The Brewer of Preston_A Novel

by Andrea Camilleri

  “What I want to ask you is not simply a waste of time, as you might be inclined to think. Ever since this whole business over The Brewer of Preston began, I’ve been losing sleep asking myself why the prefect of Montelusa got it in his head to inaugurate the Vigàta theatre with an opera that nobody wanted. I found out there’s no monetary interest involved, that the composer is not a relative of his, and that he’s not sleeping with one of the sopranos. So why, then, did he do it? In order to get the results he wanted, he forced two of the theatre’s administrative councils to resign until he found the right sheep to go baaahhh in tempo at the wave of his baton. Why?”

  “I couldn’t care less why.”

  “No, I’m sorry, but if this whole business is supposed to provide us with a pretext for staging a demonstration of protest, surely we need to know the real motives of our adversary.”

  “In that case, I say the prefect wanted to make a show of his own power, and, indirectly, to demonstrate how powerful the government he represents is.”

  “That’s too easy.”

  “You see? If you keep asking yourself why this and why that, you end up immobilized and unable to act. The truth is that any attempt to understand the adversary is a negotiation with the adversary himself. Talking, discussing, understanding, that’s all stuff for—”

  “For old folks?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s the way I see it.”

  He lowered his head, pulled a sheet of paper out of his satchel, and showed it to the others.

  “This is a secret report from Palermo police commissioner Albanese to Minister of the Interior Medici. These are therefore the words of a fierce adversary of ours.”

  “No,” said Ninì Prestìa, simply and succinctly, still staring at Traquandi, keeping him in his sights.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “I mean that my fierce adversaries, as you call them, are not people like Albanese, because Albanese is not part of the human race but part of the shit that the human race produces each day.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Let me give an example, my good friend. Four years after the Bourbons’ hangman Maniscalco—with whom my dear friend Pippino Mazzaglia and I had various dealings—went off to Marseille to croak, his wife had the gall to ask the Italian government for a pension. The Accounting Office requested some information from Isidoro La Lumia, director of the Sicilian archives. La Lumia, who was an honest man, began his reply as follows: ‘I, the undersigned, am honored to convey the following information concerning the wicked scoundrel who went by the name of Salvatore Maniscalco, and who for ten years was the scourge of Sicily.’ So wrote La Lumia. But on that occasion, your enemy, my fine young Roman—Police Commissioner Albanese, that is—took care to make it known that he was not of the same opinion as Don Isidoro. ‘The widow should get her pension,’ he wrote, ‘because’—and I’m not changing so much as a comma—‘because Maniscalco, aside from his excesses, which were justified by circumstance, and aside from the misdeeds he committed by the bushel, had nevertheless been a loyal servant of the state,’ and it didn’t matter which state. Understand? Two turds, even when shat by different anuses, still have the same smell, and sooner or later end up understanding each other.”

  “That’s fine with me, my friend. So, what should I do, not read it?”

  “No, no, go ahead and read it,” Mazzaglia said curtly.

  “I’ll skip around as I read. ‘The public spirit in general’—these are Albanese’s words—‘and particularly in Palermo, is hostile to the government—there is no point in deluding ourselves—or at least accuses those in the government of levying heavy taxes, creating financial disorder, and preventing any growth of industry or commerce.’”

  He paused, wiped his lips with his handkerchief, adjusted his spectacles, and continued.

  “‘Not a single new industry’—this is still Albanese speaking—‘has been developed or has created any demand for labor, nor have any large-scale public works provided any bread to workers. And the problem here is mostly bread and jobs. People are beginning to think that the cause may lie not in single individuals but in the institutions themselves; whence it follows that while, on the one hand, the enemies of the monarchy are sharpening their knives and the Mazzinian federalists are thinking of federalism and regional government, there is no lack of people calling for dictatorship. And more new taxes will generate still more discontent.’”

  Having finished reading from the document, he put it carefully back inside his satchel and pulled out another.

