The Brewer of Preston_A Novel

by Andrea Camilleri

  “The outlying streets have a few oil lamps like this one, but there are more in the center of town, and they run on kerosene.”

  “What time do they go on and off?”

  “It varies.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The contract for the town’s lighting was given to an uncle of mine, and that’s the only reason why I can tell you how it works. In the summer, they keep the lamps on late, since people like to linger and stroll about in the heat, but in the winter, they shut them off earlier.”

  “Well, it’s winter now. What does ‘earlier’ mean?”

  “It depends on how much my uncle and Vanni Scoppola stand to gain. Scoppola’s the elected deputy at city hall. I’ll explain. Say Scoppola needs money; he goes to my uncle and says: We’ll announce that the lights will go out at nine, but you turn them off at seven. And we’ll divide those two hours of unused kerosene between us. Do you follow me?”

  “Like a light,” said Traquandi, smiling at the pun. “And what kind of lighting is there around the theatre?”

  “Kerosene.”

  “Are there fixed lamps? I don’t mean in the square in front; there are a ton of them there.”

  “There are lampposts in front of the two doctors’ houses, the midwife’s, the mayor’s, and Police Lieutenant Puglisi’s.”

  “Mazzaglia told me this copper Puglisi has it in for the prefect, because the prefect had him investigated for allegedly protecting the numbers racket.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So this Puglisi’s someone you can reason with?”

  “I didn’t make myself clear. It’s true the prefect reported him, but it’s also true that Puglisi came out of it clean. But that doesn’t mean . . .”

  “That doesn’t mean what?”

  “That Puglisi will let it slide if you burn down the theatre. He’s still a cop, and a good one. Here, this is Pitrino’s house. He’s the one that makes ceramics.”

  Traquandi looked at the structure, which was barely larger than a doghouse.

  “But where’s he sleep?”

  “Where do you think? Inside.”

  “And where’s the stuff he sells?”

  “In back.”

  And, in fact, behind the cottage was a little yard surrounded by a low picket fence. Climbing over it was child’s play for Decu. He grabbed two medium-sized piggy banks and showed them to Nando, who said they would do fine. They resumed walking.

  “Which is the fixed lamppost closest to the theatre?”

  “The one by the midwife’s house.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Before they got there they had to dive behind a horseless carriage when two mounted militiamen passed on patrol. But there was no real danger. Then they came to the lamp by the midwife’s house. They stopped at the edge of the cone of light, then ducked inside a doorway. Traquandi filled the two piggy banks with kerosene, pouring the liquid through the slot made for coins, then tore off a piece of his shirt, which he divided in two, sticking one in each slot. Lastly, he drenched the protruding part of each rag in kerosene.

  “We can go now,” he said.

  They advanced very cautiously, as they could hear the soldiers who were still guarding the piazza, even if they couldn’t see them. They turned onto a small street parallel to the theatre’s side wall and ended up behind the building. Now they couldn’t hear or see a living soul.

  “Here we are,” Traquandi said in a low voice. “You go to the right-hand side. I want you to smash all the panes on those little windows, then throw in the dindarolo. I’ll do the same on the other side. Wait, let me light it for you.”

  He set fire to the wick of Garzìa’s piggy bank, then lit his own.

  “Hurry.”

  With the iron rod Traquandi shattered the first windowpane, trying to make as little noise as possible. Then he heard Decu’s muffled voice.

  “Nando, come ’ere, quick.”

  Traquandi arrived in a flash. Without speaking, Decu pointed out to him the half-open door leading to the understage.

  “Here, gimme your dindarolo too,” said the Roman. “You, in the meantime, break all the windows; it’ll create a draft.”

  Carrying both piggy banks, smoke rising from their fuses, Traquandi descended the stone staircase until he found himself under the stage. In one corner he noticed four trunks full of costumes, and without hesitation he hurled the first money box against them, shattering it at once. The trunks immediately caught fire. By the brighter light of the first flames, he looked around calmly. In another corner he spotted a great many rolled-up stage backdrops, propped against the wall. Hurled with great force, the second piggy bank turned them into gigantic torches. He raced back up the stairs, out of breath.

