The Potter's Field

The knocking continued. Amidst the pandemonium, he thought he heard a voice cry out, as if in distress.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” he shouted.

Since he had been sleeping naked, he looked around for something to cover himself, but found nothing. He was sure he had left his trousers on the chair at the foot of the bed. Perhaps they had slid to the floor. But he had no time to waste. He ran to the front door.

“Who is it?” he asked before opening.

“Bonetti-Alderighi. Open up, hurry!”

He balked, utterly confused. The commissioner? What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of stupid joke?

“Just a minute.”

He ran to get the flashlight he kept in the kitchen-table drawer, switched it on, and opened the door. He could only gawk, speechless, at the rain-drenched commissioner standing before him. Bonetti was wearing a black, rumpled hat and a raincoat with a shredded left sleeve.

“Let me in,” he said.

Montalbano stepped aside and his boss came in. The inspector followed him mechanically, as if sleepwalking, forgetting to close the door, which started banging in the wind. Reaching the first chair at hand, the commissioner did not so much sit down as collapse in it. Before Montalbano’s astonished eyes, he buried his face in his hands and started crying.

The questions in the inspector’s mind began to accelerate like a jet plane before takeoff, arising and vanishing too fast for him to catch hold of even one that was clear and precise. He couldn’t even open his mouth.

“Could you hide me here at your house?” the commissioner asked him anxiously.

Hide him? Why on earth would the commissioner need to hide? Was he a fugitive from justice? What had he done? Who was looking for him?

“I don’t . . . understand . . .”

Bonetti-Alderighi looked at him in disbelief.

“What, Montalbano, do you mean you haven’t heard?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“The Mafia took power tonight!”

“What are you saying?!”

“Well, how else did you expect our wretched country to end up? A little change in the law here, a little change there, and here we are. Could I please have a glass of water?”

“Yes . . . of course.”

He quickly realized the commissioner wasn’t quite right in the head. Perhaps he’d had a car accident and was now raving from the shock. The best thing was to call Montelusa Central Police. Or maybe it was better to call a doctor at once. Meanwhile, however, he mustn’t let the poor man suspect anything. So, for the moment, at least, he had to humor Bonetti-Alderighi.

The inspector went into the kitchen and instinctively flipped the light switch. And the light came on. He filled a glass, turned to go back, and froze in the doorway, paralyzed. He was a statue, the kind they make nowadays, which could have been called Naked Man with Glass in Hand.

The room was lit up, but the commissioner was no longer there. Sitting in his place was a short, stocky man with a coppola on his head, whom Montalbano recognized at once. Toto Riina! He’d been freed from prison! So Bonetti-Alderighi hadn’t gone mad after all! What he’d said was the unvarnished truth!

“Evenin’,” said Riina. “Sorry to burst in on you like dis, an’ at dis hour, but I don’t got much time, and ousside dere’s a helicopter waitin’ a take me to Rome to form the new guv’ment. I already got a few names: Bernardo Provenzano for vice president, one of the Caruana brothers for foreign minister, Leoluca Bagarella at Defense . . . So I come here wit’ one quession for you, Inspector Montalbano, an’ you gotta tell me yes or no straightaway. You wanna be my minister of the interior?”

But before Montalbano could answer, Catarella appeared in the room. He must have come in through the open front door. He was holding a revolver in his hand and aiming it at the inspector. Big tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Chief, if you say yes to this ’ere criminal, I’m gonna kill you poissonally in poisson!”

Talking, however, distracted Catarella, and Riina, quick as a snake, whipped out his own gun and fired. The light in the room went out, and . . .

Montalbano woke up. The only real thing in the dream he’d just had was the storm rattling the shutters, which he had left open. He got up and closed them, then got back into bed after looking at the clock. Four in the morning. He wanted to seize hold of sleep again, but found himself arguing with the other Montalbano behind his stubbornly closed eyes.

What was the meaning of that dream?

Why do you want to find a meaning in it, Montalba? Don’t you very often have dreams that don’t mean a goddamn thing?

That’s what you think, because you’re an ignorant beast. They may mean nothing to you, but go tell that to Dr. Freud, and you’ll see what he can pull out of them!

But why should I tell my dreams to Freud?

Because if you’re unable to explain your dream, or have it explained to you, you’ll never get back to sleep.

Oh, all right. Ask me a question.