The Potter's Field by Andrea Camilleri Page A

that’s true.”
    â€œThen, just after Mimì 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 Mimì telling Beba all these lies? Whatever the case, it was probably best, for the time being, to let Livia believe that what Mimì said was true.
    â€œWell, 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 Mimì anymore.”
    â€œIs that a promise?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    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 Mimì’s lies. Because it was well known that Mimì 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, Mimì 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 Mimì so irritable? Why was he so at odds with everyone? It used to be that after Mimì 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, Mimì 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 Mimì and his family.
    But intervene how?
    That was the rub. A heart-to-heart talk with Mimì was out of the question. If Mimì 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 Mimì 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 Mimì, 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