The Brewer of Preston_A Novel

by Andrea Camilleri

  Puglisi left the orchestra—no longer stopped by the soldiers, who now recognized him—went halfway down the corridor, opened a door, and found himself on a landing with stairs leading up to the stage and down to the understage. He took the first staircase and ended up in the wings, just a step away from the people singing. He saw a man in coat and tails, nervous and sweaty, wiping his forehead with a once-white handkerchief.

  “Good evening,” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Puglisi, police. Will this be over anytime soon?”

  “Let’s say half an hour. But I’m very worried.”

  “Me, too,” said Puglisi.

  “I’m worried for Maddalena, the soprano singing the part of Effy. She’s very upset, you know. Because of what’s happening in the audience. During the intermission she fainted on me, and I had to give her smelling salts. Afterwards she didn’t want to go back out onstage. I don’t know if she can hold up till the end.”

  “That’s all we need. But, if you don’t mind my asking, who are you?”

  “I’m the impresario. The name’s Pilade Spadolini. I’m His Excellency the Prefect’s nephew.”

  All in the family, Puglisi thought, but said nothing.

  “Okay, watch; here comes the most delicate moment, the duet between Effy and Anne. This is where Maddalena has to give it her all.”

  “And so, what do you say?” Effy sang from the stage with a mocking expression, addressing the other woman, Anne. Then, turning her back to her and looking at the audience: “(I want to have a little fun).”

  But, to judge from her facial expression and her trembling hands, it was clear she wasn’t having any fun at all.

  “I say I’ll be his bride!” Anne answered firmly, staring at her with a fiery eye and putting her hands on her hips.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. Ha ha ha!”

  “You laugh?” asked Anne, half bewildered, half angry.

  “Yes, I laugh because you’re not yet convinced,” said Effy, who seemed more and more determined to make her rival quit the stage mad with rage.

  “No! No!” the other said desperately.

  “I’ll give you some advice, for your own . . .”

  The word Effy had yet to say was “good”—that is, “for your own good”—but since the music allowed it, between “your own” and “good,” she stopped, filled her lungs with air to belt out the high note, and opened her mouth.

  At that exact moment the militiaman Tinuzzo Bonavia, who suffered from attacks of narcolepsy as abrupt as they were unstoppable, suddenly fell asleep on his feet right where he was standing guard—in other words, right in front of the half-open door that led directly to the stage and the understage. As soon as he nodded off, his hands, which had been holding his carbine, went limp; the rifle slipped, fell to the floor butt-first, and fired. The sudden blast of the shot, amplified by the theatre’s acoustics, made everyone jump up in the air—singers, musicians, and audience—while the bullet grazed Bonavia’s nose, which started him bleeding like a pig with its throat slit and squealing like the same animal an instant before the slaughter. Thus Effy, who by now had enough air in her lungs to propel a sailing ship, let loose her “good” a fraction of a second after the shot rang out—but, because of her sudden fright, what came out of her throat, instead of “good,” was a kind of raucus, powerful steamboat siren so potent that to some of the people in attendance who had navigated the Northern seas, it actually sounded like the terrifying whistle a whale emits when harpooned. Commendator Restuccia’s wife jolted out of a deep sleep and, not knowing what was happening, added the last straw. She screamed. Now, the screams of Signora Restuccia were no laughing matter. When informed, for example, of her mother’s death, the commendatore’s wife screamed once, and only once, but it was enough to shatter the glass of the neighboring houses.

  The combination of the rifle shot, the cries of the injured militiaman, the soprano’s terrifying “good,” and Signora Restuccia’s shriek triggered uncontrolled panic, aggravated by the fact that nobody was watching the stage. Had they been, they would have had a better sense of the situation; instead, everything happening at once caught them by surprise. After they all rose in fright from their seats, all it took was for the first person to start running before everyone else did the same. Screaming, cursing, yelling, crying, imploring, and praying, some dashed madly out of the auditorium only to run straight into the militiamen blocking their path.

  Meanwhile the soprano, after hitting the wrong note, fell to the boards with a thud, out cold.

  I am an elementary school teacher

  “I am an elementary school teacher, and I have a family,” said Minicuzzo Adornato, the carpenter’s son. And he added, to be precise: “A wife and two children.”

  Commendator Restuccia lit his cigar very slowly, as if on purpose.

  “And is this why you didn’t say a word against your father’s arrest, knowing he was as innocent as Christ?” he asked after taking a first puff.

  “Yessir, that’s why,” the teacher replied, turning red with repressed anger. “I have no power, Commendatore, I’m a nobody, a doormat. And the fact that I have a family means that the minute I make a move, the minute I create a stir or raise a protest or holler, the state will make me pay for it, by the handful and by the bushel; they’ll give me the works, pull out all the stops, do whatever they want. And the next day I’ll find myself teaching how to write the word Italy in some godforsaken village in Sardinia. Do you get the picture?”

  “The state?” Restuccia said calmly looking him in the eye.

