The Potter's Field

by Andrea Camilleri

  “How about ‘Dear Montalbano’?”

  “That, too.”

  “Listen, Montalbano. Let’s stop beating around the bush. This scrap of paper was sent to me by the newsman Pippo Ragonese, who found it inside a garbage bag.”

  Montalbano made a face of utter astonishment.

  “So now even Ragonese’s taken to rummaging through garbage bags? It’s a kind of addiction, you know. You have no idea how many people—even well-to-do people—go about in the middle of the night, from house to house—”

  “I’m not interested in the habits of certain people,” the commissioner cut him short. “The fact of the matter is that Ragonese recovered this scrap from one of two garbage bags that were left for him in a certain place by a bogus phonecaller seeking revenge.”

  Apparently the piece of paper had been among all the trash he collected under the veranda, and he hadn’t noticed it.

  “Mr. Commissioner, you’ll have to excuse me, but frankly I haven’t understood a single word you’ve said. In what way does this constitute revenge? If you could clarify a little—”

  The commissioner sighed.

  “A few days ago, you see, when the newsman reported the story of the dead body found in the garbage bag, he mentioned that you had neglected to consider another similar bag that contained instead . . .” He interrupted himself, as the explanation was getting complicated. “Did you see the program?” he asked, hopefully.

  “No, sorry to say.”

  “Well, then, let’s forget the whys and wherefores. The fact is, Ragonese is convinced that it was you who did this, to offend him.”

  “Me? To offend him? How?”

  “One of the two bags contained a sheet of paper with the word ASSHOLE written on it.”

  “But Mr. Commissioner, if you’ll excuse my saying so, there are literally billions of assholes in the world! Why is Ragonese such an asshole as to think that this one refers specifically to him?”

  “Because it would prove—”

  “Prove?! What would it prove, Mr. Commissioner?”

  And, pointing a trembling finger at Bonetti-Alderighi, with an expression of indignation and a quasi-castrato voice, he launched into the climax:

  “Ah, so you, Mr. Commissioner, actually believed such a groundless accusation? Ah, I feel so insulted and humiliated ! You’re accusing me of an act—no, indeed, a crime that, if true, would warrant severe punishment! As if I were a common idiot or gambler! That journalist must be possessed to think such a thing!”

  End of climax. The inspector inwardly congratulated himself. He had managed to utter a statement using only titles of novels by Dostoyevsky. Had the commissioner noticed ? Of course not! The man was ignorant as a goat.

  “Don’t get so upset, Montalbano! Come on, in the end—”

  “Come on, my eye! In the end, my eye! That man has insulted me! You know what I say, Mr. Commissioner? I demand an immediate apology, in writing, from Mr. Ragonese! Actually, no. I want a public apology, broadcast on television! Otherwise I will call a press conference and expose the whole matter! All of it!”

  The implied message for the commissioner: And I will tell everyone that you believed the whole story, asshole.

  “Oh, calm down, Montalbano. Just take a deep breath. I’ll see what I can do.”

  But the inspector, in his fury, had already opened the office door. Closing it behind him, he found his path blocked by Lattes.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I didn’t quite understand what the connection was between your wife’s return home and the utility bills.”

  “I’ll explain another time, Doctor.”

  At Enzo’s Trattoria he decided he should celebrate the success of the drama he had performed for the commissioner. And that he should continue to distract himself from the worry that Livia’s phone call had caused him.

  “Hello, Inspector. For antipasto today we’ve got fritters of nunnatu.”

  “I want ’em.”

  He committed a massacre of nunnati—newborns, that is. Herod had nothing on him.

  “What would you like for a first course, Inspector? We’ve got pasta in squid ink, pasta with shrimp, pasta with sea urchin, pasta with mussels, pasta with—”

  “With sea urchin.”

  “For the second course we’ve got striped surmullet, which you can have cooked in salt, fired, roasted, with a sauce of—”

  “Roasted.”

  “Will that be all, Inspector?”

  “No. Have you got purpiteddro a strascinasali?”

  “But, Inspector, that’s an antipasto.”

  “And if I eat it as a post-pasto, what’ll happen? Will you start crying?”

  He left the trattoria feeling rather aggravated, as the ancient Romans used to say.

  The customary stroll to the lighthouse repaired only some of the damage.

  The pleasure of his feast immediately vanished when he entered the station. Upon seeing him, Catarella bent over as if to search for something on the floor and greeted him from that position, without looking at him. A rather ridiculous, infantile move. Why didn’t he want to show his face? The inspector pretended not to notice, went into his office, and called him on the phone.

  “Catarella, could you come into my office for a moment?”

  As soon as he entered the room, Montalbano looked at him and realized his eyes were red and moist.

  “Do you have a fever?” he asked him.

  “No, Chief.”

  “What’s wrong? Were you crying?”

  “A li’l bit, Chief.”

  “Why?”

  “Iss nuthin’, Chief. I’s jess cryin’.”

  And he blushed from the lie he’d just told.

  “Is Inspector Augello here?”

  “Yessir, Chief. Fazio’s ’ere too.”

