Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions (14 page)

There it was. Poldi found it undeniably sweet, and for the first time for ages she felt complete again, entirely herself and alive. When she tried to pull him back into the house, however, he gently released himself.

“Goodnight,” he said in a low, hoarse voice.

And went.

My Auntie Poldi was beside herself.

“Perhaps he was just… well, shy,” I hazarded when she told me about it on my next visit in September.

“Shy? Montana? Are you mad?”

“Or perhaps he simply wasn't that far along.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Relationship-wise, I mean. He wouldn't be the first. Perhaps it was all happening too fast for him. I mean, perhaps he felt you'd somehow, well —”

“Felt I'd somehow what?”

“Well, rushed him. Emotionally, I mean.”

She stared at me with her mouth open.

“You know why you haven't got a girlfriend, don't you? Because you don't know the first thing about a woman's emotions.
Rushed
him? What bullshit.
He
pounced on
me
. He was overwhelmed by his own passion. I felt it, that fire, that magma rising in his volcano; I'm an expert on these things. The frigid way he simply cleared off, that was thoroughly calculated. He was jealous on account of the
Vigile
's photo.”

“Passionate and calculated?” I was bold enough to ask. “How do you reconcile the two?”

“Why, yin and yang, id and superego, get it? Heart and brain. The man is a detective chief inspector, and a detective chief inspector is the supreme alpha male, a perfect synthesis of emotion and reason.”

“If you say so.”

“No need to say ‘If you say so' in that oh-so-clever way. I know precisely what I'm talking about. You can't imagine how furious I was. Fancy leaving me standing in the doorway, the heartless block of ice. I'd have taken him on a magic carpet ride that night, introduced him to a host of erotic marvels and adventures.”

This was rather too much information for me. I gave a sheepish cough.

“And now you're embarrassed, aren't you? That's just why you're getting so constipated with that novel of yours: because you always look away when it hurts. You're scared of emotion.”

“Yes, well, it's getting late. Goodnight, Poldi.”

“Stay where you are and look at me. What do you see?”

I sighed.

“Go on, what do you see?”

“You, Poldi.”

“No,
under
the surface.”

I looked at my Auntie Poldi in her ethnic caftan, with her wig slightly askew and her make-up reminiscent of an Egyptian pop singer. She was holding a nearly empty glass of whisky in her hand but had stopped drinking.

“Disappointment?”

She shook her head. “Deeper.”

“Pain,” I said. “Love. Longing.”

“And the reason?”

I drew a deep breath. “In second place: Montana.”

She knit her brow. “Aha. And in first place?”

“Sicily. The pain of feeling that Sicily doesn't return your love as enthusiastically as you thought it would. And the hankering to finally feel at home here. That's what
I
know something about.”

Poldi drained her glass and continued to look at me intently. Her expression conveyed that I wasn't, after all, a totally forlorn hope. Or so I told myself.

“Sleep well.”

Then, mustering her strength, she heaved herself off the sofa and tottered bedroomwards.

My Auntie Poldi was definitely feeling hurt, and no wonder, especially as Montana failed to call her the next day. The other aunts, filled with Latin solidarity, were unstinting in their condemnation of the commissario's foul play. Their unanimous opinion: there must be another woman in Montana's life. He wasn't worth it, of course, not after toying with Poldi's emotions like that, but if she were to bring herself to give him another chance despite this, she would be bound to succeed in the long run. That was a copper-bottomed certainty.

“
Forza
Poldi,” cried Aunt Luisa. “What other woman could hold a candle to you?”

“A younger one?” Poldi croaked darkly.

“Nonsense,” cried Caterina. “You've got good skin, a firm backside, and you're fun.”

“I'm old and fat.”

“You're an armful of a woman in her prime.”

Poldi cast her eyes up at the ceiling.

Aunt Teresa summoned Uncle Martino. “
Amore
, tell Poldi what she is.”

“The loveliest of all Isoldes.”

“Bravo. There you have it.”

But Poldi didn't find genuine consolation until she flung herself into the arms of Signor Bacardi. They did it together sour, on the rocks, with Coke and with tonic. Sweet and sour, salty and bitter. Even on the way downhill she made Sicily another defiant declaration of love, but alcohol is a perfidious plank in the ocean of self-pity. “It keeps you afloat for a while, saves you from drowning and infects you with optimism, but then it drags you down – glug-glug-glug – into the depths.” Poldi knew what she was talking about.

