The Brewer of Preston_A Novel

by Andrea Camilleri

  Mazzaglia didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no.

  “So it’s Decu who’s got the Roman in his house?”

  The old man didn’t budge.

  “Thanks,” said Puglisi, standing up. “I’m going to get him.”

  Don Pippino’s hand shot out and gripped the policeman’s arm tightly.

  “Be careful. That Roman’s a bad one.”

  Giagia my dear

  Giagia my dear,

  On this day, my beloved, I wish to reveal another of my secrets to you. So many have I entrusted to your heart’s possession over the years of this our common path in life, Giagia, that they now hang like rare pearls in a necklace round your ivory neck. And since I see myself entirely reflected in them, it is as though I were forever blissfully close to your tenderest, most desirable flesh.

  And now I wish to add a new pearl to the string.

  Beloved Giagia, the question everyone is asking in Montelusa and the surrounding towns, particularly Vigàta, is this: What could be the reason why your husband, the Prefect, that is, the Solemn Representative of the State in these most ungracious parts, so obdurately wishes that the new theatre of Vigàta should be inaugurated with The Brewer of Preston, the opera by Luigi Ricci?

  Spiteful tongues, who are by far the most numerous, having learned of the blood relation linking me to the impresario of said opera, have gauged my intentions by the measure of their own wretched hearts and most ignobly set about speculating on the presumed pecuniary interest I might have in exploiting such a blood tie. Whereas you know best of all how my family, and I myself first and foremost, have wished to sever relations with this person, ever since he showed himself to be not only an inveterate gambler and squanderer of fortunes, but also given to frequenting such women of ill repute as dancers, actresses, and singers.

  And so? What was, then, the reason for the distinguished Prefect’s obstinate insistence? This is the question being asked in Montelusa and environs.

  How hard I struggled, my darling, to have that opera performed in Vigàta! To attain my goal I had to face dark days and heated arguments with a serene spirit and undaunted courage. Yet you knew nothing of these tortured vicissitudes, darling Giagia, for I wished to spare you the lot of it by keeping it all secret from you, that you might suffer not at all if not for my occasional bouts of ill humor, for which I shall never cease to beg your forgiveness.

  Yet before revealing the secret reason for my meddling in a decision that should have concerned solely, and freely, those appointed to manage the new Theatre of Vigàta, I must of necessity take a step back.

  What sort of life was I leading in Florence in eighteen hundred and forty-seven? I was a young lawyer, from an upstanding, respected family, and yet an unspoken, morose agitation was corroding my soul. I wanted no part of any undertaking, considering them all empty and vain, and saw no other point to life than life’s very ending, death, the final terminus. I cared not even for the amusements proper to youth, as I shut myself up in the sullen mutism of impassioned solitude. I belonged, Giagia, to that “vast graveyard of the drowned” of which Aleardi sang—Aleardi, the poet over whose pages, in the years that followed, we were to weep so many tears, heave so many sighs. But then came the evening, auspicious, unforgettable, when a fervent friend, the confidant of my discontent—Pepoli, remember?—dragged me from my lethal indolence and brought me to the Teatro della Pergola, where, for the first time in Florence, none other than The Brewer of Preston was being performed, a work I had never heard mentioned before. It was with scarce enthusiam, needless to say, that I went with him.

  I had neither the heart nor the mind, my darling, to keep feigning a nonexistent and thus all the more evanescent interest in hearing those sounds and seeing those figures moving and singing onstage. Thus I decided that I should head back home at the end of the first act, duly excusing myself to my friend Pepoli. And it was precisely as I was on my way to the exit, stepping wearily through the festive crowd, that I first set eyes on you, my beloved. You were dressed all in blue like the heavens and were celestial indeed, as though your feet touched not the ground. I was as though struck by lightning, and I turned to stone. It lasted an instant, and then your eyes met mine. O God! In that instant my life was changed, turned upside down as by a beneficent earthquake, and what had earlier appeared to me gray and wan miraculously brightened and shone with vivid colors. To say it again with Aleardi, “Love spread the fertile wing” of everything. And you well know, Giagia, that as of that moment, I became eternally bound to you, with new strength and renewed purpose, considering life as . . .

