The Potter's Field

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I got some conflicting reports. For one or two people, Signora Dolores is actually a slut who’s too shrewd to get caught in the act; for others she’s a woman who is so beautiful that if she does have a lover, she’s right to have one, since her husband is always away; for the majority, however, she’s a virtuous woman.”

  “Sounds like you held a referendum!”

  “But, Chief, men just love to talk about a woman like that!”

  “In essence, though, it’s all smoke and no fire. All gossip. You know what I say? Let’s forget about her. Maybe the attempt to run her over really was nothing more than a moronic prank.”

  “On the other hand . . . ,” said Fazio.

  “On the other hand?”

  “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to try to find out more about this woman.”

  “Why?”

  “At the moment I can’t really explain it, Chief. But there’s something somebody said to me that made me wonder. It was sort of a flash, an idea that immediately faded. I don’t remember if it was a single word or a phrase, or if it was the way the word or phrase was said to me. Or maybe it was just a silent stare that seemed important to me at that moment.”

  “You don’t remember at all who the person was?”

  “I’m having trouble bringing it into focus, Chief. I talked to about ten people in all, women as well as men. I can’t very well go back and ask them the same questions.”

  “Do what you think best.”

  Phoning Vanni Arquà, the chief of the Forensic Laboratory, was always a pain. The inspector didn’t like the man one bit, and the feeling was amply returned in kind.

  But he had no choice. Because if he didn’t call him himself, Arquà would never relay any information to him. Before picking up the receiver, Montalbano took a deep breath, as if about to plunge underwater, all the while repeating to himself:

  Easy does it, Salvo, easy...

  He dialed the number.

  “Arquà? Montalbano here.”

  “What do you want? Look, I haven’t got any time to waste.”

  To avoid blowing up right off the bat, he clenched his teeth so hard that the words came out very strangely.

  “I hrd tht ths mrning—”

  “Why are you talking that way?”

  “What way? I’m talking the way I always talk. I heard that this morning Dr. Pasquano sent you a bridge he’d found—”

  “Yes, he did. So what? Goodbye.”

  “No, I’m sorry . . . but, if possible, I would like . . . a little more quickly . . . I realize how swamped with work you people are . . . but you must realize, that . . . for me...”

  In the effort to try to be nice, to avoid hurling abuse at Arquà, he became incapable of constructing a complete sentence. He felt furious at himself.

  “The bridge is no longer here with us.”

  “Where is it?”

  “We sent it to Palermo, to Professor Lomascolo’s lab.”

  Arquà hung up. Montalbano carefully wiped away the sweat that was drenching his brow and redialed the number.

  “Arquà? Montalbano again. I’m truly sorry to bother you again.”

  “Speak.”

  “If I may, I forgot something important.”

  “What did you forget?”

  “To tell you to go fuck yourself.”

  He hung up. If he hadn’t got it out of his system, he might be on edge for the rest of the evening. All in all, however, the fact that the bridge was in the hands of Professor Lomascolo was good news. The professor was a real authority and would surely be able to glean some information from that bridge. And the inspector, moreover, had always got on well with him. But it was clear by now that if by some stroke of luck this case ever managed to move ahead, it would move very slowly.

  Back in Marinella, he dawdled about the house for an hour or so. Before sitting down in front of the television he decided to call Livia and apologize for the quarrel of the previous night.

  “Ah, at last the great Montalbano deigns to grant me an audience!” Livia said angrily.

  A joyous start is the best of guides, as Matteo Maria Boiardo famously said.

  If this was Livia’s tone starting out, how would the phone call end? With an exchange of nuclear missiles? And how should he proceed now? With a nasty retort? No, it was better to take the temperature down a few degrees and find out why she was so upset.

  “Darling, you’ve got to believe me, I wasn’t able to call you any sooner because—”

  “But it was I who called you, and you refused to talk to me! God Almighty in heaven can’t find a minute to talk to me!”

  Montalbano balked.

  “You called me? When?”

  “This morning, at your office.”

  “Maybe they didn’t put the call through to me...”

  “But they did! They most certainly did!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I talked to Catarella and he told me you were busy and couldn’t pick up.”

  He suddenly remembered that Catarella had told him there was a “Signorina Zita” on the line...

  “Livia, it was a simple misunderstanding! Catarella didn’t make it clear to me that it was you. He only said there was a ‘Signorina Zita’—zita, you see, means ‘girlfriend’ to us, but it’s also a common surname around here! And since I didn’t know any young women by the name of Zita—”

  “Just forget about it.”

  “Livia, try to understand. It was a simple mistake, I tell you! On top of that, you never call me at the office. What did you want to tell me?”

  “I wanted you to call me tonight, because I had something important to talk to you about.”

  “Well, isn’t that what I did? I called you on my own initiative. What’s this important thing, then?”

  “This morning, before leaving for work, I got a very long phone call from Beba. She’s mad at you.”

  “Beba? Mad at me? Why?”

  “She says you’ve been treating Mimì very badly.”

  “And what on earth has Mr. Augello been telling Beba?”

  “Are you saying it’s not true?”