  “Let’s get out of here, fast.”

  “Where to?”

  “Your place, Garzìa. I suddenly feel hungry, and sleepy, too. Got any good wine?”

  By now everyone knew him

  By now everyone knew him as Don Ciccio, and he, moreover, did not object, despite the fact that his given name was Amabile and his surname Adornato. Amabile Adornato, known as “Don Ciccio.” He had come to Vigàta from Palermo some ten years before the events that occurred at the theatre on inauguration night; he had worked there as a carpenter and became known as a master craftsman.

  Left a widower, he moved to Vigàta to be closer to his only son, Minicuzzo, who taught elementary school. Since he had made good money practicing his art in Palermo, enabling him to send his Minicuzzo to university, he was able to buy a warehouse in Vigàta—a sort of depository where he could continue to ply his trade—as well as a small house where he could live by himself and not bother his son, who had married in the meantime and had two small children. It took him little or no time to win admiration for his skills not only in Vigàta but also in Montelusa, Fela, and Sfiacca, and thus he never lacked for work.

  Don Ciccio had one peculiarity: not only had he studied music and could read it, but he could play the flute as well as the angels were said to play when God Almighty ordered them to perform. After being implored again and again by those who had discovered this peculiar talent of his, he had decided to hold a two-hour music recital, not more, every Sunday afternoon for his few true friends: the postmaster, a fisherman, the captain of the Palermo steamboat that called at the port of Vigàta every Sunday, a peasant who himself could play the flute—the goatherd’s Pan flute, that is—and a few others who, chancing to pass by the warehouse where Don Ciccio held the Sunday recitals, felt like listening to music.

  There was no doubt, however, that Don Ciccio was a person who, upon careful consideration, gave rise to some questions. And one above all: Where, and how, had he learned to play and understand music so well? Because there was no doubt whatsoever that in matters of music, Don Ciccio was an expert, with profound knowledge of the subject. And yet, when asked a question, he made like a hedgehog, which closes up in a ball the moment you touch it. At best, when he did decide to open his mouth, he would answer with a variety of monosyllables: yes, but, if, or no. One day, however, on his seventieth birthday, when his friends threw a party for him and fêted him to the point of getting him drunk, the steamship captain asked him bluntly:

  “Don Ciccio, how did it happen?”

  And, to everyone’s surprise, he explained how it was that music had entered his life and never left. It was a beautiful tale, one that left his listeners wide-eyed and open-mouthed and sounded like one of those stories we tell and retell little children to help them fall asleep. The news then spread, and every now and then someone would ask:

  “Don Ciccio, how did it happen?”

  And after that first time, Don Ciccio no longer held himself back when telling the story, further embellishing the events, circumstances, people, and things each time he told it. This earned him an epithet, a nickname: Don-Cicci
o-How-Did-It-Happen.

  One Sunday, a week before the theatre was to be inaugurated, Don Ciccio was about to bring the flute to his lips to start the recital when the entire general staff of the Family and Progress Social Club—from the Marchese Coniglio della Favara and Dr. Gammacurta to the Canon Bonmartino and Headmaster Cozzo—walked in. There were not enough chairs for everyone. Don Ciccio felt moved and honored. He didn’t know what to say or do, but merely looked at them with questioning eyes. The marchese, who ranked first among them in nobility and wealth, got to the point without delay.

  “Don Ciccio, please excuse us for our invasion, but we are urgently in need of your esteemed opinion.”

  Don Ciccio, confused, bowed two or three times to those present.

  “I’m at your service, gentlemen.”

  “Don Ciccio, do you know this opera that our prefect in Montelusa wants us at all costs to hear? I believe it’s called The Brewer of Preston.”

