The Brewer of Preston by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online

go?”
    â€œBecause Signora Cozzo is going.”
    The argument admitted no reply. Signora Cozzo, the headmaster’s wife, was Signora Gammacurta’s bête noire.
    Naturally, nothing went right for him during the laborious process of getting dressed, owing in part to the deafening shouts in the next room, where his wife was getting made up with the help, apparently inept, of Rosina, the maid. The button to his collar refused to fit, falling on the floor three times; he could find only one of his gold cufflinks and spent an hour on the floor with his backside in the air before he managed to unearth the other under the chest of drawers; and his patent leather shoes were too tight.

    Now he was finally at the theatre, in the third row of the orchestra, beside his wife, who looked like a cassata—a rustic ice cream speckled with colorful candied fruit—and was smiling beatifically because the dress of Signora Cozzo, sitting two rows behind them with her husband, was not as striking as her own. The doctor looked around. His associates from the club, with whom he exchanged greetings, smiles, and nods of understanding, had all positioned themselves strategically between the boxes and the pit.

    The stage décor represented the courtyard of a brewery in the town of Preston, England, according to a small flyer that had been distributed to everyone upon entering the theatre. On the left-hand side was the façade of a two-story house with a staircase on the outside; on the right was a great cast-iron gate; and in the background, a brick wall with a door in the middle. There were wheelbarrows, sacks full of who-knows-what, and shovels and baskets scattered about helter-skelter.
    The music struck up, and a man in a gray apron appeared—Bob the foreman, according to the flyer. Looking all cheerful, he started ringing a bell. At once six people wearing the same aprons entered from behind the gate, but instead of getting down to work, they lined up at the edge of the stage in front of the audience. From their faces and gestures they looked even happier than their foreman, who turned to them, opened his arms, and intoned:
    â€œFriends! To the brewery
    we merrily run!”
    The workers looked like they were in seventh heaven.
    â€œWe merrily run!”
    they all sang together, raising their hands.
    â€œWith barley and hops
    we make our beer!”
    The six people in aprons then started jumping for joy.
    â€œWe make our beer!”
    Bob the foreman then ran in a great circle around the courtyard, showing off the equipment.
    â€œOf all the trades
    ours has no peer.”
    The six people embraced and patted one another noisily on the back.
    â€œOurs has no peer.”
    Then Bob, running from a wheelbarrow to a sack and from the sack to a pile of baskets, sang:
    â€œWe make a drink
    that brings good cheer.”
    â€œYeah, cheer for
you
!” a voice yelled from the seats just under the ceiling. “To me it tastes like piss! I’ll take wine anyday!”
    The voice drowned out even the music. But the chorus didn’t let it bother them and continued singing.
    â€œThat brings good cheer.”
    At this point somebody got angry in earnest. It was Don Gregorio Smecca, a trader in whole and slivered almonds, but above all a pig-headed man.
    â€œWhy are these six assholes always repeating the last lines? What do they think, that we’re a bunch of savages? We can understand whatever there is to understand at the first go, without any repetition!”
    Lollò Sciacchitano, who was sitting in the gallery but far from his friend Sciaverio, the one who had declared his dislike of beer, seized the moment.
    â€œHey, Sciavè, why are they all so cheerful?” he asked in a voice that would have been audible at sea during a squall.
    â€œBecause they’re going to work,” was Sciaverio’s reply.
    â€œWhat bullshit!”
    â€œGo ahead, ask them yourself.”
    Sciacchitano