The Potter's Field

“I did. As soon as I received the card. And I called him twice after that. I even tried again before coming here. But his telephone is always turned off, nobody answers.”

“I understand your concern, signora, but...”

“So you can’t do anything?”

“No, I can’t. Because, you see, the way things are today, you aren’t even in a position to file a missing persons report. Who’s to say whether the situation isn’t other than what you say it is?”

“But what could the situation be, in that case?”

“Well, I dunno. For example . . .” Montalbano started walking on eggshells. “Mind you, this is only a conjecture, but maybe your husband met somebody . . . You know what I mean? . . . Somebody who—”

“My husband loves me.”

She said it serenely, almost without intonation. Then she took an envelope out of her purse and withdrew the letter that was inside it.

“This is a letter he sent me four months ago. Please read it.”

. . . not a night goes by that I don’t dream of being inside you . . . I hear again the things you say when you are reaching orgasm . . . and immediately you want to start all over again . . . when your tongue...

Montalbano blushed, decided he’d seen enough, and gave the letter back to her.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought he saw, deep inside the woman’s deep dark eyes, gone as fast as it had appeared, a flash of . . . irony? amusement?

“The last time he was here, how did your husband behave?”

“With me? The same as always.”

“Listen, signora, all I can do at this point is give you some, er, personal advice. Do you know the name of the ship on which your husband is sailing?”

“Yes, the Ruy Barbosa.”

“Then get in touch with the shipping company. Are they Italian?”

“No. Stevenson and Guerra is Brazilian.”

“Do they have a representative in Italy?”

“Of course, in Naples. His name is Pasquale Camera.”

“Have you got an address and telephone number for this Pasquale Camera?”

“Yes, I’ve got them right here.”

She took a piece of paper out of her purse and held it out to Montalbano.

“No, don’t give it to me. It’s you who has to call for the information.”

“No, I can’t,” Dolores said decisively.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want my husband to think that I . . . No, I’d rather not. Please, you do it.”

“Me? But, signora, as a police inspector I ca—”

“Just say you’re a friend of Giovanni’s and you’re worried because you’ve had no news of him for a while.”

“Look, signora, I—”

Dolores leaned forward. Montalbano was resting his arms on the desktop. The woman laid her hands, hot as if with fever, on top of Montalbano’s, her long fingers snaking inside the cuffs of his shirt, first caressing his skin, then clutching his wrists.

“Help me,” she said.

“All . . . all right,” said Montalbano.

They stood up. The inspector went to open the door for her and saw that half the police department was in the waiting room, all feigning indifference.

Apparently Catarella had passed the word about Dolores’s beauty.

Once alone, the inspector took off his jacket, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves.

Dolores’s fingernails had left marks on his skin. She had branded him. His skin burned a little. He sniffed his arms, which smelled slightly of cinnamon. Wasn’t it best to settle the matter at once? And get this black leopardess out of his hair? The less he saw of her, the better.

“Catarella! Ring up this number in Naples for me. But don’t tell them you’re calling for the police.”

Multiplication table for eigh—. A woman picked up at once.

“Camera Shipping Company. May I help you?”

“Davide Maraschi here. I’d like to speak to Mr. Camera.”

“Please hold.”

A recording of a song in keeping with the setting began: “O sole mio.”

“Could you please hold?” the woman cut in. “Mr. Camera is on another line.”

A new song: “Fenesta ca lucive.”

“Could you hold just a minute longer?”

New song: “Guapparia.”

The inspector liked Neapolitan songs, but he was starting to wish they would play some rock. Discouraged and worried he was going to have to sing along with the entire Piedigrotta repertoire, he was about to hang up when a man’s voice cut in:

“Hello, this is Camera. What can I do for you?”

What the hell did he tell the secretary his name was? He remembered Davide, but not the surname, except for the fact that it ended in -schi.

“I’m Davide Verzaschi.”

“How may I help you?”

“I’ll take only a few minutes of your time, as I can see you’re very busy. You represent Stevenson and Guerra, correct?”

“Among others.”

“Good. Listen, I urgently need to get in touch with someone presently on board the Ruy Barbosa. Would you be so kind as to explain to me how I might go about this?”

“How do you intend to get in touch with this person?”

“I’ve ruled out carrier pigeons and smoke signals.”

“I don’t understand,” said Camera.