The Potter's Field

by Andrea Camilleri

  The essence of the news reported by the anchorman boiled down to the fact that Dolores had been unable to identify the corpse, “though she knew in her heart that those meager remains must belong to her husband.” He added that it would soon be possible to identify him through DNA testing, since samples of his blood had been taken by the Forensics laboratory of the Reggio Calabria police from the traces found in the victim’s apartment in Gioia Tauro. In fact, Dolores Alfano recalled that on the morning her husband failed to board ship, he had cut himself while shaving with a straight razor. This surprised Montalbano. He hadn’t seen any blood in the bathroom of the Via Gerace apartment, either in the photos or in person. Perhaps Forensics had cleaned it all up. At the end of the news report, it was time for the editorial of Pippo Ragonese, the purse-lipped prince of opinion at TeleVigàta.

  “Just a few words to underscore how clear it is to everyone that as soon as the investigation into the critaru murder was passed on from Inspector Montalbano to his second-in-command, Inspector Domenico Augello, it immediately took a great leap forward. Indeed, in the space of barely more than twenty-four hours, Inspector Augello, under the guidance of Prosecutor Tommaseo, was able to identify with almost absolute certainty the man so brutally murdered. It must be said that in this particular case it was the close collaboration between Public Prosecutor Tommaseo and his counterpart in Reggio Calabria that yielded such impressive results. Inspector Augello also brought to our attention how the methods of the murder revived certain old Mafia rituals believed to have fallen into disuse. While he preferred not to name any names, it is obvious that the brilliant young deputy inspector already has a clear idea of who might be behind this. Whatever the case, we extend our heartfelt best wishes to Inspector Augello and fervently hope that Inspector Montalbano continues to refrain from participating in this investigation.

  “And now let us move on to the arrest of two regional parliamentary deputies of the Center-Right on suspicion of collusion with the Mafia. While we have, of course, only the deepest respect for the magistrature, we cannot help but note that it moves all too often in only one direction. Is it possible, we ask as honest citizens, that—”

  Montalbano turned it off. Everything had gone exactly as expected. He hadn’t missed a beat. He had started a game of chess and made the first move (truth be told, he’d had Mimì, the unwitting player, make it). He should have felt satisfied, but in fact he did not. He felt ashamed of the way he was acting, but it was the only course of action he had come up with. Now all that remained for him to do was to pretend to be angry at Mimì and wait for the person who was supposed to make the next move to make it. Because someone, upon hearing Ragonese’s words, was going to feel dragged into this case, and would react accordingly. Which would be the second move of the match.

  The phone rang. It was Fazio.

  “Ah, finally, Chief! I tried calling you about an hour ago and—”

  “I heard the phone ringing but didn’t pick up in time.”

  “Did you watch the news?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chief, you have no idea how many times I tried to reach you in Boccadasse to warn you that Inspector Augello was—”

  “I believe you, Fazio. Like an idiot I forgot my cell phone here, and in Boccadasse I was always out of the house. I’m very sorry, it’s all my fault.”

  “You should know that early tomorrow morning Augello is meeting with Prosecutor Tommaseo and the commissioner.”

  “Let them have their meeting, and you go and get a good night’s sleep. Oh, and listen. Did Mimì somehow find out I went to Gioia Tauro?”

  “No. Who would’ve told him?”

  Augello returned to the station late in the morning. He didn’t look very pleased with his meeting in Montelusa.

  “Mimì, what the hell have you been cooking up?”

  “Me?!”

  “Yes, you. Last night I watched Ragonese on TV. I told you I wanted to be informed of every move you made.”

  “But, Salvo, how was I going to inform you if you weren’t here? Anyway, what did I say or do that was new? All I did was relate to Tommaseo what Fazio filled me in on.”

  “Namely?”

  “That you thought the critaru body belonged to Dolores Alfano’s husband, and that he’d been killed by the Mafia for being a courier who had betrayed the family. Not one word more or less than that.”

  The inspector should have embraced and thanked Mimì, but he couldn’t.

  “But you also told the journalists.”

  “I had Tommaseo’s authorization to do so.”

  “Well, okay. How did your meeting go this morning?”

  “Badly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Tommaseo wants to proceed very cautiously with Balduccio Sinagra. He says we have nothing against him at the moment. But I say how can that be? Isn’t Balduccio Sinagra a Mafia thug and a killer?”

  “So what, Mimì? It’s true he’s a killer, but what if he didn’t kill Alfano? Do you still want to pin the murder on him anyway? Are you saying that one murder more, one murder less makes no difference? Well, I’ve got news for you: It does.”

  “So, now you’re defending him?”

  Montalbano had a flash. He suddenly remembered the nightmare he’d had a few nights before, when Totò Riina had offered him the post of minister of the interior.

  “Mimì, cut the crap,” he said, though in his mind the words were directed at Riina. “I’m not defending a mafioso, I’m telling you to be careful about accusing someone, mafioso or no, of a crime he cannot have committed.”

  “I’m convinced he had Alfano killed.”

  “Then try to convince Tommaseo. Where does the commissioner stand on this?”

