Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions (22 page)

Because the other man was Montana.

Montana with a woman all of twenty years younger. Tanned, athletic figure, black bikini, mane of hair. She looked self-assured and happy, like a thirty-something who has already ridden out some of life's storms and emerged with a few cuts and bruises but is still successful, still beautiful. A woman who gets what she wants, who may well be smart, even amusing. In other words, not a welcome sight from Poldi's point of view.

Stretched out on a lounger beside Montana, the woman was showing off what she had – not a great deal, in my aunt's opinion – and laughing heartily whenever he said something. She rested her hand on his upper thigh and gave him periodic little kisses – the kind that dispelled any hope she might simply be his sister or a good friend of long standing.

Poldi felt sick.

The two turtle doves didn't notice her until she was standing over them.

“Hello, Vito.”

Montana stared at her in dismay but was so startled he remained glued to his lounger.

“Poldi. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, but don't worry, I'm not staying. Would you care to introduce your friend?”

The woman didn't even remove her sunglasses.

“This is Alessia. Alessia, Poldi.”

“Good afternoon.” Alessia drawled the words so they sounded like a question, and didn't shake hands. The situation seemed to be dawning on her.

“I won't disturb you,” said Poldi, a marvel of poise and self-control. “Have a nice day.”

But before she could go about in a dignified manner and sail off close-hauled, Montana sprang to his feet and caught her by the arm. “Let me explain, Poldi.”

“What for, Vito? You don't owe me any explanation. We're adults, after all.”

“I've been wanting to talk to you about Alessia for ages.”

“That would have been most amusing, I'm sure,” Poldi said with an effort. “Over a pleasant dinner for three, is that what you mean? You'd better let go of me, or I'll make a regular stinker of a scene. Then you'd really have some explaining to do to Alessia and your nice Sunday would be ruined. On the other hand, it already is, so what the hell.”

Montana released her arm and gazed at her earnestly. “I'll call you. But give me a little time, okay?”

“I need a little time.” Another self-deceptive phrase. Number three on Poldi's list. Her one wish was to get away, go somewhere where she could weep and drink in peace. And preferably, so she thought at that moment, simply drop out of the world and evaporate.

“You'd better not call me, Vito,” she said harshly. “If you want to discuss the situation with anyone, simply ask your pal Russo.”

“Listen, Poldi, I —”

But no, my aunt wasn't listening any more. She hurried back to Luisa, Caterina and Teresa, who had been watching the unpleasant encounter at a distance. Poldi had no need to explain much. Aunt Luisa handed over her caftan without a word, Teresa stuffed all their things into the beach bag, and Caterina steered Poldi out of the lido. It wasn't until they were all in the car that the other three couldn't restrain themselves any longer and asked for details. Poldi wasn't in the mood for talking, however, or even for weeping; she wasn't in the mood for anything except going home.

“Tell me something. What's the Italian for disciplinary complaint?”

“
Denuncia disciplinare
. Why?”

“Oh, just asking.”

But the aunts weren't stupid.

“What are you planning to do, Poldi?”

“Oh, shed a few tears, pull the covers over my head and call down curses on the dirty dog. Tomorrow is another day.”

The aunts already suspected that Poldi was on the brink of another breakdown, and that project
joie de vivre
was in the balance, so they impressed on Assistente Rizzoli, who was waiting in Via Baronessa like a stray cat, that she mustn't be allowed to drink.

A mission doomed to fail from the outset, of course, because Poldi had devised a plan on the drive home. Scarcely had the reluctant aunts left her alone with Rizzoli when she sent Montana a rather unfriendly text message embodying the term
denuncia disciplinare
.

The young policeman's mobile phone rang soon afterwards. He listened, said “Hm” and “But —” and “Yessir”, then hung up, looking puzzled.

“I'm afraid I have to go, signora. Commissario Montana's orders.”

“No problem,” Poldi said happily. “I can manage.”

Rizzoli hesitated. “Your sisters-in-law said you —”

“Don't worry about me, I can look after myself. Thanks for everything, and have a nice Sunday.”

When she was alone at last, Poldi drove quickly to the HiperSimply to get in some supplies for the next few days. The party could begin.

But it didn't. It simply couldn't achieve lift-off; just gave a little jerk and then got stuck like an antiquated lift. Poldi climbed to the roof terrace with a stiff gin and tonic, flopped down in the basketwork chair, and raised her glass to the mutilated gate lion.

“Here's to you, my friend.”

The ice cubes tinkled their serenade of coolness and refreshment, the scent of juniper hummed its promise of farewell and oblivion, the tonic promised tears and bitterness, the sun went down behind Etna, and the sea was as heart-rendingly blue as Poldi planned to be before long. Another shitty day was drawing to a close. High time to round the bend into life's finishing straight, thought my aunt.

