Read Online The Snack Thief by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrea Camilleri
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Bobby, although Montalbano, in a lost village in the Nebrodi
Mountains, once ended up in a Piazza F.lli Kennedy, that
is, a Kennedy Brothers Square).
In reality, the inspector had guessed right on the one hand
and wrong on the other. Right insofar as the centrifugal shift
of street names had indeed occurred along the road to
Butera; wrong insofar as the streets of that neighborhood, if
you could call it a neighborhood, were named not after the
fathers of the country, but, for reasons unknown, after Verdi,
Bellini, Rossini, and Donizetti. Discouraged, Fazio decided
to ask for directions from an old peasant astride a donkey
laden with dried branches. Except that the donkey decided
not to stop, and Fazio was forced to coast alongside him in
neutral.
Excuse me, can you tell me the way to Via Garibaldi?
The old man seemed not to have heard.
The way to Garibaldi! Fazio repeated more loudly.
The old man turned round and looked angrily at the
stranger.
Away to Garibaldi? You say, Away to Garibaldi with
the mess we got on this island? Away? Garibaldi should come
back, and fast, and break all these sons of bitches necks!
6
Via Garibaldi, which they finally found, bordered on a yellow,
uncultivated countryside interrupted here and there by
the small green patches of stunted kitchen gardens. Number
70 was a little house of unwhitewashed sandstone consisting
of two rooms, one atop the other. The bottom room had a
rather small door with a window beside it; the top room,
which featured a balcony, was reached by an external staircase.
Fazio knocked on the door. It was soon answered by an
old woman wearing a threadbare but clean jellaba. Seeing
the two men, she unleashed a stream of Arabic words, frequently
punctuated by short, shrill cries.
Well, so much for that idea! Montalbano commented
in irritation, immediately losing heart (the sky had clouded
over a little).
Wait, wait, Fazio told the old woman, thrusting his
hands palms forward in that international gesture that means
stop. The woman understood and fell silent at once.
Ka-ri-ma? Fazio asked and, afraid he might not have
pronounced the name correctly, he swayed his hips, stroking a
mane of long, imaginary hair. The old woman laughed.
Karima! she said, then pointed her index finger towards
the room upstairs.
With Fazio in front, Montalbano behind him, and the old
woman bringing up the rear and yelling incomprehensibly, they
climbed the outside staircase. Fazio knocked, but nobody answered.
The old woman started to scream even louder. Fazio
knocked again. The woman pushed the inspector firmly aside,
walked past him, moved Fazio away as well, planted herself with
her back to the door, imitated Fazios swaying of the hips and
stroking of the hair, made a gesture that meant gone away,
then lowered her right hand, palm down, raised it again, spread
her fingers, then repeated the gone away gesture.
She had a son? the inspector asked in amazement.
She left with her five-year-old boy, if Ive understood
correctly, Fazio confirmed.
I want to know more, said Montalbano. Call the Immigration
Bureau and have them send us someone who
speaks Arabic. On the double.
Fazio walked away, followed by the old woman, who
kept on talking to him. The inspector sat down on a stair,
fired up a cigarette, and entered an immobility contest with a
lizard.
Busca, the officer who knew Arabic because he was born
and raised in Tunisia up to the age of fifteen, was there in less
than forty-five minutes. Hearing the new arrival speak her
tongue, the old woman became anxious to cooperate.
She says shed like to tell her uncle the whole story,
Busca translated for them.
First the kid, now an uncle?
And who the fuck is that? asked Montalbano, befuddled.
Uh, the uncle, that would be you, Inspector, the policeman
explained. Its a title of respect. She says Karima
came back here around nine
Bobby, although Montalbano, in a lost village in the Nebrodi
Mountains, once ended up in a Piazza F.lli Kennedy, that
is, a Kennedy Brothers Square).
In reality, the inspector had guessed right on the one hand
and wrong on the other. Right insofar as the centrifugal shift
of street names had indeed occurred along the road to
Butera; wrong insofar as the streets of that neighborhood, if
you could call it a neighborhood, were named not after the
fathers of the country, but, for reasons unknown, after Verdi,
Bellini, Rossini, and Donizetti. Discouraged, Fazio decided
to ask for directions from an old peasant astride a donkey
laden with dried branches. Except that the donkey decided
not to stop, and Fazio was forced to coast alongside him in
neutral.
Excuse me, can you tell me the way to Via Garibaldi?
The old man seemed not to have heard.
The way to Garibaldi! Fazio repeated more loudly.
The old man turned round and looked angrily at the
stranger.
Away to Garibaldi? You say, Away to Garibaldi with
the mess we got on this island? Away? Garibaldi should come
back, and fast, and break all these sons of bitches necks!
6
Via Garibaldi, which they finally found, bordered on a yellow,
uncultivated countryside interrupted here and there by
the small green patches of stunted kitchen gardens. Number
70 was a little house of unwhitewashed sandstone consisting
of two rooms, one atop the other. The bottom room had a
rather small door with a window beside it; the top room,
which featured a balcony, was reached by an external staircase.
Fazio knocked on the door. It was soon answered by an
old woman wearing a threadbare but clean jellaba. Seeing
the two men, she unleashed a stream of Arabic words, frequently
punctuated by short, shrill cries.
Well, so much for that idea! Montalbano commented
in irritation, immediately losing heart (the sky had clouded
over a little).
Wait, wait, Fazio told the old woman, thrusting his
hands palms forward in that international gesture that means
stop. The woman understood and fell silent at once.
Ka-ri-ma? Fazio asked and, afraid he might not have
pronounced the name correctly, he swayed his hips, stroking a
mane of long, imaginary hair. The old woman laughed.
Karima! she said, then pointed her index finger towards
the room upstairs.
With Fazio in front, Montalbano behind him, and the old
woman bringing up the rear and yelling incomprehensibly, they
climbed the outside staircase. Fazio knocked, but nobody answered.
The old woman started to scream even louder. Fazio
knocked again. The woman pushed the inspector firmly aside,
walked past him, moved Fazio away as well, planted herself with
her back to the door, imitated Fazios swaying of the hips and
stroking of the hair, made a gesture that meant gone away,
then lowered her right hand, palm down, raised it again, spread
her fingers, then repeated the gone away gesture.
She had a son? the inspector asked in amazement.
She left with her five-year-old boy, if Ive understood
correctly, Fazio confirmed.
I want to know more, said Montalbano. Call the Immigration
Bureau and have them send us someone who
speaks Arabic. On the double.
Fazio walked away, followed by the old woman, who
kept on talking to him. The inspector sat down on a stair,
fired up a cigarette, and entered an immobility contest with a
lizard.
Busca, the officer who knew Arabic because he was born
and raised in Tunisia up to the age of fifteen, was there in less
than forty-five minutes. Hearing the new arrival speak her
tongue, the old woman became anxious to cooperate.
She says shed like to tell her uncle the whole story,
Busca translated for them.
First the kid, now an uncle?
And who the fuck is that? asked Montalbano, befuddled.
Uh, the uncle, that would be you, Inspector, the policeman
explained. Its a title of respect. She says Karima
came back here around nine
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