too, and so he wanted another rematch, and another rematch after that. Montalbano, Fazio, and Catarella, who was drying himself by the fire, packed in the tumazzo, which was so tender it melted in one’s mouth, and knocked back the entire flask of wine.
Thus an hour passed.
And, as Ajena had predicted, there was a break in the clouds.
2
“What the . . . ?” said Ajena, looking downwards. “It was right here!”
They stood all in a row, elbow to elbow, on a narrow footpath, looking down below towards a very steep stretch of earth, practically a sheer drop. But it wasn’t actually earth, properly speaking. It was an assortment of grayish, yellowish slabs of clay that the rainwater did not penetrate, all of them covered, or rather, coated, with a sort of treacherous shaving cream. You could tell from the look of the slabs that you had only to set your foot down on them to find yourself suddenly twenty yards below.
“It was right here!” Ajena repeated.
And now it was gone. The traveling corpse, the wandering cadaver.
During the descent towards the spot where Ajena had spotted the corpse, it was impossible to exchange so much as a word, because they had to walk in single file, with Ajena at the head, leaning on a shepherd’s crook, Montalbano behind, leaning on Ajena, hand on his shoulder, Augello next, hand on Montalbano’s shoulder, and Fazio behind him, hand on Augello’s shoulder.
Montalbano recalled having seen something similar in a famous painting. Brueghel? Bosch? But this was hardly the moment for art.
Catarella, who was the last in line, and not only in a hierarchical sense, didn’t have the courage to lean on the shoulder of the person in front of him, and thus slid from time to time in the mud, knocking into Fazio, who knocked into Augello, who knocked into Montalbano, who knocked into Ajena, threatening to bring them all down like bowling pins.
“Listen, Ajena,” Montalbano said irritably, “are you sure this is the right place?”
“Inspector, this land is all mine and I come here every day, rain or shine.”
“Can we talk?”
“If you wanna talk, sir, let’s talk,” said Ajena, lighting his pipe.
“So, according to you, the body was here?”
“Wha’, you deaf, sir? An’ whattya mean, ‘according to me’? It was right here, I tell you,” said Ajena, gesturing with his pipe at the spot where the slabs of clay began, a short distance from his feet.
“So it was out in the open.”
“Well, yes and no.”
“Explain.”
“Mr. Inspector, it’s all clay around here. In fact, this place has always been called
“Why have a place like this?”
“I sell the clay to people who make vases, jugs, pots, that kind of thing . . .”
“All right, go on.”
“Well, when it’s not raining, an’ it don’t rain much around here, today’s an exception, but when it don’t rain, the clay’s all covered up by the dirt that slides down the hillside. So you gotta dig down at least a foot to get at it. You follow?”
“Yes.”
“But when it rains, and rains hard, the water washes away the dirt on top, an’ so the clay comes out. An’ that’s wha’ happened this morning: The rain carried the soil further down an’ uncovered the dead body.”
“So you’re telling me the body was buried under the earth, and the rain unearthed it?”
“Yessir, that’s azackly what I’m saying. I was passing by here on my way up to the cave an’ that’s when I saw the bag.”
“What bag?”
“A great big plastic bag, black, the kind you use for garbage.”
“How did you manage to see what was inside? Did you open it?”
“Nah, I didn’t need to. The bag had a small hole an’ a foot was sticking out, except that all its toes was cut off an’ so I couldn’t really tell at first if it was a foot.”
“Cut off, you say?”
“Cut off, or maybe et off by some dog.”
“I see. What did you do then?”
“I kept on walking up to the cave.”
“And how did you call the police station?” asked Fazio.
“Wit’ my cell phone, which I keep in my pocket.”