  “This instead is a report from the commanding officer at Caltanissetta. He writes as follows: ‘Everyone in this land places his hopes in the anarchy that would follow the momentary triumph of the Mazzinian and socialist sects.’”

  “What I would like to know—” said Cosimo Bellofiore, who until that point of the meeting had been completely silent.

  “Just another minute,” the Roman silenced him, already brandishing another document, “while I read a statement by the prefect of Montelusa, and I quote: ‘The discontent has now reached its peak. It has permeated every level of the citizenry, because no advantage, after more than a decade, has come of the many, very exacting sacrifices that Sicily has suffered for the sake of the unity of Italy, unless one excepts the moral and abstract gain of becoming part of a great nation—meagre consolation for those who have no more bread to appease their own or their families’ hunger.’”

  He put the document back, removed his spectacles, and ran a hand over his eyelids.

  “I’m done, but I could go on and keep citing the words of our enemies, which are exactly the same words we might ourselves use. Let’s make no mistake: Italy is a volcano ready to explode. And they know it and are scared. They put our comrades in jail, they find our weapons caches, they confiscate them or burn them up, but the next day new ones crop up, as many as were destroyed. And if we Mazzinians, here in Vigàta, don’t take advantage of the opportunity provided us tonight, we’re fools.”

  “What opportunity?” asked Cosimo.

  “The opportunity we were given tonight, one hour ago, just as I said. When the people of Vigàta revolted against the prefect.”

  “Some revolt!” said Mazzaglia. “That was just an act of spite by certain people, a momentary thing.”

  “Anyway, ‘the people,’ as you call them, stayed home,” added Prestìa. “They didn’t go to the opera. The folks attending the opera were professionals, merchants, boat owners. The people, the ones who work in earnest, had already gone to bed.”

  “You may well be right. But we must take advantage of the situation, make it bigger, make it irreparable. Let me explain. If things are left as they are, you can say all you want, but two days from now it will all be forgotten by everyone. But if we make this thing really big, everyone will be forced to talk about it, and not only here in Vigàta. Do you see what I mean? It has to become a national incident.”

  “How?” asked Decu Garzìa, suddenly attentive. Any time there was trouble to be made, he was always ready to rush to the front of the line, even if he didn’t give a damn why the trouble had arisen in the first place.

  Traquandi wiped his lips and looked at each of them, one by one.

  “We’re going to burn down the theatre.”

  Mazzaglia jumped out of his chair.

  “Are you joking? Anyway, look, the wind is blowing hard tonight, even assuming we were in agreement about burning down the theatre.”

  “What do you mean, the wind is blowing?”

  “The flames could spread to other buildings, where people are sleeping.”

  “What the fuck do I care who’s sleeping? If somebody has to die, so much the better. It’ll create an even bigger stir.”

  You know how I feel about this

  “You know how I feel about this,” Prefect Bortuzzi said sternly, frowning and le
aning against the high back of his armchair. He was displeased with the back-and-forth discussion he had been having for the past half hour with his interlocutor, who, courteously but firmly, hadn’t budged a millimeter from his position.

  What do you expect from a Piedmontese? thought Bortuzzi. Piemontese falso e cortese, as the saying went.

  “And you, likewise, know how I feel about it,” brutally replied Colonel Aymone Vidusso, commanding officer of the Royal Forces at Montelusa, looking Bortuzzi straight in the eye, and adding: “I find what is happening utterly senseless.”

  “Senseless?”

  “Yes indeed, sir.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We cannot risk provoking a popular uprising simply because you insist on indulging your whim of staging an opera that, to judge by appearances, the people of Vigàta really do not like and will not tolerate.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “What’s not true?”

  “That the people of Vigàta don’t like it. The people of Vigàta don’t understand a bloody thing about anything, so you han imagine how much they know about music. The fact is that someone, and I don’t yet know who, has told them to behave in this manner.”

  “And what would be the reason for this?”

  “It’s very simple, my dear holonel. To oppose, at all costs, the will of the national government’s representative.”

