The Brewer of Preston (24 page)

“And how is the Honorable Deputy? Well?”

“With thanks to the Lord, he's in good health. But this morning he got very angry.”

“With whom, if I may ask?”

“Somebody from Favara. The Honorable Fiannaca said this man from Favara didn't understand
the difference between a common bully and a man of honor.”

“Oh, yes? And what did the Honorable Deputy say the difference was?”

“I'll tell you in a minute,” said Sparma, “but I don't want to bother you with idle chatter. Just keep doing what you were doing. Actually, if you like, I can give you a hand picking the oranges, which are truly spectacular.”

“Thanks,” said Don Memè, on his guard. The other man's speech seemed suspicious to him; he wanted to find out what he was driving at.

They went out of the house, and Gaetanino grabbed a basket and started picking oranges from the same tree as Don Memè.

“The difference,” said the field watcher, “lies not only in appearance, but also in substance. For whatever reason, this gentleman from Favara had teamed up with the chief of police. They became hand in glove with each other. And so he started doing himself, on the police chief's behalf, things that the police—that is, the law—can't do on its own. Abuses of power, iniquities, shameful things. Pummeling a man in public, sending an innocent to jail . . . These sorts of things, says the Honorable Deputy, concern appearance. But in order not to lose face, and especially not to let the friends who place their trust in you lose face, you need substance. If it comes out, however, that you've got no substance, that you're empty inside, then you're just a branch in the wind. You become an overbearing servant and, what's worse, an overbearing servant of the law, which is a crooked thing by nature. Do you agree, sir?”

“Of course I agree.”

“Now a bully who takes himself for a man of honor can do damage, a lot of damage.” He paused and wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “My lord, how much I've been talking! And perhaps I haven't even made myself clear!”

“You've made yourself very clear. Couldn't be any clearer,” Don Memè said darkly.

This, then, was the jist of the argument: he should submit himself to judgment, explain his relationship with the prefect, and justify himself. He burned with resentment at the insult of having been called a bully. He no longer wanted Sparma in his hair.

“The baskets are full,” he said. “Let's go unload them.”

He bent down to pick up his basket. And it was the last act of his life, because Gaetanino, convinced he had given him enough reasons to fulfill his obligation, opened his straight razor, grabbed Don Memè by the hair, yanked his head back, and slit his throat, at the same time taking a leap backwards to avoid getting spattered with blood. The field watcher was a master at handling the razor, even though he had never been a barber in his life. Then, with the tip of his boot, he turned the dead man belly-up and stuck a sheet of blank letterhead paper between his teeth. The letterhead read: R
OYAL
P
REFECTURE OF
M
ONTELUSA
. That way, whoever wanted to understand would understand.

O
thers might have written a book of fantasy, a novel, about the events that occurred in Vigàta on the evening of December 10, 1874, when the Teatro Re d'Italia, just inaugurated, was destroyed by flames a few hours after the gala opening performance. Certainly a novelist would have found more than a few opportunities to stoke his lively imagination, since many points of the story appeared obscure from the start and, precisely because they were never clarified, left the field wide open to the wildest, most delirious sorts of speculation.

I, however, feel practically duty bound not to yield to the lures of the imagination, precisely because I myself, not quite ten years old at the time, was the first to sound the alarm in Montelusa, alerting my late father, a mining engineer who died some years ago, to the great fire. With an indomitable sense of altruism and generosity of intent, my good father gathered together some of his collaborators and raced to Vigàta with a device of his own conception and construction, designed to extinguish fires or at least to contain them. And I must declare, with filial pride, that his clever use of this machine spared the already stricken town of Vigàta even further destruction.

It is therefore my intention, some forty and more years after the event, to keep within the bounds of a straightforward testimony, and to organize the story in accordance with a reconstruction based solidly on the facts as they emerge from the documents of the investigation, letters, and testimonies.

I should begin by saying that at the time, Vigàta, at once a fishing and farming town, had a population of some seven thousand souls and was territorially part of the province of Montelusa, even though it was geographically much closer to another provincial capital, Girgenti. A chronicler of the time, Professor Baldassare Corallo, wrote:

With the gradual improvement of economic conditions, our town began to move towards the sort of civilized prosperity that characterized Italian life in general. Even the middle class aimed at raising the cultural level and began to welcome the premises of civilization enthusiastically.

One of these premises, apparently, was the construction of a theatre that would be not only a place of amusement, however lofty, but also an ideal meeting place, a sort of assembly hall where the community could gather from time to time either to hear the sublime creations of visiting artists or to debate matters specific to the town itself.

The proposal for the projected theatre, unanimously approved in a vote of the Muncipal Council on March 27, 1870, led, after private negotiations, to the signing of a contract with the firm Tempore Novo of Misilmesi. Almost immediately, insinuating and malicious rumors began to spread among the local population, saying that the head of this contracting firm, while never officially avowed, was none other than the Honorable Fiannaca, deputy of the Chamber, to whose same political party the mayor of Vigàta, the
ragioniere
Casimir Pulitanò, also belonged.

