The Brewer of Preston_A Novel

by Andrea Camilleri

  In the royal box, which fell to him in the absence of the king, Prefect Bortuzzi was as white as chalk, while his wife had turned as red as a chile pepper. Mayor Bennici, for his part, was yellow verging on yellow-green. The only people who were the right color appeared to be Don Memè Ferraguto, with his dangerously broad smile, and the captain of the mounted militiamen, Liborio Villaroel, a stinking bastard not only in the eyes of God and his fellow men, but also in those of worms. Bortuzzi squirmed in his gilded armchair—which bore the coat of arms of the House of Savoy—as if he had a hot coal up his ass. He kept turning his head to the left and to the right, waving his hands like the vanes of a windmill, speaking uninterruptedly with the mafioso one minute and with the uniformed representative of the law the next. Everything was going wrong for His Excellency, but not because those openly against the opera were cutting in with goatherds’ whistles and noises ranging from cackles to raspberries. Things were bad because The Brewer of Preston was being greeted with unanimous indifference. He looked over at Don Memè, who threw up his hands. Against ten people, he might be able to do something. But against a whole town?

  Once he’d settled into his seat, Dr. Gammacurta decided to focus a bit of his attention on what was happening onstage.

  The scene had changed and now displayed the outside wall of a country inn, in front of which were some small tables, chairs, and benches. In the background was a painted landscape with a military encampment, and, indeed, a number of officers and soldiers stood in front of the door to the inn, singing.

  “Who are they?” the doctor asked his wife.

  “They’re English soldiers.”

  “I can see that. I mean, what are they doing there?”

  “They’re looking for the brewer’s twin brother. This brother had something going with a certain Anne, the sister of a ship’s captain, but then he ran away. I think there’s going to be a mistake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A case of mistaken identity. The soldiers looking for the twin will arrest the brewer, thinking he’s his brother.”

  A mistake. If the plot went the way his silly wife Angelica thought, the opera would never have any chance of success. How many things, in Sicily, happened by mistake, compared with those that happened without mistakes as to the identities of people and things? In Vigàta alone, and keeping only to the past three months, Artemidoro Lisca was murdered on a moonless night when he was mistaken for Nirino Contrera; Turiddruzzu Morello married Filippa Mancuso by mistake after deflowering her one night without realizing that she was not her sister Lucia, who had been the one foreordained; Pino Sciacchitano died because his wife mistook rat poison for the tonic her husband took after every meal. And suspicions in the end arose that all these mistakes were actually phony mistakes, not mistakes at all, but only alibis, even deliberate acts. So how were people supposed to laugh at a mistake more phony than real phony mistakes, when they lived in a world of daily mistakes?

  After this reflection, Dr. Gammacurta went back to watching the action on the stage, which involved a certain Tobias, Daniel the brewer, and his fiancée, Effy.

  This Tobias was trying to teach Daniel how to look like a proper military man, with the stiff carriage of someone who has swallowed a broomstick, the head as though in the same plaster cast as the neck, and the gait of someone with wooden legs. Tobias imitated the sound of snare drums with his voice, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, but Daniel seemed unable to learn, whereas his fiancée, Effy, for her part had no problem marching in step, being more man than woman. It came naturally to her. Tobias was delighted at Effy’s ability:

  “She learned it all in a moment,

  like a soldier of the regiment.”

  Then, Gammacurta wondered, momentarily drawn into the story, it’s him, Daniel, who wants to be mistaken for his brother, the military man. But why?

  He turned towards Angelica, who looked hypnotized by what was happening onstage.

  “Why does Daniel want to be mistaken for his twin brother?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know; I don’t get it.”

  “Then why the hell are you watching all bug-eyed as if you were spellbound?”

  “The costumes,” said Angelica.

  Gammacurta felt his stomach turn at that answer. He realized he would never make it to the end of the performance.

  “I’m going.”

  “Where?”

  “Where do you think I’m going at this hour of the night? I’m going home.”

  “Aren’t you going to stop first at your medical office?” Angelica asked him with a smirk.

  A provocation, to which he promptly reacted.

  “No, tonight nobody needs any care. Good-bye.”

  He roused himself, begging pardon for again disturbing the four people separating him from the aisle and who this time looked at him askance and cursed under their breath. How his wife had figured out that he’d been having an affair with the town’s midwife, and that he was lying when he came home from work late saying he had been at the office, the doctor did not yet understand. At least twice a week the fresh thighs and firm tits of Ersilia Locuratolo, the midwife, consoled him for his daily suffering, yet very few people knew about it. Apparently, however, these very few included some cornuto who had told his own wife, who, in turn, had hastened to inform Angelica. But he really did feel tired that night, and wanted only to go to bed, unaccompanied.

  He was about to raise the heavy velvet curtain over the orchestra doorway leading into the lobby when a very loud voice rose above the din of audience chatter, the singing of the singers, the music of the orchestra, and stopped him in his tracks.

