Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions

by Mario Giordano

  Poldi looked at him. “The man may have murdered Valentino.”

  Montana drew a deep breath. “I’ll have a word with the German authorities tomorrow, then they can question this Dr Tannenberger.”

  Poldi shook her head disapprovingly. “What if you simply fly to Munich and ask Herr Tannenberger a few questions?”

  “Unannounced, you mean? What if he isn’t there at all?”

  “Have you got the Internet on your smartphone?”

  “Er, yes. Why?”

  “Give it here.”

  Poldi took Montana’s phone from him and keyed “Dr Frank Tannenberger Bayerische Staatskanzlei” into the search box of his browser.

  “Got him,” she exclaimed. “Our Herr Tannenberger, aka Mr X, heads the department for EU relations at the Bayerische Staatskanzlei. If the head of department flies regularly to Sicily in person, it must be in connection with some major project. He’s bound to have to report to some committee or other, so he wouldn’t jet off elsewhere right away. No, believe me, he’ll be sitting in his office overlooking the Hofgarten, good as gold.”

  Montana shook his head firmly. “It’s no use anyway. An Italian policeman can’t go nosing around in Germany, least of all when a German government official is involved.”

  “But as a private individual? What’s to stop you?”

  “That’s a crazy idea. Nothing I discovered could be used in court. On the contrary, if this man Tannenberger claimed I’d threatened him, the whole case could go down the tubes and me with it. It’d be a crock of shit.”

  “You’re repeating yourself, Vito. So what are you going to do?”

  Montana clasped his hands together impotently to indicate that they were tied by forces beyond his control. “I can only go through proper channels.”

  Poldi thought for a moment. “Well,” she said eventually, getting to her feet, “you’re probably right. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. It’s getting late.”

  “I thought we might have a drink together.”

  It wasn’t that Poldi hadn’t had the same idea, but she had certain reasons for staying sober on two levels. Besides, she was in a hurry all of a sudden.

  “Another time. I’m really tired, and I’ve got a headache coming on.”

  “Shall I drive you?”

  “Don’t worry, I left my car down in the Lumbi car park.”

  She leant forward and kissed Montana lightly on both cheeks. “See you.”

  He caught her by the arm, though, and eyed her suspiciously. “Poldi?”

  “Vito?”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. Look, I really am tired. Would you let go of me, please?”

  Poldi called Luisa from her car as soon as she passed the autostrada toll booth.

  “For tomorrow morning?” Luisa, who worked for a travel agent, was taken aback. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Please could you try, Luisa?”

  “But what about your —”

  “No good. I’ll have to manage on my own.”

  Aunt Luisa wasn’t the type to refuse a favour, no matter what the time was.

  “I’ll call you back right away. Drive carefully.”

  By the time Poldi reached Torre Archirafi, Luisa had managed to make the reservations online – not for peanuts, it must be added. Poldi gulped in dismay when Luisa told her the cost of the flights. Her small pension was just enough to cover her everyday living expenses, and she had really hoped to reserve her meagre savings for urgent house repairs and other emergencies. On the other hand, she told herself, this was a kind of emergency in itself. Never mind: she would simply be unable to afford another pair of strappy sandals this summer. The case took priority.

  The flight left at ten. Catania Airport, which had long been awake, smelt of kerosene, coffee and cornetti and was humming a melody of wanderlust and homecoming. Extended families thronged the arrivals hall, waiting to welcome relations from Germany and Belgium, England and Denmark. As soon as the automatic doors opened even a crack, someone always tried to squeeze through and help Alfio and Alessia get their baggage off the carousel. Young German students patiently queuing up in front of the check-in desks shook their heads as they were barged aside by grey-haired Sicilians with monstrous suitcases big enough to emigrate with. At the security barrier, a symbol of the Italian crisis: raised voices, gesticulating hands, everything brought to a standstill. Somebody – not Uncle Martino for once – had been found to have a shrink-wrapped octopus in his hand luggage as a gift for his nearest and dearest in Mannheim and was loudly protesting at having to leave it behind. My Auntie Poldi groaned.