Nothing more slanderous and mendacious could have been imagined about Deputy Fiannaca, whose political career was a mirror of his unimpeachably upstanding comportment in all walks of life. He was elected with overwhelming public consensus to no less than two terms of legislative office and even filled, in the most dignified fashion, the position of Undersecretary to the Ministry of the Interior, which is saying a great deal.

An anarchist, one Federico Passerino, saw fit to publish a scurrilous, ignoble broadside against the Honorable Fiannaca, in which he asserted, among other things, a hypothetical alliance between the deputy and Mayor Pulitanò concerning the abovementioned contract. It should be immediately pointed out that Passerino, a man who serves no God, Country, or Family, who has no place or role in society and lacks the qualities that allow a man to participate in civilized humankind, was once personally and publicly saved by the Honorable Fiannaca when he was understandably assailed by a number of the politician's supporters indignant at the multiple insinuations this despicable individual spewed at the hardworking deputy at every available opportunity. More to pacify the people's spirits than for any desire for personal satisfaction, the deputy decided to take the high road of Justice, drafting a formal complaint against Passerino, supported by an abundance of evidence. And indeed the latter was found guilty of defamation by the Court of Montelusa. It should also be added, for the sake of historical thoroughness, that Passerino, his wife Margherita, and their young son Andrea, known as Nirìa, all met horrible deaths when a bomb the anarchist was assembling at his home exploded. On this occasion as well, a few malicious rumors claimed that in reality the bomb had been thrown through an open window into Passerino's home. But I mention these rumors only out of concern for impartiality. In that family's tragedy, most people recognized the hand of God.

The contractors, in any case, abided by the agreement, with, however, a few cost increases owing to the fall in the value of the lira, and the theatre was ready for inauguration a mere ten months after the completion date envisaged in the contract awarded.

Many and varied, and quite fantastical, were instead the rumors that swirled in the province over the opera chosen for the inauguration. At that time the province of Montelusa was governed by two outstanding representatives of the state. The first was His Excellency the Prefect, Cavalier Eugenio Bortuzzi, a Florentine; the second was the commissioner of police, Cavalier Everardo Colombo, a Milanese.

Upon first arriving on our island, Mr. Bortuzzi immediately took great care, as was his duty, to acquaint himself personally with the people and affairs of our province, which he would be called upon to govern righteously, as indeed he did. By the direct testimony of Carmelo Ferraguto, at that time the fifteen-year-old son of the late Emanuele Ferraguto—known familarly to all as
u zu Memè
, “Uncle Memè,” for the promptness with which he was always ready, whatever the circumstance, to meet the needs of his fellow locals, whatever they might be—I learned how His Excellency the Prefect was able to use Mr. Ferraguto's father, whom he knew well, to acquire a most thorough knowledge of local matters, that he might have the most exhaustive possible picture of the conditions in which the province was living.

Unfortunately, Emanuele Ferraguto's commendable work was cut short when he was barbarously murdered by unknown assassins for equally unknown reasons, as he was unsuspectingly setting about harvesting the oranges in a small grove of his.

A man of deep culture and highly refined intellect (nor could he be otherwise, having been born in Florence, the supreme birthplace of Art), Prefect Bortuzzi felt an obligation to educate the people of Vigàta in matters of Art, indeed to accompany them, like a father, in their first steps towards the Sublime.

As a private citizen—and not as representative of the authority invested in him—Mr. Bortuzzi, during the course of a luncheon at the home of a friend, expressed to the Marchese Antonino Pio di Condò, president of the Administrative Council of the theatre, the humble opinion that an opera such as
The Brewer of Preston
, by Maestro Luigi Ricci, might well serve as the first of an ideal
gradus ad Parnassum
for the people of Vigàta. This idea—presented, I repeat, with the sole intent of avoiding a sense of dismay in a population certainly not yet ready to appreciate in full the beauty and depth of operas subtler in theme and more complex in composition—gave rise to a dangerous misunderstanding. A few members of the council saw—indeed chose to see—His Excellency's gracious suggestion as an imposition of authority, something in fact quite foreign to the prefect's moral character. As a result of the heated diatribes that ensued, the Marchese Antonino Pio di Condò found himself forced to turn in his resignation. And after troubled discussions and enflamed polemics, Commendator Massimo Però was elected in his place. However, upon the justified advice of one member of the council, Professor Amilcare Ragona (who had actually gone to Naples for the express purpose of seeing a performance of the opera in question), Commendator Però resubmitted
The Brewer of Preston
as the opera for the inauguration.

