt offended for no reason. A wall had risen between them; a glass wall, it’s true, but a wall nonetheless. And so their meetings had gradually decreased in number to one or two a year. His father would usually arrive with a case of the wines produced by his vineyard, stay half a day, and then leave. Montalbano would always find the wine excellent and proudly offer it to his friends, telling them his father had made it. But had he ever told his father the wine was excellent? He dug deep in his memory. Never. Just as his father collected the newspapers that talked about him and felt like crying whenever he saw him on television, and yet had never, in person, congratulated him on the success of an investigation.

o o o

He sat on that rock for over two hours, and when he got up to go back into town, his mind was made up. He would not go to visit his father. The sight of him would surely have made his father realize how gravely ill he was. It would have made things worse. Anyway, he didn’t really know if his father would be happy to see him. Montalbano, moreover, had a fear, a horror, of the dying. He wasn’t sure he could stand the fear and horror of seeing his father die. On the brink of collapse, he might run away.

o o o

When he got back to Marinella he still had that harsh, heavy feeling of weariness inside. He undressed, put on his bathing suit, and dived into the sea. He swam until his legs began to cramp. Returning home, he realized he was in no condition to go to the commissioner’s for dinner.

“Hello? Montalbano here. I’m very sorry, but—”

“You can’t come?”

“No, I’m really very sorry.”

“Work?”

Why not tell him the truth?

“No, Mr. Commissioner. It’s my father. Somebody sent me a letter. It looks like he’s dying.”

At first the commissioner said nothing; the inspector only heard him heave a long sigh.

“Listen, Montalbano. If you want to go see him, even for an extended stay, go ahead, don’t worry about anything. I’ll find a temporary replacement for you.”

“No, I’m not going. Thanks anyway.”

Again the commissioner didn’t speak. He must have been shocked by some of the inspector’s words; but he was a polite, old-fashioned man, and did not bring the subject up again.

“Montalbano, I feel awkward.”

“Please don’t, not with me.”

“Do you remember I said I had two things to say to you at dinner?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I’ll say them to you over the phone, even though, as I said, I feel awkward doing so. And this probably isn’t the most appropriate moment, but I’m afraid you might find out from another source, like the newspapers. . . .