  On his very skin, in the hair curling on his arms, Don Memè sensed that there was something suspicious in the way the town of Vigàta was getting ready for the inauguration of the theatre. But there was nothing to be done, for it wasn’t anything concrete that gave him this feeling, but merely hints, silences, fleeting glances, brief smirks in the corners of people’s mouths. Whereas he had pledged, in his person and on his honor, that all would go smoothly. But if things were to take a bad turn, how would he ever be able to face the prefect? And so he paced up and down the high street of Vigàta, looking askance at anyone who didn’t appeal to him and noisily greeting anyone who happened to be in agreement with what he, first, and the prefect, second, wanted.

  . . . I retraced my steps not to listen to the opera through to the end, but so as not to subject my eyes to the desperate sorrow of not seeing you again. Heaven in its benevolence had seen to it that my orchestra seat was somewhat towards the back, so that the second-row box in which you sat with your loved ones was situated slightly ahead of me. Perhaps feeling the nape of your neck burning from my ardent gaze, at a certain point you slowly, haughtily turned . . . your eyes met mine . . . and at once I felt transformed—please don’t laugh, my darling Giagia—into a soap bubble that began to float ever so lightly in air, flying up and out of the theatre, over the piazza, rising up until it could see the whole city diminished below . . .

  Arelio Butera and Cocò Cannizzaro had left Palermo early in the morning, at about four o’clock. Brokers of fava beans and grains, they were supposed to make an extensive business tour of the Montelusa province, going from town to town over the course of three days. While passing the time before they were supposed to meet with a wholesaler from Vigàta, they started walking down the main street of the town. In the course of their walk, they found themselves in front of a printed bill at either side of which stood, as if on guard, a man with a beret and a rifle on his shoulder.

  They stopped to read what was written on the bill. Or, more precisely, Cocò started reading aloud, since reading and writing really weren’t his friend Arelio’s strong suits.

  “‘Special announcement,’” Cannizzaro read, “‘for the evening of Wednesday, December twelfth. Gala inauguration of the new Teatro Re d’Italia of Vigàta. Sole performance of the immortal opera The Brewer of Preston, by Neapolitan maestro Luigi Ricci. Who has enjoyed many triumphs not only in Italy but also Worldwide. His many operas, from The Thwarted Supper to The Sleepwalker, have won the applause of Kings and Emperors, as well as that of the broader cultured public. Guaranteeing inevitable success in Vigàta are tenor Liborio Strano and soprano Maddalena Paolazzi, who will interpret the roles of the enamored brewer and his beautiful fiancée, Effy, respectively. Embellished with colorful décors and magnificent costumes, the performance will begin at six o’clock sharp in the evening. With best wishes to the public, all the singers, the orchestra with its fourteen professors of music under the direction of the Distinguished Maestro Eusebio Capezzato, and the Chorus of the Vocal Academy of Naples, await with hearts aflutter the applause of Vigàta’s intelligent opera lovers, who shall kindly converge on the new Teatro Re d’Italia on the appointed date.’”

  “I din’t unnastand a bleedin’ thing,” said Arelio. “Whassit mean?”

  “It means that tonight the new theatre opens and they’re
gonna show an opra about somebody that makes beer.”

  “You like beer, Cocò?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “’Cause it makes me burp and piss.”

  “An’ it makes me burp and piss and fart.”

  They laughed. But their laughter was interrupted by a polite voice.

  “May I? Mind letting me in on the joke, so I can laugh, too?”

  The two men turned around, surprised. The blue eyes, broad, cordial smile, and sedate attitude of the man made them fall into the trap.

  “Iss our business what we’s laughin about. If you got somethin to laugh about too, then go ahead ’n’ laugh,” Cocò replied, grabbing Arelio’s arm to get him to move along.

