Read The Potter's Field Online

Authors: Andrea Camilleri

The Potter's Field (2 page)

BOOK: The Potter's Field
2.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
The room was lit up, but the commissioner was no longer there. Sitting in his place was a short, stocky man with a
coppola
on his head, whom Montalbano recognized at once. Totò Riina! He'd been freed from prison! So Bonetti-Alderighi hadn't gone mad after all! What he'd said was the unvarnished truth!
“Evenin',” said Riina. “Sorry to burst in on you like dis, an' at dis hour, but I don't got much time, and ousside dere's a helicopter waitin' a take me to Rome to form the new guv'ment. I already got a few names: Bernardo Provenzano for vice president, one of the Caruana brothers for foreign minister, Leoluca Bagarella at Defense . . . So I come here wit' one quession for you, Inspector Montalbano, an' you gotta tell me yes or no straightaway. You wanna be my minister of the interior?”
But before Montalbano could answer, Catarella appeared in the room. He must have come in through the open front door. He was holding a revolver in his hand and aiming it at the inspector. Big tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Chief, if you say yes to this 'ere criminal, I'm gonna kill you poissonally in poisson!”
Talking, however, distracted Catarella, and Riina, quick as a snake, whipped out his own gun and fired. The light in the room went out, and . . .
Montalbano woke up. The only real thing in the dream he'd just had was the storm rattling the shutters, which he had left open. He got up and closed them, then got back into bed after looking at the clock. Four in the morning. He wanted to seize hold of sleep again, but found himself arguing with the other Montalbano behind his stubbornly closed eyes.
What was the meaning of that dream?
Why do you want to find a meaning in it, Montalbà? Don't you very often have dreams that don't mean a goddamn thing?
That's what you think, because you're an ignorant beast. They may mean nothing to you, but go tell that to Dr. Freud, and you'll see what he can pull out of them!
But why should I tell my dreams to Freud?
Because if you're unable to explain your dream, or have it explained to you, you'll never get back to sleep.
Oh, all right. Ask me a question.
Of all the things in the dream, what made the strongest impression on you?
The change.
Which one?
When I come out of the kitchen and find Totò Riina in Bonetti-Alderighi's place.
Explain.
Well, in the place of the representative of the law, there's the
numero uno
of the Mafia, the boss of people who are outside the law.
So, what you're telling me is that in your own living room, in your own home, there with all your things, you found yourself playing host to the law and to people outside the law.
So what?
Could it be that in your mind the boundary between the law and those outside the law has been getting a little more blurry each day?
Cut the shit!
All right, let's look at it another way. What did they ask of you?
Bonetti-Alderighi asked me to help him, to hide him at my house.
And did that surprise you?
Of course!
And what did Riina ask you?
He asked me to be his minister of the interior.
And did that surprise you?
Well, yeah.
Did it surprise you as much as the commissioner's question? Or did it surprise you more? Or less? Answer sincerely.
Well, no, it surprised me less.
Why less? Do you consider it normal that a Mafia boss should ask you to work for him?
No, that's not how I would put it. Riina, at that moment, wasn't a Mafia boss any longer, he was about to become prime minister! And it was as prime minister that he asked me to work for him.
Hold it right there. There are two ways to look at this. Either you think that the fact of someone's becoming prime minister cancels out all his prior crimes, murders and massacres included, or else you belong to that category of cops who always serve, no matter what, whoever happens to be in power, an honest man or a criminal, whether a Fascist or a Communist. To which of these two categories do you belong?
Wait a minute! That's too easy!
Why do you say that?
Because then Catarella appeared!
And what does that mean?
It means that I, in fact, said no to Riina's offer.
But you didn't even open your mouth!
I said it through Catarella. He pops up, points his gun at me, and tells me he'll kill me if I accept. It's as if Catarella was my conscience.
Now there's something new from you! Catarella, your conscience?
Why not? Do you remember the time that journalist asked me if I believed in my guardian angel? When I answered yes, he asked me if I'd ever seen him. And I said, “Yes, I see him every day.” “Does he have a name?” the journalist asked. And without missing a beat, I said, “His name is Catarella.” I was joking, of course. But later on, after thinking it over, I realized that only a small part of it was in jest, and the rest was the truth.
Conclusion?
The question should be read in the opposite way. The scene with Catarella means that rather than accept Riina's offer, I was ready to shoot myself.
Are you sure, Montalbà, that Freud would have interpreted it this way?
