'I'm too accustomed to being alone. Let's go away.'
'And where will you leave your head?' asked Livia.
'What does that mean?'
'It means you're going to have to bring your head with you, along with everything inside it. And therefore, inevitably, you'll keep thinking about your own concerns even if were a thousand miles away.'
'I promise I'll empty my head out before we leave.'
'And where will we go?'
Since Livia had clearly caught the archaeological-touristic bug, he thought it wise to play along.
'You've never seen the island of Mozia, have you? Tell you what: this very morning, around eleven, we'll leave for Mazara del Vallo. I've got a friend there, Assistant Commissioner Valente, whom I haven't seen in a long time. From there we'll head on to Marsala and eventually to Mozia. Then, when we get back to Vig, we'll plan another tour.'
They made peace.
...
Giulia, Assistant Commissioner Valente's wife, was not only the same age as Livia, but also a native of the Genoa suburb of Sestri. The two women took an immediate liking to each other. Montalbano took a bit less of a liking to Giulia, owing to the shamefully overcooked pasta, a beef stew conceived by an obviously deranged mind, and dishwater coffee of a sort that even airline crews wouldn't foist on anyone. At the end of this so-called lunch, Giulia suggested to Livia that the two of them stay home and go out later; Montalbano accompanied his friend to the office. There, awaiting the assistant commissioner, was a fortyish man with long sideburns and a sun-baked Sicilian face.
'Every day, it's something else!'
'I'm sorry, Mr. Commissioner, but I need to talk to you. It's very important.'
'Inspector, let me introduce Farid Rahman, a friend of mine from Tunis,' said Valente. Then, turning to Rahman: 'Will it take long?'
'Fifteen minutes at the most.'
'I'll go visit the Arab quarter,' said Montalbano.
'If you'll wait for me,' Farid Rahman interjected, 'I'd be delighted to be your guide.'
'I have an idea,' suggested Valente. 'I know my wife doesn't know how to make coffee. Piazza Mokarta is three blocks from here. Go and sit at the cafe here and have yourself a decent cup. Farid will come and pick you up.'
...
He didn't order the coffee immediately. First he went to work on a hefty, fragrant dish of pasta al forno that lifted him out of the gloom into which the culinary art of Signora Giulia had plunged him. By the time Rahman arrived, Montalbano had already done away with all trace of the pasta and had only an innocent, empty demitasse of coffee in front of him. They headed off to the Arab quarter.
'How many of you are there in Mazara?'
'We're now more than a third of the local population.'
'Have there been many incidents between the Arabs and the Mazarese?'
'No, very few, practically nothing compared to other cities. I think we're sort of a historical memory for the Mazarese, almost a genetic fact. We're family. Al-Imam al-Mazari, the founder of the Maghrebin juridical school, was born in Mazara, as was the philologist Ibn al-Birr, who was expelled from the city in 1068 because he liked wine too much. But the basic fact is that the Mazarese are seafaring people. And the man of the sea has a great deal of common sense; he understands what it means to have ones feet on the ground. And speaking of the sea: did you know that the motor trawlers around here have mixed crews, half Sicilian, half Tunisian?'
'Do you have an official position here?'
'No, God save us from officialdom. Here everything works out for the best because it's all done unofficially. I'm an elementary-school teacher, but I also act as a liaison between my people and the local authorities. Here's another example of good, common sense: when a school principal gave our community some classrooms to use, we instructors came over from Tunis and created our school. But the superintendency is officially unaware of this situation.'
The Arab quarter was a piece of Tunis that had been picked up and carried, unaltered, to Sicily. The shops were closed because it was Friday, the day of rest, but life in the narrow little streets was still colorful and animated. First, Rahman showed Montalbano the large public baths, the social meeting place for Arabs from time immemorial; then he took him to a smoking den, a cafith hookahs. They passed by a sort of empty storefront, inside of which an old man with a grave expression sat on the floor, legs folded under him, reading from a book and offering commentary. In front of him, sitting the same way, were some twenty boys listening attentively.
'That's one of our imams, explaining the Koran,' said Rahman, who made as if to keep walking.
Montalbano stopped him, resting a hand on his arm. He was struck by the truly religious absorption of those kids, who once outside of the empty store would again let loose, shouting and scuffling as always.
'What's he reading to them?'
'The eighteenth sura, the one about the cave.'
Montalbano, without knowing the cause, felt a slight tremor in his backbone.
'The cave?'
'Yes,