What to say, other than that at this point the resistence of one part of the council increased, the insinuations multiplied, and the most malicious of rumors began to circulate without any restraint whatsoever? So great indeed was the spate of slander that His Excellency Bortuzzi was forced, however reluctantly, to dissolve the Administrative Council and appoint an extraordinary commissar in the person of Sisinio Trincanato, a high functionary of the prefecture whose gift for impartiality was indisputable. And yet on this occasion, too, another wicked rumor spread, namely that Mr. Trincanato, being the brother-in-law of Mr. Emanuele Ferraguto, would never be able to avoid the combined pressures of the prefect and Ferraguto himself. Whereas, as could have been expected, Mr. Trincanato yet again gave proof of his absolute independence of judgment. Indeed, he did even more: before making his decision, he listened to the opinions of several members of the dissolved council and consulted eminent citizens of Vigàta, and only after having done so did he democratically draw his conclusions. And in this manner the definitive choice of
The Brewer of Preston
was made.

Contrary to what was written and said in newspapers and social clubs unfavorable to the governing party, the performance of the opera was not disturbed by any significant expressions of dissent. There were exclamations of wonderment at the beauty of the stage décors and the opulence of the costumes, not to mention at the excellence of the music and the skill of the singers. Some uncivilized behavior was demonstrated by a number of spectators seated in the gallery, but this involved above all naïve commentaries made by people who had never set foot in a theatre before and were unaware of the proper etiquette required in such a setting. These undisciplined spectators should have been called back to more civilized behavior by the Superintendent of the Public Order, Police Lieutenant Sebastiano Puglisi. But this is the sore point of the whole unfortunate affair, and I shall attempt to place it in the proper light. Mr. Puglisi was by nature a vulgar man of violent temperament, attributes aggravated by an adulterous affair he was carrying on with a young Vigàta woman whose sister, a widow, met a horrendous death as a result of the theatre fire. Possibly to maintain the unfaithful woman with lavish sums of money, Mr. Puglisi had lent his services to protecting the clandestine numbers circuit, a scourge across Sicily which in those days prospered thanks to the hidden screen provided by the very people who should have prosecuted and halted such illegal activities. The repressive actions promptly taken by the prefect and police commissioner brought to light Puglisi's involvement in this shady traffic. Still, Puglisi—nobody knows how—escaped by the skin of his teeth. And thanks to an error of judgment on the part of the commissioner, an error owing to his innate generosity of spirit, the lieutenant was able to remain at his post and continue to weave his schemes. Thus during the opera performance, he, as is customary with all wicked spirits, instead of intervening to dissuade, placate, or win people over, let himself fall into a sort of haughty indifference.

It should be said, for the sake of documentation, that two days after the theatre fire, Puglisi died ignominiously. As was later established, he had gone to a meeting between mafiosi, fugitives, and brigands at the house of a certain Diego Garzìa, a young man from a once eminent, now impoverished family, who had gone astray perhaps because of his family's misfortunes. That the gathering was convened to decide upon further criminal undertakings is beyond the shadow of a doubt. Indeed Puglisi attended the meeting armed with his personal revolver (his regulation firearm was found in the drawer of his office desk in Vigàta). And, in any case, if his presence there was part of an operation aimed at thwarting future actions of the criminal underworld, he would have been obliged first to alert the Commissariat of Police and then the men working under his command. But he informed nobody and went alone, a sign that he didn't want any witnesses. Some sort of argument must have broken out inside the Garzìa home, probably concerning the distribution of ill-gotten gains, a sort of settling of accounts, as they say, during which Garzìa and Puglisi grabbed their weapons and killed each other. The investigation promptly conducted by the new Detective Superintendent of Vigàta, Lieutenant Catalonotti, resoundingly confirmed this sequence of events.

There was also talk—quite out of place—of the intervention of a company of mounted militiamen during the events that led to the burning of the theatre, a company under the command of Captain Villaroel (who later ended his career as a colonel of the Royal Carabinieri). While it is true that a platoon of militiamen had drawn up in a line outside the theatre to protect the authorities gathered there, this formation was little more than an honor guard. About halfway through the second act, a number of drunken young hooligans began to scream and shout in the piazza in front of the theatre, for no other reason than to create a disturbance. This was why Captain Villaroel decided to inform the spectators that it was not advisable for people to leave the theatre alone or in small groups—specifically so they would not find themselves caught up in any unpleasant altercations. Apparently inexplicable, on the other hand, was the reaction of panic to the unexpected “clinker” (as they say in musical jargon) hit by the otherwise outstanding soprano Maddalena Paolazzi. As we know, a “clinker,” or false note, is the sort of unfortunate accident than can occur in any theatre to even the most exceptional singers; yet never, in human memory, had this sort of mistake triggered, in any theatre in the world, such mad terror, which, indeed, cannot be defined otherwise. Through patient investigation and the help of preeminent scholars of the human mind, I have arrived at a rational explanation for this apparently irrational reaction, which I shall later set forth.