But human beings are allied to nature by special ties, and free will can sometimes be a capricious companion. Whether it was the light, the beauty of a summer evening, the balmy air, the murmur of the sea or the sound of Signora Anzalone laughing next door, Poldi couldn't get a drop down. She wanted to. She really wanted to. She was thirsty, she had a plan, and she had plenty of supplies.

But she kept raising the glass and putting it down. She watched the ice cubes leave a shimmering trail as they melted. She prepared once more to take at least a sip. “Drink-me-drink-me-drink-me,” begged the gin and tonic. “Bottoms-up-bottoms-up.” But she still couldn't do it. She tipped the drink into the gutter and tried some straight tonic for once. And it worked – it tasted of disappointment and slaked the worst of her thirst – but as soon as she added even a dash of gin, the strange embargo reimposed itself. She tried whisky, rum, grappa. Same result. Worse still, although she longed with every fibre of her being to get well and truly drunk, she felt sick if she so much as caught a whiff of alcohol. An entirely new development. Her body was poking fun at her, the lion fixing her with its sullen gaze.

“I get it,” Poldi said grumpily. “Your Lordship objects. May I ask why?”

The lion said nothing.

“I see. But this won't get us anywhere, my friend.”

The lion said nothing.

“Afraid I've got to contradict you. I'm absolutely done with the case – don't want anything more to do with it. Montana will solve it. Or not. Then they'll all raise a glass to success – Vito, his friend Russo and the lovely Alessia. I couldn't care less, because it's all the same to me. I'm off the case for good.”

She paused to give the lion a chance to reply.

The lion said nothing.

“Yes, says the know-all who's been hiding up here all the time. I know I made Valentino a promise, but I can't go on,
capisci
? I'm through. I'm an old bag with a screw loose, talking to a stone lion even when she's sober.”

The lion still said nothing.

“You find that funny, do you? Well, it's all over. That's that. I'm off the case, and tomorrow, my friend – tomorrow my gin and tonic will taste good once more, you'll see.”

On that note she terminated the conversation and made her way downstairs, intending to go to bed.

I don't know if my Auntie Poldi wept that night or the next; she didn't tell me. Sometimes, though, sorrow simply lies too deep, clinging to one like a difficult child and blocking all the exits.
Rien ne va plus
. I picture Poldi listening for ages to “Gloria” with the volume turned up full.
“Chiesa di campagna, Gloria. Acqua nel deserto, Gloria.”
I picture her smoking far too much, clattering bottles together, calling down obscene curses on Montana, the Sicilians and life in general, and eventually falling into an exhausted sleep on the sofa.

When she woke the next morning with a headache from too many cigarettes and a surfeit of disappointment, and when she left the house to get some fresh
cornetti
from the Bar Cocuzza, there was a cat lying outside her front door with its throat cut.

12

                  
Tells of cats, a lion and a phoenix. Poldi writes an epitaph, compiles a new list and finds an egg. On receiving a veritable revelation, she knows where to go and is expected there. She mobilizes Aunt Teresa and Uncle Martino and is forced to accept that nobody gets any answers unless they ask questions. She also learns that Sicily boasts many places with odd names, and that – with a bit of luck – nice surprises can be found there.

I had a rather embarrassing experience on my most recent visit to Torre Archirafi. I had slept badly and emerged from my lair in the attic earlier than usual, meaning to make myself some coffee in the kitchen and accelerate my progress with Chapter One. Poldi was already standing at the stove, stark naked except for her wig and waiting for the espresso pot to emit its final hiss. I don't have a problem with naked bodies, ageing naked bodies included, really I don't. When it's your own aunt, though, you feel strangely self-conscious. I did anyway, I admit. I stammered an apology and hurriedly retreated up the stairs.

“Hey, what's the matter?” Poldi called after me.

“Oh, nothing. I can wait till you're dressed.”

“Am I embarrassing you?”

“No, no, everything's fine. I just thought of a phrase – I must get it down on paper.”

“My, how inhibited you are. Come back, I'll put something on.”

When I returned after waiting a minute for safety's sake, she had donned a colourful sarong that barely covered her and was down in the courtyard, pouring two cups of coffee.

“One question, just for interest's sake,” was her greeting. “Are you always such a shrinking violet when it comes to the female form, or is it my age?”

“Neither one nor the other,” I essayed bravely. “But in your case I make an exception.”

“Bravo, Mr Author. Still half asleep and sharp as a knife already.”

I joined her at the table and took the coffee she handed me. “Listen, Poldi, it's nothing to do with your age, honestly not, but you're my aunt. I couldn't help feeling a bit —”

“Inhibited, as I said.”