  “He agrees with Tommaseo. But he suggested I talk to Musante.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be of any help to you. How are Beba and the boy doing?”

  “Fine.”

  Mimì got up to leave, but Montalbano stopped him before he could open the door.

  “I’m sorry, Mimì, but I’ve been wanting to ask you something for a long time, and since lately we haven’t had any chance to talk, I—”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you know anything about three men from Catania . . .” He broke off, opened the top drawer on the left of his desk, grabbed the first sheet of paper that came within reach, and pretended to read: “ . . . whose names are Bonura, Pecorini, and Di Silvestro?”

  Having uttered the question, Montalbano felt poised at the edge of a cliff. He stared at Mimì with both eyes pointed at him like shotgun barrels and hoped that what he felt inside didn’t show on his face. The first and third names he had invented. Mimì looked genuinely befuddled.

  “Wait a second. I think I remember a certain Di Silvestro we dealt with last year, though I can’t remember why. The other two I’ve never heard of before. Why, are they of interest to you?”

  “They came up a while ago in a case of attempted murder I was investigating. But that’s all right, it’s not important. I’ll be seeing you.”

  It was an extremely risky question to ask, but he was glad he had asked it. If he had said he knew Pecorini, or had acted suspiciously, then Mimì’s position, in Montalbano’s eyes, would have been seriously compromised. Dolores therefore must not have told him about her earlier affair with the butcher. All things considered, it wouldn’t have been in her interest. More importantly, she also had not told him that the house where they had their amorous encounters belonged to Pecorini. The inspector felt so pleased that he caught himself whistling, something he’d never been able to do.

  The second move he had been expecting was made late that evening, just as he was heading to the bathroom to get undressed and go to bed.

  “Inspector Montalbano?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I am terribly embarrassed to have to phone you at this hour, disturbing you in the intimacy of your home, probably after a long day of hard work...”

  The inspe
ctor immediately recognized the voice at the other end of the line. It wasn’t just the voice, but the manner of speaking, the flowery phrases, that gave him away. Still, he had to play along.

  “Could you please tell me who I’m speaking to?”

  “I am Orazio Guttadauro, the lawyer.”

  The very first time he’d had any dealings with Guttadauro, it had seemed to Montalbano that a worm had a keener sense of honesty than this lawyer, who was Don Balduccio Sinagra’s consigliere and right-hand man. And after getting to know him a little, he had become convinced that a pile of dog shit had a keener sense of honesty.

  “Good evening, sir! And how is your friend and client?”

  There was no need to mention any names. Guttadauro heaved a tortured sigh, then another. And then he spoke.

  “It’s so sad, dear Inspector, so sad!”

  “He’s not well?”

  “I don’t know whether you’re aware that he got very sick a few months ago.”

  “I’ve heard mention.”

  “Then he recovered somewhat, at least physically, thank God.”

  Montalbano asked himself a subtle theological question: Should God be thanked for letting a multiple murderer like Balduccio get better?

  “Sometimes, however,” the lawyer continued, “he’s no longer all there in the head. His moments of lucidity alternate with moments of, well, confusion, memory lapses... It’s so sad, Inspector! A great mind like that!”

  Should he join in the lament? He decided against it. Nor should he even ask the reason for the telephone call.

  “Well, Mr. Guttadauro, I wish you a good night and—”

  “Inspector, I must ask you a favor on behalf of my client and friend.”

  “If I can.”

  “He so wishes to see you. He told me that before closing his eyes forever he would really, and I mean really, like to meet with you one more time. You are aware of the high esteem in which he holds you. He says that men of exemplary honesty such as yourself should...”

  . . . become minister of the interior, thought Montalbano. But instead he said:

  “I’m sure that one of these days...”

  “No, Inspector, I’m afraid I haven’t made myself clear. He would like to see you immediately.”

  “Now?!”

  “Now. You know what old folks are like. They become very stubborn and whimsical. Please don’t disappoint the poor old man . . . If you open your front door, you’ll find a car waiting for you outside. All you have to do is get in it. We are waiting for you. I’ll look forward to seeing you shortly.”

  They hung up simultaneously. They had managed to talk for fifteen minutes without uttering the name of Balduccio Sinagra. The inspector put on his jacket and opened the door. In the darkness the car, which must have been black, was not visible. But its engine, which was running, was purring like a cat.

  The lawyer opened the car door for him, showed him into the villa, and led him all the way to Don Balduccio’s bedroom. It was outfitted like a hospital room and smelled of medication. The old man lay in bed with eyes closed; he had oxygen tubes in his nostrils, and there was a huge tank at the head of the bed. Beside the tank stood a man nearly six and a half feet tall, a sort of armoire with legs. Guttadauro leaned over the old man and whispered a few words to him. Don Balduccio opened his eyes and extended a transparent hand to Montalbano. Who shook it ever so lightly, afraid that if he shook it any harder, the hand would break like glass. Then Don Balduccio made a sign to the human armoire. Who, in the twinkling of an eye, turned a crank that tilted the bed slightly and raised Don Balduccio to a sitting position. He then arranged some pillows behind the old man’s back, removed the tubes from his nose, closed the oxygen tank, placed a chair very close to the bed, and went out.

