The Brewer of Preston by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online Page B

living by the balls of the cannon.”
    The laugh that Cavaliere Mistretta tried to suppress turned out to be the most clamorous of all. As the cavaliere was asthmatic, he found himself gasping for air, and in his attempt to recover his breath, he inhaled so deeply that it came out sounding exactly like a foghorn. And yet in spite of the blast, he did not recover his breath but began to flail about, wildly grasping and slapping at the people around him. His wife got scared and started shouting, others came running, and one of them, a little more alert than the rest, hoisted the cavaliere onto his shoulders and carried him into the lobby with Signora Mistretta trailing behind him and wailing like one of the three Marys.
    At first Dr. Gammacurta congratulated the cavaliere in his mind, thinking that the whole thing was an act Mistretta was putting on to disrupt the musical performance, in accordance with their agreement. But then he realized he was acting in earnest.

    On the stage, meanwhile, Effy, the fetching bride-to-be, popped out, a great big woman at six foot six with hands that looked like shovels and a nose you could grab on to in high winds. Under this nose was the dark shadow of a mustache that a generous application of makeup was unable to hide. She moved about, moreover, in long strides, heels clattering noisily behind her.
    Giosuè Zito’s wife, Signora Filippa, sat in serene bliss. Having been born deaf, she heard none of what was being said either in the pit or onstage. For her, everything was unfolding in angelic harmony. At the sight of the giant soprano, however, her curiosity was aroused.
    â€œGiosuè, who’s that?”
    Upon Effy’s entry onto the stage, Giosuè Zito, for his part, had felt alarmed.
    They’re not playing straight
, he thought.
There’s something fishy going on here. That’s not a woman. That’s a man.
    â€œThat’s George, the twin brother!” he replied with conviction, and, naturally, he had to shout it for his wife to hear him.
    Laughter broke out again, even though Giosuè Zito’s contribution to the opera’s downfall had been completely unintended.
    Apparently panic-stricken by everything that was happening in the audience and by what she had managed to hear while getting ready to enter the stage, the soprano playing the part of Effy displayed, in her face, eyes, and convulsive hand-wringing, and in the jerky movements of her considerable bulk, the exact opposite of what she was supposed to express: joy over her imminent marriage. At the maestro’s imperious gesture, she began singing in a voice that was like an oil lamp with no wick:
    â€œI too know a bit of the art
    of sweet words and coy smiles,
    and can win a man’s heart
    with glances and other wiles:
    thousands of lovers and suitors
    I’ve seen swoon over me . . .”
    At this point the voice of Lollò Sciacchitano was again heard from the gallery.
    â€œHey, Sciavè, would you ever swoon over a cow like that?”
    Sciaverio’s reply boomed stentorian:
    â€œNot even after thirty years of hard labor, Lollò!”
    Dr. Gammacurta felt sorry for the woman onstage, who bravely kept on singing. He felt that it wasn’t right. The poor woman was trying to earn her living and had nothing to do with the Vigatese, the Montelusans, and that shit of a prefect.
    â€œI’m going to go see how Cavaliere Mistretta is doing,” he said to his wife. And he got up from his seat, made the four people blocking his path to the aisle stand up, then headed towards the lobby.

Ladies and, so to speak, gentlemen
    â€œL adies and, so to speak, gentlemen. It was suggested to my wife, Concetta, that I should give a lecture on Luigi Ricci, the composer of the opera
The Brewer of Preston
, which will be performed several days hence in Vigàta’s new theatre, the pride and glory of that delightful town. And I have to give this lecture, like it or