  “Yes, sir, I heard it about twenty years ago, in Palermo.”

  “And what did you think of it?”

  A tomblike silence ensued. Don Ciccio seemed to be stalling. In that silence, only the marchese had the courage to press him.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, could you please give us your opinion?”

  Don Ciccio bent down slowly, bringing his left hand to his back, which ached; with his right hand, he picked up a wood shaving, then straightened up again. He held up the scrap for all to see, like a magician, or a priest in church showing the consecrated host.

  “That opera is like this,” he said.

  He squeezed the shaving between his fingers, crumbled it, and tossed the tiny fragments into the air.

  “There’s your opera; that’s how solid it is.”

  The following morning Don Memè arrived at the prefecture as fast as a tetherball, raced up the stairs two steps at a time, burst furiously into the waiting room, and, without even bothering to knock, rushed into the prefect’s office. Bortuzzi, who had been studying a drawing of the Temple of Concordia through a magnifying glass, was very nearly frightened at the sight of Ferraguto, half of whose face was laughing while the other half frowned.

  “Dio bonino, Ferraguto, what is happening?”

  “What’s happening is that that cornuto of a carpenter in Vigàta, Don Ciccio Adornato, doesn’t agree. He doesn’t like the opera. And he said as much to the members of the social club and is now going around telling everyone.”

  His Excellency, reassured, only smiled.

  “Oh, come now, Ferraguto! A harpenter? You’re afraid of what a harpenter is saying? We’re hardly in Bethlehem!”

  “Excuse me, Your Excellency, but you’re mistaken. This carpenter knows a great deal about music. A very great deal. And when he talks about music, people listen. And now they’re listening to him like he’s the Sibyl of Cumae.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “We’ve got to get rid of him.”

  Bortuzzi turned pale, and the ash from the cigar in his hand fell onto his waistcoat.

  “Madonna ’amiciaia, Ferraguto, what are you saying? I feel abused!”

  Don Memè took offense.

  “Nobody’s trying to abuse you, Excellency.”

  “Good God, Ferraguto, let’s not have any misunderstandings! In my parts, ‘abused’ means, how shall I say, disoriented. But, man to man, Ferraguto, is it really your habit to resort to such extreme methods?”

  “But what are you imagining, sir?”

  Ferraguto finally managed to join the smiling half of his face with the frowning half, and the smile prevailed.

  “I just meant get rid of him for a little while, in keeping with the law. You, sir, must speak with Captain Villaroel and tell him to do everything I ask him to do, without any argument.”

  “Well, if that’s what you mean, then all right.”

  “One final request, Your Excellency. How far along is the dossier for the contract to be awarded to Commendator Lumìa?’

  Bortuzzi rummaged through the papers on his desk, picked up a file, opened it, studied it, then looked up at Don Memè.

  “I remember the hase well, Ferraguto.”

  “And so?”

  “It’s a homplihated matter. This Lumìa is hardly entitled to the hontract, you know.”

  “Your Excellency, let’s be frank. Here’s how things stand: The mayor of Vigàta had already granted the contract to Lillo Lumìa, who he plays tresette and briscola with every other day. But then you delayed the settlement, saying there were irregularities. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Good. Now, I would like to be able to go to Lumìa and say these exact words to him: ‘Don Lillo, I have some very good news for you. His honor the prefect told me that he’s reconsidering the matter of the contract.’ Not one word more or less than that.”

  Bortuzzi kept staring doubtfully at him. Don Memè decided it was time to lay his ace down on the table.

  “Your Excellency, if I can’t say that to him, then I can’t do what I would like to do, and Don Ciccio the carpenter will keep shitting on the opera and turning the Vigatese against it. Think it over, Excellency. I will only tell Lumìa that you’re reconsidering, nothing more. Then, if, fifteen days from now, you decide otherwise than what Don Lillo expects, the opera will have been presented, and that’ll be the end of that.”

  The prefect heaved a long sigh.