You know what I say to you? That I don't give a flying fuck about Freud. Now let me get some sleep, I can hardly keep my eyes open anymore.
When he woke up it was already past nine. He didn't see any lightning or hear any thunder, but the weather certainly was nasty outside. Why bother to get up? His two old wounds ached. And a few little pains, unpleasant companions of his age, had awakened with him. He was better off sleeping for another couple of hours. He got up, went into the dining room, unplugged the phone, went back to bed, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes.
Barely half an hour later he opened them again, awakened by the phone's insistent ringing. But how the hell could the phone be ringing if he'd unplugged it? And if it wasn't the phone making that sound, what was it? The doorbell, idiot! He felt a kind of motor oil, dense and viscous, circulating in his brain. Seeing his trousers on the floor, he put them on and went to the door, cursing the saints.
It was Catarella, out of breath.
“Ahh, Chief, Chief!...”
“Listen, don't tell me anything, don't talk at all. I'll tell you when you can open your mouth. I'm going to get back into bed, and you're going to go into the kitchen, brew me a pot of good strong coffee, pour it all into a big mug, put in three teaspoons of sugar, and bring it to me. Then you can tell me whatever it is you have to say.”
When Catarella returned with the steaming mug, he had to shake the inspector to wake him up. During those ten minutes he had fallen back into a deep sleep.
What is this, anyway?
he thought as he was sipping his coffee, which tasted like reheated chicory broth. Isn't it well-known that the older you get, the less sleep you need? So why was it that in his case, the more the years went by, the more he slept?
“ 'Ow's the coffee taste, Chief?”
“Perfect, Cat.”
And he raced into the bathroom to rinse his mouth, for fear he might start vomiting.
“Cat, is this a pressing matter?”
“Relative, Chief.”
“All right, then, give me a few minutes to shower and get dressed.”
When all clean and dressed, he went into the kitchen and made himself a proper pot of coffee.
Going back into the dining room, he found Catarella in front of the French doors that gave onto the veranda. He had opened the shutters.
It was pouring. The sea had, in fact, come all the way up to the veranda, shaking it from time to time with the undertow of a particularly strong wave.
“C'n I talk now, Chief ?” Catarella asked.
“Yes.”
“They found a dead body.”
Ah, what a discovery! What a find! Apparently the corpse of someone who'd died a “white death”—the shorthand used by journalists when someone suddenly disappears without so much as saying goodbye—had resurfaced somewhere. But why give death any color at all? White death! As if death could also be green, yellow, and so on . . . Actually, if one had to give death a color, there could only be one: black, black as pitch.
“Is it fresh?”
“They din't say, Chief.”
“Where'd they find it?”
“Out inna country, Chief. Pizzutello districk.”
Imagine that. A desolate, godforsaken place, all sheer drops and jagged spurs, where a corpse could feel at home and never be discovered.
“Have any of our people been out to see it?”
“Yessir, Chief, Fazio and Isspector Augello's at the premisses.”
“So why'd you come and bust
my
balls?”
“Chief, y'gotta unnastand, 's was Isspector Augello 'at call me and tell me to tell yiz yer poissonal presence 's 'ndisposable. An' so, seein' as how 's was no answer when I tried a call yiz onna phone, I took the Jeep and come out here poissonally in poisson.”
“Why'd you take the Jeep?”
“Cuz the reggler car coun't never make it to that place, Chief.”
“All right then, let's go.”
“Chief, 'e also tol' me to tell yiz iss bitter if y' put on some boots an' a raincoat, an sump'n a cover y'head.”
The pinwheel of curses that burst from Montalbano's mouth left Catarella trembling.
The deluge showed no sign of letting up. They rolled along almost blindly, as the windshield wipers were unable to sweep the water away. On top of this, the last half mile before reaching the spot where the corpse had been found felt like a cross between a roller coaster and an 8.0 earthquake at its peak. The inspector's bad mood deteriorated into a silence so heavy that it made Catarella nervous, and he began to drive in such a way as not to miss a single pothole now become a lake.
“Did you remember to bring life preservers?”
Catarella didn't answer, wishing only that he were the corpse they were going to see. At one point Montalbano's stomach turned upside down, bringing the nauseating taste of Catarella's coffee back up into his throat and mouth.
Finally, by the grace of God, they pulled up alongside the other Jeep that Augello and Fazio had taken. The only problem was that there was no sign anywhere of Augello or Fazio, or of any corpse whatsoever.
“Are we playing hide-and-seek or something?” Montalbano inquired.
BOOK: The Potter's Field
2.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Exchange of Princesses by Chantal Thomas
To Trust a Thief by Michelle McLean
League of Dragons by Naomi Novik
Blood and Bondage by Annalynne Russo
Hard by Kathryn Thomas
Angel of Doom by James Axler
An Italian Affair by Jodi Luann