So what saved her from the nadir of self-pity? Love?
Joie de vivre
? Wrong. Her hunting instinct. Her forensic urge. The photograph of Valentino with Mr X.

Hung-over, thirsty, devoid of appetite and ill-tempered, the first thing she did on the morning after her fall from grace was check her answerphone. Still no word from Montana, just worried messages from Valérie and the aunts.

Montana didn't call for the next few days either, but Poldi had her pride. She was now eager to solve this murder, if only to show him up and make him look foolish – make him look one big
figuraccia
.

Pale and still a bit under the weather, she showed the photo on her mobile around town. To Bussacca at the
tabacchi
, to the sad signora, to the neighbours, but nobody seemed to recognize the red-haired man.

“There was this police psychologist on Channel Five's
Faces of Crime
,” Signora Anzalone volunteered in her habitually conspiratorial whisper. “He said murderers always return to the scene of the crime; they can't help themselves. They're driven there by their feelings of guilt, their curiosity and arrogance.”

Spot on, thought Poldi, puzzled that the same idea hadn't occurred to her long ago. She thought it improbable that Mr X would show up on the beach at Praiola, however. It was likelier, especially as he didn't seem to avoid crowds of people, that she would bump into him in Taormina. He might even live there. Poldi promptly called Teresa, because she naturally knew that proper surveillance, whether of a person or a thing, is always maintained by two people. Two pairs of eyes see better than one, and one member of the team can always take a break. Besides, it can become a terribly boring business, and experience had taught Poldi that boredom and hard liquor go hand in hand.

“Keep watch on the whole of Taormina? How do you propose to do that?”

“Mainly the Corso, but other hotspots as well.”

“Around the clock?”

“Of course not. I'll split us up into three shifts of four hours. That makes twelve. We can't manage more.”

“How about recruiting Martino?”

“This kind of surveillance wouldn't suit someone who can't sit still for ten minutes at a time. Besides —”

“Yes, I know. But how will
you
stick it for twelve hours?”

“My time's my own.”

“But Luisa's isn't; she has to work.”

“Only half-days. She can take over the evening shift. She might even meet someone.”

“Stop it. You know how jealous Franco gets. And who'll look after Caterina's dogs and collect little Carmela from nursery school?”

“Martino?”

“You must be joking.”

Poldi could hear her sister-in-law breathing heavily as she ran the whole idea through her mind again.

“Perfect. If we solve the case, the Terranovas will eat their plastic flowers with envy.”

It was unnecessary to ask the other two sisters, because, as I've already mentioned, Aunt Teresa called the shots and all the aunts were fans of police procedurals.

Picturesquely situated overlooking the sea, Taormina is one of Sicily's favourite tourist haunts. Goethe visited there, as did Oscar Wilde and Thomas Mann, followed by film stars like Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich and Elizabeth Taylor. In the middle of the town is a Roman amphitheatre – misleadingly called the Teatro Greco – at which top-class film festivals, concerts and ballets take place during the summer. Mind you, there is always a risk that some international star will be upstaged by a volcanic eruption, for a gap in the middle of the stage affords a splendid view of Etna. In the nineteenth century a German photographer named Wilhelm von Gloeden, who landed up in Taormina because of lung disease, photographed local youths striking lascivious poses in front of ancient columns, well made-up and naked save for a loincloth or a laurel wreath. Prints of those photographs can be bought on every street corner in Taormina, and they helped to establish the liberal reputation of the town, which is still a favourite domicile of the gay community.

Poldi and Caterina, who had taken over the early shift, seated themselves outside the Mocambo Bar the very next morning. Not too conspicuously far forward and not too far back, sometimes in the shade, sometimes wearing sunglasses, with a good view of the piazza and the Corso. Still a little tense for the first hour, Poldi drank one coffee after another in her determination not to miss a single man who walked past. After an hour she was worn out and had cramp in her neck. It surprised her to note that Caterina, on the other hand, was sitting there quite relaxed in her stylish sunglasses, legs elegantly crossed. She turned her head smoothly and serenely to and fro like a radar dish, seemingly uninterested, yet no one escaped her attention.

