The Brewer of Preston (23 page)

. . . 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.

T
he 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 popped 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.

“
Madonna santa!
”
Catalanotti whispered, realizing all too well from experience that his friend and superior had died on the spot, snuffed out like a candle.

“I didn't mean to do it,” Decu whined in a faint voice. “I didn't want to kill him. I couldn't help it.”

Catalanotti stared at him. A creature, blondish, disgusting, with little hair, a sort of worm in the form of a man. And he was peeing his underpants, which began to drip.

“You couldn't help it?”

“No. I swear.”

“I can't help it either,” said Catalanotti, and he shot him in the face. Then he crouched next to Puglisi, took his head in his hands, kissed him on the forehead, and started to cry.

The sky was beginning to lighten over by Serradifalco. They were crossing a deep valley fragrant with an overwhelming scent of oranges. Laurentano the bumpkin stopped.

“I need to pee,” he said.

“Yeah, I gotta go too,” concurred Traquandi. It had been six hours since they'd exchanged any words. They dismounted. The Roman went up to a tree, unbuttoned his fly, and started relieving himself. Right in front of him was an orange, hanging from a low branch. It was a thing of beauty, and he couldn't resist.

Holding his dick in his left hand, Traquandi raised his right hand to pick the fruit. And at that exact moment Laurentano shot him at the base of the skull. The Roman lurched forward, hitting his head against the tree trunk before falling facedown. Following the orders given him, Laurentano pulled out Traquandi's wallet, put the money that was inside (and there was a lot) into his own pocket, then made a little pile with the wallet, the outsider's suitcase, and everything that had been inside it. He set fire to the lot and waited with saintly patience for it all to burn, until only ashes remained. Then he attached the reins of the horse the Roman had ridden to his own saddle and headed back to Montelusa, or, more precisely, to the commissariat of Montelusa, where he served, each day, at the command of Dr. Meli.

That morning Don Memè, having plucked up his courage, appeared in the anteroom to the prefect's office.

“Please tell His Excellency I'm here,” he said to Orlando.

The bailiff eyed him for a moment, then looked down and answered in a soft voice that was almost inaudible.

“His Excellency is very busy.”

“Even for me?”

“For everyone, Don Memè. He told me expressly: I am busy for everyone, even the Eternal Father.”

“And when can I come back?”

“I couldn't say.”

Don Memè decided that it was undignified on his part to keep haggling with Orlando, who seemed to be taking pleasure in denying him. He turned around and made as if to leave, showing his usual smiling face to all present, but he was stopped by the bailiff's voice.

“Ah, Don Memè, I almost forgot. Dr. Vasconcellos would like to have a word with you. Please come with me.”

They headed down a long corridor, Orlando in front and Don Memè behind. Vasconcellos was the chief of the prefect's cabinet, a sort of midget known as
u sacchiteddru
, “the little sack,” either because of his diminutive stature or his habit of wearing clothes that made him lose all semblance of human form. Some who knew him well called him
u
sacchiteddru di vipere
.

Arriving in front of a door, Orlando signaled to Don Memè to wait, then knocked and went in. A moment later he came back out.

“He's waiting for you.”

The chief of the cabinet, who, until two days earlier would have doubled over bowing in reverence to Don Memè, not only did not answer his greeting, but did not even rise from his chair, which sat on a raised platform to receive him. If there were any need for it, thought Don Memè, this was the proof that a new wind was changing the course of every boat on the water.

“His Excellency,” said Vasconcellos, “left this parcel for you. It contains books. He said you should return them to their legitimate owner and thank him for the loan.”

Surely it was
The Archaelogical History of Sicily
, the one he had forced the notary Scimè to give him so that he could make a gift of it in turn to the prefect. As he was picking up the parcel, Vasconcellos stared at him with beady eyes that looked truly snakelike and hissed:

“Have a pleasant Lent, Signor Ferraguto.”

Don Memè, distracted, fell into the trap like a stewed pear.

“Lent? In December?”

“December or January, the Carnival is over.”

The sourpuss had done it. Vasconcellos had succeeded in shooting his squid ink, his viperlike venom.

The rage he felt was so great that, as he rode home in his little carriage, Don Memè's head was abuzz as if full of flies, wasps, bees, and bumblebees. And since rage in the end always gives bad counsel, Don Memè decided to turn the horse around and go to a small, secluded house of his near Sanleone. Upon arriving, he halfheartedly ate a little tumazzo cheese and some hard bread soaked in wine. Then he noticed that the twenty-odd orange trees he had in his garden were so laden with fruit that the branches were bending. So he took a wicker basket and set to work on the first tree in the grove. He didn't want to think. He would decide what needed to be done after a good night's sleep. But one thing was as certain as the sun: the prefect was showing himself to be a bigger jackass than he had realized, if he thought he could get rid of Don Memè so easily. He would make him pay, and pay dearly, for the affront he had made him suffer at the prefecture before the eyes of everyone.

When the basket was full, he emptied it into a big chest made of reeds and then went to work on the second tree. He toiled for three hours without even realizing it. He was almost done when he heard the sound of a horse approaching. Glancing towards the gate, he saw that it was Gaetanino Sparma, the so-called field watcher of the Honorable Deputy Fiannaca. Don Memè went out to meet him, as was only proper.

“What a sight for sore eyes! A magnificent surprise! How did you know I'd come out here?”

“When I get it into my head to find someone, I find him, even if he's turned himself into a flea on a dog's rump.”

They laughed. Sparma dismounted, came into the house, and accepted a glass of wine. After waiting the proper amount of time so that the question wouldn't seem instrusive or fearful, Don Memè asked: “To what do I owe the honor?”

“The Honorable Deputy sent me. He'd like to talk to you.”

“Today?”

“No, no, at your leisure. It's nothing important.”