Crimes in Context: The Montalbano Novels

A proud Sicilian, a literary enthusiast (favourite authors include Georges Simenon and fellow Sicilian Luigi Pirandello), an introvert, a commitment-phobe, a sceptic, a glutton, a hater of bureaucracy and modernity, an occasional bully, middle-aged and afraid of getting older, Salvo Montalbano, police station chief, is Andrea Camilleri’s most popular fictional character.

When Camilleri wrote his first Montalbano novel, The Shape of Water, in 1994 (translated into English in 2002), he wanted his detective book to be different from others in the genre by including aspects of the national and international culture in which Montalbano works. Thus the policies and scandals of government, the compromised criminal justice system and its pedantic bureaucracy, the transnational reach of crime, globalisation and its issues, the influence of the media, and the demise of common politeness in society are portrayed as realities that are as unavoidable as the summer heat or the dusty rural roads. Societal issues do not usually affect the plot of most detective books, but far from being a burden of social commentary the Montalbano books would be better off without, Camilleri’s breadth of context makes his stories even more interesting and gives them an engagingly vibrant realism.

Camilleri is a smart author. The books are not tomes, averaging around 250 to 300 pages. The stories are propelled by dialogue rather than description, and they are full of wit and even some slapstick-type humour. In addition, only one translator, Stephen Sartarelli, is responsible for the entire series of English publications, giving the books a consistent style and tone. Sartarelli has also provided the valuable notes that conclude each book, explaining the references, the Sicilian sayings and insults, and the type of local meals that Montalbano gobbles down.

Montalbano is the station chief in Vigata, a coastal town. He heads a small team of detectives and uniformed police. The team hold him in high esteem because they appreciate his intelligence and intuition, his casual attitude to the bureaucracy and cronyism that threatens so often to stymie their investigations, and his fundamental honesty—with some quixotic but useful exceptions. They know he is brave, and loyal to them. They don’t appreciate his bad moods, driven by inclement weather or by a poorly-cooked meal; nor do they appreciate his frequent failure to arm himself in dangerous situations. They are exasperated at times by his flaring temper, his sarcasm and his indifference to technology. They have come to accept that nearly every day he will halt an investigation in order to enjoy, alone, a leisurely three-hour lunch.

Montalbano has a long-term girlfriend, Livia, who lives in Genoa, northern Italy. He shies away from marrying Livia, nor does he want to live with her other than on holidays. He loves Livia, but once per book—sometimes more—Montalbano and Livia have an almighty telephone spat. They tend to provoke the worst aspects of each other’s character, and they doubt one another’s fidelity. Fortunately, only the irritations leading up to the spat are described. At least one Australian reader wonders why Montalbano doesn’t tell Livia “Addio!” and seek a less irritating woman. There seems to be plenty of them about who find him attractive. The answer is, of course, his deep loyalty to those around him. Perhaps, too, at some level Montalbano relishes sparring with the combative Livia. And Camilleri—skilful novelist—maintains the romantic drama for his readers’ delectation.

Camilleri has a lot of readers: the Montalbano books have sold over 65 million copies and spawned a hugely successful television series. Clearly, including the social context of Montalbano’s investigations hasn’t dimmed their popularity. The scandals and corruptions of Italian politics at the national and provincial level—operatic in scale with their drama and theatricality—cannot but affect some local criminal investigations. In Montalbano’s First Case, Montalbano takes his post at Vigata and meets his predecessor, Commissioner Alabiso, who tells Montalbano about the problems he will face in his investigations.

Then they got down to more serious matters. Mostly concerning the turf war between the two local Mafia families, the Cuffaros and the Sinagras, a struggle that yielded at least two killings a year on each side. According to the commissioner, each of the families had a saint in heaven.

“I’m sorry, sir, but what heaven are you talking about?”

“Parliament.”

“And do the two honourables belong to different parties?”

“No. They both belong to the majority party and the same bloc. You see, Montalbano, I’ve got this idea, but it’s very hard to prove.”

And it’s because of this idea of yours that they want to shaft you, Montalbano thought.

Alabiso is being shafted because he is honest and uncompromising. He knows too much about what his superiors are involved with, and he is a risk to them:

The last straw was his scarcely flexible character; indeed he’d never met a compromise he liked. In short, there are men of quality who, when appointed to certain positions, turn out, precisely because of their quality, to be unfit in the eyes of men who have no qualities whatsoever but who, to make up for it, engage in politics. And Commissioner Alabiso was now considered unfit because he wasn’t afraid of anybody.