  “Signor Prefetto! Signor Prefetto!” the voice called desperately for the prefect from the gallery.

  A stunned silence suddenly came over the theatre. Even the singers stood paralyzed, mouths open, as the conductor froze, arms half raised.

  “Signor Prefetto!” the voice continued. “How am I supposed to react to this scene? Should I laugh? Give me your orders, so I can obey. Let us know what you want, Signor Prefetto!”

  Gammacurta raised the curtain then let it fall back down behind him, muffling the laughter of the audience and the sounds and voices of the opera, which resumed its Via Crucis. He pulled his cloakroom ticket out of his pocket and handed it to the employee.

  “Overcoat and hat, please.”

  The man working in the cloakroom, Ninì Nicosìa, was a patient of his and promptly gave him his garments, smiling.

  “How are you feeling, Ninì? Belly still bothering you?”

  “No, sir.” Then he brought his face close to the doctor’s and said slowly, “Be careful, Doctor.”

  “Careful?” Gammacurta asked in astonishment. “Careful about what?”

  “Just be careful, Doctor,” the other repeated without explaining.

  The doctor put on his overcoat, headed towards the large glass-and-wood entrance door of the theatre, and went out. He hadn’t taken three steps before he was stopped by two soldiers armed with carbines.

  “Where are you going?” one of them asked in a typical cop-like tone that set Gammacurta’s nerves on edge, even though he had never had any problems with the law or its representatives. Thus he answered rudely.

  “None of your goddamn business.”

  “You can’t,” said the second soldier.

  What had got into those two assholes? In the corner of his eye he saw another man in uniform approaching, wearing the rank of lieutenant. The man saluted respectfully, bringing his hand to his visor.

  “Please excuse us, sir, but these are His Excellency the prefect’s orders. No one is to leave the theatre before the opera is over.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?” cried Gammacurta.

  “No, sir. And you must either return at once to your seat or I shall have to put you in jail. It seems to me hardly worth spend
ing the night in jail for something so silly.”

  The lieutenant, clearly, didn’t want any argument. Bewildered, the doctor turned around and went back inside. Ninì Nicosìa, who had watched the scene from behind the glass, signaled to him to stay calm. But by now a blind rage was making Gammacurta teeter like a tree in a windstorm. There had to be another way out of that goddamn theatre. Driven by a sort of instinct and determined not to yield to the soldiers’ and the prefect’s commands, the doctor, instead of going back into the auditorium and sitting down in his seat (among other things, the people he kept inconveniencing would surely have come to blows with him this time), walked the length of the half-horseshoe-shaped corridor that ran along that side of the orchestra, found himself in front of a small door, opened it, and went inside. It gave onto a small landing with two staircases leading away from it: one went up to the stage, while the other led down to the understage. He chose the latter. He couldn’t very well barge in on the singers; it would have triggered another ’48. Feeling increasingly in the grips of a blind rage, he wanted to go home, and go home he would. Suddenly he found himself in a very large room, dimly lit by a few oil lamps. There were rolled-up backdrops, cables, rafters, costumes, helmets, barrels, swords. Near the back wall he saw a closed door. Above him he could hear the muffled voices and footsteps of the singers onstage. The door was at the top of six small steps, which he climbed. Drawing the bolt, he went through the door and found himself outside, in the alley behind the theatre. He smiled. He had foiled the soldiers and prefect. He tried closing the door behind him, but could only manage to shut it halfway; something was preventing the hinges from rotating. He left it ajar and took a few steps. At that moment he heard someone shout.

  “Stop! Thief!”

  He looked around, truly scared this time. A mounted soldier sat motionless on his horse at the corner of the alley, aiming his carbine at the doctor.

  “Put your hands up, thief!”

  A mistake. The soldier was convinced he was a thief who had made his way into the understage area to steal things. The doctor smiled, but instead of stopping to explain, he turned and started running, losing his hat as he heard the horse’s hooves approaching behind him.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  He kept running, short-winded, past Gnà Nunzia’s house until he found himself behind it, by the large deposit of salt. He resolutely went inside, thinking the soldier’s horse wouldn’t be able to move through that sea of salt as fine as sand. Indeed the soldier did not enter, but merely stopped his horse, took careful aim at the black shadow that stood out against the whiteness of the salt despite the darkness, and fired.

  I wish either my father

  “I wish either my father or my mother, or both, had thought twice before letting me be born,” Decu Garzìa said very slowly, as if talking to himself. Then he paused, took a breath, and continued.

  “I really mean it. In all honesty.”

  Only the two of them, Traquandi and Garzìa, remained in Pippino Mazzaglia’s study. At the suggestion that they should set fire to the theatre, Ninì Prestìa had withdrawn with an indignant expression on his face and was accompanied home by Cosimo Bellofiore, who was of the same firm opinion as he.

  Now the two were awaiting the return of Don Pippino, who had gone to get what the young Roman had asked of him. Nando Traquandi seemed interested in what Garzìa was saying, but solely out of simple courtesy towards the only ally he had left.

