The Potter's Field

by Andrea Camilleri

  “How did you come here? I didn’t see your car in the parking lot.”

  “The red one, you mean? I got rid of it. Now I have a perfectly normal, green Nissan Micra. How’s Livia?”

  “I talked to her yesterday. She’s fine. How’s your husband?”

  “I think he’s fine, too. I haven’t seen him for a week. We live apart, even at home. Fortunately the house is very big. Anyway, ever since he became a deputy in Parliament, he spends more time in Rome than here.”

  Ingrid’s husband was a known ne’er-do-well, so it was only logical that he should turn to politics. The inspector recalled a popular saying from his childhood, which an uncle of his used to repeat: If you’ve got no art or trade, in politics you’ll make the grade.

  “Shall we talk now or after dinner?” asked Ingrid.

  “Talk about what?”

  “Salvo, stop playacting. You only call on me when you need me to do something for you. Isn’t that so?”

  “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s the way you are. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I like you. So, do you want to talk about it now or later?”

  “Do you know that Mimì is married now?”

  Ingrid laughed.

  “Of course. With Beba. And I also know they had a son whom they named Salvo, after you.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Mimì. He used to call me every now and then. We’ve even met a few times. But I haven’t heard from him for a couple of months. So?”

  “I have reason to believe that Mimì has a mistress,” said the inspector.

  Ingrid didn’t bat an eyelash. Montalbano marveled.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  Suddenly it dawned on him.

  “You knew?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you himself ?”

  “No. In fact, nobody told me, not before you did just now. But, you see, Salvo, wasn’t this to be expected, knowing what Mimì is like? What’s wrong, Salvo? Are you scandalized?”

  And she started laughing harder than before. Maybe the two glasses of whisky were already beginning to make themselves felt? Ingrid read his mind.

  “No, I’m not tipsy, Salvo. It’s just that you have such a serious expression on your face that I can’t help but laugh. Why do you take it so hard? It’s a very normal thing, you know. I don’t need to tell you that. Just leave him in peace and the whole thing will blow over by itself.”

  “I can’t.”

  And he told her about Livia’s phone call and Mimì’s excuse for spending the night away from home.

  “Don’t you see? If I don’t intervene, Beba will eventually come directly to me. And at that point I won’t be able to cover for him any longer. And there’s another thing about Mimì that has me very worried.”

  “Before you tell me, let’s have another round of whisky.”

  “No, just order for yourself.”

  He told her how Mimì had changed, how he blew up at others for no reason, always seeking conflict to let off steam.

  “There are two possibilities,” said Ingrid. “Either he’s upset by the situation because he loves Beba and feels guilty, or else he’s fallen seriously in love with this other woman. All of this assuming, of course, that Mimì has a lover, as you say. But isn’t it possible he’s going out at night for some other reason?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to find out if Mimì really does have a mistress. And, if possible, who this woman is. I’ll give you his license plate number, so you can follow him.”

  “But I can hardly stake out Mimì’s house every night, waiting for him to—”

  “You won’t have to. I’ve done a little calculation, based on what Livia told me, and I’m certain he’ll be going out tomorrow night. Do you know where he lives?”

  “Yes. And I’ve got nothing on for tomorrow night. So, what do I do after he comes out?”

  “You call me at home. No matter the hour.”

  He waited for Ingrid to finish her whisky, and then they left the bar.

  “My car or yours?” asked Ingrid.

  “Mine. You’ve been drinking.”

  “But I can hold it just fine!”

  “Yes, but if we get stopped, it’ll be hard to explain and convince them of that. We’ll swing by and pick up your car afterwards.”

  Ingrid looked at him and smiled, then got into his car.

  When they got to the restaurant Peppucciu ’u Piscaturi, (Peppucciu the Fisherman), which was on the road to Fiacca, it was almost ten o’clock. The inspector had reserved a table because the place was always packed and, knowing Ingrid’s tastes, and that she was a good eater, he had even ordered their dishes in advance, certain that she would approve.

  The menu: antipasto di mare (fresh anchovies cooked in lemon juice and dressed in olive oil, salt, pepper, and parsley; “savory” anchovies seasoned with fennel seeds; octopus salad; and fried whitebait); first course: spaghetti with salsa corallina ; second course: langouste marinara (cooked over live coals and dressed in olive oil, salt, and a dash of pepper).

  They dispatched three bottles of treacherous white wine, which went down like cool water but, once in the system, shifted into high gear and was off like a shot. When they had finished, they each drank a whisky to give the digestive process a little boost.

  “And now, if we get pulled over, how are you going to explain that you can hold your wine?”

  He laughed.

  The whole way back, Montalbano drove with his eyes popping out and his nerves on edge. Afraid they might encounter some local patrol, he didn’t go over thirty-five miles an hour, and he didn’t once open his mouth, for fear of distraction.

  Pulling into the parking lot of the Marinella Bar, he realized Ingrid had fallen asleep. He shook her gently.