“Call it what you like. I'm not going to apologize for feeling embarrassed.”

“In summer we always used to go around naked in the old days, not only at home but beside the Isar and in the Englischer Garten.”

“Good for you.”

“My, what a sensitive soul you are. Are there any – you know,
passages
in your novel? I mean…” She looked at me expectantly.

“Yes, I know what you mean, and yes, of course there'll be some sex scenes, but all very artistic and tasteful.”

She cast her eyes heavenwards. “Then give them to me to titivate when you get there. They need to be really
juicy
, know what I mean? Anyone who pays good money for your novel is entitled to some
meat
.”

I left it at that and drank my coffee, but I did have one question for her. During those few moments in the kitchen, when Poldi had confronted me in such a state of undress, I had caught a glimpse of something on her
left breast – something roughly the size of a beer mat, so not exactly small.

“Tell me, Poldi, what's that tattoo on your bosom?”

“Ah, so you noticed that, did you?”

Without ado, she undid the sarong from around her neck and let it fall. On your own head be it, I told myself, and forced myself to examine her tattoo with the professionalism of an art critic. It must once have been very colourful, but time and regular sunbathing had robbed the colours of nearly all their luminosity.

At first sight it looked to me like a cave drawing that a Stone Age shaman had daubed on the wall of a pitch-dark cave. Black streaks seemingly applied with raw charcoal looked as if they had risen to the surface from untold depths. These framed various coloured planes which ran into each other and merged like dabs of watercolour. I made out a species of fantasy bird with a short, parrot-like beak and a long, curly tail. The strange creature seemed to be crowing and spreading its wings in readiness to flutter into the air at any moment. It looked as if it was straining and stretching as if loyalty to my aunt were all that was keeping it in its habitual place over her left breast. The longer I studied this tattoo, the more obvious it became that it was the work of a true master, not a botch-up perpetrated by a kif-stoned amateur. The thing on Poldi's breast was definitely art.

“Wow,” was all I said.

“Isn't it just,” Poldi said proudly. “That's a phoenix rising from the ashes. I had it done by an anchorite monk at Pattaya in 1975. Everyone went to him. There wasn't much to do in Pattaya in those days – we were the first, so to speak. We discovered the place, the Swedish nudists and I. They all went around in the buff and got themselves tattooed. What shall I get him to do? I asked Benny. Björn and Benny were also there, you see. We'd all recognized them and knew they were world stars, of course, but nobody made a hoo-ha about it because we were all the same on the beach at Pattaya. That's because we were all naked, with free love and all the trimmings, naturally. Benny used to send me an occasional postcard later on, but the phoenix idea was my own. I realized early on it was my symbol – my totem, you know? Life is change, I told Benny, so you have to keep reinventing yourself. You may come a cropper or even get burnt, but you simply have to rise from the ashes. Because, as I told Benny, it's a question of the winner taking it all.” Poldi assumed the expression she always wore when immersing herself in sentimental memories. “The winner takes it all,” she repeated. “Benny liked that. He knew exactly what a phoenix is.”

My aunt also knew a thing or two about phoenixes and rising from the ashes.

Poldi obviously realized that the dead cat outside her door was intended as a warning to drop the Valentino case once and for all. Possibly even to quit Torre Archirafi or Sicily, though she wasn't willing as yet to credit the cat killer with so extreme a demand. His message was unmistakable whichever way one looked at it.

The Via Baronessa was quieter than usual that morning. No moped was blatting, no radio blaring, no one could be seen or heard. It was as if the death of the little creature had expunged all signs of life from the street. Poldi bent down and carefully picked up the animal. A young tortoiseshell tom with a half-chewed ear, very thin and stiff as a washboard, it was only an ownerless stray, but to Poldi that was irrelevant. Someone had snuffed out a life in order to threaten her – had possibly lured the hungry creature with a morsel of fish and then cold-bloodedly slit its throat, just like that. Whoever had done this had no respect for life, no concern for creation, and in Poldi's view he himself deserved no respect or concern for that reason. Whoever it was that had killed the tortoiseshell tom, she hoped he would rot in hell, swore to find him and call him to account.

But first she buried the cat.

Having wrapped the animal in an old pillowcase, she took a spade and drove to a small patch of wasteland that had recently caught her eye not far from the cemetery in Acireale. There, amid gorse bushes and wild fennel, she dug a small hole in the black volcanic soil, carefully laid the bundle in it and weighed it down with a stone to prevent any dogs from digging it up. She improvised a small cross out of two sticks and some florist's wire and stuck it in the cat's grave. She also attached a small note to the cross. It read:

            
NAMASTE
TO THE UNKNOWN CAT

And at that moment, like a big wave after a long ebb tide, everything came back to her. She recalled all that had happened on the night of the wedding – every last thing. She also realized only now that she had recognized the intruder on the roof by one tiny detail.

