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AMARO DON PASQUALE
Copyright © 2022 Il Beneduce
Don Pasquale and Don Alfredo could evoke characters from Gaetano Donizetti's opera librettos.
They were, instead, the protagonists of a singular adventure, a strange case—briefly summarized here—drawn from yellowed papers, jealously guarded until their passage from the profane to the spiritual.
Early 1980s, March. Fresh from a merry evening of revelry, the two friends decided to end the day with a taste of the new liqueur produced by Don Alfredo's distillery. There was—certainly—something to celebrate, but the atmosphere was not the best. Dusk had suddenly given way to darkness, made even more gloomy and oppressive by an extraordinary cold, a sudden fog, and an unexpected power outage. Even moving in the semi-darkness, it was not difficult to reach the factory door: the place was well known, and the subtle smell of alcohol mixed with spices and macerated fruit provided a pleasant orientation aid.
A groan of pain drew the attention of Don Pasquale and Don Alfredo: a battered and bleeding man emerged from the mist. His appearance, rather singular, enigmatic, and impalpable, inspired not fear, but respect: the long, ample gray hair, pulled back, framed a pale face with high cheekbones and thin lips. His darting, cerulean eyes seemed to send out disturbing, searching messages. A heavy olive-green velvet jacket covered a luxurious lace-trimmed waistcoat, closed with a long row of buttons, from which what had once been a white shirt emerged. The knee-length suede trousers, the walking stick, and the elegant chiseled piersówka suggested a hunter's attire.
Stammering with a certain emphasis mixed with breathlessness, "I am...", the stranger was promptly interrupted by the two friends who, with their usual generosity and carefully considered conditions and circumstances, invited him to enter the laboratory door: here he would have the opportunity to introduce himself, be cared for, and, possibly, become a drinking companion.
A candle remained lit for several hours into the night. The unknown guest announced himself: "Sangermano, Count of Sangermano." He would add nothing about the causes of his miserable state, limiting himself to placing one condition on his participation in the announced, cheerful libations: that they conclude with a taste of the mysterious and precious elixir contained in his flask, protected by a silver carapace engraved with strange symbols.
Having thus cleaned the grazes of the noble and unexpected guest with pure alcohol, the lively triumvirate decided to continue with copious drinks, accompanied by aromatic cigarillos that the count elegantly produced from an antique gold case, from whose elaborate engraving emerged the conspicuous initial S and a goat's coat of arms. Moistened with a drop of his precious spirit, the cigars were lit by the flame of the single candle that illuminated the room, which soon filled with smoke mixed with the miasma of the alcoholic fumes of the spirits being processed.
They drank deeply and deeply, following an ascending order of alcohol content: the final, copious toast was reserved for the promised cordial liqueur. Having tasted the mysterious, tarry and bitter potion, Don Pasquale and Don Alfredo immediately felt as if they were living in a dream and—though tired—felt invigorated and happy.
From the deep sleep into which they had sunk, the two friends awoke—completely dazed—late the following morning. There was no sign of Count Sangermano. The only clues to his mysterious presence were the eleven of the thirty-three shot glasses used by the gentleman and a scrap of hand-written paper containing the arcane and secret ingredients of the dreamlike and diabolical beverage that you, drunken reader, are about to sip.