Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions (12 page)

She had nevertheless allowed herself to be talked into the excursion, especially as Montana still hadn't called and her depression was growing worse with each passing day like a grain of sand in an oyster shell. Except that the oyster shell was her heart and the pearl a build-up of memories, self-pity and melancholy.

Aunt Teresa knew this, and she also knew how to dislodge that kind of grain of sand. The mushrooms were merely tasty supernumeraries in a miniseries about the magic of life, and Aunt Teresa and Uncle Martino enacted it every day and weekend of their lives.

Like any private undertaking in Sicily, the playlet began with a delay of two hours or more. Sicilians can be as punctual as Prussians in the professional sphere, but personal arrangements are subject to an elastic expansion of the concept of time. It is as if those hours must be sacrificed to a demanding god who measures his subjects' lifetime by the extent to which they waste the lifetimes of others. Besides, every sensible Sicilian allows a margin of at least two hours where private assignations are concerned, but Poldi still hadn't reached that stage.

She sat waiting from eight that morning onwards as arranged, fragrantly scented, carefully attired and alcohol-free – not counting a little revivifying
prosecchino
. Since she was venturing out into the wilds, she wore a khaki linen ensemble in the colonial style: voluminous trousers, leopardskin top and a matching jacket with a uniform collar and ubiquitous pockets, colour-coordinated strappy sandals and, by way of a feminine highlight, a big bunch of colourful ethnic-look necklaces. She was a white Masai, a kind of Bavarian Tania Blixen: she was ready for mushroom-picking.

By the time Martino and Teresa finally appeared at eleven, however, she was not only sick of the idea of mushroom-picking but had also calmed her nerves with two bottles of beer. Aunt Teresa spotted this at once.

“I thought you weren't drinking any more?”

It was a reproach, not a question.

“And I thought you were picking me up at eight,” Poldi countered defiantly. “What was the problem this time?”

Teresa sighed. “He was fetching the newspaper.”

“For three hours?”

“Then he took the dog for a walk.”

“But we're just about to take it for a walk.”

“Then he couldn't find his reading glasses.”

“You mean one of the hundred and twenty pairs scattered all over your house?”

“And then he had to take Marco to the airport.”

Poldi was beginning to understand. “And on the way back I suppose he dropped in at the fish market and bought some swordfish.”

“Figs,” sighed Teresa. “There's no fish market on Sundays.”

“My, that's lucky.”

Martino had parked the Fiat at the end of the Via Baronessa. There Poldi saw herself confronted by the day's next challenge: Totti, a good-natured mutt named after AS Roma's legendary international footballer. A typical mongrel of the sort that roams slums and favelas all over the world, dozes beside dusty farm tracks and explores rubbish in backyards, Totti was yellow with a black muzzle, huge ears, huge paws and a heart of gold. He was cheerfully lounging on the back seat behind my uncle, but when he sighted Poldi he went mad with delight, barking and bouncing around the car in a frenzy.

“You can sit in front,” said Aunt Teresa.

But Poldi couldn't bring herself to do that when a living creature was evincing such joy at her arrival on the scene. Submissively, she squeezed into the back beside Totti and allowed herself to be licked and rampaged around on until the dog calmed down and sat on her lap, exhausted by so much jubilation.

During the drive, Poldi kept seeing dilapidated houses in the midst of the countryside.

“Who do they all belong to?” she asked.

“The Bourbons,” Uncle Martino told her, “or the pathetic relics of the Bourbon nobility. But don't be deceived; they still pull the strings behind the scenes, even though most of them have barely enough money to maintain their splendid mansions and country houses.”

Poldi already knew this. Thinking of Valérie, she suddenly wondered if she might have been a little too trusting towards her new friend.

Meanwhile, Uncle Martino had the bit between his teeth and was recounting what Poldi had also known for ages: that whole gangs specialized in breaking into the usually derelict buildings and stripping out and selling valuable mosaics and frescoes, tiled floors and sculptures, so that sundry dentists, nightclub owners and German expatriates could install them in their tasteless seaside villas. Uncle Martino liked to talk himself into a rage about his topic
numero uno
, the contention that Sicily was going to rack and ruin, whether or not his listeners were familiar with the subject. Aunt Teresa eventually told Martino to shut up, and that he was giving her palpitations, whereupon – in conformity with the immutable scenario that had governed their forty-plus years of marriage – he retorted that he refused to be silenced, either by her or by corrupt politicians or the CIA or by Totti, who had joined in the debate and was barking furiously. Thereafter Martino launched straight into his topic
numero due
: the Mafia involvements of premiers Andreotti, Craxi, Berlusconi and Co. He continued in that vein until exhaustion reduced everyone to silence, which he broke with a contented “
Amore
.”

