The Safety Net Page 21

  * * *

  What did it mean, that he was friends with the crewmen of the trawlers? It didn’t make any sense. Maybe it was another lie. What did that kid really go and do at the port? With all the fantasies in his head, it could be anything.

  Montalbano parked the car on the central wharf in front of two freighters, got out, and started walking down the eastern jetty. Just like he normally did every day for his meditative-digestive stroll. Maybe the kid had wanted to be alone and was sitting out among the rocks. Halfway down the jetty, he saw the usual old man with his fishing pole, who’d become a friend.

  “Hello, Totò.”

  “Hello, Inspector.”

  “They biting?”

  “Not much.”

  “Listen, Totò, did you by any chance see a blond boy of about thirteen with a backpack and round glasses pass by this way?”

  “Nah, Inspector. I’ve seen a lot of people go by, but no kids.”

  He thanked him, turned back, and walked along the broadside of the Lampedusa ferry, whose gangway, however, was still raised, meaning that it still wasn’t time for the passengers to start boarding.

  He headed for the ticket office and went in.

  Only one of three booths had a person working in it, a fiftyish woman with glasses.

  “Hello, I’m Inspector Montalbano, police.”

  The woman looked at him without saying anything.

  “Do you have a list of the passengers who’ve reserved places on this evening’s ferry for Lampedusa?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right, could you check and see whether a certain Luigi Sciarabba has reserved?”

  The woman looked into the computer she had beside her.

  “No, there’s no one named Sciarabba.”

  “Thank you,” said the inspector.

  “Mind you,” the woman said, “that doesn’t really mean much.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Reservations are open until five o’clock this evening, and there are still plenty of vacancies. And someone arriving at the last minute can in most instances find a place after buying their ticket just before boarding. This isn’t high season, after all.”

  “I see,” said Montalbano, thanking her and going out.

  The only thing left to do was to get back in his car and go to the central wharf, where the fishing trawlers were docked.

  On the esplanade at the start of the wharf he found only two fishermen sitting on the ground, repairing the damaged meshes of an extremely long net that they kept turning around and around.

  He pulled up beside them, got out of the car, and said:

  “Hello. I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  The two men didn’t seem to have heard. Then the older of the two looked up and said:

  “If you’re planning on arresting us, give us ten minutes to finish fixing the net.”

  “I’m not here to arrest anybody. I just want some information. Do either of you know a boy of thirteen named Luigino Sciarabba?”

  “Sure!” replied the old man. “He often comes to see us in the afternoon. Says he likes to watch us work on the nets.”

  “Does he talk to you?”

  “Of course he talks.”

  Apparently the fisherman needed a little push.

  “Listen,” said Montalbano, who immediately realized the old man was playing his cards close to his chest in dealing with a cop. “I have no desire whatsoever to do any harm to this boy. On the contrary. So you can tell me anything. What does he say to you when he comes here?”

  “He tells us about his dad, says he can only see him once a year and is always waiting for him to come back. He’s convinced that this time, he’ll return on a ship. And so, every time a big vessel pulls into harbor, he races down here to see who comes off the ship.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “He came by just about an hour ago. And then he left.”

  “Did you see what direction he went in?”

  “He went out towards the end of the jetty, and I think he’s still there ’cause I never saw him come back. D’jou see him, Ciccì?”

  “Nah, I din’t see him return, neither.”

  Without wasting another minute, Montalbano got back in his car and started driving slowly past the ten or so cold-storage warehouses that lined that part of the jetty. No sign of Luigino. Pushing on, he ended up in the last segment, about thirty or forty yards, where the buildings ended and there was only the jetty, with its surrounding rocks. He drove at a crawl, and then all at once he spotted a human figure standing on the last rock, right under the small green lighthouse marking the mouth of the port.

  And so, he, too, still rolling very slowly, got as far as he could without driving his car into the water, and found himself just ten feet away from—he was sure of it now—Luigino Sciarabba. Another thing was also clear: that the kid was thinking things over before doing something really, really stupid. So the inspector had to tread very carefully.

  Luigino was gazing out at the sea, and made no sign indicating that he’d heard the car pull up. Before opening his mouth, Montalbano took a deep breath, and only when he finally felt all the nerves in his body relaxing, leaving no residual trace of tension whatsoever, did he decide to lower the car window quietly, and in the calmest, most neutral tone of voice he could muster, he said:

  “Hey there, Luigi.”

  The boy turned around slowly, then bent his knees a little to look into the car.

  “Hello, Inspector,” he said.

  “You’re right, I’m Inspector Salvo Montalbano, but I’m also the godfather of your friend Salvuzzo Augello. I’ve been looking for you since this morning.”

  “Why were you looking for me?”

  “Because I want to tell you a story. And you are the only person who can tell me whether this story is true or not,” said Montalbano, opening the car door and stepping out.

  “Okay. But I would ask you to be so kind as to stay where you are and not come any closer.”

  With utter aplomb, Montalbano torched the end of a cigarette.

