The Potter's Field

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.”

“No, wait. First I want to know why Catarella was crying when I came in just now.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Yes, but he didn’t want to tell me.”

“So why are you asking me?”

So Fazio, too, was kicking him around now? A rage so furious came over him that the room started spinning about like a merry-go-round. Instead of crying out, he roared. A kind of low, deep roar. And, with a leap he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of making anymore, in a flash he found himself standing upright on top of the desk, from where he then flew like a bullet at Fazio—who, eyes bulging in terror, tried to stand up, got tangled in his chair, which fell, and so failed to get out of the way in time. Thus bearing the full brunt of Montalbano’s body, he crashed to the floor with the inspector on top of him. They lay there for a moment with their arms around each other. If someone walked in he might even think they were doing lewd things. Fazio didn’t move until Montalbano got up with some effort and, ashamed, went over to the window and looked outside. He was breathing heavily.

Without a word, Fazio set the chair back upright and sat down in it.

A moment later, Montalbano turned around, went up to Fazio, put his hand on his shoulder, and said:

“I apologize.”

Fazio then did something he would never have dared to do in ordinary circumstances. He lay his hand, palm down, on top of the inspector’s hand and said:

“I’m the one who should apologize, Chief. I provoked you.”

Montalbano went and sat back down behind his desk. They looked each other long in the eye. Then Fazio spoke.

“Chief, for a while now, it’s been unlivable around here.”

“You mean Augello?”

“Yeah, Chief. I see you’ve caught on. He’s completely changed. He used to be a cheerful, happy-go-lucky guy, whereas now he’s always gloomy, he takes offense at the smallest things, he criticizes everything and insults everyone. Vaccarella wanted to go to the union for help, but I managed to talk him out of it. But things can’t go on like this much longer. You have to intervene, Chief, and find out what’s up with him. Maybe his marriage is going bad or something . . .”

“Why didn’t you say anything to me earlier?”

“Chief, nobody likes to rat on people around here.”

“And what happened with Catarella?”

“He didn’t put a call through to Inspector Augello, because he thought he wasn’t back in his office yet. Then she called again and Catarella put her through to Augello.”

“Why do you say ‘she’?”

“Because Catarella said it was a woman.”

“Name?”

“Catarella said that both times she called she said only, ‘Inspector Augello, please.’”

“Then what happened?”

“Augello came out of his office looking like he was crazy and grabbed Catarella by the collar, pushed him up against the wall, and screamed, ‘Why didn’t you put the first call through to me?’ It’s a good thing I was there to pull him back. And it’s a good thing there wasn’t anyone else, or there would have been trouble. They would surely have reported it to the union.”

“But he’s never done anything like that when I’m around.”

“When you’re around, Chief, he controls himself.”

So that was how it was. Mimì no longer confided in him, Catarella neither, Fazio had snapped at him . . . An uneasy situation that had been dragging on for some time without his even noticing. Once upon a time he was attuned to the slightest change of mood in his men and became immediately concerned and wanted to know the reason. Now he didn’t even notice anymore. He had, of course, noticed the change in Mimì, but that was only because it was so obvious that it would have been impossible not to notice. What was wrong with him? Was he tired? Or had old age made his antennae less sensitive? If so, then the time had come to pick up his walking papers. But first he had to resolve the problem of Mimì.

“What were the two things you wanted to tell me?” he asked.

Fazio seemed relieved to change the subject.

“Well, Chief, since the start of the year, in Sicily, there’s been eighty-two missing persons reported, thirty of whom were women. Which means fifty-two were men. I’ve done a little sifting. Mind if I look at some notes?”

“As long as you don’t start reading me vital statistics, fine.”

“Of these fifty-two, thirty-one are non-Europeans with their papers in order who didn’t show up to work from one day to the next and didn’t go back to their place of residence either. Of the remaining twenty-one, ten are children. Which leaves eleven. Of these eleven, eight are between seventy and almost ninety years old. All of them are no longer all really there, the kind that might leave the house and not be able to find the way back.”