The Potter's Field

3

Just outside a town called Rattusa, he spotted a telephone booth that miraculously worked. He pulled up, got out of the car, and dialed a number.

“Is this Pippo Ragonese, the newsman?”

“In person. Who is this?”

“The name’s Russo, Luicino Russo. I’m a hunter,” said Montalbano, changing his voice.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Russo?”

“Iss happened again,” said the inspector in a conspiratorial tone of voice.

“I’m sorry, what’s happened again?”

“That satanic stuff you talked about lass night on TV. I foun’ two more bags.”

“Really?” asked Ragonese, immediately interested. “Where did you find them?”

“Right here,” said Montalbano, playing dumb.

“Here where?”

“Right here where I am.”

“Yes, but where are you?”

“In Spiranzella district, right by the four big olive trees.”

That is, about thirty miles from the newsman’s house.

“Wha’ should I do? Call the police?” asked Montalbano.

“No, there’s no need, we can do that together. You stay put for the moment. I’ll be there straightaway. And don’t tell anyone else, please, it’s very important.”

“You comin’ alone?”

“No, I’ll bring a cameraman as well.”

“Will he take me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will he take my pitcher? Will I be on TV? So all my friends’ll see me an’ I can brag about it?”

He got back into the car, drove to Spiranzella, left the two bags under one of the four olive trees, and drove off.

Entering the station, he found Catarella at his post.

“But didn’t you have a fever?”

“I got rid of it, Chief.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Took four aspirins an’ then drunk a glass o’ hot spicy wine an’ then got in bed an’ covered m’self up. An’ now iss gone.”

“Who’s here?”

“Fazio in’t here yet, an’ Isspector Augello called sayin’ as how he still had a little fever but would come in later in the morning.”

“Any news?”

“There’s a ginnelman wants a talk to yiz who’s name is—wait, I got it writ down somewheres—iss an easy name but I forgot it, wait, here it is: Mr. Giacchetta.”

“Does that seem like a forgettable name to you?”

“It happens to me sometimes, Chief.”

“All right, then, send him into my office after I go in.”

The man who came in was a well-dressed gentleman of about forty with a distinguished air, perfectly coiffed hair, mustache, eyeglasses, and the overall look of an ideal bank clerk.

“Please sit down, Mr. Giacchetta.”

“Giacchetti. Fabio Giacchetti’s the name.”

Montalbano cursed to himself. Why did he still believe the names Catarella passed on to him?

“What can I do for you, Mr. Giacchetti?”

The man sat down, carefully arranging the creases in his trousers and smoothing his mustache. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the inspector.

“Well?” said Montalbano.

“The truth of the matter is, I’m not sure I was right to come here.”

O matre santa! He’d happened upon a ditherer, a doubting Thomas, the worst kind of person who might ever walk into a police station.

“Listen, I can’t help you with that. It’s up to you to decide. It’s not like I can give you little hints the way they do on quiz shows.”

“Well, the fact is that last night I witnessed something . . . and that’s just it, I don’t know what it was . . . something I really don’t know how to define.”

“If you decide to tell me what it was, perhaps together we can arrive at a definition,” said Montalbano, who was beginning to feel something breaking in the general area of his balls. “If, on the other hand, you don’t tell me, then I’ll have to send you on your way.”

“Well, at the time, it seemed to me . . . at first, that is, it looked to me like a hit-and-run driver. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“Yes. Or at least I can tell a hit-and-run driver from a hit-and-run lover—you know, the kind with bedroom eyes and a little black book. Listen, Mr. Giacchetti, I haven’t got much time to waste. Let’s start at the beginning, all right? I’ll ask you a few questions, just to warm you up, so to speak.”

“Okay.”

“Are you from here?”

“No, I’m from Rome.”

“And what do you do here in Vigàta?”

“I started three months ago as manager of the branch office of the Banco Cooperativo.”

The inspector had been right on the money. The man could only be with a bank. You can tell right away: Those who handle other people’s money in the cathedrals of wealth that are the big banks end up acquiring something austere and reserved in their manner, something priestlike proper to those who practice secret rites such as laundering dirty money, engaging in legalized usury, using coded accounts, and illegally exporting capital offshore. They suffer, in short, from the same sorts of occupational deformities as undertakers, who, in handling corpses every day, end up looking like walking corpses themselves.

“Where do you live?”

“For now, while waiting to find a decent apartment, my wife and I are staying at a house on the Montereale road, as her parents’ guests. It’s their country home, but they’ve turned it over to us for the time being.”

“All right, then, if you’d be so kind as to tell me what happened . . .”

“Last night, around two A.M., my wife started going into labor, and so I put her in the car and we headed off to Montelusa Hospital.”

The man was finally opening up.

“Just as we were leaving Vigàta, I noticed, in the headlights, a woman walking ahead of me, with her back to me. At that exact moment a car came up beside me at a high speed, lightly swiping my car as it passed—it looked to me like it was swerving—and then it aimed straight for the woman. She quickly realized the danger, probably hearing the car’s engine, and jumped to her right and fell into the ditch. The car stopped for a second and then took off again with a screech.”

