Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions (29 page)

“Poldi? Say something.”

She drew a deep breath. “What utter crap,” she said eventually, getting to her feet. “If you think we're history, Vito, you're making a big mistake. It isn't over between us, not by a long chalk. Why not? Because you need me. What's she talking about, you may be thinking, but I know I'm right. I know it because I know a thing or two. One way or another, Vito Montana, you need me.”

The day had begun so well, but before she knew it, Poldi was back outside the prefecture with a knot of sorrow and disappointment in her heart. The sorrow she bravely ignored because she had no wish to spoil such a nice day, which had felt like a twentieth birthday. But the disappointment. The disappointment that no Mafia tie-up had emerged throughout the case, as she had always assumed it would. The disappointment that she'd been unable to prove anything against Russo. Although she had kept the promise she'd made Valentino's lifeless body on the beach at Praiola, the case did not
feel
solved, and that bugged her. That was why she needed Teresa's and Martino's help.

Having arranged to meet her in the Caffè Cipriani, they sat round a table spooning up granitas. Uncle Martino chatted with one of the waiters and lectured him on the absurdity of eating granitas in the evening. He asserted that the same thing applied to them as applied to Bavarian Weisswürste – the white sausages traditionally eaten in the morning, preferably for breakfast with a brioche – because the soft sorbet became crystallized and inedible in the bar's freezer compartment.

“You're looking well, Poldi,” said Teresa.

“I'm feeling well, too,” Poldi lied. She ordered another
granita mandorla caffè
to fortify herself. “You think they'll open it all up, just like that?”

“Martino knows one of the officials, an old friend he once showed where to find the best mushrooms on Etna, so there shouldn't be any problem. After all, they aren't secret documents and we aren't the NSA.”

“True. In that case, let's go.”

Only a short walk from the Piazza Duomo, the land registry of the Commune di Acireale was housed in a magnificent baroque palace. It might from its appearance have been a luxury hotel or the headquarters of the Spanish Inquisition, but no, it was the seat of local government. Poldi had been there once before to complete her resident's registration formalities, and she well remembered the chaos that arose when the automatic queue ticket dispenser broke down. She did not have to take a ticket this time, however. She was greeted by a pale, ill-shaven, middle-aged man with protruding eyes who kissed Teresa's hand and hailed Martino warmly like a pupil greeting the mentor who has taught him all he knows.

“This is my sister-in-law, Isolde Oberreiter,” Martino told him.

“A pleasure to meet you, signora.”

“I hope we're not being a nuisance.”

“Certainly not, signora, I'm delighted to be able to do my dear friend Martino a favour. If you'll come with me, I'll show you the records.”

Poldi emerged from the baroque palace two hours later with Teresa and Martino and several photocopies in her hand, confident that she would, after all, be able to put the finishing touches to the Valentino case.

“Shall we come with you?” asked Teresa.

“No need, I'll manage.”

A little later, on nearing the archway leading to Femminamorta, Poldi saw that the second lion was back in its accustomed place. It was looking sulkier than ever.

“
Namaste
, lion,” she said, and tooted twice.

Word of Mimì's guilt and death, which had evidently spread like wildfire, had reached Femminamorta long ago.

“
Mon Dieu
, so it's really true?” Valérie cried in dismay after Poldi had given her a preliminary account of what had happened.

“Beyond doubt,” said Poldi. “And I must apologize for suspecting you – I only found out yesterday what your father must have been through. Is that why you left France and took over Femminamorta?”

Valérie pensively stirred her day-old, reheated coffee. “I don't know. Perhaps. I hardly knew him. You've no need to apologize.”

They didn't speak for a while. The palm trees around them rustled as the mice in them tussled for ripe dates, while Oscar and Lady did the same lower down.

Poldi spotted a dark shape wriggling through the tall grass between the avocado trees.

“It's not poisonous,” Valérie told her. “On the contrary; they bring good luck.”

Poldi nodded. “I could use some.”

Valérie looked at her. “I'm not sure why I came to Femminamorta. Perhaps you're right. But I do know why I've stayed. Femminamorta is a good place – a place that protects its occupants. It also protected my father for a very long time, and it's a place that attracts good things and people. You, for instance, Poldi. As long as you come to visit me, I shall feel at home here. Understand?”

My aunt nodded. She knew a thing or two about good places, friendship and things that sustain us.

“Maybe,” said Valérie, “you'll introduce me sometime to the German nephew you're always talking about.”

“Hello?” I cut in at this point on my last evening in September. “You're always talking about me?”

“No, not
always
. Just occasionally. More in passing.”

“What do you tell her about me?”

“The sort of thing one says when conversation starts to drag.”

“Like what?”

“Enough of the third degree. I don't owe you an explanation.”

I sighed. “So Valérie would like to meet me sometime, would she?”

“You can put that out of your head for a start. You wouldn't hit it off, the two of you.”