  “Stop,” said one of the two men in berets, taking the rifle off his shoulder. The two bean brokers stopped. With a violent gesture, Don Memè separated the two outsiders from behind and placed himself between them.

  “I said I want to laugh, too.”

  Instinctively, Arelio raised a hand to strike him. Don Memè grabbed it in midflight and twisted it behind the man’s back as he dealt a kick straight to the groin of Cocò, who fell to the ground whimpering and cupping his hands over his balls. Ten or so idlers and passersby stopped to look, keeping a proper distance.

  Arelio was quick to recover, however, and took a step back, extracting a jackknife with a foot-long blade from his belt.

  “Nah-ah-ah,” said Don Memè in warning, right hand reaching into the rear pocket of his trousers where he kept his revolver. From the abrupt change in the man’s face, Arelio realized that it wasn’t worth the trouble, that the man wasn’t making that gesture just for show. Arelio folded his jackknife and put it back in his belt.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said in a low voice.

  “We all make mistakes,” said Don Memè. “Have a good day.”

  He turned his back to the two men and walked away. He was pleased and felt like singing. Everyone had seen what would happen if they were to make fun of the opera. And indeed the whole town would be informed of this fact in less than an hour.

  Arelio, meanwhile, was helping Cocò back on his feet, since he couldn’t manage on his own, doubled over and moaning as he was. None of the people looking on made any sign of wanting to help.

  “But where the hell did we make a mistake?” Arelio asked himself aloud.

  He had no answer; nor did the idlers around him, who resumed idling, nor the passersby, who passed on by.

  . . . that was why I so obstinately wanted this opera to be performed in Vigàta. There is no other reason. And whatever the reason, no one shall ever discover it, for it shall remain sealed in the innermost recesses of your heart and mine. This evening we shall sit, one beside the other, in the royal box of the new theatre, no longer far from each other as before, and I shall squeeze your hand tightly. I shall squeeze it to remind you of the best moments of our first encounter. Let us enjoy together, my darling, this gift that time and chance have allowed me to offer you as a token of future happiness. With this I send you a kiss, sweet as you like it,

  Yours for life,

  Dindino

  He took an envelope, wrote “To my Giagia” on it, and, without sealing it, put it in his jacket pocket. At dinnertime he went into the bedroom and placed it visibly under the mirror of her dressing table. He did not, as hoped, receive a prompt reply, which led him to think that Giagia had perhaps not noticed it. Yet when he went back to the dressing table to look, the envelope was gone.

  Giagia’s silence continued during their ride in the carriage from Montelusa to Vigàta. The lady seemed distracted. One moment she was adjusting her hair, the next she was rearranging her dress. Was it possible she had taken the letter and not read it? The prefect could not resist asking.

  “Did you read my letter, Giagia?”

  “Of hourse. Thank you, Dindino.”

  That was simply the way Giagia was. There was nothing to be done about it. A year after they had married, he gave her a pendant that he had had to sell two of his late grandfather’s farms to buy. And all she had said by way of reply was:

  “Hute.”

  After a pause, as they were being tossed about by the treacherous road surface, she opened her mouth again and said:

  “But you are mistahen, Dindino.”

  “Mistahen about what?”

  “The date, Dindino. I certainly never attended the performance of this Brewer. I’ve never seen it at all. Never even heard of it.”

  “Are you johing?”

  Before answering, she touched her hair, breast, left hip, right hip, eyes, and lips.

  “No, dear Dindino, I’m not johing. I never went to the theatre that evening. I stayed at home with my granny. I had things of my own to do, and I felt very bad. I’m huite certain of it, Dindino. I even went and checked my diary. I stayed at home that night.”

  “But didn’t we see each other for the first time at the Teatro della Pergola?”

  “Of hourse we did, Dindino, but it was six days later. There wasn’t this Brewer playing, but an opera by Bohherini. I think it was halled La Giovannina or something similar.”

