delicious meals. The result is funny and intriguing with a fluent translation by New York poet Stephen Sartarelli’
‘Delightful … funny and ebulliently atmospheric’
‘This savagely funny police procedural proves that sardonic laughter is a sound that translates ever so smoothly into English’
‘Camilleri is as crafty and charming a writer as his protagonist is an investigator’
‘Wit and delicacy and the fast-cut timing of farce play across the surface … the persistent, often sexually bemused Montalbano, moving with ease along zigzags created for him, teasing out threads of discrepancy that unravel the whole’
‘Montalbano’s deadpan drollery and sharp observations refresh as much for their honesty as their wit. All he wants is a quiet corner and an uninterrupted afternoon; what reader feels otherwise?’
‘Camilleri writes with such vigour and wit that he deserves a place alongside Michael Dibdin and Donna Leon, with the additional advantage of conveying an insider’s sense of authenticity’
‘Stephen Sartarelli’s translation from the idiosyncratic Sicilian dialect savours the earthy idiom and pungent characterizations that Camilleri uses to cushion the impact of his story’
‘Quirky characters, crisp dialogue, bright storytelling — and Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging protagonists in detective fiction’
‘The charm lies in the vivid portrayal of the small Sicilian town in which Montalbano works and lives and in the endearing personality of the detective’
ONE
Inspector Salvo Montalbano could immediately tell that it was not going to be his day the moment he opened the shutters of his bedroom window. It was still night, at least an hour before sunrise, but the darkness was already lifting, enough to reveal a sky covered by heavy rain clouds and, beyond the light strip of beach, a sea that looked like a Pekingese dog. Ever since a tiny dog of that breed, all decked out in ribbons, had bitten painfully into his calf after a furious fit of hacking that passed for barking, Montalbano saw the sea this way whenever it was whipped up by crisp, cold gusts into thousands of little waves capped by ridiculous plumes of froth. His mood darkened, especially considering that an unpleasant obligation awaited him that morning. He had to attend a funeral.
The previous evening, finding some fresh anchovies cooked by Adelina, his houskeeper, in the fridge, he’d dressed them in a great deal of lemon juice, olive oil and freshly ground black pepper, and wolfed them down. And he’d relished them, until it was all spoiled by a telephone call.
filo, Chief? Izzatchoo onna line?’
At the station they’d given Catarella the job of answering the phone, mistakenly thinking he could do less damage there than anywhere else. After getting mightily pissed off a few times, Montalbano had come to realize that the only way to talk to him within tolerable limits of nonsense was to use the same language as he.
‘Beckin’ pardon, Chief, for the ‘sturbance.’
Uh-oh. He was begging pardon for the disturbance. Montalbano pricked up his ears. Whenever Catarella’s speech became ceremonious, it meant there was no small matter at hand.
‘Get to the point, Cat.’
‘Tree days ago somebody aks for you, Chief, wanted a talk t’ you in poisson, but you wasn’t ‘ere an’ I forgotta reference it to you.’
‘Where were they calling from?’
‘From Florida, Chief
Montalbano was literally overcome with terror. In a flash he saw himself in a sweatsuit jogging alongside fearless, athletic American narcotics agents working with him on a complicated investigation into drug trafficking.
‘Tell me something. What language did you speak with them?’
‘What langwitch was I asposta speak? We spoke ‘Talian, Chief’
‘Did they tell you what they wanted?’
‘Sure, they tol’ me everyting about one ting. They said as how Vice Commissioner Tamburrano’s wife was dead.’
Montalbano breathed a sigh of relief, he couldn’t help it. They’d called not from Florida, but from police headquarters in the town of Floridia near Siracusa. Caterina Tamburrano had been gravely ill for some time, and the news was not a complete surprise to him.
‘Chief, izzat still you there?’
‘Still me, Cat, I haven’t changed.’
‘They also said the obsequious was gonna be on Tursday morning at nine o’clock.’
‘Thursday? You mean tomorrow morning?’
‘Yeah, Chief.’
He was too good a friend of Michele Tamburrano not to go to the funeral That way he could make up for not having even phoned to express his condolences. Floridia was about a three-and-a-half- hour drive from Vigata.
‘Listen, Cat, my car’s in the garage. I need a squad car at my place, in Marinella, at five o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Tell Inspector Augello I’ll be out of the office until early afternoon. Got that?’
He emerged from the shower, skin red as a lobster. To counteract the chill he felt at the sight of the sea, he’d made the water too hot. As he started shaving, he heard the squad car arrive. Indeed, who, within a ten-kilometre radius, hadn’t heard it? It rocketed into the drive at supersonic speed, braked with a scream, firing bursts of gravel in every direction, then followed this display with a roar of the racing engine, a harrowing shift of gears, a shrill screech of skidding tyres, and another