  He took his time smoking it, looking out at the sea all the while. This enabled him to see that the kid’s backpack and computer were inside a hollow in the rock, and that, although at first glance he’d seemed calm, Luigino’s nerves, under his skin, were as taut as violin strings. For how long could he resist that internal pressure? The inspector figured it was a good moment to make his move.

  “It’s really hot today,” he said.

  He took off his jacket, opened the car door, tossed it onto the backseat, reclosed the door, and, as naturally as possible, took a few steps forward.

  “Stop right there,” Luigino ordered him.

  Montalbano looked at him with surprise.

  “But I can’t very well shout the story I want to tell you. I have to come at least—”

  “Then go there,” said Luigino, indicating a rock about six feet away from him.

  Hopping from boulder to boulder like a goat, Montalbano found himself on a rock that was impossible to sit down on. All he could do was remain standing in precarious balance. The boy was now before him, looking at him with curiosity.

  “The story,” Montalbano began, “is about a dog.”

  Luigino’s surprise was immediately evident in his face.

  “A dog,” the inspector continued, “whose master would beat him every hour of the day for no reason at all. One day the dog couldn’t stand it any longer and asked for help from a pack of wolves. He wanted them to frighten his master. But the wolves wouldn’t listen to him. Then suddenly one day two wolves said they were ready to help him out. But the dog didn’t know they weren’t real wolves. In fact, they were two stray dogs who wanted—”

  “That’s enough!” said the boy.

  And he tur
ned abruptly away, to face the sea. But he hadn’t finished his motion before Montalbano had already left his feet and was flying through the air towards him. But the inspector must have calculated the distance incorrectly, because he landed with all his weight on the boy’s back, prompting the surprised youth to cry out and fall forward. And so, just like that, they found themselves both in the sea, making a tremendous splash. Both bodies plunged deep underwater, then their heads reemerged. By this point completely beside himself with rage, Montalbano grabbed Luigino by the shoulders, shook him so violently that the boy’s head bobbed in and out of the water, and shouted:

  “So you wanted to kill yourself, eh? You little shit! Eh, did you?”

  Practically gasping for breath and spitting out some of the water in his mouth, the boy stammered:

  “I wasn’t going to jump into the water, I swear! It was you who pushed me and made me fall. I didn’t want to kill myself, I swear it, I swear it!”

  Montalbano felt so ashamed that he wished the sea would just swallow him up. Luigino was telling the truth.

  “Let’s get back on dry land,” he said.

  In two strokes, side by side, they reached the nearest rock, which luckily was low and flat. Giving each other a hand, they climbed onto it. And sat there for a spell, catching their breath. Then, all at once, Luigino started crying like a little boy and covered his face with his hands, repeating all the while:

  “I can’t take it anymore, I can’t take it anymore.”

  The inspector realized the boy had lost his glasses. He got up and went over to the next rock to retrieve the computer and backpack, then returned.

  “Let me help you out,” he said.

  And, grabbing him by his shoulder, he lifted him up. But since Luigino couldn’t stand on his own two feet, he put his arms around the inspector. He’d gone back to being a thirteen-year-old boy, after an adventure that had been too grown-up for him.

  By some miracle, nearly falling with every step, they managed to reach the car. Montalbano sat the boy down in front and tossed the backpack and computer in back. Then he started up the car and headed straight for Marinella.

  * * *

  He stopped a minute later, grabbed his jacket from the backseat, extracted his cell phone, and called Fazio, informing him that he’d found Luigino and that he should pass the news on to Augello.

  “Are you on your way here to the station?” asked Fazio.

  “No, I’m taking him home with me to Marinella. I don’t know when I’ll be coming to the office. I’ll let you know.”

  A few minutes after he’d set off again, Luigino’s head fell into his lap. He’d fallen into a deep sleep. Montalbano sat him back up, buckled his seat belt, and leaned the boy’s head against the car window. It was a short but difficult ride, because every so often the boy’s body would slide towards him and restrict his movements.

  As soon as he pulled up in front of his house, the door opened and Adelina appeared, her little purse dangling from her arm.

  “I’s a juss finishin’ up, ’coz I comma late a this mornin’, an’ so . . .”

  She trailed off and goggled her eyes at the sight of the inspector with his shirt all wet and his hair and mustache still dripping.

  “Matre santa, wha’ happen? Eh? Wha’ happen a youse?” she asked.

  “Nothing, Adelì,” said Montalbano. “We were just sitting on a rock when a big wave . . .”

  He grabbed his jacket, the computer, and the backpack, got out of the car, and said:

  “Please give the boy a hand, if you would.”

  “I tekka goo’ care o’ him,” said Adelina, fussing about to free the boy from the seat belt.

  Montalbano went into his bedroom, threw everything in his hands onto the bed, and started getting undressed, worried because he was feeling some chills running up his spine. All he needed now was to catch a cold.

  He stripped naked and wiped himself down with pillowcases, since he didn’t feel like going into the bathroom. Then he got dressed again.

  When he went into the kitchen about twenty minutes later, he saw Luigino sitting in a chair, still half-asleep, wearing a pair of his underpants and a T-shirt of the local tourist bureau, which Montalbano had always refused to put on because, among other things, it barely covered his belly button. Adelina had plugged in the iron and was drying his underwear with its heat. The boy’s clothes were hanging outside in the sun.

