In Murder the Sicilian Code

When we first meet Inspector Salvo Montalbano, it is not his finest moment. The Sicilian, who is something of a cult figure thanks to Camilleri’s huge fan following in Italy and beyond, has been asked to drive up to the ten-kilometre marker along the Vigata-Fela highway, but no sooner does he reach this point than he feels like putting the car back in gear and returning to town. He is scheduled to meet a legendary Mafioso and, being only human, Montalbano is very nervous. Even after this meeting, and after the capture of Tano the Greek (and no, this is not a spoiler, for this story has many twists and turns) Montalbano remains edgy, most of all when he has to face the media at the press conference: “In the alternately desperate, stammering, hesitant, bewildered, flabbergasted, lost but always wild-eyed man framed pitilessly in the foreground by the Free Channel’s videocamera, Montalbano scarcely recognised himself under the storm of questions from vile snake-in-the-grass journalists… The aubergine Parmesan his housekeeper had left for him in the oven suddenly tasted flavourless.”

And that, for Montalbano, is truly disturbing: because his housekeeper is a divine cook. Camilleri’s Sicilian police inspector is very particular about his food, and we are given some delicious descriptions of the culinary delights that his housekeeper Adelina conjures up for him: “In the refrigerator Montalbano found a plate of cold pasta with tomatoes, basil, and black passuluna olives that gave off an aroma to wake the dead, and a second course of fresh anchovies with onions and vinegar.” Montalbano is also well read, especially about the intricacies of crime fiction and detective novels: “It occurred to him that in matters of taste he was closer to Maigret than to Pepe Carvalho, the protagonist of Montalban’s novels, who stuffed himself with dishes that would have set a shark’s belly on fire.”

In short, Montalbano is an interesting and complex character; and the terrain in which he works is also complex. It is a ruggedly beautiful landscape, full of its own turbulent, unforgiving history. This is neither sunny Tuscany nor fashionable Milan. It is, instead, the impulsive, brooding heart of Sicily: “Arid hills like giant tumuli, covered only by a yellow stubble of dry grass and abandoned by the hand of man after sudden failures owing to drought, extreme heat, or more simply to the weariness of a battle lost from the outset, were interrupted here and there by a group of rocky peaks rising absurdly out of nothing or perhaps fallen from above, stalactites or stalagmites of the deep, open-air cave that is Sicily.”

And so, when he discovers a deep cache of weapons inside a cave that few knew of, Montalbano looks around for something more. That extra element is what makes The Terracotta Dog an unusual and compelling crime novel: for it takes us far back into history without ever losing its hold on the present. It shows us a landscape that gets its joy not only from cars and motorcycles, but also from deep friendships and simple relationships. Assembled here, for us, are not only the drudgeries of police work, but also the excitement of pursuit, and even a little flamboyance where required. Stephen Sartarelli’s translation is skilful: scattered Italian phrases through the pages add to the flavour of the story. Alternately ironic and bleak, terrible and tender, The Terracotta Dog is a gripping and intelligent work.