The Brewer of Preston by Andrea Camilleri Page A

there’s something important that needs to be said, so please pay attention—Jesus Christ! Why are you laughing? If you carry on I’ll throw you straight out of the classroom, understand? So. The father of the two boys was one Pietro Ricci, who was not, however, Neapolitan but Florentine by birth, if you know what I mean—just like a certain person we all know—and he played the piano the way everyone plays piano these days, like my wife, for instance. A dime a dozen, know what I mean? But since my dear wife is pretty, everyone always tells her she plays like an angel, whereas, as far as I know, angels play winds and brass, never the piano. Speaking of which, is there anyone present who could sell me a used but good piano? The one my wife made me buy got smashed up when we moved house from Bìcari, where I taught Latin, to Fela. Not a particularly fancy piano, mind you, just so long as it plays, or can play what she’s going to play on it . . . Now, where was I? Where the hell was I? Ah, yes, I was talking about Luigi Ricci. Well, he studied music and started composing. The first crap he wrote—oh, I’m sorry, that just slipped out—anyway, his first compositions, for whatever reason, were very successful. Theatres all over Italy wanted him, from Rome to Naples to Parma to Turin to Milan. And, since he couldn’t manage to keep up with all the music they were asking him to write, he started copying stuff wherever he could find it, the way some of my pupils do. There’s one, in fact, who seems to take his lessons from the devil himself. You know what he does, when I give them Latin dictation? He goes . . . Where does he go? But what’s this got to do with anything? Ah, yes, Luigi Ricci. Anyway, the applause kept coming for Ricci, and he wasted no time; he wrote and copied and slept with all the sopranos who came within his grasp. In Trieste he made the acquaintance of three Bohemian women—no, actually, that makes them sound like they were made of glass, or crystal; in fact it would be better to say
from
Bohemia—so, these three women from Bohemia were sisters, their family name was Stolz, and individually they were Ludmilla, Francesca, and Teresa. The last one, Teresa, was the same angelic soprano—in this case
truly
angelic—known for interpreting the operas of Verdi, the swan of Busseto. And apparently this Teresa would fairly often turn into Leda for the swan. Ha ha ha! Get it? Why aren’t you laughing? Don’t you know the story of Leda and the swan? No? Well, I’m not going to tell it to you, if you’re that ignorant. Anyway, to go on—actually, to go backwards—Luigi Ricci started dipping his biscuit with Ludmilla and Francesca. And apparently he was dipping with Teresa, too, but only when the other two cups weren’t within reach. Heh, heh. Between Ludmilla and Francesca, little Luigi didn’t know which one to choose. He would lie awake at night, between the two women, eaten alive by doubt, and so, in order not to offend either of them, he would be fair and lend his services to both. In the end he married Ludmilla and had a son with Francesca. These sorts of things happen. You don’t believe it? I swear to you that the exact same thing happened once, the exact same way, to a friend of mine, whom I see seated here, in the audience, next to his worthy wife. He had two women, he told me once in confidence; and with the one, he talked, and with the other, he did you-know-what. Then he had a daughter with the one he talked to. So, my question is: With what did my friend do his talking?”

    Patanè the broker, sitting in the fourth row, recognized himself at once in the words of Headmaster Carnazza and had such a fright that he felt like he had been punched in the stomach. He doubled over.
    â€œWhat’s wrong? Do you feel sick?” asked his wife, worried.
    â€œIt’s nothing, nothing. A