The Potter's Field

by Andrea Camilleri

  With the old Mafia, it was different. They explained, informed, and clarified. Not aloud, of course, or in print. No. But through signs.

  The old Mafia were experts in semiology, the science of signs used to communicate.

  Murdered with a thorny branch of prickly pear placed on the body?

  We did it because he pricked us one too many times with his thorns and troubles.

  Murdered with a rock inside his mouth?

  We did it because he talked too much.

  Murdered with both hands cut off?

  We did it because we caught him with his hands in the cookie jar.

  Murdered with his balls shoved into his mouth?

  We did it because he was fucking someone he shouldn’t have been.

  Murdered with his shoes on his chest?

  We did it because he wanted to run away.

  Murdered with both eyes gouged out?

  We did it because he refused to see the obvious.

  Murdered with all his teeth pulled out?

  We did it because he ate too much.

  And so on merrily in this fashion.

  For this reason, the meaning of the message was immediately clear to Montalbano: We killed him as he deserved, because he betrayed us for thirty pieces of silver, like Judas.

  Thus the logical conclusion was that the murdered stranger was a mafioso, “executed” because he was a traitor. Which amounted, finally, to a first step forward.

  Wait a second, Montalbà. Maybe you’ve been touched by divine Grace.

  Yes indeed. Because if the argument made sense, and boy did it ever make sense, it might be possible to get free of this case, to sidestep it with elegance.

  In fact, if the victim was a mafioso, the matter might not be his concern anymore, but the Antimafia Commission’s.

  He cheered up. Yes, this was the right path to take. And, most importantly, it got rid of the troublesome question of Mimì.

  First thing tomorrow morning, he would go to Montelusa to talk to Musante, a colleague in charge of local Mafia matters.

  8

  Meanwhile, however, he had to kill some time while waiting for Ingrid’s phone call.

  He played the only three versions of solitaire he knew, without cheating as he often did. He played over and over, without winning a single hand.

  He went to his bookcase to fetch a book Livia had bought, titled Solitaire for the Solitary. The first version belonged to the category the author defined as the easiest. The inspector couldn’t even understand how the cards were supposed to be set up. Then he played a game of chess against himself, changing places with each move, so that he would seem like a real opponent. Fortunately, it was a long match. But the opponent won with a brilliant move. And Montalbano felt upset with himself for having lost.

  “Care for a rematch?” his adversary asked.

  “No, thanks,” Montalbano replied to himself.

  His opponent would probably have won the rematch, too.

  Careful inspection, in front of the bathroom mirror, of a tiny little pimple beside his nose. Bitter acknowledgment of a certain amount of hair loss. Failed attempt at counting same (approximately, that is).

  Second game of chess, also lost, resulting in hurling of various objects against the walls.

  The phone call never came. Instead, around six o’clock in the morning—by which time, at the end of his rope, he had collapsed on his bed—he heard the sound of a car pulling up in the parking space in front of the house. He raced to open the door. It was Ingrid, half-frozen to death.

  “Give me some steaming hot tea. I’m freezing.”

  “But weren’t you used to much colder—”

  “I guess I’m not anymore.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I parked on a side street from where I could keep an eye on Mimì’s front door. He came out at ten, got into his car, which was parked right in front, and drove off. He was very agitated.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “From the way he drove.”

  “Here’s your tea. Shall we go into the living room?”

  “No. Let’s stay in the kitchen. Would you believe that for a moment I thought he was coming to see you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was headed for Marinella. But then . . . You know where, just when you reach the seafront, there’s a filling station on the right that’s no longer in use?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, a short way past the station, there’s an unpaved road that goes up the hill. That’s where he turned. I know that road because it leads up to some houses, including one that I’ve been to a few times. I had to keep fairly close behind his car because the road intersects with quite a few others that lead to the different houses. If he’d turned off the main road, it would have been hard to keep following him. But in fact he stopped in front of the fourth house on the right, got out, opened the gate, and went in.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I continued on.”

  “You passed behind him?”

  “Yes, but he turned around.”

  “Damn!”

  “Calm down. There’s no way he could have recognized me. I’ve only had my Micra for a week.”

  “Yes, but you yourself are very—”

  “Recognizable? Even with sunglasses and a great big hat à la Greta Garbo?”

  “Let’s hope you’re right. Go on.”

  “A little bit later I came back, but with the engine turned off. Mimì’s car was in the yard. He’d gone inside.”

  “Did you wait for the woman to arrive?”

  “Of course. Until half an hour ago. I never saw her arrive.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “Look, Salvo, when I drove past the house the first time, I swear I saw the light on inside. There was already someone there waiting for him.”

  “You mean the woman lives there?”

  “Not necessarily. Mimì left his car in the yard. He didn’t put it in the little garage next to the house, maybe because the woman had already put her own car in it when she got there earlier.”

