The omission of that name has weighed heavily on our phone conversations, making them evasive and a little loveless.
Today I want to make it clear to you that if I never once mentioned Francois before now, it was to keep you from nurturing dangerous illusions. And if I’m writing to you about him now, it is because this fear has subsided.
Do you remember that morning in Marinella when Francois ran away to look for his mother? Well, as I was walking him home, he told me he didn’t want to end up in an orphanage. And I replied that this would never happen. I gave him my word of honor, and we shook on it. I made a promise, and I will keep it at all costs.
In these fifty-five days Mimi Augello, on my request, has been calling his sister three times a week to see how the boy is doing. The answers have always been reassuring.
The day before yesterday, in Mimi’s company, I went to see him (by the way, you ought to write Mimi a letter thanking him for his generosity and friendship). I had a chance to observe Francois for a few minutes while he was playing with Mimi’s nephew, who’s the same age. He was cheerful and carefree. As soon as he saw me (he recognized me at once), his expression changed. He sort of turned sad. Children’s memories, like those of the elderly, are intermittent. I’m sure the thought of his mother had come back to him. He gave me a big hug and then, looking at me with bright, tearless eyes—he doesn’t seem to me a boy who cries easily—he didn’t ask me what I was afraid he’d ask, that is, if I had any news of Karima. In a soft voice, he said only: “Take me to Livia.”
Not to his mother. To you. He must be convinced he’ll never see his mother again. And unfortunately, he’s right.
You know that from the very first, based on unhappy experience, I was convinced that Karima had been murdered. To do what I had in mind, I had to make a dangerous move that would bring the accomplices to her murder out in the open.
The next step was to force them to produce the woman’s body in such a way that, when it was found, it would be certain to be identified. It all went well. And so I was able to act “officially” on behalf of Francois, who has now been declared motherless. The commissioner was a tremendous help to me, putting all his many acquaintances to work. If Karima’s body had not been found, my steps would have surely been hindered by endless bureaucratic red tape, which would have delayed the resolution of our problem for years and years.
I realize this letter is getting too long, so I’ll change register.
1) In the eyes of the law, Italian as well as Tunisian, Francois is in a paradoxical situation. In fact, he’s an orphan who doesn’t exist, inasmuch as his birth was never registered either in Sicily or Tunisia.
2) The judge in Montelusa who deals with these questions has sort of straightened out his status, but only for as long as it takes to go through the necessary procedures. He has assigned him temporarily to the care of Mimi’s sister.
3) The same judge has informed me that while it is theo-retically possible in Italy for an unmarried woman to adopt a child, in reality it’s all talk. And he cited the case of an actress who was subjected to years of judicial pronouncements, opin-ions, and decisions, each one contradicting the last.
4) The best way to expedite matters, in the judge’s opinion, is for us to get married.
5) So get your papers ready.
A hug and a kiss. Salvo
P.S. A friend of mine in Vigata who’s a notary will administer a fund of one-half billion lire in Francois’s name, which he’ll be free to use when he comes legally of age. I find it fitting that our son should be officially born the exact moment he sets foot in our house, and more than fitting that he should be helped through life by his real mother, whose money that was.
o o o
your father is nearing the end do not delay if you ever want to see him again. arcangelo prestifilippo.
He’d been expecting these words, but when he read them the dull ache returned, as when he’d first found out.
Except that now it was compounded by the anguish of knowing what duty required him to do: to bend down over the bed, kiss his father’s forehead, feel his dry, dying breath, look him in the eye, say a few comforting words. Would he have the strength? Drenched in sweat, he thought this must be the inevitable test, if indeed it was true that he must grow up, as Professor Pintacuda had said.
I will teach Francois not to fear my death, he thought. And from this thought, which surprised him by the very fact that he’d had it, he derived a temporary peace of mind.
o o o
Right outside the gates of Valmontana, after four straight hours of driving, was a road sign indicating the route to follow for the Clinica Porticelli.
He left the car in the well-ordered parking lot and went in. He felt his heart beating right under his Adam’s apple.
“My name is Montalbano. I’d like to see my father who’s staying here.”
The person behind the desk eyed him for a moment, then pointed to a small waiting room.