  “Why?”

  “Because I myself don’t even know what comes over me the moment I hear there’s a chance to wreak havoc. Want to burn down the theatre? Then let’s burn it down! Decu’s ready and able! Want to set the town on fire? Give Garzìa a torch! Want to bugger the whole world? Here I am, first in line! But why? How? For what reason? I just don’t care about anything at all. As soon as there’s any damage or devastation to be done, any bedlam to sow, I get the itch for it, and I want to be part of it.”

  “So you’re trying to tell me you’re going along with me without any real reason, just because you feel like it? That there’s no thought behind it, other than wanting to wreak havoc?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I gotta tell you something from the heart, my friend: I don’t give a damn why you do anything. It’s enough for me that you do it.”

  “Oh, I’ll do it, all right, you can bet your balls I’ll do it. I didn’t say what I just said only to bow out.”

  Don Pippino came in carrying a tin that stank of kerosene and set it down on the small table along with a short iron rod.

  “Will this tin of kerosene be enough?”

  “I think so.”

  “All right, then. Tomorrow morning, I’ll send a servant to Decu Garzìa’s house with your suitcase and clothes. I don’t want you setting foot back here after the deed.”

  Traquandi stared at him.

  “I know you’re a brave man,” he said, “and therefore you’re not chasing me away because you’re afraid of the consequences. So why, then? I think I know the reason: you despise me.”

  “Yes,” Mazzaglia said firmly.

  “Want to tell me why, or are you just kidding?”

  “No, I’m not kidding; this is hardly the time for jokes. Several times, and with increasing frequency, I’ve seen the Italian army fire at people who were protesting because they were starving to death. They even shot at women and children. And I felt rage and shame. Rage because one can’t just sit there, cool and calm, watching innocent people get killed. And shame because I myself, through my words, my actions, my years in prison, my exile, had a hand in creating the Italy that has turned out this way, with one part suffocating the other and shooting it if it rebels. I want to stop feeling ashamed for supporting people like you, who may even see things as I do but have no qualms about spilling other people’s blood. And there you have it. End of sermon.”

  Nando Traquandi got up from his chair without answering, followed by Decu Garzìa.

  “Would you happen to have a piece of rope?”

  Don Pippino pulled a skein of thick twine out of a drawer, unwound it, and cut off a long piece. Traquandi passed one end through the handle of the kerosene tin, knotted it to the other end, and draped the whole thing across his chest. Heading for the door, he and Garzìa put on their overcoats. Pippino opened the door, looked around, didn’t see anyone, then signaled to the other two to go out. The weather outside was still bad.

  “Do you need a lamp?”

  Garzìa was about to say yes, being afraid to break his neck along the road, which was full of stones and holes, but Traquandi spoke first.

  “No, thanks. It’s better we go in the dark.”

  They headed off without saying good-bye to Don Pippino.

  They took their first steps in silence, and the night was so dark they risked breaking not only their necks but also their legs in the bargain. They walked on a bit longer with caution, afraid to take a wrong step, then slowly their eyes adjusted to the darkness. The Roman youth asked:

  “Anybody here in town sell dindaroli?”

  “What’s that?” asked a puzzled Garzìa.

  And to his great astonishment, Nando started speaking in rhyme.

  “The dindarolo makes a ringing sound;

  It’s made of fired clay and almost round:

  It’s empty inside and on top has a button,

  and a broad and sturdy base on the bottom.

  There’s also a slot, right up near the crown,

  Where the pennies come raining down

  When the kiddies in all their thrift

  Save up to buy themselves a gift.”

  “I get it,” said Decu. “Your dindarolo is what we call a caruso, the thing that little kids put their spare change in—their pennies, as you called them.”

  “But doesn’t a caruso mean a little kid in Sicilian?”

 
; “Yeah, but it also means a piggy bank.”

  “So where can we find some dindaroli?”

  “I’ll tell you in a second. But first tell me something. Do you write poetry yourself?”

  Traquandi gave a tubercular laugh and brought his handkerchief to his mouth.

  “I wish, but I’m really not cut out for it. Those lines are by Giuseppe Berneri, a Roman poet who wrote the Meo Patacca. He’s the one who gave me the idea to set fire to the theatre. Berneri says that whenever the Romans decided to attack the ghetto where the Jews lived, they would take a bunch of dindaroli, fill them with gunpowder, stick a wick in the coin slot and light it, then throw them into the Jews’ houses. The dindaroli would break and the powder would spread all over the place and catch fire. It’s a great idea, really.”

  They fell silent. The trail was treacherously steep, and talking was a distraction.

  Swearing, slipping, crashing, falling, teetering, and staggering, they finally left the trail behind them and arrived at a well-beaten road. Nando leaned on an extinguished lamppost for a moment to catch his breath. He was sweating and his eyeglasses had steamed up.

  “What’s the lighting in town like?” he asked.

  Decu answered at once, happy not to have broken any bones during the descent.