The Snack Thief

“But they all know who you are, Inspector. Since they’ve gathered that you don’t like to be recognized, however, they play dumb.”

“And what do you do of interest?”

“I used to be a professor of philosophy. If you can call teaching philosophy interesting.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not at all. The kids get bored. They no longer care enough to learn how Hegel or Kant thought about things.

Philosophy instruction should probably be replaced with some subject like, I don’t know, ‘Basic Management.’ Then it still might mean something.”

“Basic management of what?”

“Life, my friend. Do you know what Benedetto Croce writes in his Memoirs? He says that he learned from experience to consider life a serious matter, as a problem to be solved. Seems obvious, doesn’t it? But it’s not. One would have to explain to young people, philosophically, what it means, for example, to smash their car into another car one Saturday night. And to tell them how, philosophically, this could be avoided. But we’ll have time to discuss all this. I’m told you’ll be staying here a few days.” “Yes. Do you live alone?”

“For the fifteen days I spend here, very much alone. The rest of the time I live in a big old house in Trapani with my wife and four daughters, all married, and eight grandchil-dren, who, when they’re not at school, are with me all day. At least once every three months I escape and come here, leaving no phone number or forwarding address. I cleanse myself, take the waters of solitude. For me this place is like a clinic where I detoxify myself of an excess of sentiment. Do you play chess?”

o o o

On the afternoon of the following day, as he was lying in bed reading Sciascia’s Council of Egypt for the twentieth time, it occurred to him that he’d forgotten to tell Valente about the odd agreement he’d made with the colonel. The matter might prove dangerous for his colleague in Mazara if he were to continue investigating. He went downstairs where there was a telephone.

“Valente? Montalbano here.”

“Salvo, where the hell are you? I asked for you at the office and they said they had no news of you.”

“Why were you looking for me? Has something come up?”

“Yes. The commissioner called me out of the blue this morning to tell me my request for a transfer had been accepted. They’re sending me to Sestri.”

Valente’s wife, Giulia, was from Sestri, and her parents also lived there. Until now, every time the vice- commissioner had asked to be transferred to Liguria, his request had been denied.

“Didn’t I say that something good would come out of this affair?” Montalbano reminded him.

“Do you think—?”

“Of course. They’re getting you out of their hair, in such a way that you won’t object. And they’re right. When does the transfer take effect?”

“Immediately.”

“See? I’ll come say good-bye before you leave.” Lohengrin Pera and his little gang of playmates had moved very fast. It remained to be seen whether this was a good or a bad sign. He needed to do a foolproof test. If they were in such a hurry to put the matter to rest, then surely they had wasted no time in sending him a message as well.

The Italian bureaucracy, usually slow as a snail, becomes lightning-quick when it comes to screwing the citizen. With this well-known truth in mind, he called his commissioner.

“Montalbano! For God’s sake, where have you run off to?”

“Sorry for not letting you know. I’ve taken a few days off to rest.”

“I understand. You went to see—”

“No. Were you looking for me? Do you need me?”

“Yes, I was looking for you, but I don’t need you for anything. Just rest. Do you remember I was supposed to recommend you for a promotion?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, this morning Commendator Ragusa called me from the Ministry of Justice. He’s a good friend of mine. He told me that, apparently . . . some obstacles have come up—

of what kind, I have no idea. In short, your promotion has been blocked. Ragusa wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me any more than that. He also made it clear that it was useless, and perhaps even unwise, to insist. Believe me, I’m shocked and offended.” “Not me.”

“Don’t I know it! In fact, you’re happy, aren’t you?”

“Doubly happy, Commissioner.”

“Doubly?”

“I’ll explain when I see you in person.”

He set his mind at rest. They were moving in the right direction.

o o o

The following morning, Liborio Pintacuda, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, woke the inspector up when it was still dark outside.