  Have I already told you that my Auntie Poldi was scared stiff of flying? Well, she was. She mistrusted the laws of aerodynamics, the complex technology, and, above all, the young men in the cockpit and their unctuous, oh-so-reassuring in-flight announcements. She was afraid of the way airliners lurched and wobbled, of the dull roar of the engines, of air pockets and landing procedures. She detested travelling through the air cooped up at 500 mph and an altitude of five miles, with nothing but a bit of aluminium between you and a free fall. Or death by asphyxia. Twenty years earlier, Poldi and my Uncle Peppe had almost succumbed to the latter on a flight from Munich to Catania in a friend’s small private jet, which lost cabin pressure over the Alps. They spent quarter of an hour gasping and panting for their lives in atmospheric pressure similar to that prevailing on the summit of Annapurna. Since then, Poldi had been as averse to flying as Satan to holy water. Sometimes, however, even Satan gets splashed, and sometimes even Poldi had to bite the bullet. She normally backed up her willpower with tranquillizers, but they were precluded this time by her need to keep a clear head. Her only remaining hope was that a friendly fellow passenger would take pity on her and hold her hand. That was what Poldi and my Uncle Peppe had done at 25,000 feet: held each other’s hand. The whole time. One’s fear of death may not be entirely dispelled by holding someone’s hand, even a total stranger’s, but it helps.

  As befitted the occasion, Poldi was wearing a muted dark-blue jumpsuit with pumps and a military blazer. For one thing, she had a penchant for uniforms, and, for another, intended to look a trifle intimidating. Her huge sunglasses were suggestive of a former film star hoping that someone will recognize her and whisper her name behind her back. She was feeling rather agitated. Because of her impending flight, of course, but also because of her forthcoming encounter with Valentino’s putative murderer and because of Munich. She wondered if it might be an omen that she was returning to her old stamping ground after only three months, alone and empty-handed, just as she had returned from Tanzania, distraught, with a void in her heart and her bank account. Talking of omens: when she turned away from the check-in counter, boarding card in hand, Montana was standing in front of her. She stared at him as if he were the archangel Michael, for even without a fiery sword Montana presented an impressive appearance that morning. He, too, was wearing dark blue, together with a white shirt and a tie, black brogues and his usual aviator sunglasses. He looked like a cop escorting a prosecution witness to the trial of the century: grim-faced and ready for anything. In other words, sexy as hell. Or so my Auntie Poldi thought.

  “My,” she exclaimed.

  “Did you seriously imagine I’d let you loose on a witness in my case?”

  “But how did you know I was —”

  Montana took my flummoxed aunt by the arm and towed her out of the queue in front of the check-in desk. “From your face and the way you said we’d just have to wait and see.”

  Poldi liked that.

  “But what about going through proper channels and travel expenses and all that palaver?”

  “Proper channels be damned. I’ve already been transferred once for disciplinary reasons.”

  Poldi liked that too. She also liked the thought that she would be able to hold Montana’s hand during the flight.

 
; “Forza Montana,” she cried in delight, but Montana wasn’t in the mood for levity.

  “I’m tempted to arrest you here and now and have you taken home, but sadly I can’t stop you from flying to Munich. So listen, here’s the deal: I, and only I, will interview Tannenberger. You will simply do a bit of interpreting and otherwise keep your trap shut.”

  Poldi looked at him like a schoolmistress confronted by a pupil who has asked for the heating to be turned off in February. “Nonsense,” she said, shaking her head, and strode briskly to the security gate. “Coming, Vito?”

  The first thing Poldi did on board was ensure she could sit beside Montana and hold his hand.

  “I’m scared of flying,” she explained. “For the next three hours, you’re going to make sure I don’t flip.”