  “But, Ingrid, the garage might have the woman’s car in it not because she got there shortly before Mimì, but because she lives there.”

  “That’s also possible. At any rate, Mimì didn’t knock or ring a bell when he arrived. He opened the gate with a key he already had.”

  “Why didn’t you wait a little longer?”

  “Because too many people were starting to pass by.”

  “Thanks,” said Montalbano.

  “Thanks? That’s all?” asked Ingrid.

  “Thanks, and that’s all,” said Montalbano.

  Before leaving the house just before nine o’clock, the inspector phoned the Antimafia Commission’s Montelusa office.

  “Hello, Musante? Montalbano here.”

  “Carissimo! What a pleasure to hear from you! What can I do for you?”

  “Could I drop by this morning? There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, it shouldn’t take long.”

  “Could you come in about an hour? I’ve got a meeting afterwards that—”

  “Thanks, see you in a bit.”

  He got in his car, and when he was at the abandoned filling station, he did an extremely slow U-turn that unleashed the worst homicidal instincts in the drivers behind him.

  “Asshole!”

  “Faggot!”

  “Blow you away, muthafucka!”

  He turned onto the unpaved road, and after a short stretch passed by the fourth house. Windows shuttered, garage door down. The gate, however, was open because an old man was working in the garden, which was well tended. The inspector stopped, parked the car, got out, and started looking at the house.

  “Looking for someone?” asked the old man.

  “Yes. A Mr. Casanova, who’s supposed to live here.”

  “Afraid not, sir. You’re mistaken. Nobody lives here.”

  “But who owns the ho
use?”

  “Mr. Pecorini. But he only comes here in summertime.”

  “Where can I find this Mr. Pecorini?”

  “He’s in Catania. Works at the port, at customs.”

  He got back in the car and headed for the station. If he got to Montelusa five minutes late, too bad. He parked in the station’s lot but remained in the car, pressed his hand on the horn and did not let up until Catarella appeared in the doorway.

  Seeing the inspector in his car, he came running up.

  “Whattizzit, Chief? Whass wrong?”

  “Fazio around?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Call’im.”

  Fazio arrived like a bat out of hell.

  “Fazio, get moving, fast. I want to know everything there is to know about a certain Pecorini who works at customs in the port of Catania.”

  “Should I proceed with caution, Chief?”

  “Yeah, it’s probably better if you do.”

  The local headquarters of the national Antimafia Commission consisted of four offices on the fifth floor of the Montelusa Central Police building. As the elevator was, as usual, out of order, Montalbano started climbing the stairs. Looking up when he’d reached the third floor, he saw Dr. Lattes descending. To avoid the usual hassle of answering his idiotic questions about the family, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, heaving his shoulders as if he were weeping uncontrollably. Dr. Lattes recoiled against the wall and let him pass, not daring to say a word.

  “Want some coffee?” asked Musante.

  “No, thanks,” said Montalbano.

  He didn’t trust what passed for coffee in law enforcement offices.

  “So, tell me everything.”

  “Well, Musante, I believe I have a homicide on my hands that looks like the work of the Mafia.”

  “Stop right there. Answer me a question. In what form are you going to say what you are about to say to me?”

  “In trochaic pentameter.”

  “C’mon, Montalbano, be serious.”

  “Sorry, but I didn’t understand your question.”

  “I meant, are you telling me this officially or unofficially?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “If it’s official, then I have to write up a transcript; if it’s unofficial, I have to have a witness present.”

  “I see.”

  Apparently they didn’t take any chances at the Antimafia Commission. Given the ties between the Mafia and the upper echelons of business, industry, and government, it was best to cover one’s ass and proceed with caution.

  “Since you’re a friend, I’ll give you a choice of witnesses. Gullotta or Campana?”

  “Gullotta.”

  The inspector knew him well and liked him.

  Musante went out and returned a few minutes later with Gullotta, who smiled as he shook Montalbano’s hand. It was clear he was happy to see him.

  “You can go on now,” said Musante.

  “I’m referring to the unknown man we found dismembered in a garbage bag. Have you heard about it?”

  “Yes,” said Musante and Gulotta in chorus.

  “Do you know how he was killed?”

  “No,” said the chorus.

  “With a bullet to the base of the skull.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed the chorus.

  At that moment there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in!” said the chorus in chorus.

  A mustachioed man of about fifty came in, looked at Montalbano, then looked at Musante and signaled to him that he wanted to tell him something. Musante stood up, the man whispered something in his ear and then left. Musante then gestured to Gullotta, who got up and went over to him. Musante whispered into Gullotta’s ear, and they both turned and looked at Montalbano. Then they looked at each other and sat back down.

  “If that was a mime scene, I didn’t get it,” said Montalbano.

  “Go on,” Musante said in a serious tone.

  “The fact of the shot to the base of the skull would already be one indication,” the inspector resumed. “But there’s more. Are you familiar with the Gospel according to St. Matthew?”