  “That may be so, Your Excellency. But by insisting, you risk creating ill will at a moment when it’s the last thing we need, as you should know better than I. I needn’t remind you that this island is a powder keg, and if it hasn’t yet exploded, it is only thanks to the prudence—or, if you prefer, the fears—of Mazzini. I, therefore, will not put the army, will not put my men, in the service of obstinacy and pigheaded behavior.”

  “On the part of the Vigatese.”

  “Yes, but on your part as well.”

  “On my part? How dare you!”

  Aymone Vidusso miraculously managed to restrain his urge to punch the prefect in the face.

  “Excellency, let us try to remain calm and speak reasonably.”

  “Oh, I am very reasonable, you know. And I say, huite reasonably, that when there is a danger of unrest against the instituted authority, the state, all the armed forces—all of them, I say, regardless of branch or service—must, by God, be united in the will to put down the uprising, without splitting hairs. These Sicilians smell bad, do you know that or don’t you?”

  The colonel made no sign of having heard him. He did not answer the question, but merely adjusted his monocle.

  “Well, they do,” Bortuzzi persisted. “They smell bad, and the Vigatese even worse than the rest.”

  “I’ll not enter into the subject of odors,” the colonel said diplomatically. Indeed, to him, it was His Excellency himself, the prefect, who had for some time already begun to smell bad. “But let me reiterate that it has never been, to my knowledge, legitimate to force anyone to enjoy an opera by means of prefectorial decree.”

  As soon as he said these words, he froze and fell silent in amazement. Where on earth had he, the unbending Piedmontese, come up with a statement so ironic? Apparently the prefect was getting on his nerves as never before. He collected himself and continued.

  “If you wish to do so, of course, you may. But you are not free to do so. And it’s quite possible that someone will see your actions as an abuse of power. That is your affair. The Italian army, however, cannot and must not be implicated in so foolish a scheme. And I will, in any case, ask the opinion of the proper authorities. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He rose, tall and stiff, wedged his monocle more firmly in his eye, brought his hand to his visor, and executed a half bow. Bortuzzi darkened as he watched the maneuver. His eyes would have burnt the colonel if they could.

  “Holonel,” he said. “Holonel, I am warning you. I have no choice but to see your actions as an explicit refusal to homply. And thus I shall have to file a report to your immediate superior. That would be General Hasanova, is that not correct?”

  “Yes, sir, Avogadro di Casanova. Do as you see fit, Your Excellency.”

  He turned on his heel and went out, closing the door behind him.

  “Nincompoop of a nincompoop!” His Excellency muttered. “You’re going to pay for this! You’re going to find yourself in the eye of the storm with a blizzard in your face! I’ll fill you full of shot like a snipe!”

  Bortuzzi could mutter to himself all he wanted, because Colonel Vidusso had already covered his rear. Four days before his meeting with the prefect, he had felt which way the wind was blowing and, anticipating a request for the army to intervene in the event that things should take a bad turn, he had written a full and detailed report to Lieutenant General Avogadro di Casanova, stationed in Palermo, in which he explained the degree to which the prefect was an incompetent and, worse, a buffoon, capable of the worst sorts of buffooneries. Actually, more than a clown, he was an individual who had let his power go to his head and in his exercise of this power had not hesitated to ally himself with a shady character and known mafioso. The damage the man was capable of doing by stubbornly imposing The Brewer of Preston on the Vigatese was incalculable.

  He had summoned his trusty courier, a fellow Piedmontese, to deliver the letter.

  “Take this message to the commander. I want you to hand it personally to General Casanova. And I want an answer by this evening. Think you can manage?”

  “Of course I can manage!” said the messenger, offended by his superior’s question.