  “Well, it’s true that lately he’s become very irritable and we’ve had a few arguments, but nothing serious . . . Treating him badly! He’s the one who’s become impossible to deal with, and in fact I had planned to ask you if by any chance Beba had mentioned anything to you about all this irritability on Mimì’s part.”

  “So you don’t know why he’s so irritable?”

  “I assure you I don’t.”

  “Have you forgotten all the times you’ve sent him on stakeouts in the middle of the night over the past month? And which you continue to do practically every other night?”

  Montalbano remained silent, mouth agape.

  What the hell was Livia talking about? Was she just babbling?

  Over the past month they had done only one nighttime stakeout, and Fazio had handled it alone.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “Well, it’s just that...”

  “Then I’ll go on. The other evening, for example, Mimì came home with a touch of fever after having spent the whole day in the rain to recover a dead body in a bag . . . Is that true or not?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Then, just after Mimì had finished eating dinner and wanted to go to bed, you phoned him and forced him to get dressed again and spend the night outside again. Don’t you think you’re being a little sadistic?”

  What was going on? Why was Mimì telling Beba all these lies? Whatever the case, it was probably best, for the time being, to let Livia believe that what Mimì said was true.

  “Well, I guess . . . but it’s not sadism, Livia. The fact is that I have so few men that I can really trust . . . At any rate, try to reassure Beba. Tell her just to be patient for a little while longer, and that once I get some new personnel, I won’t take advantage of Mimì anymore.”

  “Is that a promise?”

&n
bsp; “Absolutely.”

  This time the phone call didn’t end in a quarrel. Because no matter what Livia said, he always agreed, like an automaton.

  After talking to Livia, he felt so weak he couldn’t move. He remained standing beside the little table, receiver in hand. Numb. Embalmed. Then, dragging his feet, he went and sat down on the veranda. Unfortunately there was only one possible explanation for Mimì’s lies. Because it was well known that Mimì didn’t drink, didn’t gamble, didn’t run with the wrong crowd. He had only one vice, if it was indeed a vice. Surely, after almost two years of marriage, Mimì had grown tired of going to bed every night with the same woman and had resumed his wandering ways. Before marrying Beba, his life was a continually revolving door of women, and apparently he had gone back to his old habits. The excuse he gave to his wife so that he could spend nights away from home was perfect. He hadn’t foreseen, however, that Beba would talk about it with Livia and that Livia would talk about it in turn with his superior. But one question remained. Why was Mimì so irritable? Why was he so at odds with everyone? It used to be that after Mimì had been with a woman, he would show up at work purring like a cat after a good meal. This new relationship must therefore be a burden on him. He wasn’t taking it lightly. Perhaps because, before, he didn’t have to answer to anybody, whereas now, when he went home, he was forced to lie to Beba, to deceive her. He must be feeling something that had never even crossed his mind before: a strong sense of guilt.

  In conclusion, he, Montalbano, had to intervene, even if it was the last thing he felt like doing. There was no getting around it; he had to, like it or not. If he didn’t, Mimì would keep staying out nights, saying it was by order of his boss, Beba would complain again to Livia, and this would break his balls for all eternity. He had to step in, more for his own peace of mind than for that of Mimì and his family.

  But intervene how?

  That was the rub. A heart-to-heart talk with Mimì was out of the question. If Mimì indeed had a woman, he would deny it. He was capable of claiming he went out at night to help the homeless. That he’d felt suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to be charitable. No, first it had to be confirmed with absolute certainty that Mimì had a mistress, and he had to find out when and where these nocturnal trysts took place. But how? The inspector needed someone to lend him a hand. But who could he talk to about this? He certainly couldn’t get anyone from the police department mixed up in it, not even Fazio. It had to remain a strictly private matter between Mimì, him, and, at the very most, a third person. A friend. Yes, only a friend could help him out. And he thought of the right person for the job. But he slept badly just the same, waking up three or four times with a big lump of melancholy in his chest.

  The next morning he called Catarella at the station and told him he’d be coming in a bit later than usual. Then he waited until ten o’clock, an acceptably civilized hour to wake a lady, and made his second phone call of the morning.

  “Hullo? Who are you?”

  It was a basso voice. With a Russian accent. Probably an ex-general of the Red Army born in some former Soviet republic beyond Siberia. One of Ingrid’s specialties was hiring domestic servants from lands so obscure you had to look them up in a world atlas to find out where they were.

  “Who are you?” the general repeated imperiously.

  Despite his concerns, Montalbano felt like screwing around.

  “Look, my parents gave me what you might call a provisional name, but who I really am in fact is not so easy to say. I’m not sure if I’ve made myself clear.”

  “You make very clear. You have existential doubt? You lost identity and now cannot find?”

  Montalbano felt bewildered. How could he possibly discuss philosophy with an ex-general so early in the morning?

  “Look, I’m sorry. This is a fascinating discussion, but I don’t have much time at the moment. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

  “Yes. But first you tell me provisional name.”

  “Montalbano. Salvo Montalbano.”

  He had to wait awhile. This time, in addition to the multiplication table for seven, he reviewed the one for eight. And after that, for six as well.