Montalbano realises this truncation could also happen to his career. Decades after his appointment to Vigata, the period when most of the stories are set, Montalbano no longer cares about his career and he knows some of his superiors would like to shaft him. They value their careers, so they want a convenient level of untroublesome justice; enough to maintain the impression that they are serious about crime. This means petty criminals are often caught and punished, but well-connected criminals remain untouched. But not if they cross Montalbano.

The inspector’s persistent search for justice causes his superiors trouble and he is frequently summoned into some superintendent’s office to explain himself and the irritation he is causing to some politician, bishop or business tycoon. At these meetings, Montalbano’s attitude is dictated by his mood and his requirements. If he needs a search warrant or a telephone tapped, for example, he will explain his investigative strategy (or some of it) to his superiors. If he wants to fob them off, or if he has been caught by-passing their authority, he may act hurt and offended that they think he doesn’t respect them, or he may pretend to be humble and eager to have their expert guidance. Alternatively, he may act so dull and uncomprehending that they soon take pity on simple Montalbano. Even the coroner, Dr Pasquano, has to be mindful of his superiors and their murky connections. On occasion, Pasquano will tell Montalbano something about a murder but not write it in his report because it may put his career—and possibly his life—in danger.

Montalbano knows his superiors are sometimes under tremendous pressure from their superiors, but he still has little respect or sympathy for them. He has little time, too, for the administrative burden they place upon police. Montalbano hates paperwork and the bureaucracy that creates and then demands it. It is only with difficulty—by badgering and bargaining—that his sergeant, Fazio, can get Montalbano to sign a few of the many documents that pile up on policemen’s desks. A typical discussion between the diligent Fazio and the reluctant Montalbano takes place in A Voice in the Night:

“If you don’t have anything better to do, I’ll bring you some papers to sign.”

No, no signing! Not on his birthday!

“Let’s do it another day.”

“But, Chief, some of those papers go back a whole month!”

“Has anyone made any noise about it?”

“No.”

“So what’s the hurry? One day more, one day less isn’t going to make any difference.”

“Chief, if the minister for bureaucratic reform ever finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“All the minister wants to do is to speed up the uselessness, the pointless merry-go-round of documents ninety per cent of which have no purpose whatsoever.” …

“Just take my advice, Chief. Don’t you think it’s better if you get rid of those documents little by little? I’ll bring you just twenty, to get started. Half an hour is all it’ll take, and you’ll have them out of your hair.”

“All right, but let’s make it ten.”

In The Age of Doubt, a terrific storm damages the police station roof; rain pours in and soaks a pile of documents on Montalbano’s desk, destroying the lot. Montalbano rejoices, and takes advantage of the leaking roof to ensure the rest of the annoying documents in his office are also turned into a soggy paste, although he has to help the process along by emptying pitcher-loads of water onto the paperwork. It’s a rare win for Montalbano; a loss for the bureaucrats he holds in contempt.

In contrast to his contempt for bureaucrats, Montalbano has a certain affection for petty burglars; one of whom, an elderly friend, taught Montalbano how to pick locks and gave Montalbano a set of skeleton keys. Another burglar, Pasquale, his housekeeper’s son, in and out of jail, often tells Montalbano what the news is on the street and provides valuable information. But for powerful criminals who murder, extort on a huge scale, corrupt, who cause fear and instigate violence, Montalbano has nothing but scorn—for them and their political protectors.

In A Voice in the Night, the collusion between organised crime and politicians so enrages Montalbano that he loses his appetite, even though his meal is in front of him at his favourite restaurant—a poignant indication of his extreme distress:

In recent years, perhaps because of his increasing age, he was less and less able to control the disdain, and the subsequent feeling of rebellion, aroused in him by the more or less open support that a certain political formation, through the involvement of certain members of Parliament and senators, was always ready to provide the Mafia. And now they were even starting to pass a number of laws that hadn’t the slightest thing to do with the law. What country was it where a minister had once said, while in office, that one had to learn to live with the Mafia? What country was it where a senator, convicted for first-degree collusion with the Mafia, had recycled himself and been re-elected? What country was it where a regional deputy, convicted for aiding and abetting Mafiosi, had risen to the rank of senator? What country was it where a guy who’d been minister and prime minister a great many times had been found definitely guilty of the crime of collusion with the Mafia, and yet continued to enjoy the status of senator for life?

