The Potter's Field (9 page)

“Wait a second, Cat. Who ever told you buffaloes blow smoke out their nostrils when they get mad?”

“Ivrybody says so, Chief. I even seen it on TV, in cartoons.”

“Okay, okay. What did he want?”

“He says as how you gotta go to his office, the c'mishner's office, emergently right now! Jeesus, was 'e ever mad, Chief!”

And why should Bonetti-Alderighi be mad at him? he asked himself on his way to Montelusa. Lately there had been dead calm at work: only a few robberies, a few kidnappings, a few shootouts, a few torched cars and shops. The only new development had been the discovery of the body in the bag, too recent to provide the c'mishner with any reason to be pissed off. More than worried, the inspector was curious.

The first person he encountered in the corridor leading to the commissioner's office was the priestlike, cloying cabinet chief, Dr. Lattes, also known as “Lattes e mieles.” As soon as he saw the inspector, Lattes opened his arms, like the pope when he greets the throng from his window.

And he ran up to Montalbano, grasped his hand, shook it vigorously, and, immediately changing expression, asked him in a conspiratorial tone:

“Any news of the wife?”

Lattes was fixated on the misconception that the inspector was married with children, and there was no way to convince him otherwise. Montalbano froze in terror at the question. What the hell had he told the man the previous time they had met? Luckily, he remembered he'd confessed that his wife had run off with an immigrant. Moroccan? Tunisian ? He couldn't remember the details. He slapped a smile of contentment on his face.

“Ah, good Dr. Lattes! I have excellent news! My wife is back under the conjugal roof.”

Dr. Lattes went into raptures.

“How wonderful! How very wonderful! Giving thanks to the Blessed Virgin, the home fires are burning again!”

“Yes, and it's getting pretty toasty in there now! We're even saving on the utility bills!”

Lattes gave him a puzzled look. He hadn't quite understood. Then he said:

“I'll let the commissioner know you're here.”

He disappeared, then reappeared.

“The commissioner will see you now.”

But he was still a bit perplexed.

Bonetti-Alderighi did not look up from the papers he was reading, and did not invite him to sit down. At last he leaned back in his armchair and looked at the inspector a long time without saying anything.

“Do you find me very different from the last time we saw each other?” Montalbano asked him, donning a worried expression.

He bit his tongue. Why could he never resist provoking the commissioner whenever he found himself standing before him?

“Montalbano, how old are you?”

“I was born in 1950. You do the math.”

“So we can say you're a mature man.”

If I'm mature, then you must be over the hill
, Montalbano thought. But he said:

“If you want to say so, go right ahead.”

“Then can you explain to me why you behave like a child?”

What were these words supposed to mean? When had he behaved like a child? A quick review of his recent memory brought nothing to mind.

“I don't understand.”

“Then let me explain a little better.”

The commissioner picked up a book, under which was a tiny piece of paper with torn edges. He handed this to the inspector. It was the start of a letter, a phrase of a word and a half, but Montalbano immediately recognized the handwriting. It belonged to former police commissioner Burlando, who had written to him often after retiring. So how had this scrap of an old letter ended up in Bonetti-Alderighi's hands? Whatever the case, what did that word and a half have to do with the accusation that he had behaved like a child? Montalbano assumed a defensive stance, just in case.

“What's this piece of paper supposed to mean?” he asked, his expression halfway between shock and surprise.

“Don't you recognize the handwriting?”

“No.”

“Would you read it aloud, please?”

“Certainly. ‘
Dear Mont
.' That's all it says.”

“And in your opinion, what might the whole name be?”

“I dunno, but I could take a few guesses. Dear Montale—who would be the poet—Dear Montanelli—who would be the journalist—Dear Montezuma—who was king of the Aztecs—Dear Montgomery—who was that English general who—”

“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.”