And all was well.

Poldi surreptitiously swallowed two aspirin, stared out of the window and strove to ignore brother-in-law, sister-in-law and dog. A thought had flitted past her like a shooting star traversing the night sky; it had flared up and died, leaving only a fine striation on her memory. She suddenly realized that she had overlooked something, possibly something important, but she couldn't with the best will in the world recall what it was. She fished out her notebook and searched for some pointer hidden among the entries. But nothing. Nothing save the faint skid mark of a brief flash of inspiration that might never recur. This disturbed Poldi beyond measure – so much so that all she wanted to do was go home and concentrate.

But she could forget about that for the moment, because they had by now reached the target area for mushroom-picking.

Picking mushrooms on Etna is not hard, because one's only competitors are the Terranovas and a local peasant or two. The few Sicilians who feel tempted to venture into the oak woods on Etna find it sufficient to park in the shade somewhere beside the road, have a picnic, and leave the place strewn with litter. They never walk more than ten yards into the trees. Nor does my Uncle Martino. Why should he, when he has the car?

As usual, he simply turned off the road at some point and drove straight through the trees until the Fiat came to rest. Then they all got out. My Auntie Poldi, my Aunt Teresa, my uncle and Totti emerged into the cool, shady hush of the ancient oak trees, stretched their limbs, breathed deeply, and said “Ah” and “
Che bello
” the way one does when entering an old and almost pristine place. The oaks were widely spaced, their crowns well exposed to the sky, like a tribe of ancient beings convoked by a voice with something important to announce.

At this altitude the air was cool and vernal. Pleasant midday sunlight came flickering through the treetops to bathe the warm, springy forest floor, which deadened footsteps and lightened the heart. It was like a German forest transported by some kindly god to Sicily in August.

Totti promptly disappeared into the trees in search of rabbits or a flock of sheep to stampede.

“It rained up here yesterday,” Martino announced. “I know a few places where there are bound to be some mushrooms.”

Poldi felt less certain but decided to keep her trap shut. “What should I look for?” she asked.

Aunt Teresa thrust a basket into her hand. “Mushrooms.”

Martino, Teresa and Poldi, each equipped with a basket, fanned out and combed the undergrowth. Poldi was instructed to pick anything that even remotely resembled a mushroom because her haul would be submitted to expert triage later on. After a quarter of an hour her brother- and sister-in-law were out of sight and earshot and she was feeling thoroughly fed up, especially as she was only wearing sandals. She had rejected sturdy shoes as an imposition ever since setting foot on Sicilian soil.

Sighing, she sat down beside a big oak tree, swigged from her hip flask and tried to concentrate on the lost idea – on the moment when it had so suddenly flashed through her mind and then faded. But in vain. Poldi stared up at the surrounding trees, which were rustling softly.

“That's right, whisper away. I'll remember what it was, never fear.”

As though in response, the staccato ratatat of a woodpecker rang out. The forest was laughing at her. That was fine with Poldi, who had never had much time for self-pity. She laughed too. “Bravo, birdie. Thanks, that'll do.”

While communing with nature in this way, she noticed two young oak trees a few yards further on, standing close together with their branches seemingly entwined in an embrace. Keen to take a picture of this ligneous image of eternal love, she fished her little camera out of her bag. And that was when the lost thought came back to her: photograph.

“Photograph?” I queried when she told me about it later. “And?”

“And nothing. Just photograph.”

“But you immediately knew which one.”

“Hey, I'm no Stephen Hawking. Which reminds me: Did I ever tell you how your Uncle Peppe and I met Stephen Hawking? It was such a nice evening – my, how we laughed.”

“You're straying from the point, Poldi. Which one?”

“I didn't have a clue, but at least I was on the right track. So I turned on the camera's display right away and checked to see what I'd snapped in recent days. And then I found it.”

“The photo?”

“Exactly.”

“Which one, for God's sake?”

“The one of the traffic cop in Taormina, of course. It had etched itself into my subconscious, so to speak. Freud and all that.”

