The Pyramid of Mud Read online

  Praise for Andrea Camilleri and the Montalbano Series

  “Camilleri’s Inspector Montalbano mysteries might sell like hotcakes in Europe, but these world-weary crime stories were unknown here until the oversight was corrected (in Stephen Sartarelli’s salty translation) by the welcome publication of The Shape of Water. . . . This savagely funny police procedural . . . prove[s] that sardonic laughter is a sound that translates ever so smoothly into English.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Hailing from the land of Umberto Eco and La Cosa Nostra, Montalbano can discuss a pointy-headed book like Western Attitudes Toward Death as unflinchingly as he can pore over crime-scene snuff photos. He throws together an extemporaneous lunch of shrimp with lemon wedges and oil as gracefully as he dodges advances from attractive women.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “[Camilleri’s mysteries] offer quirky characters, crisp dialogue, bright storytelling—and Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging protagonists in detective fiction.”

  —USA Today

  “Camilleri is as crafty and charming a writer as his protagonist is an investigator.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “Like Mike Hammer or Sam Spade, Montalbano is the kind of guy who can’t stay out of trouble. . . . Still, deftly and lovingly translated by Stephen Sartarelli, Camilleri makes it abundantly clear that under the gruff, sardonic exterior our inspector has a heart of gold, and that any outburst, fumbles, or threats are made only in the name of pursuing truth.”

  —The Nation

  “Camilleri can do a character’s whole backstory in half a paragraph.”

  —The New Yorker

  “Subtle, sardonic, and molto simpatico: Montalbano is the Latin re-creation of Philip Marlowe, working in a place that manages to be both more and less civilized than Chandler’s Los Angeles.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred)

  “Sublime and darkly humorous . . . Camilleri balances his hero’s personal and professional challenges perfectly and leaves the reader eager for more.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “The Montalbano mysteries offer cose dolci to the world-lit lover hankering for a whodunit.”

  —The Village Voice

  “In Sicily, where people do things as they please, Inspector Salvo Montalbano is a bona fide folk hero.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “The books are full of sharp, precise characterizations and with subplots that make Montalbano endearingly human. . . . Like the antipasti that Montalbano contentedly consumes, the stories are light and easily consumed, leaving one eager for the next course.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “The reading of these little gems is fast and fun every step of the way.”

  —The New York Sun

  “This series is distinguished by Camilleri’s remarkable feel for tragicomedy, expertly mixing light and dark in the course of producing novels that are both comforting and disturbing.”

  —Booklist

  To access Penguin Readers Guides online, visit our web site at www.penguin.com.

  A PENGUIN MYSTERY

  © Elvira Giorgianni

  THE PYRAMID OF MUD

  Andrea Camilleri, a bestseller in Italy and Germany, is the author of the popular Inspector Montalbano mystery series as well as historical novels that take place in nineteenth-century Sicily. His books have been made into Italian TV shows and translated into thirty-two languages. His thirteenth Montalbano novel, The Potter’s Field, won the Crime Writers’ Association International Dagger Award and was longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.

  Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.

  Also by Andrea Camilleri

  Montalbano’s First Case and Other Stories

  Hunting Season

  The Brewer of Preston

  THE INSPECTOR MONTALBANO 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

  The Potter’s Field

  The Age of Doubt

  The Dance of the Seagull

  Treasure Hunt

  Angelica’s Smile

  Game of Mirrors

  A Beam of Light

  A Voice in the Night

  A Nest of Vipers

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  penguin.com

  Copyright © 2014 by Sellerio Editore

  Translation copyright © 2018 by Stephen Sartarelli

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Originally published in Italian as La piramide di fango by Sellerio Editore, Palermo.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Camilleri, Andrea, author. | Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954- translator.

  Title: The pyramid of mud / Andrea Camilleri ; Translated by Stephen Sartarelli. Other titles: Piramide di fango. English (Sartarelli)

  Description: New York, New York : Penguin Books, 2018. | English translation of: La pirmaide di fango. Palermo: Sellerio Editore, @2014. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017013071 (print) | LCCN 2017017406 (ebook) | ISBN 9780698195882 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143128083

  Subjects: LCSH: Montalbano, Salvo (Fictitious character)—Fiction. |Detective and mystery stories, Italian. | LCGFT: Fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PQ4863.A3894 (ebook) | LCC PQ4863.A3894 P5713 2018 (print) | DDC 853/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017013071

  Cover design by Paul Buckley

  Cover illustration by Andy Bridge

  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, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise for Andrea Camilleri and the Montalbano Series

  About the Author

  Also by Andrea Camilleri

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note

&n
bsp; Notes

  1

  The thunderclap was so loud that not only did Montalbano suddenly wake up in terror, but he gave such a start that he nearly fell out of bed.

