The Potter's Field (8 page)

“Where is it?”

“We sent it to Palermo, to Professor Lomascolo's lab.”

Arquà hung up. Montalbano carefully wiped away the sweat that was drenching his brow and redialed the number.

“Arquà? Montalbano again. I'm truly sorry to bother you again.”

“Speak.”

“If I may, I forgot something important.”

“What did you forget?”

“To tell you to go fuck yourself.”

He hung up. If he hadn't got it out of his system, he might be on edge for the rest of the evening. All in all, however, the fact that the bridge was in the hands of Professor Lomascolo was good news. The professor was a real authority and would surely be able to glean some information from that bridge. And the inspector, moreover, had always got on well with him. But it was clear by now that if by some stroke of luck this case ever managed to move ahead, it would move very slowly.

Back in Marinella, he dawdled about the house for an hour or so. Before sitting down in front of the television he decided to call Livia and apologize for the quarrel of the previous night.

“Ah, at last the great Montalbano deigns to grant me an audience!” Livia said angrily.

A joyous start is the best of guides
, as Matteo Maria Boiardo famously said.

If this was Livia's tone starting out, how would the phone call end? With an exchange of nuclear missiles? And how should he proceed now? With a nasty retort? No, it was better to take the temperature down a few degrees and find out why she was so upset.

“Darling, you've got to believe me, I wasn't able to call you any sooner because—”

“But it was
I
who called
you
, and you refused to talk to me! God Almighty in heaven can't find a minute to talk to me!”

Montalbano balked.

“You called me? When?”

“This morning, at your office.”

“Maybe they didn't put the call through to me...”

“But they did! They most certainly did!”

“Are you sure?”

“I talked to Catarella and he told me you were busy and couldn't pick up.”

He suddenly remembered that Catarella had told him there was a “Signorina Zita” on the line...

“Livia, it was a simple misunderstanding! Catarella didn't make it clear to me that it was you. He only said there was a ‘Signorina Zita'—
zita,
you see, means ‘girlfriend' to us, but it's also a common surname around here! And since I didn't know any young women by the name of Zita—”

“Just forget about it.”

“Livia, try to understand. It was a simple mistake, I tell you! On top of that, you never call me at the office. What did you want to tell me?”

“I wanted you to call me tonight, because I had something important to talk to you about.”

“Well, isn't that what I did? I called you on my own initiative. What's this important thing, then?”

“This morning, before leaving for work, I got a very long phone call from Beba. She's mad at you.”

“Beba? Mad at me? Why?”

“She says you've been treating Mimì very badly.”

“And what on earth has Mr. Augello been telling Beba?”

“Are you saying it's not true?”

“Well, it's true that lately he's become very irritable and we've had a few arguments, but nothing serious . . . Treating him badly! He's the one who's become impossible to deal with, and in fact I had planned to ask you if by any chance Beba had mentioned anything to you about all this irritability on Mimì's part.”

“So you don't know why he's so irritable?”

“I assure you I don't.”

“Have you forgotten all the times you've sent him on stakeouts in the middle of the night over the past month? And which you continue to do practically every other night?”

Montalbano remained silent, mouth agape.

What the hell was Livia talking about? Was she just babbling?

Over the past month they had done only one nighttime stakeout, and Fazio had handled it alone.

“Aren't you going to say anything?”

“Well, it's just that...”

“Then I'll go on. The other evening, for example, Mimì came home with a touch of fever after having spent the whole day in the rain to recover a dead body in a bag . . . Is that true or not?”

“Yes, that's true.”

“Then, just after Mimì had finished eating dinner and wanted to go to bed, you phoned him and forced him to get dressed again and spend the night outside again. Don't you think you're being a little sadistic?”

What was going on? Why was Mimì telling Beba all these lies? Whatever the case, it was probably best, for the time being, to let Livia believe that what Mimì said was true.

“Well, I guess . . . but it's not sadism, Livia. The fact is that I have so few men that I can really trust . . . At any rate, try to reassure Beba. Tell her just to be patient for a little while longer, and that once I get some new personnel, I won't take advantage of Mimì anymore.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.”

This time the phone call didn't end in a quarrel. Because no matter what Livia said, he always agreed, like an automaton.

