The Potter's Field

“I mussa parked the Jeep right aside the edge wittout realizin’ it, Chief.”

“I figured that, Cat. So, how are we going to climb out of here now?”

“Look, Chief, see ’at little path over there, over onna left? I’m gonna go ’ave a look-see, ’n’ you c’n follow me, but be real careful, cuz iss all slip’ry ’n’ all.”

About fifty yards on, the path turned to the right. The heavy rain made it impossible to see even a short distance ahead. Suddenly Montalbano heard someone calling from above.

“Chief ! We’re over here!”

He looked up. Fazio was standing atop a sort of elevation, reachable via three huge steps cut directly into the rock face. He was sheltered under an enormous red-and-yellow umbrella of the kind shepherds use. Where on earth had he found it? To climb the three steps, Montalbano had to have Catarella push him from behind and Fazio pull him up by the hand.

I’m no longer cut out for this life, he thought bitterly.

The elevation turned out to be a tiny, level clearing in front of the entrance to a cave that one could enter. Once inside, the inspector was wonderstruck.

It was warm in the cave. A fire was burning inside a circle of rocks. A carter’s oil lamp hung from the vault and gave off sufficient light. Mimì and a man of about sixty with a pipe in his mouth were each sitting on a stool made of tree branches and playing cards on a little table between them, also made of branches. Every so often, taking turns, they took a sip from a flask of wine on the ground. A pastoral scene. Especially as there was no hint of the corpse anywhere. The sixtyish man greeted the inspector; Mimì did not. In fact, for the past month or so, Augello had been at odds with all of creation.

“The dead body was discovered by that man playing cards with Inspector Augello,” said Fazio, gesturing towards the man. “His name’s Pasquale Ajena, and this is his land. He comes here every day. And he’s equipped the cave so that he can eat here, rest here, or just sit here and look out at the landscape.”

“May I humbly ask where the hell the body is?”

“Apparently, it’s about fifty yards further down.”

“Apparently? Are you saying you haven’t seen it yet?”

“Yes. According to Mr. Ajena, the spot is practically unreachable, unless it stops raining.”

“But this isn’t going to stop before evening, if we’re lucky!”

“There’ll be a break in the clouds in about an hour,” Ajena cut in. “Guaranteed, with a twist of lemon on it. And then it’ll start raining again.”

“So what are we supposed to do here till then?”

“Have you eaten this morning?” Ajena asked him.

“No.”

“Would you like a little fresh tumazzo with a slice of wheat bread made yesterday?”

Montalbano’s heart opened and let in a gentle breeze of contentment.

“I don’t mind if I do.”

Ajena got up, opened a spacious haversack that was hanging from a nail, pulled out a loaf of bread, a whole tumazzo cheese, and another flask of wine. Pushing aside the playing cards, he set them all down on the little table. Then he extracted a knife from his pocket, a kind of jackknife, which he opened and laid down beside the bread.

“Help yourselves,” he said.

“Could you tell me at least how you found the body?” asked Montalbano, mouth full of bread and cheese.

“No, come on!” Mimì Augello burst out. “First, he has to finish the game. I haven’t been able to win a single one so far!”

Mimì lost that one too, and so he wanted another rematch, and another rematch after that. Montalbano, Fazio, and Catarella, who was drying himself by the fire, packed in the tumazzo, which was so tender it melted in one’s mouth, and knocked back the entire flask of wine.

Thus an hour passed.

And, as Ajena had predicted, there was a break in the clouds.

2

“What the . . . ?” said Ajena, looking downwards. “It was right here!”

They stood all in a row, elbow to elbow, on a narrow footpath, looking down below towards a very steep stretch of earth, practically a sheer drop. But it wasn’t actually earth, properly speaking. It was an assortment of grayish, yellowish slabs of clay that the rainwater did not penetrate, all of them covered, or rather, coated, with a sort of treacherous shaving cream. You could tell from the look of the slabs that you had only to set your foot down on them to find yourself suddenly twenty yards below.

“It was right here!” Ajena repeated.

And now it was gone. The traveling corpse, the wandering cadaver.

During the descent towards the spot where Ajena had spotted the corpse, it was impossible to exchange so much as a word, because they had to walk in single file, with Ajena at the head, leaning on a shepherd’s crook, Montalbano behind, leaning on Ajena, hand on his shoulder, Augello next, hand on Montalbano’s shoulder, and Fazio behind him, hand on Augello’s shoulder.

Montalbano recalled having seen something similar in a famous painting. Brueghel? Bosch? But this was hardly the moment for art.