Authors: Andrea Camilleri
I think I already know. You found no trace of any business
transaction from 1994 to the present.
Right. If Lapra only wanted to come and spend a
few hours at the officeIm referring to what I saw in the
next roomwhat need was there to reconstitute the business?
Find any recent mail?
No, sir. All the mails at least four years old.
Montalbano picked up a yellowed envelope that had
been lying on the desk and showed it to the sergeant.
Did you find any envelopes like this, but new, with the
words Import-Export in the return address?
Not a single one.
Listen, Sergeant. Last month a local print shop sent
Lapra a package of stationery at this office. Since you
found no trace of it, do you think its possible the whole
stock got used up in four weeks?
I wouldnt think so. Even when things were going well,
he couldnt have written that many letters.
Did you find any letters from a foreign firm called
Aslanidis, which exports dates?
Nothing.
And yet, according to the mailman, some were delivered
here.
Did you search Lapras home, Inspector?
Yes. Theres nothing related to his new business there.
You want to know something else? According to a very reliable
witness, on certain nights, when Lapra wasnt here,
this place was buzzing with activity.
He proceeded to tell him about Karima and the dark
young man posing as a nephew, who used to make and receive
phone calls and write letters, but only on his own
portable typewriter.
I get it, said LaganDont you?
I do, but Id like to hear your idea first.
The business was a cover, a front, the receiving end of
some kind of illegal trafficking. It certainly wasnt used to
import dates.
I agree, said Montalbano. And when they killed
Lapra, or the night before, they came here and got rid of
everything.
He dropped in at headquarters. Catarella was at the switchboard,
working on a crossword puzzle.
Tell me something, Cat. How long does it take you to
solve a puzzle?
Ah, theyre hard, Chief, really hard. I been workin on
this one for a month and I still cant get it.
Any news?
Nothing serious, Chief. Somebody arsoned Sebastiano
Lo Monacos parking garage by setting fire to it. The firemen
went and put it out. Five motor vehicles got roasted. Then
somebody shot at somebody by the name of Filippo Quarantino
but they missed and got the window of the house where
Mrs. Saveria Pizzuto lives and she got so scared she had to go
to the merchancy room. Then there was another fire, an
arson fire for sure. But just little shit, Chief, kid stuff, nothin
important.
Whos in the office?
Nobody, Chief. Theyre all out taking care of these
things.
Montalbano went into his office. On the desk was a
package wrapped in the paper of the Pipitone pastry shop.
He opened it: cannoli, cream puffs, torroncini.
Catarella!
At your orders, Chief.
Who put these pastries here?
Inspector Augello did. He says he bought em for the
little boy from last night.
How thoughtful and attentive to abandoned children
Mr. Mimugello had suddenly become! Was he hoping for
another glance from Livia?
The telephone rang.
Chief ? Its His Honor Judge Lo Bianco. He says he
wants to speak personally with you.
Put him on.
A couple of weeks earlier, Judge Lo Bianco had sent the
inspector a complimentary copy of the first tome, all seven
hundred pages, of a work to which hed been devoting himself
for years: The Life and Exploits of Rinaldo and Antonio Lo
Bianco, Masters of Jurisprudence at the University of Girgenti at
the Time of King Martin the Younger (14021409). Hed got it
in his head that these Lo Biancos were his ancestors. Montalbano
had leafed through the book one sleepless night.
Hey, Cat, are you going to put the judge on the line
or not?
The fact is, Chief, I cant put him on the line, seeing as
hes already here personally in person.
Cursing, Montalbano rushed to the door, showed the
judge into his office, and expressed his apologies. He already
felt guilty towards the judge for having phoned him only
once about the Lapra murder, after which hed completely
forgotten he existed. No doubt hed come to give
him a tongue-lashing.
Just a quick hello, my dear Inspector. Thought Id drop
in, since I was passing by on my way to see my mother whos
staying with friends at Durrueli. Lets give it a try, I said to
myself. And I was lucky: here you are.