“Two o'clock. The one with the rucksack.”

“Too short.”

“Eleven o'clock. Just coming out of that shop.”

“Too young… Hey, how do you manage it?”

Caterina shrugged. “Just pretend we're teenagers again. Remember how we used to check out the boys without them noticing?”

“Except that I always wanted them to notice.”

“Just relax, Poldi.”

Easier said than done. Poldi did get the hang of it after a while, though. She melted into her surroundings and imitated Caterina's radar sweep. The only trouble was, Mr X failed to surface amid the never-ending stream of faces that flowed down the Corso under the two aunts' gaze. German families in clamdiggers, scruffy young backpackers in flip-flops, hand-holding English gays, American youngsters with coffees-to-go, boisterous children romping around the piazza, chic Spanish ladies with strident voices, good-humoured, sunburnt Dutchmen, old men chatting in groups, pallid priests carrying briefcases, locals in a hurry and leisurely businessmen – as though propelled by strange tidal forces, this ever-murmuring, shuffling stream flowed back and forth between Porta Messina and Porta Catania, meandered into side streets, eddied sluggishly around street painters' easels and debouched into the Piazza Duomo, where photos were taken, sandwiches munched and the view enjoyed. And all of this monitored and commented on by Poldi and the other aunts.

In the meantime, Poldi's mobile beeped almost hourly with text messages from Montana:
Call me. Where are you? Can we talk? Please call.
The sort of messages that rent her heart and made the position unmistakably clear: that it was over before it had begun.

With a bitter taste in her mouth, Poldi deleted all these messages and blocked Montana's number. She felt a little better after that.

Caterina was relieved around noon by Teresa, and Luisa took on the evening shift late in the afternoon. Poldi and her cheerful assistants changed cafés frequently so as not to be too conspicuous. They drifted across the Corso in the crowds, consumed an ice cream here, a panino, orange juice, iced tea, coffee or pastry there. Anything but alcohol – not even a little
prosecchino
or a tiny limoncello as a sundowner. It was a genuine struggle, but Poldi remained steadfast. No alcohol and finding Mr X was her plan.

Except that Mr X didn't cooperate.

Poldi knew, of course, that the success of a stake-out depends on two factors: patience and stamina. One has to emulate the gecko, which crouches on a rock, rigid and motionless, awaiting the moment when it can unexpectedly pounce on its prey.

She did spot the
Vigile
again, but he had long ceased to interest her. On the contrary, she now found him far less attractive, positively conceited, affected and stupid-looking. Not to be compared with Montana – worlds apart, in fact.

Ah yes, Montana. Whenever she thought of him, a little ache detached itself from her heart like scree breaking adrift from a mountainside and sliding into the valley with a lingering sigh.

“Forget about him,” said Aunt Luisa. “Look around you. This place is teeming with hundreds of good-looking men in their prime.”

Poldi made a dismissive gesture. “They're all gay.”

“Not from the looks they're giving us.”

“Giving you, you mean.”

“You really think so?”

“You're hot,” Poldi said earnestly. “As an inconspicuous assistant on a stake-out, you're almost useless.”

Luisa beamed. “Franco would blow a gasket if he heard that. Have you any idea how long I've been wanting to do something like this? I mean, go out and about again, mix with people, chew the fat, have a little adventure, maybe indulge in a harmless flirtation.” She grasped Poldi's hand and squeezed it. “I'm so glad you're here.”

But one swallow doesn't make a summer, and even the most diligent stake-out failed to come up with Mr X. After three days of shift work in Taormina the aunts were running out of steam and even Poldi was feeling rather jaded.

A mass of thoughts whirled through her head when she came home late at night and sank down exhausted on the sofa. Thoughts of a certain policeman, of Valentino, of Luisa's words, of the topographical map, of Mr X, of Valérie and Russo, even of her parents. Sentimental thoughts of opportunities missed, precious time squandered and botched goodbyes. It was in this state of mind that she received a letter from Tanzania, which she burned, unopened, in the ashtray. And then, out of the blue next evening, Montana appeared in the Corso Umberto.