  “Get me Fazio.”

  So now even Catarella was hiding things from him? And suddenly nobody was his friend anymore? Why was everyone giving him the runaround? Had he perhaps become the old, tired lion who gets kicked around even by donkeys? This latter hypothesis, which seemed the most likely, made his hands tingle with rage.

  “Fazio, come in, shut the door, and sit down.”

  “Chief, I’ve got two things to tell you.”

  “No, wait. First I want to know why Catarella was crying when I came in just now.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t want to tell me.”

  “So why are you asking me?”

  So Fazio, too, was kicking him around now? A rage so furious came over him that the room started spinning about like a merry-go-round. Instead of crying out, he roared. A kind of low, deep roar. And, with a leap he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of making anymore, in a flash he found himself standing upright on top of the desk, from where he then flew like a bullet at Fazio—who, eyes bulging in terror, tried to stand up, got tangled in his chair, which fell, and so failed to get out of the way in time. Thus bearing the full brunt of Montalbano’s body, he crashed to the floor with the inspector on top of him. They lay there for a moment with their arms around each other. If someone walked in he might even think they were doing lewd things. Fazio didn’t move until Montalbano got up with some effort and, ashamed, went over to the window and looked outside. He was breathing heavily.

  Without a word, Fazio set the chair back upright and sat down in it.

  A moment later, Montalbano turned around, went up to Fazio, put his hand on his shoulder, and said:

  “I apologize.”

  Fazio then did something he would never have dared to do in ordinary circumstances. He lay his hand, palm down, on top of the inspector’s hand and said:

  “I’m the one who should apologize, Chief. I provoked you.”

  Montalbano went and sat back down behind his desk. They looked each other long in the eye. Then Fazio spoke.

  “Chief, for a while now, it’s been unlivable around here.”

  “You mean Augello?”

  “Y
eah, Chief. I see you’ve caught on. He’s completely changed. He used to be a cheerful, happy-go-lucky guy, whereas now he’s always gloomy, he takes offense at the smallest things, he criticizes everything and insults everyone. Vaccarella wanted to go to the union for help, but I managed to talk him out of it. But things can’t go on like this much longer. You have to intervene, Chief, and find out what’s up with him. Maybe his marriage is going bad or something . . .”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to me earlier?”

  “Chief, nobody likes to rat on people around here.”

  “And what happened with Catarella?”

  “He didn’t put a call through to Inspector Augello, because he thought he wasn’t back in his office yet. Then she called again and Catarella put her through to Augello.”

  “Why do you say ‘she’?”

  “Because Catarella said it was a woman.”

  “Name?”

  “Catarella said that both times she called she said only, ‘Inspector Augello, please.’”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Augello came out of his office looking like he was crazy and grabbed Catarella by the collar, pushed him up against the wall, and screamed, ‘Why didn’t you put the first call through to me?’ It’s a good thing I was there to pull him back. And it’s a good thing there wasn’t anyone else, or there would have been trouble. They would surely have reported it to the union.”

  “But he’s never done anything like that when I’m around.”

  “When you’re around, Chief, he controls himself.”

  So that was how it was. Mimì no longer confided in him, Catarella neither, Fazio had snapped at him . . . An uneasy situation that had been dragging on for some time without his even noticing. Once upon a time he was attuned to the slightest change of mood in his men and became immediately concerned and wanted to know the reason. Now he didn’t even notice anymore. He had, of course, noticed the change in Mimì, but that was only because it was so obvious that it would have been impossible not to notice. What was wrong with him? Was he tired? Or had old age made his antennae less sensitive? If so, then the time had come to pick up his walking papers. But first he had to resolve the problem of Mimì.

  “What were the two things you wanted to tell me?” he asked.

  Fazio seemed relieved to change the subject.

  “Well, Chief, since the start of the year, in Sicily, there’s been eighty-two missing persons reported, thirty of whom were women. Which means fifty-two were men. I’ve done a little sifting. Mind if I look at some notes?”

  “As long as you don’t start reading me vital statistics, fine.”

  “Of these fifty-two, thirty-one are non-Europeans with their papers in order who didn’t show up to work from one day to the next and didn’t go back to their place of residence either. Of the remaining twenty-one, ten are children. Which leaves eleven. Of these eleven, eight are between seventy and almost ninety years old. All of them are no longer all really there, the kind that might leave the house and not be able to find the way back.”

  “Which leaves us with how many?”

  “Three, Chief. Of these three—all of whom are around forty—one is five foot two, the second is six foot four, and the third has a pacemaker.”

  “And so?”

  “And so none of these reports concerns our corpse.”

  “And now, what should I do to you?”

  Fazio looked flummoxed.

  “Why should you want to do something to me, Chief?”

  “Because you wasted so many words. Didn’t you know that wasting words is a crime against humanity? You could have simply said to me: ‘Look, none of the people who have been reported missing corresponds to our body in the bag.’ That would have synthesized the whole thing, and we both would have saved something: you, your breath, and me, my time. Don’t you agree?”

  Fazio shook his head negatively.

