The Potter's Field

“Then I’ll go on. The other evening, for example, Mimi came home with a touch of fever after having spent the whole day in the rain to recover a dead body in a bag . . . Is that true or not?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Then, just after Mimi had finished eating dinner and wanted to go to bed, you phoned him and forced him to get dressed again and spend the night outside again. Don’t you think you’re being a little sadistic?”

What was going on? Why was Mimi telling Beba all these lies? Whatever the case, it was probably best, for the time being, to let Livia believe that what Mimi said was true.

“Well, I guess . . . but it’s not sadism, Livia. The fact is that I have so few men that I can really trust . . . At any rate, try to reassure Beba. Tell her just to be patient for a little while longer, and that once I get some new personnel, I won’t take advantage of Mimi anymore.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.”

This time the phone call didn’t end in a quarrel. Because no matter what Livia said, he always agreed, like an automaton.

After talking to Livia, he felt so weak he couldn’t move. He remained standing beside the little table, receiver in hand. Numb. Embalmed. Then, dragging his feet, he went and sat down on the veranda. Unfortunately there was only one possible explanation for Mimi’s lies. Because it was well known that Mimi didn’t drink, didn’t gamble, didn’t run with the wrong crowd. He had only one vice, if it was indeed a vice. Surely, after almost two years of marriage, Mimi had grown tired of going to bed every night with the same woman and had resumed his wandering ways. Before marrying Beba, his life was a continually revolving door of women, and apparently he had gone back to his old habits. The excuse he gave to his wife so that he could spend nights away from home was perfect. He hadn’t foreseen, however, that Beba would talk about it with Livia and that Livia would talk about it in turn with his superior. But one question remained. Why was Mimi so irritable? Why was he so at odds with everyone? It used to be that after Mimi had been with a woman, he would show up at work purring like a cat after a good meal. This new relationship must therefore be a burden on him. He wasn’t taking it lightly. Perhaps because, before, he didn’t have to answer to anybody, whereas now, when he went home, he was forced to lie to Beba, to deceive her. He must be feeling something that had never even crossed his mind before: a strong sense of guilt.

In conclusion, he, Montalbano, had to intervene, even if it was the last thing he felt like doing. There was no getting around it; he had to, like it or not. If he didn’t, Mimi would keep staying out nights, saying it was by order of his boss, Beba would complain again to Livia, and this would break his balls for all eternity. He had to step in, more for his own peace of mind than for that of Mimi and his family.

But intervene how?

That was the rub. A heart-to-heart talk with Mimi was out of the question. If Mimi indeed had a woman, he would deny it. He was capable of claiming he went out at night to help the homeless. That he’d felt suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to be charitable. No, first it had to be confirmed with absolute certainty that Mimi had a mistress, and he had to find out when and where these nocturnal trysts took place. But how? The inspector needed someone to lend him a hand. But who could he talk to about this? He certainly couldn’t get anyone from the police department mixed up in it, not even Fazio. It had to remain a strictly private matter between Mimi, him, and, at the very most, a third person. A friend. Yes, only a friend could help him out. And he thought of the right person for the job. But he slept badly just the same, waking up three or four times with a big lump of melancholy in his chest.

The next morning he called Catarella at the station and told him he’d be coming in a bit later than usual. Then he waited until ten o’clock, an acceptably civilized hour to wake a lady, and made his second phone call of the morning.

“Hullo? Who are you?”

It was a basso voice. With a Russian accent. Probably an ex-general of the Red Army born in some former Soviet republic beyond Siberia. One of Ingrid’s specialties was hiring domestic servants from lands so obscure you had to look them up in a world atlas to find out where they were.

“Who are you?” the general repeated imperiously.

Despite his concerns, Montalbano felt like screwing around.

“Look, my parents gave me what you might call a provisional name, but who I really am in fact is not so easy to say. I’m not sure if I’ve made myself clear.”

“You make very clear. You have existential doubt? You lost identity and now cannot find?”

Montalbano felt bewildered. How could he possibly discuss philosophy with an ex-general so early in the morning?

“Look, I’m sorry. This is a fascinating discussion, but I don’t have much time at the moment. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

“Yes. But first you tell me provisional name.”

“Montalbano. Salvo Montalbano.”

He had to wait awhile. This time, in addition to the multiplication table for seven, he reviewed the one for eight. And after that, for six as well.

“Forgive me, Salvo, I was in the shower. How nice to hear from you!”

“Who’s the general?”

“What general?”

“The one who answered the phone.”

“He’s not a general! His name’s Igor, he’s a former philosophy professor.”

“And what’s he doing at your place?”

“He’s earning a living, Salvo. Working as my butler. When they had communism in Russia, he was a virulent anti-Communist. And so first he was forbidden to teach, and then he ended up in prison. And when he got out, he went hungry.”