  “Hmm?” Ingrid said without opening her eyes.

  “We’re here. You feel up to driving?”

  Ingrid opened a single eye and looked around her, dazed.

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked if you feel up to driving.”

  “No.”

  “All right, then, I’ll take you home to Montelusa.”

  “No. Take me to your place and I’ll take a shower, and then you can bring me back here for my car.”

  As Montalbano was opening the front door, Ingrid was swaying so badly she had to lean against the wall for support.

  “I’m gonna lie down for five minutes,” she said, heading for the bedroom.

  The inspector didn’t follow her. He opened the French door, went out onto the veranda, and sat down on the bench.

  There wasn’t a breath of wind, the surf so soft, the sea barely moving. At that moment the telephone rang. Montalbano dashed in to close the bedroom door, then picked up the receiver. It was Livia.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “What were you doing?”

  She sounded like Torquemada. Women! Never before had Livia begun a phone conversation with a question like that. Tonight, however, when another woman was sleeping in her man’s bed, she came out with this inquisitorial tone. What was it? A sixth, animal sense? Or did she have telescopic X-ray vision? He felt spooked, which muddled his brain, and instead of telling her the truth—that he was sitting and watching the sea—for God knows what reason he replied with a pointless, idiotic lie.

  “I was watching a film on television.”

  “What channel?”

  She must have realized at once that he was speaking falsely. They’d been together for years, and by now Livia could tell, from the slightest inflection of his voice, whether he was telling the truth or not. So how was he going to wiggle out of this now? The only hope was to continue down the same path.

  “Three. But what—”

  “I’m watching it too. What’s it called?”

  “I don’t know, it had already started when I turn
ed it on. But what’s with all these questions? What’s got into you?”

  “Why are you speaking softly?”

  She was right, dammit! He was keeping his voice down instinctively, so as not to wake Ingrid. He cleared his throat.

  “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Who’s there with you?”

  “Nobody! Who could possibly be here with me?”

  “Never mind. Beba called me. Mimì told her he would have to do another stakeout tomorrow night.”

  Good. That meant he had calculated correctly.

  “Did you tell Beba to be patient a little while longer?”

  “Yes. But you’re not being straight with me.”

  “What am I not being straight—”

  “You’re not alone.”

  Jesus, what a nose! What, did she have antennae or something ? Did she talk with the dead?

  “Come on, knock it off!”

  “Swear it!”

  “If you really care that much, I swear it.”

  “Bah. Good night.”

  Well, that was that. Livia had got what she deserved. She had pushed things so far that he, in all innocence, had been forced to lie to her, and to swear to the lie. In all innocence? Not so fast! In reality he wasn’t all that innocent. Livia had been right on target. It was true there was another person there with him, and a woman at that, but how could he ever have explained to her that this woman wasn’t . . . He imagined how their conversation would have gone.

  “But she’s sleeping in our bed!”

  Dammit and dammit again! She was right. That bed was not just his; it was both of theirs.

  “Yes, but, you see, she’s going to leave afterwards.”

  “Afterwards? After what?”

  Forget about it.

  He went back out on the veranda and sat down. Reaching into his pocket, he dug out Mimì’s letter, which he had brought with him to show Ingrid, later changing his mind. He didn’t reread it, but only stared at the envelope, thinking.

  Why had Mimì had Galluzzo copy a letter so personal and confidential? This was one of the first questions he’d asked himself when Galluzzo brought it to him. Mimì could very well have typed it up himself, stuck it in an envelope, and had someone pass it on to him, if he really didn’t want to do it in person.

  Didn’t Mimì realize that in so doing he was involving a third party in the delicate situation between the two of them? And then, why choose Galluzzo of all people, who had a loose tongue and a journalist for a brother-in-law?

  Wait a minute. Maybe there was an explanation. What if, in fact, Mimì had done it on purpose? Steady, Montalbà, you’re almost there.

  Mimì had acted in this fashion because he wanted others to know about the matter—because he wanted it to have a certain amount of publicity.

  And why would he do that? Simple: because he wanted to put his—Montalbano’s—back to the wall. In so doing, the matter could no longer be resolved in secret, behind closed doors, far from the eyes of others. No, in this way Mimì would force him to give an official reply, whatever it was. Smart move, no doubt about it.

  He picked up the envelope, pulled out the letter, and reread it. There were at least two things about the letter that caught his attention.

  The first was the tone.

  When Mimì had asked him in person what his intentions were as to who should conduct the investigation, ruling out any possibility of collaboration, he was aggressive, rude, obnoxious, scornful.

  In the letter, on the other hand, his tone had changed. Here, in fact, he presented the reasons for his request, explaining that he needed space and total autonomy. He let it be known that there wasn’t enough breathing room for him in the police department. And this was understandable. Mimì had been working for many years under him, and very rarely had he given him free rein. He had to be honest and recognize this.

  In the letter he also said that by entrusting the case to him, the inspector could put all of Mimì’s abilities to the test.

  In conclusion, Mimì was asking for help.

