Reporting from Rome—Americans have Philip Marlowe and Raymond Chandler. Britons have Sherlock Holmes and Arthur Conan Doyle. And Italians have Salvo Montalbano and Andrea Camilleri.
Camilleri, a bespectacled, gravel-voiced 83-year-old, has become a national character as beloved as his Montalbano, a shrewd, resolutely Sicilian police commander who solves crimes in the fictional town of Vigata.
It's not unusual for Camilleri to have two or three titles atop European bestseller lists at once. In addition to the Montalbano mysteries, he writes works of historical fiction full of humor and a virtuoso command of dialect.
At an age when most people tend to focus on scheduling medical visits, he gets up every day at 6 a.m. in his comfortable apartment here, showers, dresses and gets to work. And enjoys himself enormously.
"I spent 30 years in television, theater, where you must have great physical energy," he says in a study decorated by images of comic-strip hoodlums. "In theater it's a 24-hour day. . . . I am accustomed to this kind of rhythm. In fact, writing relaxes me."
Craggy features, a bald dome and a longish fringe of white hair give the author the look of an ancient eagle. His speech and movements are jovial and deliberate. He's a chain-smoker, a habit he describes as "imbecilic."
"On the other hand, I have made it to 83," he says. "Maybe if I quit cigarettes today, I would drop dead."
Camilleri, the son of a coast guard officer, was born in Porto Empedocle in southwestern Sicily, near the ruins of the Greek temples of Agrigento.
Despite stereotypes of the island, more than half of the best Italian writers of the last 120 years have been Sicilian, says Stephen Sartarelli, an American poet who is Camilleri's translator. They have included Nobel laureate Luigi Pirandello, a playwright, and Leonardo Sciascia, a cerebral, politically engaged novelist.
This is the result of a cultivated intellectual class, a folk-tale tradition and a dark reality that, as in Latin America or Russia, lend themselves to fiction, Sartarelli says.
"When you live in more violent surroundings, you have more moral decisions to make," he says. "The Russians lived that in the 19th century. Moral dilemmas create the most interesting literature."
But a sense of humor comes with the territory as well. Camilleri has a playwright's ear for the language of subcultures, regions and historical periods. He delights in the "verbal inventiveness" of early Italian immigrants in the United States who said "backahouse" for outhouse and "robbachoos" for galoshes.
His approach does not seem a prototype for mainstream success. He writes not in standard Italian but a pastiche of Sicilian dialects, a language of his own concoction.
"It's a difficult kind of Italian because it's very much my own language," he says. "And it's even sometimes not very comprehensible for my own Sicilian countrymen. . . . I confess there are also invented words."
Only half in jest, Camilleri says the stardom of his sleuth mystifies him. The middle-aged Montalbano is no action hero. Resentful of authority but slow to violence, gruff but sentimental, he commands a station-house ensemble featuring Catarella, an endearingly bumbling front-desk officer, and Mimi Augello, a skirt-chasing deputy commander.
Rather than cop-show realism, Camilleri lingers on details of place, personality and meals, which are near-religious experiences for Montalbano.
"I wanted a character who one could invite tranquilly to dinner knowing that he would not talk about a case unless you asked him about it," he said. "A person you can trust, who respects his word in friendship. With his private troubles, but nothing exceptional. Maybe it was this lack of the exceptional that struck a chord in Italy."