  “The state, the state. Or do you think the prefect represents the Society for Agricultural Development? Or the Consortium for Land Reclamation? Or the Bel Canto Association? He is the state, Commendatore, with all its laws, carabinieri, judges, and power. And all these forces will come together to stick it to me. And even if they realize that Bortuzzi is a son of a much-fucked whore, they will never tell him he’s wrong, because he’s one of them, one of those who make up the state.”

  “You’re right, but allow me to ask you a question. Is your father part of your family?”

  “Of course.”

  “So why don’t you defend him, the way you would defend, say, your children or your wife?”

  Caught unawares by the question, Minicuzzo Adornato didn’t answer. So the commendatore, feeling no pity for him, continued.

  “A family is a family, my dear friend. And it must always be defended. That’s why I’m here. I came to see you to lend you a hand.”

  “Why?”

  “First, because of my grandson Mariolo. And second, because I don’t think that someone who thinks that the state is shit—pardon my language—should convince himself that he has to be up to his neck in it.”

  “Forget about the state,” said the schoolteacher. “What’s your grandson Mariolo got to do with this?”

  “Do you remember when I came to see you, five years ago, to thank you for what you had done for my grandson?”

  “I was only doing my duty. He was a spirited boy, and I—”

  “He was twisted and you straightened him out. He’d lost his father and mother in a terrible accident and we, his grandparents, didn’t know how to help him. There were times when I felt like sticking his head in the tub and letting him drown, the way you do with puppies you don’t want to raise.”

  “What are you saying?!”

  “The truth, dear friend, the bitter, naked truth.”

  “Stop talking rubbish! Your grandson Mariolo is a very fine young man!”

  “Of course he is. But it was you who made him that way, first by giving him a few thrashings, and then by making him see reason, through patience, sweat, and effort. And he wasn’t your son or grandson.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “As far as jobs are concerned, you’ll forgive me if I say I know a lot more than you do. I’m the head
of a company that provides manpower at the port. There is no labor there that isn’t done by my men: loading sulfur, almonds, fava beans, or unloading merchandise and machinery. So when it comes to knowing who does his job well and who does his job badly, I know a lot more than you.”

  The schoolteacher extracted a watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and glanced at it.

  “I appreciate your support,” he said, “but it’s getting late and I have to return to the classroom.”

  “Excuse me just one more minute. I’m here because I was told that the other day, when your father was arrested, you started crying in front of the whole class.”

  “It’s true. And I immediately apologized to my pupils, who were fairly shocked by it. I should have controlled myself better.”

  “No, in fact you were right to cry. You showed them that your father is part of your family. And that’s why I’m here. You see, your father, Don Ciccio, is a truly admirable man who found himself up against a piece of shit—begging the pardon of anyone who can hear me—like the prefect Bortuzzi, only because he publicly said what he thought about the worthless Brewer of Preston. And so I took it upon myself to do something about it. I wrote a few words to the Honorable Chamber Deputy Fiannaca.”

  “Fiannaca? But the Honorable Deputy would never deign to listen to me!”

  “To you, certainly not. But to me, he would.”

  The schoolteacher’s expression darkened, and he opened his mouth two or three times to say something, but then closed it again.

  “What is it?” asked the commendatore.

  “Forgive me for asking—and I don’t say that just to be polite—please do forgive me, for asking, that is. But won’t Don Memè take offense?”

  The commendatore’s eyes turned ice cold.

  “Memè is a fly that’s drawn to the piece of shit. Don’t you worry about Ferraguto. Tomorrow morning, I want you to get on the five o’clock train for Misilmesi. It gets in at seven-thirty. At eight, you go knock on the Honorable Fiannaca’s door, and he’ll see you right away.”

  “What did you write in that letter?”

  “Nothing. I wrote that you are a person of merit who has suffered an injustice, and that you’re a friend of mine.”

  At 8:00 a.m. sharp, Minicuzzo Adornato found himself in the waiting room of the Honorable Paolino Fiannaca, Juris Doctor, deputy of the Chamber, in Misilmesi. As soon as he appeared, Fiannaca—very tall and very thin, with a Tartar mustache, wild eyes behind his pince-nez, and wearing a housecoat and slippers—raised his arms and extended them as if to keep a distance between himself and Minicuzzo.

  “Excuse me, but some sort of introduction is needed. The letter from your friend Restuccia wasn’t specific. To whom do you wish to speak?”

  Minicuzzo gave him a bewildered look. He had woken up very early that morning, and his thoughts were confused.

  “I would like to speak—”

  “With Fiannaca the lawyer?” the other quickly interrupted him.

  “With Fiannaca, yes, but not the lawyer,” said Adornato, recovering some of his lucidity.

  “With Fiannaca the deputy of the Chamber, then?”

  Minicuzzo remained unsure. Fiannaca decided to help him out.

  “Is it a political matter?”

  “No, sir. At least, I don’t think so.”

  The politician’s face brightened.

  “So you wish to speak with Fiannaca, the president of the Honor and Family Mutual Aid Association?”

  “That’s the one,” said Adornato, who wasn’t so stupid.

  “In that case, we need to change venues. This is the Honorable Deputy’s study.”