And what the hell do you want from me? Montalbano said to
himself. Given the solicitous glance the judge cast his way, it
didnt take him long to figure it out.
You know, Judge, lately Ive been losing sleep.
Really? Whys that?
I spend the nights reading your book. Its more gripping
than a mystery novel, and so rich in detail.
A lethal bore: dates upon dates, names upon names. By
comparison, the railroad schedule book had more surprises
and plot twists.
He remembered one episode recounted by the judge in
which Antonio Lo Bianco, on his way to Castrogiovanni on a
diplomatic mission, fell from his horse and broke a leg. To
this insignificant event the judge devoted twenty-two maniacally
detailed pages. To show hed actually read the book,
Montalbano foolishly quoted from it.
And so Judge Lo Bianco engaged him for two hours,
adding other details as useless as they were minute. When he
finally said good-bye, the inspector felt a headache coming on.
Oh and, listen, dear boy, dont forget to keep me posted
on the Lacapra case.
When he got to Marinella, neither Livia nor Frans were
there. They were down by the water, Livia in her bathing suit
and the boy in his underpants. Theyd built an enormous
sand castle and were laughing and talking. In French, of
course, which Livia spoke as well as Italian. Along with English.
Not to mention German, truth be told. The house ignoramus
was he, who barely knew three or four words of
French hed learned in school.
He set the table, then looked in the fridge and found
the pasta ncasciata and veal roulade from the day before.
He put them in the oven at low heat, then quickly got
undressed, put on his swimsuit, and joined the other two.
The first things he noticed were a little bucket, a shovel, a
sand-sifter, and some molds in the shapes of fish and stars.
He, of course, didnt have such things about the house, and
Livia certainly hadnt bought them, since it was Sunday.
And there wasnt a soul on the beach aside from the three
of them.
What are those?
What are what?
The shovel, the bucket
Augello brought them this morning. Hes so sweet!
They belong to his little nephew, who last year...
He didnt want to hear any more. He dived into the sea,
infuriated.
When they returned to the house, Livia noticed the cardboard
tray full of pastries.
Why did you buy those? Dont you know that sweets
are bad for children?
Yes I do, its your friend Augello who doesnt know it.
He bought them. And now youre going to eat them, you and
Frans.
While were at it, your friend Ingrid called, the Swedish
woman.
Thrust, parry, counterthrust. And what was the meaning
of that while were at it?
Those two liked each other, that was clear. It had started
the previous year, when Mimad driven Livia around in his
car for an entire day. And now they were picking up where
theyd left off. What did they do when he wasnt there? Trade
cute little glances, smiles, compliments?
They began eating, with Livia and Frans murmuring
to each other from time to time, enclosed inside an invisible
bubble of complicity from which Montalbano was utterly
excluded. The delicious meal, however, prevented him from
getting as angry as he would have liked.
Excellent, this brusciuluni, he said.
What did you call it?
Brusciuluni. The roulade.
You nearly frightened me. Some of your Sicilian
words...
You Ligurians dont kid around either. Speaking of
which, what time does your flight leave? I think I can drive
you to Palermo.
Oh, I forgot to tell you. I canceled my reservation and
called Adriana, a colleague of mine, and asked her to fill in
for me. Im going to stay a few more days. It suddenly
dawned on me that if Im not here, who are you going to
leave Frans with?
The dark premonition hed had that morning, when he
saw them sleeping in each others arms, was beginning to
take shape. Who would ever pry those two apart?
You seem displeased...I dont know...irritated.
Me? Come on, Livia!
As soon as theyd finished eating, the little boys eyelids
started to droop; he was sleepy and must still have been quite
worn out. Livia took him into the bedroom, undressed him,
and put him to bed.
He told me something, she said, leaving the door ajar.
Tell me.
When we were building the sand castle, at a certain
point he asked me if I thought his mother would ever return.
I told him I didnt know anything about what had happened,
but I was sure that one day his mother would come back for
him. He twisted up his face, and I didnt say any more. A little
while later, he brought it up again and said he didnt think
she was coming back. Then he dropped the subject. That
child is darkly aware of something terrible. Then all of a sudden
he started talking again. He told me that that morning,
his mother had come home in a rush and seemed frightened.