  For over a week it had been raining cats and dogs without a moment’s pause. The heavens had opened and seemed to have no intention of closing ever again.

  It was raining not only in Vigàta, but all over Italy. In the north the rivers were bursting their banks and doing incalculable damage, and in a few towns the inhabitants had to be evacuated. But it was no joke in the south, either. Rivers and streams that had been dry for years and given up for dead had come back to life with a vengeance and broken loose, ravaging homes and farmlands.

  The previous evening the inspector had heard a scientist on television say that all of Italy was in danger of suffering a gigantic geological disaster, because it had never had a government willing to undertake any serious maintenance of the land. In short, it was as if a homeowner had never taken the trouble to repair a leaky roof or some damaged foundations, and then was surprised and complained when his house collapsed one day on top of him.

  Maybe this is exactly what we deserve, Montalbano thought bitterly.

  He turned on the light and looked at his watch. Six-oh-five. Too early to get out of bed.

  He lay there with eyes closed, listening to the crashing of the sea. Whether calm or in a frenzy, the sound of it always gave him pleasure. Then it suddenly dawned on him that the rain had stopped. He got out of bed and opened the shutters.

  The thunderclap had been like the big boom that marks the end of a fireworks display. Indeed, there was no more water falling from the sky, and the clouds approaching from the east were light and fluffy and would soon chase away the black and heavy ones.

  He went back to bed, feeling relieved.

  It was not going to be a nasty day of the kind that always put him in a bad mood.

  Then he remembered the dream he’d been having when he was woken up.

  He was walking through a tunnel in complete darkness except for the oil lamp in his hand, which didn’t give off much light. He knew that a man was following one step behind him, someone he knew but whose name he couldn’t remember. Earlier the man had said:

  “I can’t keep up with you; I’m losing too much blood from my wound.”

  And he had replied:

  “We can’t go any slower than this; the tunnel could collapse at any moment.”

  A short while later, as the man’s breathing became more labored, he’d heard a cry and the thud of a body falling to the ground. So he’d turned around and gone back. The man was lying on the ground facedown, with the handle of a large kitchen knife sticking out between his shoulder blades. He was immediately certain the man was dead. At that moment a strong gust blew out his oil lamp and immediately the tunnel collapsed with an earthquake-like rumble.

  The dream was clearly a hodgepodge resulting from an excess of purpiteddri a strascinasale and a news item he’d heard on television about a hundred or so miners who’d died in a mine in China.

  But the man with the knife in his back, where’d he come from?

  Montalbano searched his memory, then decided that it was of no importance.

  Ever so gently, he drifted back to sleep.

  Then the telephone rang. He looked at the clock. He’d slept for barely ten minutes.

  Bad sign, if they were calling him at that hour of the morning.

  He got up and answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Birtì?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Everything’s flooded, Birtì!”

  “Look, I—”

  “There was a hundred rounds of fresh cheese in the storeroom, Birtì! Now they’re under six and a half feet of water!”

  “Listen—”

  “To say nothing of the warehouse, Birtì.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ! Would you please listen to me for a second?” the inspector howled.

  “So you’re not—”

  “No, I’m not Birtì! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last half hour! You’ve got the wrong number!”

  “So, if you’re not Birtino, then who is this?”

  “His twin brother!”

  He slammed down the receiver and went back to bed, cursing the saints. An instant later the telephone started ringing again. He jumped out of bed, roaring like a lion, grabbed the receiver, and, yelling like a madman, said:

  “Fuck off, you, Birtino, and your hundred rounds of fresh cheese!”

  He hung up and unplugged the phone. He now felt so upset that the only solution was to take a nice long shower.

  As he was on his way to the bathroom, a strange little jingle could be heard coming from somewhere in the bedroom.

  And what could that be?

  Then he realized that it was the ringing of his cell phone, which he rarely used. He answered it.