  The lawyer remained standing, leaning against a set of shelves.

  “I can’t read anymore,” Don Balduccio began, “my eyesight’s failing. An’ so I have the papers read to me. ’Parently in the States the number of executions from the death penalty is up to a thousand.”

  “Right,” said the worldly Montalbano, showing no surprise at the don’s starting the conversation with such a subject.

  “One was granted a reprieve,” Guttadauro interjected. “But they quickly made up for this by killing another man in a different state.”

  “Are you for or against it, Inspector?” asked the old man.

  “I’m against capital punishment,” said Montalbano.

  “I would never have doubted it in a man like you. I’m against it, too.”

  What? Against it? Hadn’t he condemned to death the ten-plus people he’d had killed? Or did Don Balduccio differentiate between deaths ordered by him and those ordered by the state?

  “But I used to be in favor,” the old man added.

  Now his statement made more sense. How many hit men had he kept on his payroll in the past?

  “Then I realized my mistake, because there’s no remedy for death. I became convinced of this by something that happened, many years ago . . . to a relative of mine . . . in Colombia . . . Orazio, my friend, would you give me a glass of water?”

  Guttadauro served him.

  “You have to forgive me, talking makes me very tired . . . I was told that this relative . . . was pursuing his own interests . . . instead of mine . . . I believed it, and I made a mistake . . . I gave a wrong order . . . Do you follow?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I was younger, and I didn’t think before I acted . . . Not six months later, I found out that the things I was told about that man weren’t true . . . But I’d already made my mistake . . . There was no going back . . . How could I make up for it? There was only one way. To make his son my son. And let him live a clean life. An’ this kid loved me despite . . . and would never have done me . . . a bad turn . . . never done nothing . . . to displ . . . displease me . . . I can’t talk . . . no more.”

  He stopped. It was clear he was running completely out of breath.

  “Would you like me to continue?” Guttadauro asked.

  “Yes. But first . . .”

  “Yes, of course. Gnazio!”

  Immediately the armoire appeared. There was no need for words. The giant lowered the bed, removed a pillow, slipped the tubes back into the old man’s nostrils, reopened the oxygen tank, and went out.

  Then Guttadauro resumed.

  “Before going back to board his ship, Giovanni Alfano—who, you will have understood, is the person we’re talking about—came here with his wife to say goodbye to Don Balduccio.”

  “Yes, I know. Signora Dolores showed me the photographs.”

  “Good. On that occasion, Don Balduccio called Giovanni aside to give him something. A letter. To be delivered in person to a friend in Villa San Giovanni, who would be waiting for him at an appointed place. And he begged him not to tell anyone about that letter, not even his wife.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Only about ten days ago, Don Balduccio learned that this letter was never delivered.”

  “Why did it take so long to find out?”

  “Well! First there was my friend’s illness, then the long convalescence, then the person who was supposed to have received the letter had an accident and was unable to get in touch with us . . . He was shot three times, but by mistake, you know . . . by someone who has remained anonymous . . .”

  “I see. Was it an important letter?”

  “Very important,” the old man said from deep in his bed.

  “And did you tell Alfano how important it was?”

  “Yes,” said Don Balduccio.

  “Could you tell me what it said?”

  Guttadauro didn’t answer right away, but looked over at Don Balduccio, who nodded yes.

  “You know, Inspector, Don Balduccio has a very wide range of business interests . . . The letter contained—how shall I put it—instructions, if you will, concerning a possible agreement with some of our business competitors in Calabria . . .”


  A nice little pact between the Mafia and the ’Ndrangheta, in short.

  “But why didn’t you just mail it?”

  A strange noise came from the bed, a series of hi hi sounds halfway between sneezes and drunken hiccups. Montalbano realized the old man was laughing.

  17

  “Mail it? You surprise me,” said the lawyer. “As you know, my friend has been the target of a genuine persecution campaign by the police and the judiciary for many years. They intercept his letters, perform surprise searches, arrest him for no plausible reason . . . They carry out acts of terrorism on him, that’s the word.”

  “And what, in your opinion, was the reason this letter was never delivered?”

  “In our opinion, Giovanni wasn’t able to deliver it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, in all probability, Giovanni never crossed the strait.”

  “And where do you think he stopped?”

  “We think he got no farther than Catania.”

  So that was how things had gone, according to Balduccio and Guttadauro.

  “But you . . . why haven’t you got busy trying to find out what happened? Don Balduccio has many friends, he could have easily—”

  “You see, Inspector, the point was not to find out what happened . . . Don Balduccio knew it intuitively . . . He told me everything as if he had been there himself . . . It’s extraordinary . . . If anything, it was only a matter of confirming his intuition.”

  “All right, but it amounts to the same thing: Why didn’t you seek out this confirmation?”

  “Shit . . . is not something . . . I touch with my hands,” the old man said with difficulty.

  Guttadauro the lawyer translated this for him.

  “Don Balduccio felt that it was a matter for the law to handle.”