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.
Valentino and Mr X were visible only through a gap between two cars. There was something lying on the small café table, but Poldi couldn’t make out what it was. Even Samuele, whom she set to wo
rk on the digital original of the photo on Monday morning, failed to get anything more out of it.
The more she examined Valentino’s face in the picture, the more certain Poldi became that he was looking thoroughly startled. And as for Mr X’s expression, he seemed to be staring at her like a hawk targeting a field mouse – seemed even to follow her with his gaze when she moved to and fro. The photograph mesmerized her; she couldn’t stop looking at it. She sat on the sofa until late that night, scanning every square millimetre of the print with a magnifying glass until her eyes were smarting, and she went off to bed with the disturbing suspicion that she might accidentally have photographed Valentino’s murderer. Which meant that she herself might be in danger.
Poldi felt perturbed. She wondered if Mr X had recognized her at the funeral. She’d worn a veil and stayed close to Valentino’s family. On the other hand, she had made quite an exhibition of herself with the janitor. However, my aunt wasn’t the type to get rattled easily – she’d coped with worse situations in Tanzania – and so she did what she always did when scared: she got mad. Thoroughly mad. And when she worked herself up into a rage, she tended to take the bull by the horns. Which meant, in this context, that she had to find Mr X before he found her. But for that Poldi needed some help, so she swallowed her pride and texted Montana an invitation to a candlelit dinner – though she naturally omitted the word “candlelit”.
I’ve got something for you. Dinner at nine?
She stared at the display on her mobile for a good hour, waiting for an answer. Then:
OK
Although Poldi thought his response might have been a bit more enthusiastic, she planned the evening with meticulous care, feeling that she couldn’t afford to make another mistake in this regard.
To invite the commissario to dinner and present him with the full broadside of her décolleté was naturally in the interests of her investigation, as was the off-the-shoulder red gown in which she welcomed him that evening.
“Because, listen,” she told me later, “career-wise, the old rule of thumb is —”
“I know,” I cut in. “When the chips are down, show plenty of cleavage.”
“You simply display your assets, man or woman alike.”
“What would you advise in my case?” I asked her. “I mean, always assuming I’m not completely beyond hope?”
Poldi submitted my appearance to critical appraisal. “You’re developing a little tummy. You could use a bit of exercise. Abs and pecs never do any harm in moderation. Shorts are a no-no except on the beach, men’s legs being what they are. But why wear your nice hair so short? Let it grow, so a woman can imagine running her fingers through your wealth of dark curls, know what I mean? Apart from that, you’ve got nice forearms and strong hands like your father and Peppe. You can afford to display everything from the elbows down.”
That was a start, at least.
Montana needed no such tuition. I mean, he was an Italian – he knew which look to adopt for which occasion. He showed up punctually in a smart black ensemble: slipons without socks, Asiatic linen chinos and, worn over his waistband, a tailored shirt only marginally tight over the beginnings of a tummy but revealing a muscular chest. Collar open, naturally, and sleeves neatly rolled up to the elbows, giving Poldi an unobstructed view of his thoracic hair and silky skin. His olive complexion, dark beard and moustache made him look like Odysseus paying a quick visit to Circe. Or so Poldi thought, and it was all she could do not to hurl herself at him and gobble him up on the doorstep. Instead, she just leant forward a trifle and presented her left cheek for the obligatory mwah-mwah between friends.
To her disappointment, Montana did not take her up on this offer but merely held out a small, gift-wrapped package done up with gold ribbon. “Some gelato for dessert,” he said. “From Cipriani.”
“How kind,” Poldi said sourly.
“Oh, and this…” He was holding a bouquet of white roses and olive sprigs. It was as if he had seen into the depths of my aunt’s soul, for it must be explained that a bouquet of olive sprigs and white roses from the gardens of Nymphenburg Palace was what Poldi had been holding in her hand when she plighted her troth with Uncle Peppe at the register office in Ruppertstrasse. That horticultural link between Bavaria and Sicily had remained her favourite form of floral decoration ever since. It reminded her of Peppe, of love and pleasure and life itself, and it cheered her when days were dark.
“How ever did you know?” she whispered in awe as she took the bouquet from him.
“Boh,” said Montana, a trifle embarrassed, and the evening took its course.