  “With all due respect, sir, no.”

  “And why not?”

  “My dear Inspector, no ‘synthesis,’ as you call it, could ever give a sense of all the work that went into arriving at that synthesis.”

  “All right, you win. And what was the other thing?”

  “Do you remember when I was telling you what I’d found out about Dolores Alfano, I said there was something somebody had told me but I couldn’t remember what it was?”

  “Yes. Do you remember now?”

  “One of the people I talked to was an old, retired shopkeeper who told me that Giovanni Alfano, Dolores’s husband, was Filippo Alfano’s son.”

  “So?”

  “When he told me, I didn’t attach any importance to it. It’s something that goes back to before you started working here. This Filippo Alfano was a big cheese in the Sinagra family. He was also a distant relative.”

  “Whoa!”

  The Sinagras were one of the two historic Mafia families of Vigàta. The other was the Cuffaro family.

  “At a certain point this Filippo Alfano disappeared. He resurfaced in Colombia with his wife and son, Giovanni, who at the time wasn’t yet fifteen years old. Of course, Filippo Alfano didn’t leave the country legally. He didn’t have a passport, and he had three serious convictions. Around town they said the Sinagras had sent him abroad to look after their interests in Bogotá. But after he’d been there awhile, Filippo Alfano was shot and killed; nobody ever found out by whom. And there you have it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘and there you have it’?”

  “I mean that’s the end of the story, Chief. Giovanni Alfano, Dolores’s husband, works as a ship’s officer and has a clean record, absolutely spotless. Why, do the sons of mafiosi always have to become mafiosi like their fathers?”

  “No. So, if Giovanni Alfano is clean, then the attempt to run over his wife can’t have been an indirect vendetta or a warning. It must have been a nasty prank or drunken antic. Do you agree?”

  “I agree.”

  The inspector was thinking of going home to change clothes for his meeting with Ingrid when he heard Galluzzo’s voice asking permission to enter.

  “Come in, come in.”

  Galluzzo entered and shut the door behind him. He had an envelope in his hand.

  “What is it?” Montalbano asked.

  “Inspector Augello told me to give you this.”

  He set the envelope down on the desk. It wasn’t sealed. On the outside, in block letters typed by the computer printer, it said: “FOR CHIEF INSPECTOR SALVO MONTALBANO.” And below: “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.” And on the upper left: “FROM DOMENICO AUGELLO.”

  Montalbano didn’t take the letter out. He looked at Galluzzo and asked:

  “Is Inspector Augello still in his office?”

  “No, Chief, he left about half an hour ago.”

  “Why did you take half an hour to bring me this letter?”

  Galluzzo was visibly embarrassed.

  “Well, I . . .” he began to say.

  “Did he tell you to wait half an hour before bringing it to me?”

  “No, Chief, it took me that long to understand what he had written by hand on the sheet of paper he told me to type up and bring to you. A lot of stuff was crossed out and some of the words were hard to decipher. When I finished, I went back to his office to ask him to sign it, but he’d already left. So I decided to bring it to you anyway, without his signature.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper, and laid it down beside the envelope.

  “This is the original.”

  “Okay. You can go.”

  6

  The letter said:

  Dear Salvo,

  As I’ve already brought directly to your attention, the situation that has developed between us needs to be fully clarified, without any holding back or beating around the bush. I believe that, after so many years of working together—where I, however, have always played a subordinate role—the time has come for me to have my own space and autonomy. I am convinced that
the investigation into the as yet unidentified, dismembered forty-year-old man could be a sort of decisive test for the two of us. In other words: I want you to assign the case exclusively to me, and for you to step completely aside. Naturally, it will be my responsibility to keep you up-todate on everything, but you must not interfere in any way. I am even willing, once the case is closed, to give you publicly all the credit.

  This isn’t an ultimatum. Please try to understand me: If anything, what I am asking of you is some proof of your esteem for me. And some help, as well. Naturally, it will also be a test, however difficult, of my abilities.

  Should you not be in agreement, I shall have no choice but to ask the commissioner to transfer me elsewhere.

  Whatever you decide, my great affection and esteem for you will always remain unchanged.

  With love,

  There was no signature, as Galluzzo had already said. But it was too late now to think all this over.

  He slipped the letter into his jacket pocket and wiped his eyes. (Ah, old age! How easily the emotions get stirred up!) He stood up and went out.

  At the Marinella Bar he found Ingrid sitting at a table, having already drunk her first glass of whisky. The five or six male customers couldn’t take their eyes off her. How was it that, the more the years went by, the more beautiful she became ? Beautiful, elegant, intelligent, discreet. A true friend. Of all the times he had asked her for help in a case, she had never asked a single question, never asked why or what for, but only did what she was asked to do.

  They embraced, genuinely happy to see each other.

  “Shall we leave right away or order another whisky?” Ingrid asked.

  “There’s no hurry,” said Montalbano, sitting down.

  Ingrid took one of the inspector’s hands into hers and squeezed it. That was another good thing about her: She displayed her feelings openly, without worrying about what others might think.