The Potter's Field

“Tomorrow evening, as soon as Dolores gives herself away, Macannuco will phone me at the station. I’ll call Mimì and tell him she’s been arrested. You should be there, too. I can’t imagine what his reaction will be.”

At six P.M. the following evening, Mimì Augello returned to the office dead tired and in a rage over all the time he’d wasted in Montelusa. But he also seemed worried about something else.

“Has Signora Alfano called you?” the inspector asked.

“Called me? Why would she do that? Has she called Fazio, by any chance?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

He was agitated. It looked like Dolores had left without saying anything. And was keeping her cell phone turned off. Apparently she urgently needed to go to Catania to talk to Arturo Pecorini.

“And how did it go in Montelusa?”

“Don’t get me started, Salvo! What a bunch of imbeciles ! All they do is shilly-shally, take their time, and find excuses. What better proof do you want than that newspaper article! But I’ll be there again tomorrow, talking to Tommaseo!”

He left, furious, and went into his office.

At seven that evening, Macannuco rang.

“Bingo! Montalbano, you are a genius! When, as you suggested, Signora Trippodo let Dolores have a glimpse of a bloody syringe, Dolores dug her own grave. And you want some good news? She gave up immediately. She realized the jig was up and confessed, blaming it all on her lover, the butcher. Who, incidentally, was arrested about fifteen minutes ago at his butcher shop in Catania . . . So there you go. Anyway, bye now, I’ll keep you informed.”

“Informed of what? No need to bother anymore, Macannù. I’ll learn the rest from the newspapers.”

The inspector took three, four, five deep breaths, to get his wind back.

“Fazio!”

“Your orders, Chief.”

A quick glance sufficed to communicate their thoughts. There was no need for words.

“Go tell Mimì I want to see him, and you come back, too.”

When the two returned, Montalbano was swaying back and forth in his chair, hands in his hair. He was putting on a performance of surprise, shock, and dismay.

“Matre santa! Matre santa!” he said.

“What is it, Salvo?” Mimì asked, frightened.

“I just got a call from Macannuco! Matre santa! Who would’ve thought it?”

“Why, what happened?” Mimì nearly yelled.

“He’s just arrested Dolores Alfano in Gioia Tauro!”

“Dolores?! In Gioia Tauro?!” Mimì repeated, flabbergasted.

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“For the murder of her husband!”

“But that’s impossible!”

“No, it’s true. She confessed.”

Mimì closed his eyes and fell to the floor too fast for Fazio to catch him. And at that moment Montalbano realized that Mimì had suspected all along, but had never been able to admit, not even to himself, that Dolores was involved up to her neck in her husband’s murder.

The day after his arrival in Boccadasse, the inspector had just entered Livia’s apartment when the phone rang. It was Fazio.

“How are you doing, Chief?”

“Not great, not bad, just getting along.”

His dress rehearsal for retirement was going well. Indeed that was a typical reply for a retiree.

“I wanted to let you know that Inspector Augello left today with his wife and son for a couple of weeks’ rest in the town where Beba’s parents live. I also wanted to tell you how pleased I am at the way you were able to set everything right. When will you be back, Chief?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

The inspector went and sat by the big picture window. Livia would be pleased to hear about Beba and Mimì. Balduccio Sinagra had had his lawyer Guttadauro call Montalbano to tell him how pleased the boss was to see Dolores arrested. Fazio, too, was pleased. And so was Macannuco, whom the inspector had seen on television, being congratulated by journalists for his brilliant investigation. And surely Mimì, who’d been in a pretty nasty pickle, had to be pleased, even if he couldn’t admit it to anyone. So, when all was said and done, the inspector had managed to lead them all out of the treacherous terrain of ’u critaru. But what about him? How did he, Montalbano, feel?

“I’m just tired” was his bleak reply.

Some time ago he had read the title, and only the title, of an essay called: “God Is Tired.” Livia had once asked him provocatively if he thought he was God. A fourth-rate, minor god, he had thought at the time. But, as the years passed, he’d become convinced he wasn’t even a back-row god, but only the poor puppeteer of a wretched puppet theater. A puppeteer who struggled to bring off the performances as best he knew how. And for each new performance he managed to bring to a close, the struggle became greater, more wearisome. How much longer could he keep it up?

Better, for now, not to think of such things. Better to sit and gaze at the sea, which, whether in Vigàta or Boccadasse, is still the sea.

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Author’s Note

As is obvious, the names of characters, companies, streets, hotels, etc., are fabricated out of whole cloth and have no connection to reality.

Notes