The Potter's Field by Andrea Camilleri Page B

lady, and made his second phone call of the morning.
    â€œHullo? Who are you?”
    It was a basso voice. With a Russian accent. Probably an ex-general of the Red Army born in some former Soviet republic beyond Siberia. One of Ingrid’s specialties was hiring domestic servants from lands so obscure you had to look them up in a world atlas to find out where they were.
    â€œWho are you?” the general repeated imperiously.
    Despite his concerns, Montalbano felt like screwing around.
    â€œLook, my parents gave me what you might call a provisional name, but who I really am in fact is not so easy to say. I’m not sure if I’ve made myself clear.”
    â€œYou make very clear. You have existential doubt? You lost identity and now cannot find?”
    Montalbano felt bewildered. How could he possibly discuss philosophy with an ex-general so early in the morning?
    â€œLook, I’m sorry. This is a fascinating discussion, but I don’t have much time at the moment. Is Signora Ingrid there?”
    â€œYes. But first you tell me provisional name.”
    â€œMontalbano. Salvo Montalbano.”
    He had to wait awhile. This time, in addition to the multiplication table for seven, he reviewed the one for eight. And after that, for six as well.
    â€œForgive me, Salvo, I was in the shower. How nice to hear from you!”
    â€œWho’s the general?”
    â€œWhat general?”
    â€œThe one who answered the phone.”
    â€œHe’s not a general! His name’s Igor, he’s a former philosophy professor.”
    â€œAnd what’s he doing at your place?”
    â€œHe’s earning a living, Salvo. Working as my butler. When they had communism in Russia, he was a virulent anti-Communist. And so first he was forbidden to teach, and then he ended up in prison. And when he got out, he went hungry.”
    â€œBut Russia’s no longer Communist.”
    â€œOf course, but in the meantime he became a Communist. A revolutionary Communist. And so he was forbidden to teach again. So he decided to emigrate. But tell me about yourself. It’s been ages since I last saw you. I would really like to see you.”
    â€œWe can meet tonight, if you want—if you’re not already engaged.”
    â€œI can get free. Shall we go out to dinner?”
    â€œYes. Meet me at eight, at the Marinella Bar.”

5
    He hadn’t managed to take a single step before the phone rang.
    â€œAhh Chief! Ahh Chief Chief!”
    Bad sign. Catarella was reciting the commissionerial lamentations.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œAhh Chief Chief! The c’mishner called! An’ ’e was mad as a buff ’lo! Smoke was comin out ’is nostrils!”
    â€œWait a second, Cat. Who ever told you buffaloes blow smoke out their nostrils when they get mad?”
    â€œIvrybody says so, Chief. I even seen it on TV, in cartoons.”
    â€œOkay, okay. What did he want?”
    â€œHe says as how you gotta go to his office, the c’mishner’s office, emergently right now! Jeesus, was ’e ever mad, Chief!”

    And why should Bonetti-Alderighi be mad at him? he asked himself on his way to Montelusa. Lately there had been dead calm at work: only a few robberies, a few kidnappings, a few shootouts, a few torched cars and shops. The only new development had been the discovery of the body in the bag, too recent to provide the c’mishner with any reason to be pissed off. More than worried, the inspector was curious.
    The first person he encountered in the corridor leading to the commissioner’s office was the priestlike, cloying cabinet chief, Dr. Lattes, also known as “Lattes e mieles.” As soon as he saw the inspector, Lattes opened his arms, like the pope when he greets the throng from his window.
    â€œCarissimo!”
    And he ran up to Montalbano, grasped his hand, shook it vigorously, and, immediately changing expression, asked him in a conspiratorial