  Exactly that. He had even used the word: help. A word that a man like Mimì didn’t use lightly.

  Think harder, Montalbà, try to reflect with an open mind, without anger, without falling prey to resentment.

  Wasn’t it possible that Mimì’s aggressive, belligerent attitude was his own very personal way of calling to other people’s attention a situation he couldn’t get out of alone?

  All right, let’s admit this. Then what did the investigation have to do with it? Why was Mimì so fixated on it? Why had it become, from one day to the next, so important to his very existence?

  One possible answer might be that, once he was involved in a difficult, complex investigation, Mimì would inevitably find he had less time to spend on his mistress. And so he could ease up on his relations with the woman, take the first steps towards a definitive break.

  Ingrid was probably right on target when she said that Mimì might be falling seriously in love and wanted to prevent this, since Beba and the baby were caught in the middle.

  He reread the letter a third time.

  When he got to the last sentence—Whatever you should decide, my great affection and esteem for you will always remain unchanged—he immediately felt his eyes water and his chest tighten up. Mimì had written “affection” first, and “esteem” after.

  The inspector buried his face in his hands, finally giving full vent to his sadness—and to his anger at not having immediately grasped, as he would have done a few years earlier, the gravity of his friend’s predicament, who was so much a friend that he named his first son after him.

  At that moment he felt Ingrid’s presence on the veranda.

  He hadn’t heard her approach, convinced she was still asleep. He didn’t look at her, too embarrassed at having been caught by surprise at a moment of weakness he was unable to bring to an end.

  Then Ingrid turned off the light.

  And it was as though at the same time she had turned on the sea, which now emitted a pale, almost phosphorescent glow, and the distant, scattered lights of the stars.

  From an invisible boat, a man cried out:

  “Giuvà! Giuvà!”

  But no one replied.

  Absurdly, the reply that never came was like the last painful rent in Montalbano’s chest. He started weeping without restraint.

  Ingrid sat down on the bench beside him, held him tight, and made it so that Montalbano could rest his head on her shoulder.

  Then, with her left hand she raised his chin and gave him a long kiss on the lips.

  It was six o’clock in the morning when he drove Ingrid back to the Marinella Bar to pick up her car.

  He didn’t feel like sleeping. On the contrary, he felt an overwhelming need to wash himself, to take a shower so long it would use up all the water in the tanks. When he got home, he undressed, put on his bathing suit, and went down to the beach.

  It was cold. It was a little while yet before sunrise, and a light wind made of billions of tiny steel blades was blowing.

  Like almost every morning, Cosimo Lauricella was easing back into the water the rowboat he had pulled ashore the previous evening. He was an elderly fisherman who every so often brought the inspector fresh-caught fish and never accepted any payment.

  “Isspector, I don’ think iss such a good idea this morning.”

  “Just a little dip, Cosimo.”

  He stepped into the water, overcame an immediate attack of paralysis, dived under, and had taken a few arm-strokes when all at once the night’s darkness returned.

  “How is that possible?” he had just enough time to think before feeling the seawater rush into his mouth.

  He woke up in Cosimo’s boat with the fisherman pounding him with his fist.

  “Shit, Isspector, you sure gave me a scare! I tol’ you it wasn’t such a good idea today! Good thing I was here, or you woulda drownded!”

  Once ashore, Cosimo wanted to accompany him all t
he way home and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “No more o’ these pranks, Isspector, I mean it. Iss one thing when you’re a kid, but iss another thing later on.”

  “Thanks, Cosimo,” he said. But he was thinking: Thanks not so much for having saved my life as for not having called me an old man.

  But, as the saying goes, if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck.

  Mature, elderly, of a certain age, no longer young, getting on in years: all ways to soften but not change an essential fact—that he was getting unavoidably, irremediably old.

  He went into the kitchen, put a six-cup espresso pot on the stove, then drank the scalding-hot coffee from a big mug.

  Afterwards he got into the shower and used up all the water, imagining Adelina’s curses when she realized she couldn’t clean the house, scrub the floors, probably not even cook.

  In the end he felt a little cleaner.

  “Ah Chief Chief! Dacter Arcà’s been lookin’ f ’yiz an’ he sez a tell yiz a call ’im at Frensix.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you when I want you to ring him for me.”

  First he needed to do something more urgent.

  He went into his office, locked the door behind him, sat down at his desk, dug Mimì’s letter out of his pocket, and read it one more time.

  The previous evening, when he had started mulling over Mimì’s words, he was struck by two things. The first was the tone, and the second . . .

  The second had slipped his mind because Ingrid had woken up. And even now, try as he might, he could not recall it.

  And so he took a ballpoint pen and a clean sheet of paper without letterhead, thought things over a bit, and started writing.

  7

  Dear Mimì,

  I have read your letter very carefully.

  It did not surprise me, given your attitude over the last few weeks.

  I even understand, in part, your reasons for writing it.

  And thus I am (almost) convinced I should meet you halfway.