The Potter's Field

As I’ve already brought directly to your attention, the situation that has developed between us needs to be fully clarified, without any holding back or beating around the bush. I believe that, after so many years of working together—where I, however, have always played a subordinate role—the time has come for me to have my own space and autonomy. I am convinced that the investigation into the as yet unidentified, dismembered forty-year-old man could be a sort of decisive test for the two of us. In other words: I want you to assign the case exclusively to me, and for you to step completely aside. Naturally, it will be my responsibility to keep you up-todate on everything, but you must not interfere in any way. I am even willing, once the case is closed, to give you publicly all the credit.

This isn’t an ultimatum. Please try to understand me: If anything, what I am asking of you is some proof of your esteem for me. And some help, as well. Naturally, it will also be a test, however difficult, of my abilities.

Should you not be in agreement, I shall have no choice but to ask the commissioner to transfer me elsewhere.

Whatever you decide, my great affection and esteem for you will always remain unchanged.

With love,

There was no signature, as Galluzzo had already said. But it was too late now to think all this over.

He slipped the letter into his jacket pocket and wiped his eyes. (Ah, old age! How easily the emotions get stirred up!) He stood up and went out.

At the Marinella Bar he found Ingrid sitting at a table, having already drunk her first glass of whisky. The five or six male customers couldn’t take their eyes off her. How was it that, the more the years went by, the more beautiful she became ? Beautiful, elegant, intelligent, discreet. A true friend. Of all the times he had asked her for help in a case, she had never asked a single question, never asked why or what for, but only did what she was asked to do.

They embraced, genuinely happy to see each other.

“Shall we leave right away or order another whisky?” Ingrid asked.

“There’s no hurry,” said Montalbano, sitting down.

Ingrid took one of the inspector’s hands into hers and squeezed it. That was another good thing about her: She displayed her feelings openly, without worrying about what others might think.

“How did you come here? I didn’t see your car in the parking lot.”

“The red one, you mean? I got rid of it. Now I have a perfectly normal, green Nissan Micra. How’s Livia?”

“I talked to her yesterday. She’s fine. How’s your husband?”

“I think he’s fine, too. I haven’t seen him for a week. We live apart, even at home. Fortunately the house is very big. Anyway, ever since he became a deputy in Parliament, he spends more time in Rome than here.”

Ingrid’s husband was a known ne’er-do-well, so it was only logical that he should turn to politics. The inspector recalled a popular saying from his childhood, which an uncle of his used to repeat: If you’ve got no art or trade, in politics you’ll make the grade.

“Shall we talk now or after dinner?” asked Ingrid.

“Talk about what?”

“Salvo, stop playacting. You only call on me when you need me to do something for you. Isn’t that so?”

“You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s the way you are. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I like you. So, do you want to talk about it now or later?”

“Do you know that Mimì is married now?”

Ingrid laughed.

“Of course. With Beba. And I also know they had a son whom they named Salvo, after you.”

“Who told you?”

“Mimì. He used to call me every now and then. We’ve even met a few times. But I haven’t heard from him for a couple of months. So?”

“I have reason to believe that Mimì has a mistress,” said the inspector.