  And indeed, at around ten o’clock that evening, the young man returned to Vidusso, covered with mud, eyes beaming with contentment. He handed the colonel an envelope. Curiously, there was no letterhead or seal on the envelope, nor on the letter inside, which looked perfectly ordinary. The message consisted of two lines signed with the unmistakeable initials of General Casanova. It was in Piedmontese:

  “Ca y disa al sur Prefet, cun bel deuit y’m racumandu, c’a vada pieslu ’nt cul.”

  Which, in no uncertain terms, meant:

  “You must tell your prefect, tactfully and in accordance with the proper protocol, to go get buggered.”

  He wasn’t sure how tactfully he had done so, but following the general’s orders and his own personal inclination, he had indeed told His Excellency to do precisely this.

  From the moment Vidusso walked out, the prefect had been sitting with his head in his hands, sputtering curses that grew more and more elaborate as he invented them. He looked darkly at Emanuele Ferraguto, who was entering the office smiling from ear to ear.

  “Things don’t look so good, Ferraguto. I missed the mark with Vidusso. He’s unwilling.”

  “What happened, Your Excellency?” asked Don Memè, concerned.

  “I don’t know what to do. That twit Vidusso told me in no uncertain terms that the army, if needed, would not intervene.”

  “But we don’t give a good goddamn, sir.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course, Your Excellency. We’ve got Captain Villaroel and his mounted militia, which is more than enough. How much trouble do you think a small handful of beggars from Vigàta can make? Villaroel will keep them in line.”

  “The point is not how much trouble they might make, Ferraguto. We’ve got to prevent them from mahing any trouble at all! And, anyway, if anything were to happen, the intervention of the army would have loohed a bit a less—how shall I say?—a bit less private. Instead, that shit Vidusso thumbed his nose at me!”

  “Excellency, you just keep cool as a cucumber. You have the solemn word of Emanuele Ferraguto that, when The Brewer of Preston is performed in Vigàta, nothing whatsoever will happen. Captain Villaroel himself and his twenty-four horsemen will have all the leisure to stroke their monkeys—if you’ll forgive the expression, Your Excellency—before, during, a
nd after the music. They’ll have nothing to do! So forget about it and listen up, ’cause I’ve brought you something wonderful.”

  From his pocket he extracted a large sheet of paper folded in eight, smoothed it out, and set it down on the table in front of the prefect.

  “There we are, freshly printed. Be careful not to dirty your hands with the ink.”

  It was a copy of The Guinea Hen, a satirical weekly printed out of Montelusa and consisting of a single page that was constantly raking the prefect’s policies over the coals. Don Memè jabbed his forefinger at a lead article, just under the masthead, that bore the eye-catching title of “Serious Letter to the People of Vigàta.”

  Bortuzzi fell to it avidly.

  The open letter said in essence that “this time it behooves the people of Vigàta to be courteous” and to heed, for once, the words of a Montelusan periodical. The author of the article, who was the editor in chief himself, Micio Cigna, knew well “how the Vigatese, at every possible opportunity, have always scorned the advice and exhortations so generously offered from their administrative capital of Montelusa towards the laudable goal of civic progress in the subsidiary port of Vigàta.” Concerning the matter in question in the article, however, Micio Cigna begged them please to pay due attention. It was widely known that, for the imminent inauguration of the new theatre of Vigàta, it had been decided by a majority, “after protracted discussion that became quite heated at moments and saw honest and worthy men attacking one another, though always for the common and agreed purpose of offering the citizenry the best that could be had in the always debatable field of art,” to present a musical opera unfortunately not known and appreciated by all: The Brewer of Preston, by Luigi Ricci, which “has enjoyed great success in other theatres across Italy.” After the announcement of this choice for the inaugural performance, Micio Cigna continued, “unusual antagonisms, rancorous whisperings, and scarcely repressed incitements to outright rejection were stirred up in order to achieve partisan ends.” The author in no way wished to go into “the reasons for this animosity,” much less provide an analysis of the “lofty merits of the opera itself”; he merely wanted to appeal to the “intelligence and civility” of the Vigatese, that they might judge the “true worth” of the opera only after “said work” had been performed.