“So, in the end it didn’t hit her?”

“No. The woman was able to dodge it.”

“And what did you do?”

“I stopped, though my wife was crying—she was feeling very bad by this point—and I got out. The woman had got back up in the meantime. I asked her if she was hurt and she said no. So I told her to get in the car and I would take her into town, and she accepted. On the way, we all agreed that the person driving that car must have had a bit too much to drink, and that it must have been some sort of stupid prank. Then she told me where she wanted to be dropped off, and she got out of the car. Before she left, however, she begged me not to tell anyone about what I had seen. She gave me to understand that she was returning from an amorous encounter...”

“She didn’t explain how she happened to be out alone at that hour of the night?”

“She made some reference . . . she said her car had stalled and wouldn’t start up again. But then she realized she had run out of gas.”

“So, how did things work out?”

Fabio Giacchetti looked confused.

“With the lady?”

“No, with your wife.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t understand...”

“Did you become a father or not?”

Fabio Giacchetti lit up.

“Yes. A boy.”

“Congratulations. Tell me something: How old do you think the woman was?”

Fabio Giacchetti smiled.

“About thirty, Inspector. Tall, dark, and very attractive. Clearly upset, but very attractive.”

“Where did she get out?”

“At the corner of Via Serpotta and Via Guttuso.”

“So you’ve learned the names of all the streets in Vigàta after only three months?”

Fabio Giacchetti blushed.

“No . . . it’s just that . . . when the lady got out . . . I looked at the names of the streets.”

“Why?”

Fabio Giacchetti blazed red.

“Well, you know . . . instinctively...”

Instinctively indeed! Fabio Giacchetti had looked for the street names because the woman appealed to him and he would have liked to meet her again. A devoted husband, happy father, and potential adulterer.

“Listen, Mr. Giacchetti, you’ve just told me that at first you had thought it might be a hit-and-run incident, and then, after talking to the woman, you both agreed that it was some sort of dangerous, stupid prank. And now you’re here, talking to me. Why? Did you change your mind again?”

Fabio Giacchetti hesitated.

“Well, it’s not that I . . . but, there is something...”

“Something that doesn’t make sense to you?”

“Well, you see, when I was at the hospital, waiting for Elena to give birth, I thought again about what had happened . . . Not for any particular reason, but just to distract myself . . . When the car that had aimed at the woman stopped, I instinctively slowed down . . . and at that moment, it looked to me as if the man at the wheel leaned out the window on the passenger’s side and said something to the woman in the ditch . . . Whereas, logically speaking, he should have driven away in a hurry . . . He was taking a huge risk . . . I could read his license plate number, for example...”

“Did you?”

“Yes, but then I forgot it. It began with CE. Perhaps, if I ever saw the car again . . . And then I had the impression, but I don’t know whether...”

“Tell me.”

“I had the impression the woman talked to me about what had just happened only because I had witnessed it and started talking about it myself. I don’t know if I’ve made myself clear.”

“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. The woman had no desire to go over the incident.”

“Precisely, Inspector.”

“One last question. You got the impression that the man at the wheel had said something to the woman . . . Could you better explain why you had this impression?”

“Because I saw the man’s head poke out of the passengerside window.”

“Couldn’t he perhaps have stopped only to see what sort of condition the woman was in?”

“I would rule that out. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he said something to her. You see, he made a gesture with his hand, as if to emphasize what he was saying.”

“What kind of gesture?”

“I didn’t get a good look; but I did see his hand outside the window, that much I know.”

“But the woman didn’t tell you he had said anything to her.”

“No.”

He repeated to Fazio, who turned up late that morning, the story Giacchetti had told him.

“Chief, what can we do about it if some drunk behind the wheel gets his jollies scaring a lady by pretending to run her over?”

“So you’re of the opinion that it was a bad joke? Mind you, that’s also the interpretation the beautiful stranger tried to convince the banker of.”

“You don’t agree?”

“Let me speculate a little. Couldn’t it have been attempted murder?”

Fazio looked doubtful.

“In the presence of witnesses, Chief? Giacchetti was right behind him.”

“Excuse me, Fazio, but if he’d killed her, what could Giacchetti have done?”

“Well, for starters, he could have taken down the license plate number.”

“And what if it was a stolen car?”

Fazio didn’t answer.

“No, this whole thing stinks to me,” Montalbano continued.

“But why?”

“Because he didn’t kill her, Fazio. Because he only wanted to scare her. And not as a joke. He stopped, said something to the woman, and then left. And the woman did everything possible to downplay the matter.”

“Listen, Chief, if it’s the way you say it is, couldn’t the person in the car have been, I dunno, a jilted lover or suitor?”

“Maybe. And that’s what worries me. He might try again and seriously injure or kill her.”

“You want me to look into it?”

“Yes, but don’t waste too much time on it. The whole thing might turn out to be nothing.”

“Where did this lady ask to be dropped off?”

“At the corner of Via Serpotta and Via Guttuso.”

Fazio winced.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like Guttuso?”

“I don’t like that neighborhood, Chief. That’s where the rich people live.”

