The Potter's Field

“Of course I’m all right.”

“You’re not upset?”

“Not at all!”

“Well, then why, just a few minutes ago, were you crying uncontrollably in the stairwell?”

So that’s what the man with the mustache had come in to tell him! Montalbano felt lost. How was he ever going to explain the whole complicated affair to these two, who were looking at him with a combination of concern and suspicion? He’d hoisted himself with his own petard. He gave a sort of forced smile, took on (he knew not from where) a nonchalant air, and said:

“Oh, that? It’s Dr. Lattes’s fault. He—”

“Did he scold you or something? Raise his voice at you?” asked Musante, bemused.

“Chew you out?” Gullotta laid it on.

Was it possible neither of them could speak for himself? No, it wasn’t possible.

Oliver and Hardy. A comical duo.

“No, no, the whole thing is because, after I told him my wife had run away with an illegal immigrant, I—”

“But you’re not married!” Musante reminded him, alarmed.

“Or maybe you got married and never told us?” Gullotta hypothesized.

“No, no, of course I’m not married. But, you see, since, afterwards, I told him my wife had returned for the children—”

“You have children?” Gullotta asked him, amazed.

“How old are they?” Musante followed.

“No, no...”

He lost heart. He couldn’t go on. Words failed him. He buried his face in his hands.

“You’re not going to start crying again in here, are you?!” Musante asked him, alarmed.

“Come on, have faith. There’s a solution to everything,” said Gullotta.

How to explain? Start yelling? Break both their noses? Pull out his pistol and force them to listen? They would think him stark raving mad. He tried to remain calm, and in the effort, he started sweating.

“Could you both do me a favor and just listen to me for five minutes?”

“Of course, of course,” the chorus resumed.

“The story that I was crying is true, though I wasn’t really crying.”

“Of course, of course.”

It was hopeless. By now they were convinced he was raving and were treating him gingerly, humoring him and pretending they agreed with him, the way one does with the insane so they won’t go berserk.

“I swear I’m fine,” said the inspector. “I just want you to bear with me and pay attention.”

“Of course, of course.”

He told them the whole story, from the reading of the Camilleri book to his call to Dr. Pasquano. When he had finished, a thoughtful silence descended. But he had the impression that Musante and Gullotta had changed their minds and no longer considered him quite so crazy.

“Do you find there’s method in my madness?” asked Montalbano.

“Well . . .” said Gullotta, not catching his Shakespearean allusion.

“In short, why did you come here and tell us all this?” asked Musante.

Montalbano looked at him, stunned.

“Because that dead body most assuredly belongs to a mafioso who was murdered by his colleagues. Or are you only interested in living mafiosi?”

Musante and Gullotta exchanged a glance.

“No,” said Gullotta. “We’re always interested, dead or alive. From what I can gather, you seem to want to unload the case on us.”

“Since you’re a bit overwrought, you want to wash your hands of it,” Musante said in an understanding tone.

Geez, what a pain!

“Look, I’m not trying to unload anything, and I’m not overwrought.”

“No? Then what are you trying to do?”

“Yes, what, exactly?” Gullotta chimed in, introducing a notable variant into the repertoire.

“Unless I am mistaken, all Mafia investigations in this jurisdiction belong to you, do they not?”

“Yes, of course they do,” said Musante. “But only when we are certain that the Mafia are indeed implicated.”