She told him they had to go away. They ran to the center of
Villaseta; his mother told him they had to catch a bus.
A bus for where?
He doesnt know. While they were waiting, a car drove
up. He knew it well; it belonged to a bad man who would
sometimes beat his mother. Fahrid.
Whats the name?
Fahrid.
Are you sure?
Absolutely. He even told me that, when you write it,
theres an h between the a and the r.
So Mr. Lapras dear young nephew, the owner of the
metallic gray BMW, had an Arab name.
Go on.
This Fahrid then got out of the car, grabbed Karimas
arm, and tried to force her to get in. She resisted and shouted
to Frans to run away. The boy fled; Fahrid was too busy
with Karima and had to choose. Frans found a hiding
place and was too terrified to come out. He didnt dare go
back to a woman he called his grandma.
Aisha.
He got so hungry he had to rob other children of their
schooltime snacks to survive. At night he would go up to the
house, but he found it all dark and was afraid that Fahrid was
lying in wait for him there. He slept outside. He felt hunted
like an animal. The other night he couldnt stand it any
longer; he had to go back home at all costs. Thats why he
came so close to the house.
Montalbano remained silent.
Well, what do you think? she asked.
I think weve got an orphan on our hands.
Livia blanched; her voice began to tremble.
Why do you think that?
Let me explain the opinion Ive formed of the whole
affair thus far, also based on what youve just told me. Five
years ago, more or less, this attractive, beautiful Tunisian
woman comes to our country with her baby boy. She looks
for work as a house cleaner and has no trouble finding it, because,
among other things, she grants favors, upon request, to
older men. Thats how she meets Lapra. But at a certain
point this Fahrid enters her life. Hes probably a pimp or
something similar. Fahrid then comes up with a scheme to
force Lapra to reopen his old import-export business as a
front for some sort of shady dealings, probably drugs or prostitution.
Lapra, whos basically an honest man, senses that
somethings not right and gets scared. He tries to wiggle out
of a nasty situation by rather ingenuous means. Just imagine,
he writes anonymous letters to his wife denouncing himself.
Things go on this way for a while, but at a certain point, and
I dont know why, Fahrid is forced to clear out. At this point,
however, he has to eliminate Lapra. He arranges for
Karima to spend a night at Lapras house, hiding in his
study. Lapras wife has to go to Fiacca the following day,
to visit her sister whos sick. Karima had probably filled
Lapras brain with visions of wild sex in the marriage bed
when the wife was away. Who knows. Early the next morning,
after Mrs. Lapra has left, Karima opens the front door
and lets in Fahrid, who then kills the old man. Lapra may
have attempted to escape; perhaps that was why he was found
in the elevator. Except that, based on what you just told me,
Karima must not have known that Fahrid intended to kill
him. When she sees that her accomplice has stabbed Lapra,
she flees. But she doesnt get very far; Fahrid tracks her
down and kidnaps her. In all probability, he later kills her, to
keep her from talking. And the proof of this is that he went
back to Karimas place to remove all the photos of her. He
didnt want her to be identified.
Silently, Livia started crying.
He was alone. Livia had gone to lie down next to Frans.
Montalbano, not knowing what to do, went and sat on the
veranda. In the sky, two seagulls were engaged in some sort
of duel; on the beach, a young couple was strolling, exchanging
a kiss from time to time, but wearily, as if following a
script. He went back inside, picked up the last novel written
by the late Gesualdo Bufalino, the one about a blind photographer,
and went back out on the veranda. He glanced at the
cover, the jacket flaps, then closed it. He was unable to concentrate.
He could feel an acute malaise slowly growing inside
him. And suddenly he understood the reason.
It was merely a foretaste, an advance installment, of the
quiet, familial Sunday afternoons that awaited him, perhaps
not even in Vig but in Boccadasse. With a little boy who,
upon awakening, would call him Papa and ask him to
play . . .