The Brewer of Preston Read Free Page A

eased himself nimbly out of his chair, knelt on the ground, made the sign of the cross, and started reciting the Credo. Everyone in town knew that three years earlier, when asleep in his country house, the agronomist had been scared out of his wits by a ghost, a spectre that had chased him from room to room amidst a great racket of chains and harrowing laments straight out of hell. After finishing his prayer, Giosuè Zito stood up, still pale as a corpse, turned towards the cavaliere, and said in a trembling voice:
    â€œDon’t you ever dare make any mention, Godless man that you are, of spectres or ghosts in my presence! Is that clear, you Calabrian mule? I know how terrifying a ghost can be!”
    â€œYou, my friend, don’t know a bloody thing.”
    â€œHow dare you say that?”
    â€œI say it because I can,” said Cavaliere Mistretta, annoyed.
    â€œExplain yourself.”
    â€œEvery last person in town knows that on that famous night, which you’ve been endlessly telling and retelling us about, boring everyone to death, on that night, I say, you were attacked not by a ghost, but by your scallywag of a brother Giacomino, who dressed himself up in a sheet because he wanted to drive you mad and cheat you out of your share of your father’s inheritance.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWhat do I mean? I mean there was no ghost. It was your brother Giacomino monkeying around!”
    â€œBut I got scared just the same. It had the very same effect on me as a real, flesh-and-blood ghost! I got a fever of a hundred and four! My skin broke out in hives! Therefore, you, out of respect, should use a different word!”
    â€œAnd how might I do that?”
    â€œHow the hell should I know? Use your own words when you speak, not mine.”
    â€œLook, I cannot and I will not use a different word. Because I thought of that word all by myself! And I can’t think of another, at this precise moment!”
    â€œBegging the pardon of all present,” intervened the Marchese Manfredi Coniglio della Favara, with a mincing manner and raised-pinky regard for decorum, “but would the good cavaliere kindly explain what spectre he is talking about?”

    Here a slight digression is in order. The proper place for the Marchese Coniglio della Favara, in terms of class and means, was, and had always been, among the members of the Circolo dei Nobili, or “Nobles’ Circle,” of Montelusa. However, on an unfortunate day the previous year, the statue of Saint Joseph happened to be passing under the great windows of the Circle, as it was the saint’s feast day. The marchese went to one of the windows to watch the procession. As luck would have it, standing beside him was the Baron Leoluca Filò di Terassini, a rabid papist and tertiary of the Franciscan order. At that moment, for the first time in his life—having never before given the matter any thought—the marchese noticed how old Saint Joseph looked. After reflecting upon the age difference between Joseph and Mary, he came to a conclusion he had the poor judgment to express aloud:
    â€œIf you ask me, it was a marriage of convenience.”
    Now, by a twist of what we customarily call fate, the exact same thought had occurred to Baron Leoluca, plunging him promptly into a state of unfathomable anguish over the blasphemous idea that had just crossed his mind. Drenched in sweat, he grasped at once the point of the marchese’s statement.
    â€œSay that again, if you have the courage.”
    He issued his challenge with dark eyes smoldering like hot coals, twirling his right mustache with his index finger.
    â€œGladly.”
    â€œWait. I should warn you: what you say may have consequences.”
    â€œI don’t give a damn about any consequences. You see, to me Saint Joseph looks decidedly too old to do it with Mary.”
    He was unable to elaborate any further, so swiftly had the baron’s slap