She showed me the photo. I, too, could see it now.

“Wow,” I exclaimed, electrified. “What then?”

“Why, then I found some mushrooms. That's because I was in a sudden state of heightened perception. I tell you, if a sack of rice had fallen over in China, I'd have heard the thud.”

For as Poldi clasped her hands in gratitude and bowed and said “
Namaste
, forest,” she noticed where she'd been sitting, namely, in the midst of the biggest mushroom population that had ever sprouted in the penumbra of an oak forest: colossal fungi with caps as big as Basque berets. It was pure beginner's luck.

Uncle Martino and Aunt Teresa were utterly confounded to find Poldi waiting for them beside the car with her basket overflowing, the more so since they themselves had failed to find a single mushroom. Nil. Zero.
Niente
.

“The Terranovas must have got here before us this morning,” sighed Uncle Martino, despondently eyeing Poldi's haul. It was all of the finest A1 quality, and no mistake. “It's the only explanation. I know just where to look.”

“
Amore
,” sighed Aunt Teresa.

“Pure beginner's luck,” Poldi insisted, proffering her basket to the dejected couple. “Please. I've never liked mushrooms anyway.”

But Teresa and Martino's mushroom-picking reputation precluded this. Brusquely rejecting Poldi's offer, they compelled her to keep the monster fungi and advised her to enjoy the forest giants tossed in butter with a nice bowl of pasta. Or to freeze them for future consumption.

The drive back resembled a baseline rally.

“At least take half of them.”

“No, they're yours, you keep them.”

“Just a few. Please.”

“No, you found them, they're yours.”

“I'm giving them to you.”

“We can't accept them.”

“Madonna, don't be so ridiculous.”

“Oh, so you think we're being ridiculous.”

Nothing worked – no protests, no appeals to reason, no “
Amore
”, no imprecations. Martino did take a photo of Poldi's basketful, intending to rub the Terranovas' noses in it, but she had to keep all the mushrooms herself, even though their smell alone made her feel nauseous and revived a few sinister childhood memories.

So what did she do with that unwanted plethora of brown-and-white fungus? Acting upon a sudden impulse, she gave it away to sad Signora Cocuzza. And lo, a miracle occurred: Signora Cocuzza not only failed to decline the mushrooms with thanks, she thanked Poldi with a smile that might have passed for benign. A small gift, those mushrooms, but – not, of course, that Poldi could have known this – it would soon be repaid three times over.

As soon as she was back home and alone at last, Poldi excitedly got out the photo album containing her collection of policemen and examined the picture of the handsome
Vigile
with a magnifying glass. There was no doubt about it: Valentino was visible in the background.

“Well, I'll be buggered.” It defeated her how she could have overlooked Valentino all this time and – for that matter – why she hadn't spotted him that day in Taormina. The only explanation: at that moment, the handsome traffic cop's charisma must have bred a kind of tunnel vision, a focusing of perception on one single object such as only lionesses achieve when hunting in the Serengeti.

Valentino, by contrast, had clearly noticed Poldi, because he was looking straight into the camera. Unfortunately, the depth of field was insufficient to provide more details, but she felt sure that the boy was looking dismayed and caught out. Tense, too. This may have been due to his companion, for Valentino wasn't alone. He was sitting outside a café near the Porta Messina with a considerably older man. Red hair, sunburn, sunglasses, white polo shirt. Central European. That was all Poldi could make out, but she had no doubt that he was the man she'd seen at Valentino's funeral. “Mr X”, as she promptly christened him, seemed to have followed the direction of Valentino's gaze and was also looking in her direction. She tried to recall the actual moment. It had been on the Wednesday, two days after Valentino's disappearance, when she was already making inquiries about him. This shocked her, because she had overlooked him when she was already searching for him. And all because of the handsome policeman. Or perhaps, she thought dejectedly, because she couldn't wait to get home as soon as possible and wait for nightfall with an XL Martini glass in her hand. She recalled that her thoughts had revolved around a Martini as she hurried through the Porta Messina and along the street to the bus station from which shuttles left for the multi-storey. That was when she had spotted the
Vigile
in the midst of the turmoil with his whistle and white gloves, plucked the camera from her pocket and pressed the button. It had all been rather hectic, pure instinct, and instead of continuing to watch the handsome policeman's choreography awhile longer, she had hurried on to the bus station. And all because of Signor Martini on ice, waiting for her at home.