  “I wish I had my glasses,” Luigino said plaintively.

  “You lost them in the water,” the inspector replied.

  “I know, but I’ve got another pair in the backpack.”

  Montalbano went into his bedroom and returned with the computer and backpack, handed the latter to Luigino.

  The boy opened it, took out a pair of glasses exactly like the other one, and put them on, seeming relieved.

  “Come with me,” said Montalbano.

  They went into the dining room.

  “Now I want you to take this phone and call your mother to reassure her,” he said.

  “But what should I tell her?” asked Luigi.

  “Tell her that on your way to school this morning you ran into me, and I picked you up and took you to the station, because I wanted to know a few more details about the attack on the school. And now you’re at my place in Marinella and are going to have lunch with me, after which I’ll drive you home. Then put me on.”

  He left him alone and went back into the kitchen.

  Adelina was busy at the stove.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Whattya mean what am I doin’? Don’ ya wanna eata somma pasta?”

  “Of course, but on one condition, that you sit and eat with us.”

  “Then please set the table f’ me,” Adelina said, smiling. “An’ whattya say I tekka six eggs an’ a mekka ova a pisciteddru?”

  “Excellent idea!” said Montalbano. “It’s been ages since I last had ova a pisciteddru!”

  He’d just finished setting the table when Luigi called to him:

  “Inspector! Can you come to the phone?”

  Then, as he was handing him the receiver, he said under his breath:

  “I think I managed to calm her down.”

  “Hello, Signora Sciarabba,” the inspector said in an official tone.

  “Salvo! It’s so good to hear your voice!”

  With his heart crashing down to his feet, Montalbano recognized who it was at the other end and tried desperately to remain equal to the situation.

  “I beg your pardon, but who is this?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Salvo. It’s Anna. Anna Amato. Do you remember? The Trattoria San Calogero?”

  “Anna . . . of course I remember,” and then he dropped the subject. “But where did Signora Sciarabba go?”

  “She couldn’t stand on her own two feet anymore and had to go and lie down,” said Anna, disheartened by Montalbano’s coldness. “Mr. Puleo is with her. Could you tell me what you had to tell her?”

  “Yes. Tell her I apologize for not calling her sooner, but that Luigino’s help has been extremely valuable to me. We’re now having some lunch, and I’ll bring him home in a little while.”

  “All right,” said Anna, cold as ice.

  “Good-bye,” said Montalbano, though he realized she’d already hung up.

  “Iss ready!” shouted Adelina, appearing in the doorway holding a big pot of spaghetti with tomato and baby squid sauce.

  Montalbano and Luigino came running.

  After they’d eaten, Luigino, his clothes now dry and ironed, sat down with the inspector on the veranda.

  Before leaving, Adelina cleaned up the kitchen and then came out to say good-bye and give the boy a hug.

  * * *

  After they’d been sitting there in silence for a spell, the inspector asked:


  “Feel like telling me how it all happened?”

  It was a bit like when a barrel blows its cork and the wine shoots out with such force that you’re unable to plug it back up. Luigino started talking and never stopped, and so great was his desire to relieve himself of the burden he’d been carrying around alone for days and days that his words got all entangled with one another.

  “No . . . I mean, yes . . . Actually . . . it didn’t happen the way you said. I . . . I didn’t ask the wolves for help. Actually, the whole thing started a few months ago. For no reason at all, three of my schoolmates started picking on me. At first it was just little stuff: They’d steal my new T-shirts or my morning snack, or they’d take my homework and tear it up into a thousand pieces. That kind of thing. Then, when they saw that I wouldn’t react—because I really didn’t know what to do—they started aiming higher. They took my cell phone and ran it over with a scooter; another time they threw me into a fountain with all my clothes on. That day a couple of my friends stood up for me, but that probably made matters worse. They got really upset and just increased their abuses. They started waiting for me outside of school, sometimes outside my front door; they broke the intercom system to our building; and they made off with my bicycle. Then they posted some videos on the internet, after which some of my other classmates started making fun of me and then . . . well . . . I just couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t know who to talk to about it . . . My parents . . . Papa is far away and doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to make it back for Christmas, and Mamma . . . well, Mamma is afraid of everything. One night I got so desperate that I exploded; I sat down at the computer and started telling everyone and no one in particular what was happening to me.

  “So, that was how it all started.

  “A few nights later I got a message, but I couldn’t figure out who’d sent it. It said: ‘Would you like our protection?’ Inspector, you have no idea what those words meant to me. I felt so . . . so defenseless, it seemed inconceivable to me that someone . . . that someone might want to, or be able to, help me . . . It didn’t seem possible. So I replied, ‘Yes, yes, absolutely.’ They asked me a whole lot of questions: where I lived, what school I went to, the names of the classmates who were bullying me, information on the teachers, the principal . . . They even wanted to know my class schedule and the exact location of my classroom. I tried to answer all their questions. So . . . I guess I should have suspected . . . but, I swear, I had no idea and could never have imagined . . .