  “It was called La Clementina. Now I remember,” Bortuzzi said glumly, falling silent.

  The oranges were more plentiful

  The oranges were more plentiful than usual that year, Puglisi noticed as he and Catalanotti positioned themselves behind a low wall a few yards from Decu’s house. The dawn arrived in the company of a cold, bothersome wind, and the day promised darkness. The lieutenant suffered the cold twofold, owing to lack of sleep. He had decided not to go to bed that night, certain that the moment he lay down he would have plunged into a leaden sleep lasting at least forty-eight hours. And so, after speaking with Don Pippino Mazzaglia the previous evening, he had gone home, washed himself, changed clothes, and started pacing about his room. After a while of this, he had felt the need to go outside and get some air, and so he’d headed to the beach and started walking along the water’s edge, thinking of the folly he’d committed with Agatina. Folly because, were he to continue the liaison, as he desired, without fail her husband would find out. And, jealous as he was, he would revolt. While he, Pu- glisi, chief detective of police, a man of the law, would become the scandal of the town. He would be setting a bad example. Thus, no. With Agatina, the next time he saw her, everything had to appear as if nothing had ever happened between them, but not only that: Agatina herself had to understand that there would be no further encounters.

  “If I stand here another five minutes without moving, I’ll be stiff as a stockfish,” Catalanotti said to him in a low voice, rubbing his fingers together to keep them from going numb.

  “Don’t you move from here,” Puglisi said to him. “Cover me from behind and don’t come out into the open until I call you.”

  The house of the Garzìa family, who had once been rich, prominent people, had long been going to ruin. The roof was half caved in, and the attic provided only partial shelter from the wind and rain because at several points it, too, was punctured, while the windows and the central French door on the main floor lacked panes and shutters. The upstairs rooms were clearly uninhabitable, and therefore Decu and his Roman friend must necessarily be sleeping on the ground floor. Hunched entirely forward, Puglisi dashed to the door. Nothing happened. Then he stepped to the side, extended an arm, and knocked. Nobody answered. He knocked harder.

  “Whoozat?” asked a sleepy-sounding voice inside.

  Puglisi became immediately convinced that the person who had answered was playacting. He was obviously pretending to have just woken up at that moment.

  “It’s me, Lieutenant Puglisi. I need to talk to you. Come outside.”

  “I’ll be right there, just be patient a minute,” said the voice, no longer sleepy but alert and attentive.

  The door opened and Decu p
opped out in woolen underpants and jersey, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant. What is it?”

  “Where’s the Roman?”

  Decu batted his eyelashes to display surprise, but he was not a good actor.

  “What Roman?”

  “The Roman who’s here with you.”

  “Are you joking? I’m alone. Come inside and have a look for yourself.”

  “You go in first,” ordered Puglisi, revolver in hand.

  The search for the Roman lasted only a few minutes. There was no trace of the man. Puglisi began to feel prey to a blind rage. Someone had clearly been thinking ahead of him and had set things right by letting the Roman escape. But the game was not yet lost.

  “Get dressed,” he said to Decu. “We’re going down to the station to have a little talk, you and me, alone, face-to-face. Then we’ll see which of us is more clever.”

  Without saying a word, Decu sat down on the bed and bent forward to get his shoes. He was ready to do everything his cousin had advised. After all, there wasn’t a bleeding shred of proof. Yet as he was feeling around under the bed for the shoe, his fingers felt the cold steel of the pistol he had hidden there the day before and forgotten about. Without his brain entering into the matter, he grabbed the gun by pure instinct and fired.

  Hit square in the chest, Puglisi crashed against the wall, dropping his weapon, then slid down in a sitting position.

  On the floor he moved as if to lie down, as if he wanted to get more comfortable.

  At the sound of the gunshot, Catalanotti stood up from behind the wall and started running towards the house, cursing. He burst in, breathless, and saw Puglisi on the floor with a great big bloodstain over his chest, eyes closed. In front of him stood Decu, trembling and wan, the revolver having fallen from his hand.