“
Namaste
, pussycat,” Poldi said quietly. “I'm going to get that swine, I most certainly am.”

It was now clear that everything was connected, everything had a deeper meaning. Perhaps the little tomcat had prevented her from getting drunk last night, so that she would find its corpse with a clear head and then recover her memory. This meant that she now owed it to the dead cat to solve the case, not just to Valentino.

Now more than ever.

The first thing Poldi did when she got home was reexamine her corkboard and go through her notes. What did she know? Where had she got to? Who could be ruled out?

She made another list.

            
UNRESOLVED

            
red sand

            
topographical map

            
cash at Valentino's

            
knockout drops

            
Femminamorta

            
Valérie's phone

            
murder motive

            
Montana (personal)

            
RESOLVED

            
Tannenberger (Mr X)

            
Montana (personal)

A definite misunderstanding. Poldi felt in her handbag and found the paper napkin with the list of names.

            
RUSSO

            
PATANÈ

            
TANNENBERGER

            
VALÉRIE

            
HÖLDERLIN
MIMÌ

            
TURI

One of them had called Valentino from Valérie's phone. All of them had been at the wedding party. One of them must have slipped the knockout drops into her wine. One of them had broken into her house and possibly killed the unknown cat as well.

One of them had killed Valentino.

But why?

Poldi stepped back from her corkboard for a better overall view, but it wasn't enough, so she went up to the roof. To the sea, Etna and the lion. And there she asked herself another question: why had the intruder run such a risk for the sake of a stone lion that might earn him a mere thousand euros? The lion itself clearly disapproved of this question, because it promptly looked a trifle more dyspeptic, but Poldi was undeterred. The only explanation she could find was that the intruder must have been interested in something more than just the lion.

In no time at all Poldi had armed herself with a hammer and chisel and was preparing to take up where the intruder had left off. It was a devil of a job. Valentino must have used the hardest cement in Italy. The sweat was trickling from under Poldi's wig after only a few hammer blows, but she persevered until she had chipped off the cement all round the base of the lion and was able to detach it from the wall completely with a vigorous jerk.

Panting hard, Poldi hefted the lion off the wall and onto the floor of the terrace.
Clunk, clunk, clunk
. Something went rolling across the floor. A small metal capsule that had been lodged in a recess in the base of the stone gatekeeper: an old, egg-shaped tea infuser composed of two halves screwed together. Inside was a closely written inventory with prices listed in date order. In short, the murder motive.

“The winner takes it all,” I said when Poldi told me all this.

“As I told you,” she said. “At that moment I also recalled what Tannenberger had said in Munich – that Valentino had found something someone would pay him a lot of money to keep quiet about. I naturally realized that that something could only be this list.”

“And who was Valentino putting the squeeze on?”

“My, aren't you impatient? One thing at a time.”

Poldi did, of course, have a definite suspicion, but she had to prove it before she could rub Montana's nose in it. And in order to do that she first had to stir up a lot of dust. Red dust.

But one thing at a time. First came some arithmetic. Poldi added up the individual sums on the list and arrived at a total of over two million euros. The most expensive item was a complete seventeenth-century fresco for half a million. There couldn't have been a better motive for murder.

Still taking one thing at a time, Poldi found that the last item on the list was dated more than a year earlier. She compared that date with the newspaper reports of thefts from old country houses and found a match. The first report of such a theft was dated one day later. The subsequent dates also predated similar newspaper reports by a day or two. Poldi said “Bingo”, kissed her corkboard, and blessed Uncle Martino for his thorough research work. Uncle Martino had Swiss ancestors, and that leaves its genetic mark on a person. Swissness combined with oriental generosity and Sicilian crisis management produces psychological mettle of the very finest quality.

Still taking one thing at a time, Poldi made it her next step to check off all the listed dates on a calendar, and was surprised to find that every one of them had fallen on a Saturday.

“And what does that tell us?” she asked me later.

“No idea.”

“Think. Why Saturday, do you reckon?”

“Go on, tell me.”

“A little tip: because Sunday is the Lord's day, and one can have a good lie-in.”

“What's the connection between that and theft?”

“Why, nothing as a rule. Not unless the thief has a strenuous full-time job and needs to recuperate if he spends the whole night stealing from country houses.”

“That's pretty far-fetched,” I ventured to object.

“But I'd recognized the intruder, don't forget, so I was bound to put two and two together.”

At that point in her investigations, Poldi had a flash of inspiration. She was “in the zone”. It was pure intuition. She had simply seen the full picture. Going to the phone, she called Valérie.