The Brewer of Preston Read Free Page B

arrived, every bit as swiftly as the kick that the marchese quite unchivalrously dealt the baron’s ballocks, dropping him to the floor writhing and out of breath. The two men then challenged each other to a duel, which they fought with swords. The baron managed to inflict a superficial wound on the marchese, who meanwhile had resigned from Nobles’ Circle of Montelusa.
    â€œYou can’t reason with those people,” he said.
    And so he had requested admission to the Vigàta Civic Club and been enthusiastically welcomed, since, with all its members being tradesmen, schoolteachers, clerks, or doctors, no one had ever seen hide or hair of any aristocrats within those walls. His presence added lustre to the place.

    At the marchese’s polite query, the cavaliere puffed his chest.
    â€œI’m talking about Wogner! And his divine music! And the spectre of his music, which scares all the other composers to death! And upon which all of them, sooner or later, will burn their fingers!”
    â€œI’ve never heard of this Wogner,” said Giosuè Zito, genuinely astonished.
    â€œBecause you are an ignoramus! You’ve got less culture than a mullet! I, for my part, have heard this music, which the Signora Gudrun Hoffer played for me on the piano. And it lifted me up to heaven! How the devil can anyone not know Wogner? Haven’t you ever heard of his drama of the ghost ship,
The Flying Dutchman
?”
    Giosuè Zito, having barely recovered from the previous slight, staggered, grabbing on to a small table to keep from falling.
    â€œAh, so you really do want to get on my nerves! Why the hell do you keep talking about ghosts?”
    â€œBecause that’s what it’s about, and it’s a very great opera! What the hell do I care if it makes you shit your pants? The music is innovative, revolutionary! Like
Tristano
!”
    â€œHo ho ho!” said the Canon Bonmartino, a scholar of patristics, who was, as usual, cheating at a game of solitaire.
    â€œAnd what do you mean by ho ho ho?”
    â€œOh, nothing,” said the canon with a face so seraphic one could almost see two cherubs fluttering around his head. “It only means that
Tristano
, in Italian, means ‘sad anus,’
ano triste
. And with a title like that, I can only imagine how beautiful the opera must be.”
    â€œThen you don’t understand a blasted thing about Wogner.”
    â€œIn any case the name is Wagner, W-A-G-N-E-R, and you pronounce the W like a V:
vahg-ner
. He’s German, my friend, not English or ’Mercan. And, with all due respect to Signor Zito’s mental health, he really is a ghost, this Wagner of yours. In fact, he died before he was even born. He’s an abortion. His music is first-class shit, melodic diarrhea, all farts and caca. Stuff for the latrine. People who make serious music can’t even manage to play it, believe me.”
    â€œCould I get a word in?” asked Antonio Cozzo, a secondary-school headmaster, from an armchair where he’d been reading the newspaper without a peep.
    â€œBy all means,” said Bonmartino.
    â€œNot to you,” said Cozzo, “but to Cavaliere Mistretta.”
    â€œI’m all ears,” said Mistretta, shooting him a fighting glance.
    â€œI’d merely like to say something about
Il Trovatore
,the swan of Busseto’s masterpiece. You know what I’m referring to?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œSo, Cavaliere, listen closely. First I’m going to take
Abietta zingara
and stick it in your right ear, then
Tacea la notte placida
and fit it snugly into your left, so you can no longer even hear your beloved Wogner, as you call him. Then I’m going to grab
Chi del gitano
and shove it deep into your left nostril, then
Stride la vampa
and put it into the right hole, so you can’t even breathe. Finally, I’ll make a fine bundle of
Il balen del tuo sorriso
,
Di quella pira
, and