The Potter's Field

“Then let me explain a little better.”

The commissioner picked up a book, under which was a tiny piece of paper with torn edges. He handed this to the inspector. It was the start of a letter, a phrase of a word and a half, but Montalbano immediately recognized the handwriting. It belonged to former police commissioner Burlando, who had written to him often after retiring. So how had this scrap of an old letter ended up in Bonetti-Alderighi’s hands? Whatever the case, what did that word and a half have to do with the accusation that he had behaved like a child? Montalbano assumed a defensive stance, just in case.

“What’s this piece of paper supposed to mean?” he asked, his expression halfway between shock and surprise.

“Don’t you recognize the handwriting?”

“No.”

“Would you read it aloud, please?”

“Certainly. ‘Dear Mont.’ That’s all it says.”

“And in your opinion, what might the whole name be?”

“I dunno, but I could take a few guesses. Dear Montale—who would be the poet—Dear Montanelli—who would be the journalist—Dear Montezuma—who was king of the Aztecs—Dear Montgomery—who was that English general who—”

“How about ‘Dear Montalbano’?”

“That, too.”

“Listen, Montalbano. Let’s stop beating around the bush. This scrap of paper was sent to me by the newsman Pippo Ragonese, who found it inside a garbage bag.”

Montalbano made a face of utter astonishment.

“So now even Ragonese’s taken to rummaging through garbage bags? It’s a kind of addiction, you know. You have no idea how many people—even well-to-do people—go about in the middle of the night, from house to house —”

“I’m not interested in the habits of certain people,” the commissioner cut him short. “The fact of the matter is that Ragonese recovered this scrap from one of two garbage bags that were left for him in a certain place by a bogus phonecaller seeking revenge.”

Apparently the piece of paper had been among all the trash he collected under the veranda, and he hadn’t noticed it.

“Mr. Commissioner, you’ll have to excuse me, but frankly I haven’t understood a single word you’ve said. In what way does this constitute revenge? If you could clarify a little—”

The commissioner sighed.

“A few days ago, you see, when the newsman reported the story of the dead body found in the garbage bag, he mentioned that you had neglected to consider another similar bag that contained instead . . .” He interrupted himself, as the explanation was getting complicated. “Did you see the program?” he asked, hopefully.

“No, sorry to say.”

“Well, then, let’s forget the whys and wherefores. The fact is, Ragonese is convinced that it was you who did this, to offend him.”

“Me? To offend him? How?”

“One of the two bags contained a sheet of paper with the word ASSHOLE written on it.”

“But Mr. Commissioner, if you’ll excuse my saying so, there are literally billions of assholes in the world! Why is Ragonese such an asshole as to think that this one refers specifically to him?”

“Because it would prove—”

“Prove?! What would it prove, Mr. Commissioner?”

And, pointing a trembling finger at Bonetti-Alderighi, with an expression of indignation and a quasi-castrato voice, he launched into the climax:

“Ah, so you, Mr. Commissioner, actually believed such a groundless accusation? Ah, I feel so insulted and humiliated ! You’re accusing me of an act—no, indeed, a crime that, if true, would warrant severe punishment! As if I were a common idiot or gambler! That journalist must be possessed to think such a thing!”

End of climax. The inspector inwardly congratulated himself. He had managed to utter a statement using only titles of novels by Dostoyevsky. Had the commissioner noticed ? Of course not! The man was ignorant as a goat.

“Don’t get so upset, Montalbano! Come on, in the end—”

“Come on, my eye! In the end, my eye! That man has insulted me! You know what I say, Mr. Commissioner? I demand an immediate apology, in writing, from Mr. Ragonese! Actually, no. I want a public apology, broadcast on television! Otherwise I will call a press conference and expose the whole matter! All of it!”

The implied message for the commissioner: And I will tell everyone that you believed the whole story, asshole.

“Oh, calm down, Montalbano. Just take a deep breath. I’ll see what I can do.”

But the inspector, in his fury, had already opened the office door. Closing it behind him, he found his path blocked by Lattes.

“I’m sorry, Inspector, but I didn’t quite understand what the connection was between your wife’s return home and the utility bills.”