The Brewer of Preston: A Novel
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Montalbano series brings us back to Vigàta in the nineteenth century for a rip-roaring comic novel.
1870s Sicily. Much to the displeasure of Vigàta’s stubborn populace, the town has just been unified under the Kingdom of Italy. They’re now in the hands of a new government they don’t understand, and they definitely don’t like. Eugenio Bortuzzi has been named Prefect for Vigàta, a regional representative from the Italian government to oversee the town. But the rowdy and unruly Sicilians don’t care much for this rather pompous mainlander nor the mediocre opera he’s hell-bent on producing in their new municipal theater. The Brewer of Preston, it’s called, and the Vigàtese are revving up to wreak havoc on the performance’s opening night.
no, go ahead and read it,” Mazzaglia said curtly. “I’ll skip around as I read. ‘The public spirit in general’—these are Albanese’s words—‘and particularly in Palermo, is hostile to the government—there is no point in deluding ourselves—or at least accuses those in the government of levying heavy taxes, creating financial disorder, and preventing any growth of industry or commerce.’” He paused, wiped his lips with his handkerchief, adjusted his spectacles, and continued. “‘Not a single new
Stumps of frames without panes, eaten up by the fire, were all that was left of them. In the middle of the row of transom windows was a wooden door, or the charred remains of one. Behind it were six stone stairs leading down to the understage. On either side and above the door were the signs of a furious, all-devouring fire much fiercer than in other parts of the theatre. Puglisi stopped in front of the door, bewildered. Then he noticed that the first transom window on the right had by some
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
three?” “Yessir, but the third death, that of Dr. Gammacurta, is not on our account. He was shot by Villaroel’s men. He goes onto the prefect’s account.” The commissioner looked at Meli, then batted his eyelashes and made an inquisitive face. “Listen, Meli, are you really so sure that it was I who gave the order to delay the arrest? Might it not be possible that you misunderstood what I said to you?” It was an old story, but this time Meli would have none of it. The risk was too great. “I’m
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