  He brandished a little key he had drawn from the many hanging on the wall and gestured to Minicuzzo to follow him. Dressed as he was, Fiannaca went out the front door and turned right. He walked past a small door beside which was an enameled plaque with the words PAOLO FIANNACA, LAWYER, and in front of which stood five or six people who bowed reverently and murmured greetings and blessings as the politician passed. A few yards down was another small door with another plaque, which read: HONOR AND FAMILY MUTUAL AID ASSOCIATION. Leaning against the doorjamb was a man six and a half feet tall in hunter’s dress, rifle on his shoulder, cartridge belt strapped around his belly.

  “Give it to me,” he said, as soon as Fiannaca came within range.

  The politician handed him the key, and the man opened the door, went inside, and threw open the window in the spacious, lone room that served as the headquarters of the Mutual Aid Association.

  “Need anything else, Ixcillincy?”

  “No, nothing. Just wait outside.”

  Aside from some ten chairs, two desks—behind one of which Fiannaca sat down—and a few oil lamps, the big room had no furnishings. There was not a single sheet of paper, folder, or binder to be seen anywhere. Apparently, all agreements were strictly verbal at this association.

  “My dear friend Restuccia wrote me that you have suffered an injustice. So why, then, did you not appeal to justice?”

  “Because if justice itself does an injustice, it cannot turn around and screw itself by doing justice.”

  “Logical enough,” said the politician. “So you’ve been done an injustice?”

  “No, your honor, my father has. He was accused of theft and arrested by order of the prefect Bortuzzi.”

  “Ah,” Fiannaca commented drily.

  “And the prefect came up with this charge of theft only because my father doesn’t like the opera that the prefect arranged to have performed at the new theatre of Vigàta. He’s also involved Captain Villaroel and Don Memè Ferraguto in the matter.”

  “Stop right there,” the suddenly attentive politician enjoined him. Then he shouted: “Gaetanino!”

  The hunter materialized at once, as if by magic trick.

  “What is it?”

  “Please repeat to Gaetanino what you just said to me.”

  Minicuzzo felt overcome with anger. What did these two want from him? Was it a threat?

  “I’d even repeat it before Christ. The prefect sent my father to jail by setting a trap for him with the complicity of Captain Villaroel and that great big sonofabitch Don Memè Ferraguto.”

  “Did I hear correctly?” Fiannaca asked calmly. “Did you just call Don Memè a sonofabitch?”

  Minicuzzo realized that his own life, his father’s, and that of his entire family hung on the answer he would give to this question. He summoned a courage he didn’t know he possessed, and it was this discovery, more than the tension, that made him sweat.

  “Yessir. Don Memè is a great big sonofabitch.”

  The politician eyed him for a moment, then turned to the hunter.

  “Gaetanino, you heard him with your own ears. This gentleman, who was recommended to me by Commendator Restuccia, is one of us. From this moment on, if, for example, he goes outside on a rainy day and slips on a wet spot, I don’t want him to touch the ground; I want there to be someone beside him who will catch him in midair. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Gaetanino brought two fingers to his cap and went out.

  “And now to us,” said Fiannaca. “Let’s start again from the beginning. I’ve been away from Sicily for three months; I’m always busy at parliament. And all I’ve heard so far on this matter have been rumors, about which, to be honest, I haven’t understood a damned thing. Would you please explain to me what’s going on in Vigàta?”

  At around three in the afternoon, Don Memè was watching people posting the bills announcing the forthcoming opera performance on the walls of Vigàta, so enraged that smoke and flames seemed to be coming out of his nostrils. He was upset because, while in Montelusa and the nearby towns the bills remained in place, in Vigàta they were gone in less than half an hour without anyone’s knowing what had become of the
m. Thus Don Memè had taken to following the posting (the third! Sons of bitches!) in person until the glue began to take, because once the glue dried, it would become much more difficult for those so inclined to tear away the bills. At one point his concentration on the posters’ efforts was distracted by a trotting horse that pulled up beside him. Don Memè raised his head and saw that the horse’s rider was Gaetanino Sparma, field watcher for the Honorable Fiannaca of Misilmesi. Field watcher in a manner of speaking, that is, because it was known to one and all that, first, Gaetanino couldn’t tell the difference between an olive tree and a grapevine, and, second, the Honorable Fiannaca didn’t have so much as a kitchen garden. It was a euphemism: it meant that Sparma was employed in the other “fields” in which Fiannaca was involved. And Don Memè knew this very well.

  “Don Gaetanino! What a pleasure! What brings you to these parts?”

  “Just passing through, and in a hurry.”

  “Come down for a minute and let me buy you a glass of wine.”

  The other dismounted, still holding the rifle on his shoulder, and they vigorously shook hands.

  “You’ll have to forgive me, Don Memè, for not accepting, but I really don’t have the time. I was just passing through.”

  And he didn’t say another word, but only readjusted the reins. Don Memè suddenly realized that things were serious indeed, and that it was up to him to speak.

  “Is there anything wrong? The Honorable—”

  “The Honorable Fiannaca,” the other interrupted, “told me just this morning that if I had the pleasure of running into you, I was to tell you something.”

  “I await your orders.”