  It was Fazio.

  “What is it?” he asked rudely.

  “Sorry, Chief, but I tried calling you on the land line, and some guy answered . . . I must have got the wrong number.”

  So it was Fazio he’d told to fuck off.

  “You really must’ve, because I’d unplugged the phone,” he lied in a confident, authoritative voice.

  “Of course. Well, the reason I’m disturbing you on your cell phone is there’s been a murder.”

  How could you go wrong?

  “Where?”

  “In the Pizzutello district.”

  Never heard of it.

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain, Chief. I’ve just sent Gallo with a car for you. And I’m on my way to Pizzutello. Oh, and put on some boots. Apparently the place is kind of a bog.”

  “Okay. See you in a bit.”

  He turned off the cell phone, plugged the land line back in, and managed to make it to the bathroom when he heard the phone ring. If it was the same guy looking for Birtino, he would get the address and then go and shoot the lot of them. Including the fresh cheese.

  “Chief, wha’, did I wake yiz?” Catarella asked apprehensively.

  “No, I’ve been awake for a bit. What is it?”

  “Chief, I wannit a tell yiz ’at Gallo’s squawk car woun’t start an’ ’ere warn’t no utter cars available inna lot o’ cars for availability in so much as they was unavailable ’cuz they was unmovable.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “’Ey’re broke.”

  “And so?”

  “An’ so Fazio ordained me to come an’ pick yiz up in my car.”

  Yikes. Catarella wasn’t exactly an ace at the wheel. But there was no alternative.

  “But do you know where the murder victim is?”

  “Assolutely, Chief. An’, jess to be sure, I’m bringin’ along my talkin’ naviquator.”

  He was downing his third mug of espresso and about to go out when he heard a loud, sudden crash outside the front door. He gave such a start that he spilled coffee on his jacket and a little more on his rubber boots. Cursing, he ran to see what had happened.

  When he opened the door he very nearly ran into the nose of Catarella’s car.

  “What are you trying to do? Break through my door and into my house with your car?”

  “Ya gotta f’give me, Chief, but ’ere was so much mud inna driveways ’at the car skidded outta control. ’Twas the mitteriolagical connishins ’at did it, not me.”

  “Put it in reverse and back up a little, otherwise I can’t get out of the house.”

  Catarella did as he said and the engine roared, but the car didn’t move even a quarter of an inch.

  “Chief, the driveway’s onna downhill hill anna wheels can’t get no traction inna bud.”

  “Cat, it�
�s called ‘mud,’ not ‘bud.’”

  “Whate’er ya say, Chief.”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “Chief, if ya come ousside tru’ the veranna door and I goes in tru’ the same, we can trade places.”

  “And what’ll that do for us?”

  “You’ll drive and I’ll push.”

  This made sense. They traded places. And after ten minutes of heave-ho, the tires at last caught. Catarella then took it upon himself to go and lock up the house, and when he returned they changed places again and finally set off.

  The talking naviquator had already been talking for half an hour, and Catarella had been obediently following its orders for that entire half hour, saying “yessir” to every direction it was giving, when Montalbano asked a question.

  “But didn’t we just pass the former lineman’s cabin at Montelusa Bassa?”

  “Yeah, Chief.”

  “And where’s this district we’re going to?”

  “Still up ahead, Chief.”

  “But if we’re already in Montelusan territory, then, if we keep going . . .”

  “’Ass right, Chief, ’roun’ ’ere, iss all Montelusa.”

  “So what the hell do we care whether somebody died on Montelusan turf? Pull over and stop. Then get me Fazio on the cell phone and pass him to me.”

  Catarella did as he was told.

  “Fazio, would you please explain to me why we should handle a case that’s outside of our jurisdiction?”

  “Who ever said that?”

  “Who ever said what?”

  “That it’s not in our jurisdiction.”

  “I’m saying it! If the body was found in Montelusan territory, it’s only logical that—”

  “But the Pizzutello district is in our jurisdiction, Chief! It’s right next to Sicudiana.”

  Jesus! And the two of them were on the very opposite side of town. But then there was light, inside Montalbano’s head.

  “Wait a second.”

  He glared at Catarella, who returned the stare with a slightly guarded expression.

  “What district are you taking us to, Cat?”

  “Rizzutello, Chief.”