  “Forgive me, Salvo, I was in the shower. How nice to hear from you!”

  “Who’s the general?”

  “What general?”

  “The one who answered the phone.”

  “He’s not a general! His name’s Igor, he’s a former philosophy professor.”

  “And what’s he doing at your place?”

  “He’s earning a living, Salvo. Working as my butler. When they had communism in Russia, he was a virulent anti-Communist. And so first he was forbidden to teach, and then he ended up in prison. And when he got out, he went hungry.”

  “But Russia’s no longer Communist.”

  “Of course, but in the meantime he became a Communist. A revolutionary Communist. And so he was forbidden to teach again. So he decided to emigrate. But tell me about yourself. It’s been ages since I last saw you. I would really like to see you.”

  “We can meet tonight, if you want—if you’re not already engaged.”

  “I can get free. Shall we go out to dinner?”

  “Yes. Meet me at eight, at the Marinella Bar.”

  5

  He hadn’t managed to take a single step before the phone rang.

  “Ahh Chief! Ahh Chief Chief!”

  Bad sign. Catarella was reciting the commissionerial lamentations.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ahh Chief Chief! The c’mishner called! An’ ’e was mad as a buff ’lo! Smoke was comin out ’is nostrils!”

  “Wait a second, Cat. Who ever told you buffaloes blow smoke out their nostrils when they get mad?”

  “Ivrybody says so, Chief. I even seen it on TV, in cartoons.”

  “Okay, okay. What did he want?”

  “He says as how you gotta go to his office, the c’mishner’s office, emergently right now! Jeesus, was ’e ever mad, Chief!”

  And why should Bonetti-Alderighi be mad at him? he asked himself on his way to Montelusa. Lately there had been dead calm at work: only a few robberies, a few kidnappings, a few shootouts, a few torched cars and shops. The only new development had been the discovery of the body in the bag, too recent to provide the c’mishner with any reason to be pissed off. More than worried, the inspector was curious.

  The first person he encountered in the corridor leading to the commissioner’s office was the priestlike, cloying cabinet chief, Dr. Lattes, also known as “Lattes e mieles.” As soon as he saw the inspector, Lattes opened his arms, like the pope when he greets the throng from his window.

  “Carissimo!”

  And he ran up to Montalbano, grasped his hand, shook it vigorously, and, immediately changing expression, asked him in a conspiratorial tone:

  “Any news of the wife?”

  Lattes was fixated on the misconception that the inspector was married with children, and there was no way to convince him otherwise. Montalbano froze in terror at the question. What the hell had he told the man the previous time they had met? Luckily, he remembered he’d confessed that his wife had run off with an immigrant. Moroccan? Tunisian ? He couldn’t remember the details. He slapped a smile of contentment on his face.

  “Ah, good Dr. Lattes! I have excellent news! My wife is back under the conjugal roof.”

  Dr. Lattes went into raptures.

  “How wonderful! How very wonderful! Giving thanks to the Blessed Virgin, the home fires are burning again!”

  “Yes, and it’s getting pretty toasty in there now! We’re even saving on the utility bills!”

  Lattes gave him a puzzled look. He hadn’t quite understood. Then he said:

  “I’ll let the commissioner know you’re here.”

  He disappeared, then reappeared.

  “The commissioner will see you now.”

  But he was still a bit perplexed.

  Bonetti-Alderighi did not look up from the papers he was
reading, and did not invite him to sit down. At last he leaned back in his armchair and looked at the inspector a long time without saying anything.

  “Do you find me very different from the last time we saw each other?” Montalbano asked him, donning a worried expression.

  He bit his tongue. Why could he never resist provoking the commissioner whenever he found himself standing before him?

  “Montalbano, how old are you?”

  “I was born in 1950. You do the math.”

  “So we can say you’re a mature man.”

  If I’m mature, then you must be over the hill, Montalbano thought. But he said:

  “If you want to say so, go right ahead.”

  “Then can you explain to me why you behave like a child?”

  What were these words supposed to mean? When had he behaved like a child? A quick review of his recent memory brought nothing to mind.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Then let me explain a little better.”

  The commissioner picked up a book, under which was a tiny piece of paper with torn edges. He handed this to the inspector. It was the start of a letter, a phrase of a word and a half, but Montalbano immediately recognized the handwriting. It belonged to former police commissioner Burlando, who had written to him often after retiring. So how had this scrap of an old letter ended up in Bonetti-Alderighi’s hands? Whatever the case, what did that word and a half have to do with the accusation that he had behaved like a child? Montalbano assumed a defensive stance, just in case.

  “What’s this piece of paper supposed to mean?” he asked, his expression halfway between shock and surprise.

  “Don’t you recognize the handwriting?”

  “No.”

  “Would you read it aloud, please?”

  “Certainly. ‘Dear Mont.’ That’s all it says.”

  “And in your opinion, what might the whole name be?”

  “I dunno, but I could take a few guesses. Dear Montale—who would be the poet—Dear Montanelli—who would be the journalist—Dear Montezuma—who was king of the Aztecs—Dear Montgomery—who was that English general who—”