  Which is precisely what he did. He held her moist hand tightly throughout the flight and explained every aeronautical sign of life.

  “That’s the engines starting up… We’re being backed out onto the runway… When it shakes we’re taking off… The runway is long enough… That’s the landing gear being retracted… Now the pilot’s retracting the slats and flaps… Look, there’s Etna. And there’s Torre… We’ve now reached cruising height, that’s why he’s throttling back… There aren’t any air pockets… No, the wing isn’t broken, those are the ailerons.”

  “How do you know all these things?”

  “I have a pilot’s licence.”

  Poldi stared at him. From her expression, he might just have disclosed he was 007.

  “You… have… a… pilot’s… licence?”

  “Sure. I’d be glad to take you up with me sometime.”

  “You can forget that right away, Signor Mystery Man.” She shook her head in amazement. “A pilot’s licence.”

  And apropos of secrets: “About the other night —” Montana said suddenly.

  “I don’t want to know,” Poldi broke in. “You said it was complicated, so let’s leave it at that.”

  “Are you feeling hurt?”

  “No. Why? We’re both adults.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Me? Not in the least.”

  “Lie to me once more and I’ll let go of your hand.”

  Poldi liked that too. That he could be amusing. That he had a way of flattering without fawning over her. Not that she had anything against a bit of fawning in small doses.

  “Shut up and explain about air pockets again, will you?”

  From Munich Airport they took the S-Bahn to the Hauptbahnhof and then the U-Bahn to Odeonsplatz, time enough for Poldi to recover from the flight and return to stress level green. It was a warm day with a colouring-book sky of blue dotted with white.

  Montana was amazed at all the people in pavement cafés and beer gardens.

  “How do you Germans run your economy if no one here works?”

  “How do you like Munich?”

  “Mm. How long did you live here?”

  “Nearly all my life. Two lifetimes or three. I stopped counting after a while.”

  “Like a cat, eh? Later on, will you show me where you used to live?”

  “No.”

  But Poldi was nonetheless pleased by Montana’s interest in Munich. Not just as a venue for the Oktoberfest or a fashionable shopping paradise, but as the former midpoint of her life. It made her feel rather proud and put her in a conciliatory frame of mind. The city hadn’t expelled her, after all; it had merely become too small for her. She decided to explain that to Montana sometime, if he was still interested, and perhaps she would steel herself again to board a plane and show him her favourite places. A nice idea, come to think of it.

  The next moment they were standing in front of the impressive building that housed the Bavarian State Chancellery.

  “Is this it?”

  “In all its glory, yes.”

  “Let’s try our luck, then.” Montana strode resolutely towards the main entrance, but Poldi held him back. “Not so fast. Do we have a phone number for the man?”

  Montana handed her the printout from the Timeo.

  Poldi dialled the number given on the hotel registration form.

  “Yes?” said an impatient voice after the third ring.

  “Herr Tannenberger?”

  “Who is this?”

  The irritable tone of someone under pressure.

  “My name is Oberreiter. I’ve just come from Sicily. I missed you at the Timeo, unfortunately.”

  “Where did you get my number? What’s this about, anyway?”

  “It’s about Valentino. You know; you were at his funeral. A few issues have arisen in connection with his death, and I’d like to resolve them with you.”

  Silence reigned at the other end of the line. Then, “What sort of issues?”

  “I’d sooner discuss them with you in person, and it would be helpful if you could manage it right away, before you fly off to Panama or Cuba.”

  “That’s impossible. I don’t have the time.”

  “Outside the main entrance in five minutes, all right? Because if you don’t come, I’ll have to speak to the police at once.”

  The man at the other end of the line cleared his throat.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Where I said: just outside. Practical, no?”

  “Is he coming?” Montana asked when Poldi rang off.

  “Five minutes.”

  “What did you say?”

  She gave him a broad smile. “Abracadabra.”