To change the subject quickly, she told me what she'd had to talk about with Russo, for it was on his account that she had come to Femminamorta. She had no need to go in search of him, however, because he appeared in the garden as if in response to a presentiment, wearing jeans, a T-shirt and shades. Poldi now knew what the sad signora had meant about Russo's good looks.

“I heard from Turi that you were here,” he said, unceremoniously joining Valérie and Poldi at the table. “Glad to see you looking well, Donna Poldina.”

He didn't remove his sunglasses.

Poldi looked at him. “And I owe it all to you, Signor Russo. Isn't that so?”

“I don't understand.”

“You were the anonymous caller who informed Commissario Montana I was in danger last night.”

“
Mon Dieu
!” Valérie exclaimed.

“I'm afraid I've no idea what you're talking about, Donna Poldina.”

Poldi gestured impatiently. “You knew all about Marisa Puglisi's murder. Valentino's too, perhaps.”

She paused for a moment, never taking her eyes off him.

Russo sat back in his chair. “Thin ice, Donna Poldina. Do go on, though.”

“By all means. I won't be able to prove you knew about Valentino, but I know one thing for sure: Valentino wasn't the first person to blackmail Mimì. The first was you.”

“Really?”

“
Mon Dieu
.”

Poldi produced the photocopies she had made at the records office in Acireale and spread them out on the table. “Thirty-nine years ago, shortly after Marisa's disappearance, you bought your first plot of land and set up your nursery.”

“So what?”

“I wondered how you managed to amass so much money by selling a few wild palm trees, but you didn't need much money because Mimì Pastorella sold you the land for peanuts.”

“He needed the money.”

“No, he needed your silence.” Poldi tapped the photocopies. “These are just a few excerpts from the land register. In the past forty years you've repeatedly bought plots of land from Mimì Pastorella for a song. You blackmailed Mimì. You set up the deal between him and Patanè. You built up your palm tree empire on your knowledge of a murder, Signor Russo. The murder of a girl you were presumably once in love with.”

Valérie said nothing. Russo didn't touch the photocopies, just glanced at them from a distance.

“So why did I warn Commissario Montana last night?”

“Because you knew that Mimì was done for. It was only a matter of time before everything came out, and you didn't want him to cause any more chaos – chaos that might affect you too.”

Russo sighed. “I like you, Donna Poldina, I really do, but with all due respect, you're barking up the wrong tree. You can't prove anything, anyway. Look, I'm just a hard-working man who loves his land and his people. I've always worked hard. I come from a very humble background. My parents had nothing, but
I
, with a lot of hard work and a bit of luck, have made something of my life, and now I'm happy to be able to give a lot of people employment. That's all. I've never been involved in blackmail or any other form of sharp practice.”

He rose. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to work.”

“One more thing,” said Poldi. She opened her bag and produced the photo of the topographical map she had taken in Taormina and had never been able to identify. “Can you tell me what this is?”

Russo examined the photograph, turning it round three times.

“Some land I recently acquired, up at Trecastagni. A vineyard.”

“Oh, you're going in for wine-growing?”

Russo handed the photo back. “I hope we see each other again soon, Donna Poldina.”

“I'm quite sure we shall, Signor Russo.”

An unequivocal statement.

My Auntie Poldi drove home and removed the corkboard from her bedroom wall. She was sitting alone over the grappa bottle that evening when the doorbell rang.

Montana.

He was looking poorly – a nervous wreck, in fact. Poldi could see at once what the matter was, because she knew a thing or two about conditions of that kind.

“Poldi, I —”

“Don't say anything, Vito,” she said, putting a finger to his lips and towing him into the house. “Not a word.”

When I called my Aunt Luisa a few days later to say I'd be paying another visit in mid-September, she told me how relieved everyone was that our conspiratorial “
joie de vivre
” project had turned out so well. Poldi seemed far better adjusted, she said. She was showing a surprising interest in mushrooms and the fish market, meeting Valérie almost daily and whispering now and then with the sad signora. She apparently received gentlemen visitors on a regular basis and had recently developed a keen interest in viticulture.

“Hey, what does ‘
Namaste
' mean?” Luisa asked.

“I think it's an Indian form of greeting.”

She giggled. “Know what Poldi's been doing every morning lately? She goes up to the roof terrace stark naked, puts her hands together and sings out ‘
Namaste
, Sicilia', followed almost immediately by ‘The rest of the world can kiss my ass.'”

That was good news.

With many people, however,
joie de vivre
resembles a volcanic eruption. No matter how fervent and intense, it sooner or later gives way once more to calm and melancholy, so the sisters and I were relieved when my Auntie Poldi encountered her next murder case soon afterwards.

Acknowledgements

My heartfelt thanks to:

Rosaria, Fini, Nuccia and Piero for everything.

Gaetano for our conversations.

Julia for the light-bulb idea.

Jan for his active encouragement.

Sibylle for her splendid efficiency.

Anja, Johannes, Barbara, Jochen and Daniela for their kindness and exactitude.

Marie-Luce, Paola, Gianni, Ciro and Stef for their hospitality, anecdotes and wine.

And, of course, my Auntie Poldi.