The Potter's Field

“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.”