  The red-haired man appeared less than five minutes later. Poldi recognized him at once and gave him a wave like one colleague meeting another for lunch. Tannenberger, wearing a dark business suit, appeared taller to Poldi than he had at the funeral. He stopped short when he saw Montana, but Poldi hurried over to him before he could dive back into the building.

  “Hello there, Dr Tannenberger,” she said cheerfully. “Glad you could manage it. I’m Frau Oberreiter – I just had the pleasure of speaking to you on the phone – and this is Commissario Montana of the State Police in Acireale. He’s the senior investigating officer in the Valentino Candela case.”

  “I didn’t think the police would be present.”

  “They aren’t. Commissario Montana is here in an entirely private capacity. If he wasn’t, your department would have been notified by now, so it’s up to you.”

  Tannenberger reluctantly shook Montana’s hand but remained tense, as though ready to run at any moment. He wasn’t wearing a ring, Poldi noted, but his wrist was adorned with a showy Officine Panerai. Hardly a typical civil servant’s wristwatch at a measly ten thousand euros.

  Tannenberger turned to Poldi. “And who exactly are you?”

  “A sort of interpreter for Commissario Montana, let’s say.”

  “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

  “She was a friend of Valentino’s,” Montana said in English, determined to get at least one word in.

  “Why, I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Poldi exclaimed. “I snapped you together shortly before his death, do you remember? At the café in Taormina.”

  Tannenberger looked back at the State Chancellery like someone watching an ocean liner about to sail off at full speed without him. Then he glanced at his Panerai. “I can spare half an hour. Let’s go into the Hofgarten.”

  He didn’t utter another word until they had found a vacant park bench in the shade of an old chestnut tree, but he kicked off at once before Montana had a chance to ask him a single question, and Poldi translated.

  “Let me make one thing clear from the start: I did not kill Valentino. I was here in Munich on the day of his death, as you can easily check. I even have witnesses for the relevant time. All I would ask is that you proceed discreetly. I’m in a permanent relationship, you see.” Having waited for Poldi to translate this statement, he turned to her and went on before Montana could step in. “I remember you taking that photo. It was on my last evening with Valentino – I had to return here the following mo
rning. Valentino was rather dismayed when he caught sight of you. He wanted to run after you, but I stopped him.”

  Tannenberger paused for a moment, as though drained of strength by this revelation, and waited for Poldi to translate again. “You can’t imagine how shocked I am by Valentino’s death. I feel as if my heart has been ripped out, but I can’t afford to grieve for him openly.”

  He trembled suddenly, but pulled himself together at once. Poldi guessed what was coming.

  “I first met Valentino about six months ago, on my first official trip to Taormina. He was carrying drinks around at a reception – one of his part-time jobs. It was love at first sight. For me, at least. I never really fathomed his feelings.”

  Tannenberger paused again and looked at Montana. “What do you want to know?”

  “Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t learn of his death until I returned to Sicily. That was the day before his funeral.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Signor Patanè.”

  “What’s your relationship with Signor Patanè?”

  “He wants to tender for the construction of an international cultural centre in Taormina under the auspices of the European Union, to be co-financed by the Bavarian Free State.”

  “And what was the relationship between Patanè and Valentino?”

  “Valentino worked for him occasionally, as far as I could gather. It was he that introduced us, anyway. An extremely unpleasant, tiresome individual. He has no chance of getting the contract, but he keeps pestering me with invitations and offers to sell me houses or construction sites in prime locations – on so-called ‘special terms’. But that sort of thing doesn’t work with me.”

  “In what capacity did Valentino work for Patanè?”

  “I don’t know. Valentino had numerous jobs. He was no fool. He wanted to come to Germany and make a life for himself here.”

  Yes, Poldi remembered that. She remembered her German lessons with Valentino, his ambition, his optimism.

  “Did that alarm you?” she asked. “I mean, because of your permanent relationship?”