After talking to Livia, he felt so weak he couldn't move. He remained standing beside the little table, receiver in hand. Numb. Embalmed. Then, dragging his feet, he went and sat down on the veranda. Unfortunately there was only one possible explanation for Mimì's lies. Because it was well known that Mimì didn't drink, didn't gamble, didn't run with the wrong crowd. He had only one vice, if it was indeed a vice. Surely, after almost two years of marriage, Mimì had grown tired of going to bed every night with the same woman and had resumed his wandering ways. Before marrying Beba, his life was a continually revolving door of women, and apparently he had gone back to his old habits. The excuse he gave to his wife so that he could spend nights away from home was perfect. He hadn't foreseen, however, that Beba would talk about it with Livia and that Livia would talk about it in turn with his superior. But one question remained. Why
was
Mimì so irritable? Why was he so at odds with everyone? It used to be that after Mimì had been with a woman, he would show up at work purring like a cat after a good meal. This new relationship must therefore be a burden on him. He wasn't taking it lightly. Perhaps because, before, he didn't have to answer to anybody, whereas now, when he went home, he was forced to lie to Beba, to deceive her. He must be feeling something that had never even crossed his mind before: a strong sense of guilt.

In conclusion, he, Montalbano, had to intervene, even if it was the last thing he felt like doing. There was no getting around it; he had to, like it or not. If he didn't, Mimì would keep staying out nights, saying it was by order of his boss, Beba would complain again to Livia, and this would break his balls for all eternity. He had to step in, more for his own peace of mind than for that of Mimì and his family.

But intervene how?

That was the rub. A heart-to-heart talk with Mimì was out of the question. If Mimì indeed had a woman, he would deny it. He was capable of claiming he went out at night to help the homeless. That he'd felt suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to be charitable. No, first it had to be confirmed with absolute certainty that Mimì had a mistress, and he had to find out when and where these nocturnal trysts took place. But how? The inspector needed someone to lend him a hand. But who could he talk to about this? He certainly couldn't get anyone from the police department mixed up in it, not even Fazio. It had to remain a strictly private matter between Mimì, him, and, at the very most, a third person. A friend. Yes, only a friend could help him out. And he thought of the right person for the job. But he slept badly just the same, waking up three or four times with a big lump of melancholy in his chest.

The next morning he called Catarella at the station and told him he'd be coming in a bit later than usual. Then he waited until ten o'clock, an acceptably civilized hour to wake a lady, and made his second phone call of the morning.

“Hullo? Who are you?”

It was a basso voice. With a Russian accent. Probably an ex-general of the Red Army born in some former Soviet republic beyond Siberia. One of Ingrid's specialties was hiring domestic servants from lands so obscure you had to look them up in a world atlas to find out where they were.

“Who are you?” the general repeated imperiously.

Despite his concerns, Montalbano felt like screwing around.

“Look, my parents gave me what you might call a provisional name, but who I really am in fact is not so easy to say. I'm not sure if I've made myself clear.”

“You make very clear. You have existential doubt? You lost identity and now cannot find?”

Montalbano felt bewildered. How could he possibly discuss philosophy with an ex-general so early in the morning?

“Look, I'm sorry. This is a fascinating discussion, but I don't have much time at the moment. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

“Yes. But first you tell me provisional name.”

“Montalbano. Salvo Montalbano.”

He had to wait awhile. This time, in addition to the multiplication table for seven, he reviewed the one for eight. And after that, for six as well.

“Forgive me, Salvo, I was in the shower. How nice to hear from you!”

“Who's the general?”

“What general?”

“The one who answered the phone.”

“He's not a general! His name's Igor, he's a former philosophy professor.”

“And what's he doing at your place?”

“He's earning a living, Salvo. Working as my butler. When they had communism in Russia, he was a virulent anti-Communist. And so first he was forbidden to teach, and then he ended up in prison. And when he got out, he went hungry.”

“But Russia's no longer Communist.”

“Of course, but in the meantime he became a Communist. A revolutionary Communist. And so he was forbidden to teach again. So he decided to emigrate. But tell me about yourself. It's been ages since I last saw you. I would really like to see you.”

“We can meet tonight, if you want—if you're not already engaged.”

“I can get free. Shall we go out to dinner?”

“Yes. Meet me at eight, at the Marinella Bar.”

He hadn't managed to take a single step before the phone rang.

“Ahh Chief! Ahh Chief Chief!”

Bad sign. Catarella was reciting the commissionerial lamentations.

“What's wrong?”

“Ahh Chief Chief! The c'mishner called! An' 'e was mad as a buff 'lo! Smoke was comin out 'is nostrils!”