  “What?!” said Gullotta, thrown for a loop.

  Musante, for his part, bent down towards Montalbano, lay a hand on his knee, and asked him lovingly:

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right.”

  “You’re not upset?”

  “Not at all!”

  “Well, then why, just a few minutes ago, were you crying uncontrollably in the stairwell?”

  So that’s what the man with the mustache had come in to tell him! Montalbano felt lost. How was he ever going to explain the whole complicated affair to these two, who were looking at him with a combination of concern and suspicion? He’d hoisted himself with his own petard. He gave a sort of forced smile, took on (he knew not from where) a nonchalant air, and said:

  “Oh, that? It’s Dr. Lattes’s fault. He—”

  “Did he scold you or something? Raise his voice at you?” asked Musante, bemused.

  “Chew you out?” Gullotta laid it on.

  Was it possible neither of them could speak for himself? No, it wasn’t possible.

  Oliver and Hardy. A comical duo.

  “No, no, the whole thing is because, after I told him my wife had run away with an illegal immigrant, I—”

  “But you’re not married!” Musante reminded him, alarmed.

  “Or maybe you got married and never told us?” Gullotta hypothesized.

  “No, no, of course I’m not married. But, you see, since, afterwards, I told him my wife had returned for the children—”

  “You have children?” Gullotta asked him, amazed.

  “How old are they?” Musante followed.

  “No, no...”

  He lost heart. He couldn’t go on. Words failed him. He buried his face in his hands.

  “You’re not going to start crying again in here, are you?!” Musante asked him, alarmed.

  “Come on, have faith. There’s a solution to everything,” said Gullotta.

  How to explain? Start yelling? Break both their noses? Pull out his pistol and force them to listen? They would think him stark raving mad. He tried to remain calm, and in the effort, he started sweating.

  “Could you both do me a favor and just listen to me for five minutes?”

  “Of course, of course,” the chorus resumed.

  “The story that I was crying is true, though I wasn’t really crying.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  It was hopeless. By now they were convinced he was raving and were treating him gingerly, humoring him and pretending they agreed with him, the way one does with the insane so they won’t go berserk.

  “I swear I’m fine,” said the inspector. “I just want you to bear with me and pay attention.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  He told them the whole story, from the reading of the Camilleri book to his call to Dr. Pasquano. When he had finished, a thoughtful silence descended. But he had the impression that Musante and Gullotta had changed their minds and no longer considered him quite so crazy.

  “Do you find there’s method in my madness?” asked Montalbano.

  “Well . . .” said Gullotta, not catching his Shakespearean allusion.

  “In short, why did you come here and tell us all this?” asked Musante.

  Montalbano looked at him, stunned.

  “Because that dead body most assuredly belongs to a mafioso who was murdered by his colleagues. Or are you only interested in living mafiosi?”

  Musante and Gullotta exchanged a glance.

  “No,” said Gullotta. “We’re always interested, dead or alive. From what I can gather, you seem to want to unload the case on us.”

  “Since you’re a bit overwrought, you want to wash your hands of it,” Musante said in an understanding tone.

  Geez, what a pain!


  “Look, I’m not trying to unload anything, and I’m not overwrought.”

  “No? Then what are you trying to do?”

  “Yes, what, exactly?” Gullotta chimed in, introducing a notable variant into the repertoire.

  “Unless I am mistaken, all Mafia investigations in this jurisdiction belong to you, do they not?”

  “Yes, of course they do,” said Musante. “But only when we are certain that the Mafia are indeed implicated.”

  “One hundred percent certain,” said Gullotta.

  “So I didn’t convince you?”

  “Yes, you did, in part, and verbally. But we can’t very well go to our superiors saying that you became firmly convinced reading some silly novel like Camilleri’s...”

  “. . . and the Gospel according to Matthew,” Gullotta concluded.

  “How old are you?” Montalbano asked them.

  “I’m forty-two,” said Musante.

  “And I’m forty-four,” said Gullotta.

  “You’re too young,” Montalbano observed.

  “What do you mean?”

  They were talking in chorus again.

  “I mean you’ve become accustomed to today’s Mafia and no longer understand a thing about semiology.”

  “Semiology? I’ve never even—” Gullotta began doubtfully.

  “You see, Montalbano,” Musante interrupted him, “if you had actually identified the body, and we were certain that it belonged to a mafioso, then—”

  “I get it,” said the inspector. “You want your lunch served to you on fine china.”

  In perfect sync, the chorus threw their hands up in the air to express their regret.

  Montalbano stood up; the chorus stood up.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “If we can be of help...”

  “As far as you know, was there any notable Mafia activity in the Vigàta area about two months ago?”

  Montalbano realized that these words had got the attention of the two-man chorus. They had sort of straightened themselves up from the relaxed posture of goodbye they had assumed.

  “Why?” the chorus asked warily.