7
Tells of falling between two stools and the three phases of seduction. Montana discloses some personal details and briefly succumbs to jealousy and passion. Poldi finds solace in familiar arms, goes looking for Mr X, and is once more overtaken by her past in Taormina.
The commissario had accepted her invitation with reluctance and slight uneasiness, Poldi told me at the beginning of September.
“Not because of me, of course,” she explained, “but because of the food. He’s a Sicilian to his fingertips. German beer is one thing, but German cuisine? Heaven forbid.”
To Montana’s great relief, Poldi dispensed with Bavarian delicacies such as white veal sausage, dumplings, cabbage, etc., and served up a Sicilian classic instead. This was Pasta alla Norma, for which she used Aunt Teresa’s bottled tomato sauce, fried aubergines from Signora Anzalone’s garden, and ricotta salata brought by Uncle Martino from Noto – for Noto, it must be stressed, is the only legitimate source of ricotta salata. The pasta was accompanied by a nice Nerello Mascalese from the slopes of Etna and followed by Montana’s gelato, so all the makings of a perfect evening were present.
Filled with optimism by her bouquet, Poldi did not pull out all the stops right away. The night was still young, after all, and it would fall into three phases.
Phase one: confidence-building measures.
Phase two: exchanges of information.
Phase three: the best part, including further exchanges.
“Would you mind opening the wine, Vito?”
Poldi got another chance to admire Montana’s shapely forearms as he wielded the corkscrew. He poured two glasses while she continued to stir the sugo.
“What shall we drink to?” she asked.
“To the truth.”
“To the truth.”
They clinked glasses. Poldi only sipped her wine because – to repeat – the night was still young. Montana followed suit, then watched her at the stove.
“A decent drop, that.”
“Thanks. I’m sure you know your wines.”
“So-so. You have a nice house.”
“Please make yourself at home. Won’t you sit down? You may smoke if you wish.”
“I’d sooner watch you cooking, if you don’t mind.”
Montana was clearly in no hurry to learn what sort of information Poldi had for him. Phase one couldn’t have been going better.
“I don’t mind in the least, my dear Vito, but you must entertain me a little in return.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Entertain you how?”
“Tell me a bit about yourself – and we drank to the truth, don’t forget.”
Montana sighed. “Well, go on, ask away.”
“Are you married?”
A superfluous, purely introductory question.
“Divorced four years ago. My ex-wife lives in Milan; she’s a lawyer. We have two children, Marta and Diego. The girl’s a medical student in Rome, the boy is studying mechanical engineering in Milan.”
Poldi made a mental note of the children’s names.
“Then you’re all on your own here in Sicily.”
He sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, sure. That’s that, then.” Poldi laughed her husky laugh and added the penne rigate to the pot, because Pasta alla Norma is always made with penne. “What brought you to Sicily?”
The commiss
ario sighed again, but this time it was a sigh that came from deep inside and was accompanied by a recurrence of his morose expression. “I was transferred here for disciplinary reasons.”
Poldi turned towards him in surprise, but she had no need to press him further; he merely gave another shrug and went on speaking.
“I came from here originally – from Giarre, to be precise – but I went straight to police college in Milan after completing my national service. Sicilians have a hard time in Milan, if only because of the dialect. They’re regarded as Africans, village idiots, thieves, cheats, scroungers. I stuck at it, though. I learnt to speak proper Italian and got rid of my dialect. But listen, I’ve no wish to bore you with my life story —”
“My dear Vito, believe me, you’ll soon know if you’re boring me. Right now you can carry the pasta to the table and light the candles.”
She thrust the dish into his hand and watched him light the candles. He did this with the undivided attention he bestowed on every activity, and Poldi promptly pictured what else his hands could doubtless do with the same undivided attention. She had to pull herself together once more to remain entirely in the here and now.
“Excellent,” was Montana’s enthusiastic comment on his first mouthful.
“But woe betide you if you say ‘Just like my mamma’s.’”
He grinned. “My mother was probably the only Sicilian woman who couldn’t cook. As for my wife, well…”
“Are your parents still alive?”
Montana cleared his throat. “Let’s change the subject.”
Poldi guessed that she had touched a big scar, one of many. This pleased her, but she temporarily left it at that and raised her glass again.
“To Sicily and the Sicilians.”
Montana shook his head. “No, to Sicily without the Sicilians.”
Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions Page 11