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“In Sicily, where people do things as they please, Inspector Montalbano is a bona fide folk hero.”
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“Sublime and darkly humorous . . . Camilleri balances his hero’s personal and professional challenges perfectly and leaves the reader eager for more.”
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“Camilleri is as crafty and charming a writer as his protagonist is an investigator.”
—
“Montalbano is a delightful creation, an honest man on Sicily’s mean streets.”
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“Camilleri can do a character’s whole backstory in half a paragraph.”
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“The humor and humanity of Montalbano make him an equally winning lead character.”
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“Camilleri’s sure hand with tragicomedy remains the distinguishing feature of this always entertaining series.”
—
The Shape of Water
The Terra-Cotta Dog
The Snack Thief
Voice of the Violin
Excursion to Tindari
The Smell of the Night
Rounding the Mark
The Patience of the Spider
The Paper Moon
August Heat
The Wings of the Sphinx
The Track of Sand
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.
A PENGUIN MYSTERY
THE POTTER’S FIELD
Andrea Camilleri is the author of many books, including his Montalbano series, which has been adapted for Italian television and translated into nine languages. He lives in Rome.
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in Penguin Books 2011
Copyright © Sellerio Editore, 2008
Translation copyright © Stephen Sartarelli, 2011
All rights reserved
Originally published in Italian as
Publisher’s Note This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Camilleri, Andrea.
[Campo del vasaio. English]
The potter’s field / Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli.
p. cm.
“A Penguin Mystery.”
ISBN : 978-1-101-55261-2
I. Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954- II. Title.
PQ4835.A3894C3513 2011
853’.914—dc23
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1
He was awakened by a loud, insistent knocking at the door. A frantic knocking, with hands and feet but, curiously, no ringing of the doorbell. He looked over at the window. No dawn light filtered through the closed shutter; outside was still total darkness. Or, rather, every so often a treacherous flash lit up the window, freezing the room, followed by a thunderclap that shook the windowpanes. The storm that had started the day before was raging with greater fury than ever. Strangely, however, the surging sea was silent, though it must have eaten up the beach all the way to the veranda. He groped around on the bedside table, hand searching for the base of the small lamp. He pressed the button, clicking it twice, but the light didn’t come on. Had the bulb burned out, or was there no electricity? He got up out of bed, a cold shiver running down his spine. Through the shutter slats came not only flashes of lightning, but blades of cold wind. The main light switch was also not working. Maybe the storm had knocked out the power.