“Don’t you like rich people? What is this, anyway? You used to accuse me of being an angry Communist, and now you—”

“Communism’s got nothing to do with it, Chief. The fact is that rich people are always a pain in the ass. They’re hard to deal with; you say one word too many and they clam up.”

“Ah, Chief, the Signorina Zita’s onna line an’ wants a talk to yiz poissonally in poisson.”

“And who’s this Zita?”

“You kiddin’ me, Chief?”

“No, Cat, I’m not. I don’t feel like talking to her.”

“You sure, Chief?”

“I’m sure.”

“Want me to tell ’er yer not onna premisses?”

“Tell her whatever the hell you want.”

Shortly before the inspector decided it was time to go eat, Mimì Augello came in. He looked fairly well rested. But he was gloomy.

“How are you feeling, Mimì?”

“I’ve still got a bit of fever, but I feel well enough to be up. I wanted to know what you intend to do.”

“About what?”

“Salvo, don’t pretend you don’t understand. I’m referring to the body in the bag. Let’s make things perfectly clear; that way there won’t be any misunderstandings or mistakes. Are you going to handle the case, or am I?”

“Sorry, but I really don’t understand. Who’s the head of this department, you or me?”

“If you put it that way, then it’s clear we have nothing to say to each other. The case is yours by rights.”

“Mimì, may I ask what’s got into you? Lately haven’t I let you operate with total autonomy? Haven’t I given you more and more space? What is your gripe?”

“That’s true. You used to stick your nose into everything and break everyone’s balls, whereas now you’re a little less meddlesome. In fact you often let me do the investigating.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Yes, but investigate what? Basically chickenshit. Supermarket burglaries, holdups at the post office...”

“And what about the murder of Dr. Calì?”

“Come on! We practically caught Mrs. Calì with the gun still warm in her hand! Some investigation, that! The present case is different. The body in the bag is one of those challenges that can make you feel like working again.”

“So?”

“I don’t want you to give me the case only to take it away from me later on. I want an explicit agreement, okay?”

“Mimì, I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”

“Goodbye, Salvo,” said Augello, turning his back and leaving the room.

What on earth was wrong with Mimì? He’d been in a foul mood for over a month now. Nervous, often silent, always ready to take offense over the slightest remark. At certain moments you could tell he wasn’t all there, his mind far away. Clearly something was eating away at him. Was this what married life with Beba had come to? And yet in the early going he had seemed so happy, especially over the birth of his son. Surely Livia could tell him something about this. She and Beba had become very good friends and often talked over the phone.

He left the station and drove off towards Enzo’s trattoria. On the way, however, he realized that his talk with Mimì had killed his appetite. It certainly wasn’t the first time they’d had an argument, and on a few occasions things had even turned ugly. This time, however, he’d noticed a different tone in Mimì’s words. The real purpose of their discussion was not to determine who would handle the investigation. No, the real purpose was something else: Mimì had simply wanted to have it out with him. Just as he’d done with Ajena the day before. He was looking to let off steam. Looking for a pretext to spew out all the black bile he had building up inside him.

When he got home, Montalbano sat down on the veranda and made like a lizard in the sun.

That afternoon, before returning to the station, he phoned Catarella.

“Has Dr. Pasquano called for me?”

“Nossir, Chief.”

He hung up and dialed another number.

“Montalbano here. Is Dr. Pasquano there?”

“Well, he’s here, Inspector, as far as that goes. But I don’t know if he can come to the telephone. He’s working.”

“Try.”

While waiting, he reviewed the multiplication table for seven, which was the hardest for him.

“What a colossal pain in the ass you are, Inspector! What the hell do you want?” Pasquano began, with the gentle courtesy for which he was famous.

“Have you done the autopsy?”

“Which one? The little girl who had her throat slit? The drowned Moroccan? The peasant who was shot? The—”

“The man found chopped to pieces in a garbage bag.”

“Yes.”

“Could you—”

“No.”

“What if I came to see you in half an hour?”

“Make that an hour.”

When he arrived and asked for Pasquano, an assistant replied that the doctor was still busy and had given instructions to have the inspector wait for him in his office.

The first thing Montalbano noticed on Pasquano’s desk, between the papers and photographs of murder victims, was a cardboard pastry-shop tray full of giant cannoli and a bottle of Pantelleria raisin wine and a glass beside it. Pasquano had a notorious sweet tooth. The inspector bent down to smell the cannoli: fresh as could be. So he poured himself a bit of the sweet wine into the glass, grabbed a cannolo and started scarfing it down while contemplating the landscape through the open window.

The sun lit up the colors in the valley, making them stand out sharply against the blue sea in the distance. God, or whoever was acting in his stead, had assumed the guise of a naïf painter here. On the horizon, a flock of seagulls frolicked about, pretending to squabble among themselves in a parade of nosedives, veers, and pull-ups that looked exactly like an aerobatics show. He watched their maneuvers, spellbound.

Having finished the first cannolo, he took another.

“I see you’ve helped yourself,” said Pasquano, coming in and grabbing one himself.

They ate in religious silence, the corners of their mouths smeared with ricotta cream. Which, by the rules, must be removed with a slow, circular movement of the tongue.