The mere fact that these people never resigned of their own accord showed what sort of stuff they were made of. He pushed away the plate in front of him.

“What? Aren’t you going to eat?” Enzo asked him with concern.

“I’m not hungry any more.”

“Why not?”

“Too many worries.”

Montalbano is less worried about the arcane nature of Italian law. He is pragmatic: he knows it is misshapen and imperfect, but he can’t change it, so he must work as shrewdly as possible within it. He explained this to Fazio in the early stages of their work together when Fazio questioned Montalbano’s individual interpretation of police rules:

“I know perfectly well that we’ve got rules! But you know what these rules of yours are like, Fazio? They’re like the woollen sweater my Auntie Cuncittina made for me.”

Fazio gawked at him, utterly lost.

“A sweater?”

“You bet. When I was fifteen, my Auntie Cuncittina made me a woollen sweater. But since she didn’t know how to knit, the sweater had some stitches so big they looked like holes, other stitches that were too small, and one arm that was too short, and the other too long. And so, to make it look right on me, I had to pull it out one side, tuck it in on the other; squeeze it on one side and stretch it on the other. And you know why I could do it? Because the sweater lent itself to that kind of adjustment. It was made of wool, not iron. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. So that’s how you see things?”

“That’s how I see things.”

This vision of Italian law affects his investigations. He seeks to induce confessions or to engineer self-incrimination to make prosecution as straightforward as possible. He doesn’t neglect the humdrum aspects of detective work—he usually delegates these mundane tasks to his capable assistants Fazio and Augello—but it is the cunning and creativity of Montalbano that characterise his work.

Montalbano has to stay creative because the nature of the crimes he investigates has evolved with globalisation and the incorporation of Italy into the European Union: there are many more opportunities for different types of serious crimes. A variety of highly-organised gangs, Mafiosi as well as new non-Italian players, have adapted to exploit the changing circumstances. The traditional areas of organised crime—prostitution, extortion, and drug trafficking—have expanded. These new and more heinous crimes are explored in various novels: human trafficking and sexual enslavement (Rounding the Mark and The Sign of the Sphinx), arms trading for insurrection and terrorism (A Blade of Light), smuggling “blood diamonds” (The Age of Doubt), exploitation of desperate refugees (The Snack-Thief) and the corruption surrounding large-scale infrastructure projects (The Pyramid of Mud). These types of criminal activities are so pervasive that Montalbano has to keep reminding his team that there are still plenty of individual crimes of lust, greed and vengeance, and these propel many other stories.

In his battles with criminals, Montalbano has an ambivalent relationship with the local media networks who like to cover sensational cases. One prominent television station has a news presenter, Pippo Ragonese—or Chicken-Arse, as Montalbano calls him—who has nothing good to say about the Vigata police. Montalbano knows the Mafia influence this reportage, so he watches it to see what the Mafia want him to believe but otherwise he ignores it as much as he can. Fortunately, one of his closest friends, Nico, is a journalist and presenter for a minor independent television station. Nico and Montalbano often work together to appeal for information from the public; and Nico presents stories, using information leaked by Montalbano, that embarrass corrupt politicians and discomfort the Mafia.

In the more recent novels there are lamentations about the baleful influence of ostentatious media moguls who also have political power: barely disguised references to Silvio Berlusconi and his ilk, their bunga-bunga parties and brazen shenanigans have become more frequent. Not surprisingly given this sort of influence, there are declines in journalistic standards and public opinion is inevitably distorted. In A Voice in the Night, Montalbano discusses this with Nico:

“Nicolo, the press—that is the newspapers—are useless. Italy is a country with two million illiterates and thirty per cent of the population that can barely sign their names. Three-quarters of those who buy newspapers read only the headlines, which often—in fine Italian custom—say the opposite of what the articles themselves say. The remaining few people have already formed their own opinions and buy whatever newspaper reflects what they already think.”

“As far as the press is concerned,” said Nicolo after a moment’s pause, “I would agree with you in part, but you must admit that even illiterates watch television!”

“And we see the results. The three biggest private television stations are the personal property of the head of the majority party, and two of the state television stations are headed by men personally chosen by the head of the majority party. That’s how your famous public opinion is formed!”