  “Well, all right. But, please, Ferraguto, be sure to proceed very harefully.”

  Touching his hens’ bottoms to feel if they were laying eggs was Commendator Lillo Lumìa’s favorite pastime, and this, indeed, was what he was doing in the chicken coop of his villa on the hillside above Vigàta when a servant came running up to tell him that ’u zu Memè had just arrived on horseback and was waiting for him in the courtyard. Lumìa raced out of the chicken coop and rushed with open arms towards Ferraguto, who was dismounting.

  “Don Memè! What a sight for sore eyes!”

  “Esteemed Commendatore!”

  They embraced, then extended their arms to look at each other at a slight distance, smiling happily, then embraced again.

  “Don Lillo, I came in person to bring you some good news.”

  “I don’t even want to hear this news unless you first do me the honor of coming into my house, freshening up, and drinking a glass of wine with me.”

  “Don Lillo, the honor is always mine, and a great one at that,” said Don Memè, following the ritual without missing a step. “But I’m in a hurry to leave. I was pleased just to be able to come in person and bring you the good news.”

  “All right, then, let’s hear it,” said Don Lillo, throwing his hands up in resignation, since Don Memè could not do him the honor.

  “We’ll have other opportunities,” Don Memè consoled him. “The good news is that this morning I happened, by chance, to speak with the prefect about your bid for that contract. And I put in a good word for you, since the prefect respects my opinions. And, in fact, His Excellency told me to tell you that he’s reconsidering the entire matter. He asks merely that you be patient, and everything should work out in your favor.”

  Lillo Lumìa literally jumped for joy, rubbed his hands together, and confessed:

  “I’d lost hope.”

  “You should never lose hope so long as you’ve got this nose butting in for you!” Don Memè reproached him gently, shaking an admonishing finger.

  Again they fell into each other’s arms. Don Lillo then took the path indicated by the ritual.

  “I would never want to offend you, Don Memè, not for any reason in the world, but is there anything that I, in all modesty, could do for you or for any friend of yours?”

  “Are we joking, Don Lillo? I need nothing. Honor me always with your friendship; th
at will be payment enough.”

  He had used the word payment, which meant that Don Lillo was supposed to insist.

  “My friendship is eternal, Don Memè, no need even to discuss it. What can I do for you here and now?”

  Don Memè’s smile turned into a cordial chuckle.

  “You’re making me remember something. If you’re really very keen to do something, you could give me a hand on a silly little matter, a joke I want to play on a friend.”

  “I’d be delighted. Just tell me what.”

  Don Memè told him what. Then, just to be safe, he told him again.

  At three o’clock that afternoon, as Don Ciccio was reopening his warehouse, a servant from the Lumìa household appeared. Don Lillo, who liked to have fine furniture in his villa, had been a good client many times.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Don Lillo wants you to come and pick up a tanger.”

  “Étagère,” the cabinetmaker corrected him.

  “It is what it is. He would like you to come to the house right now; there’s no time to lose.”

  “Come on, what am I, a doctor?”

  Two hours later, Don Ciccio, with the help of two of Lumìa’s servants, loaded the étagère as gingerly as possible onto his cart and brought it to his storehouse. He had explained to Don Lillo that it would take a good two weeks of work, and Don Lillo had given his approval.

  At seven o’clock the following morning, upon opening his storehouse, Don Ciccio was greeted by Lieutenant Pillitteri of the mounted militia and two of his men. Without a word, the bravos slammed him up against the wall as Pillitteri headed straight for the étagère. He opened it, removed a small square of wood that hid a secret compartment, stuck his hand inside, felt around, and pulled out two diamond rings and a necklace that Signora Lumìa had reported missing the previous evening. Pillitteri slapped handcuffs on Don Ciccio and made him cross all of Vigàta between the two horsemen.

  “I am not a thief! I am not a thief!” Don Ciccio cried in despair and tears, feeling as if he could die of rage and shame.