It isn’t just the decline in journalistic standards that concerns Montalbano. The decline in common politeness across society also concerns him. This is Montalbano’s response after being abused in traffic and then recklessly overtaken by a young man in a road-rage incident:

Montalbano wished him a happy flight into the nearest ravine. And for good measure, he wished him a nice little fire when his car hit the bottom.

But what had happened to people in this country? In the last few years they seemed to have regressed centuries. Maybe if you took their clothes off, underneath you would find the sheepskins that primitive man used to wear.

Why so much mutual intolerance? Why was it that nobody could any longer stand his neighbour, his co-worker, or even his schoolmate?

There is so much about modern society that Montalbano doesn’t like: he is in danger of becoming a middle-aged curmudgeon. He hasn’t kept up with the times because he doesn’t like the times. In The Pyramid of Mud, he sees a building site’s earthworks, a huge mound of rain-sodden clay and dirt, as a metaphor for contemporary Italian society: unstable, slippery, covering who-knows-what, the result of loathsome deals. The past is gouged away and the ugly and utilitarian is put in its place. In The Scent of the Night, an incensed Montalbano vandalises a crass villa being built on the site of an ancient orchard where an old olive tree he loved to sit under and think has been uprooted and is dying.

He is conscious that he is a throwback to his father’s generation and to the customs and manners of Italy in the 1950s and 1960s. When he has to make a mobile telephone call, he usually gets Fazio to make it for him. The clown-like, barely-educated station receptionist, Catarella, is far more competent with computers and gadgets than Montalbano, who is defeated by almost any electronic device. He drives his humble car at an annoyingly sedate pace; his colleagues don’t let him drive the police cars if they can manage it. Perhaps part of the appeal of the series is that many readers sympathise with Montalbano’s rejection of an always-connected, always-chattering, money-obsessed modernity.

Another appealing quality of the series is the refusal to excite interest through any focus on excessive violence or macabre cruelty. Montalbano encounters plenty of bodies showing signs of brutality but they are found after the event. Description of the injuries is minimal and often given at second-hand via the coroner’s report.

Camilleri has said that there is already enough violence and cruelty in society without literature adding unnecessarily to the sum. As a result, his fiction has been criticised for being somewhat trite. The ancient playwrights would understand Camilleri’s position better than his contemporary critics. In classical plays, sexuality, murder and brutality all occurred off-stage because it was considered inappropriate to portray such acts on-stage.

In the short story “Montalbano Says No”, Camilleri and his creation Montalbano discuss the issue of grotesque violence in fiction. In his preface to the story collection, Camilleri states this discussion is a sort of manifesto, expressing his attitude to the fashion of “extreme” fiction. Camilleri has Montalbano witness the abduction and a few hours later the cannibalisation of a young woman. The sight sickens the inspector, but rather than arresting the feasting perpetrators when he has the chance, Montalbano telephones Camilleri at his home in Rome:

“Why did you call me?”

“Because I don’t like this story. I don’t want to go back into it. It’s not me. This business of the fried eyes and stewed calf is totally ridiculous. Absolute rubbish, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Salvo, I agree with you.”

“So why are you writing it?”

“Try to understand, son. Some people write that I am just a feel-good writer who tells only sugary, cosy stories; others say that the success I’ve enjoyed thanks to you hasn’t been good for me and that I’ve become repetitive and care only about royalties … They claim I am a facile writer, even if they break their heads trying to understand the way I write. I’m just trying to bring myself up to date, Salvo. A little blood on the page never hurt anyone. What, do you want to start splitting hairs? And let me ask you, since you’re a true gourmet: have you ever actually tasted a pair of fried human eyes, perhaps with a little sauté of onion on top?”

“Don’t try to be funny. And listen. I’m going to tell you something once and I’m not going to repeat it. To me, a story like this just isn’t right. You’re absolutely free to write others like it, but then you’ll have to find yourself another protagonist. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly. But meanwhile how am I going to end this one?”

“Like this,” said the inspector.

And he hung up.

Montalbano is moving through his fifties; Camilleri is moving through his nineties. One hopes Camilleri survives the debilitations of old age long enough to write more Montalbano books, and that he maintains the quality of this exceptional and much-loved crime series. Taken together, the twenty-four books present a unique, often sardonic portrayal of Sicilian society as it wrestles with change, of common people struggling with powerful cultural forces that are out of their control, and of the deep frustrations that accompany this state of flux.