Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions

by Mario Giordano

  Back at the table, Poldi picked at her food without appetite, poured herself some more wine to help Mimì’s commentaries on Hölderlin bounce off her, and devoted herself to sinister theories about the ties between Russo, Valérie and Patanè. In order to sort out her ideas she felt in her handbag for a ballpoint. She was momentarily puzzled to find the bag on her left-hand side instead of the right, but she’d already had a glass or two. Taking a paper napkin, she made a list of everyone currently under suspicion.

  RUSSO

  PATANÈ

  TANNENBERGER

  VALÉRIE

  HÖLDERLIN MIMÌ

  TURI

  “You’ve got to make lists in life,” Poldi advised me some weeks later. “Lists are magical – that’s because they develop a life of their own. Once you start one, it insists on being continued ad infinitum. You may cross out an item from time to time, but you’re never finished. A list is never complete, remember. One thing leads to another, and – bingo – it contains items you’d never thought of before. And all because you started to write them down. That’s also the secret of writing in general: making a start, getting words down on paper. Just because it’s suddenly there in black and white on a sheet of paper, the written word develops genuine momentum. I tell you, lists are the mechanics of the subconscious. Lists of names, for example. One name on its own doesn’t make a list, obviously. Nor do two names. Three names? Still not enough. Four names qualify, but they look half-hearted. Only when there are five names, or preferably six, can you call them a list. Mind you, a list mustn’t be too long or it becomes ineffective, like central heating with all the windows open in January. Remember that.”

  So saying – open brackets – my Auntie Poldi summarized the reciprocal relationship between information and entropy. Close brackets.

  She stared at the six names on the paper napkin, which seemed to stare back at her like reflections in a Venetian mirror. She could cross out Tannenberger right away, but the other five could all have been responsible for the phone call to Valentino, and they were all there that night. Poldi even spotted old Turi at one of the tables on the periphery. He was wearing an ancient suit far too big for him and single-mindedly devouring one sardine roll after another. Poldi was about to get up and keep him company for a bit when Valérie nudged her and pointed to the list. “You don’t believe me, do you? You still think I had something to do with Valentino’s death.”

  “You have to admit it’s strange the last call he received was made from your phone.”

  Poldi made to refill her glass, but Valérie took the bottle from her and tapped the paper napkin. “You really think one of us is Valentino’s murderer?”

  Poldi crumpled up the napkin and stuffed it in her handbag. “Are you having an affair with Russo?”

  “What?” Valérie exclaimed in bewilderment. “Mon Dieu, what gives you that idea?”

  “Well, the way he keeps looking at you. And those kisses this morning. And the cosy way you were sitting together. A hostile relationship looks different somehow.”

  Valérie stared at Poldi. “I’m going home; I’ve got a headache,” she said, snatching up her handbag. “Have fun.”

  “Valérie.”

  But there was nothing to be done. Valérie left the makeshift banqueting hall without saying goodbye to anyone. Poldi wondered whether to run after her and apologize, but she suddenly felt old and fat, overheated and rather sleepy. How many glasses had she drunk? She hadn’t kept count, but it couldn’t have been all that many, given the lack of liquid reinforcements.

  “Bugger it,” she muttered to herself. Scanning the nearest tables for a full bottle of wine, she saw that Patanè had at last managed to have a word with Russo. From his gestures, he was pleading his innocence of something. Russo, looking annoyed, said something in reply, whereupon they both left the hall. It went without saying that Poldi had to go after them. She wasn’t there just for fun, after all. Somewhat unsteady on her pins, she rose and followed the two men.

  It was already getting dark when Poldi emerged into the open, somewhat bemused by wine and melancholy. In order to shake off her slight feeling of dizziness, she began by drawing a deep breath. The evening hummed her a serenade of laughter, raised voices and blatting mopeds. Redolent of diesel fumes, tobacco smoke and the sea, it bathed dilapidated house fronts in the picturesque glow of sodium lights. A fine night, perfect for embarking on a new life or ending an old one. Outside the old bottling plant, enveloped in neon lighting and swarms of mosquitoes, young friends of the bridal pair were fooling around and smoking. A little to one side, discreetly sited in shadow, stood a platoon of Portaloos with a small queue in front of them, and parked immediately behind them were the vans of the catering services. Russo and Patanè were nowhere to be seen.

  In an unobtrusive and wholly professional manner, Poldi sauntered around the factory and eventually spotted Russo and Patanè in an ill-lit gap between two parked cars. They were gesticulating fiercely and appeared to be arguing. Cautiously crouching to the extent her knee permitted, my aunt stole closer – right up to an SUV, which concealed her better than the Fiat Cinquecento beside it. Although she could distinctly hear the two men’s voices from there, she couldn’t understand a word. Russo and Patanè were arguing in Sicilian, and that, it should be pointed out, has as much in common with Italian as Swiss German with Friesian. The gulf between Italian regional dialects is far greater than in most countries, and Sicilian is more than a dialect. It is a guttural, almost Arabic-sounding melange, the phonetic heritage of all the races that have ever occupied the island. Significantly enough, Sicilian has no future tense. On the other hand, Sicilians often use the complicated passato remoto in everyday speech. This tense, which elsewhere occurs only in literature and does not exist in German, describes events that lie very far back in time and are consummated and irrevocable – really, truly, officially in the past. That’s that, it’s over and done with. Basta. Sicilians would, for instance, use the passato remoto after their siesta, when referring to the lunch they ate earlier in the day. The message is unmistakable: we live in the here and now, and only in the here and now.

  Be that as it may, Poldi couldn’t understand a word. The men’s body language, on the other hand, was crystal clear: Russo was pissed off with Patanè, who appeared to be furiously justifying himself. Russo grabbed Patanè by the collar and snarled at him. All Poldi could hear was “Afaculitishpacofalacha”, but she guessed it must be a curse or the threat of violence. Sure enough, when Patanè tried to free himself, Russo shoved him hard in the chest, then punched him in the face. Poldi instinctively ducked down behind the car, so she didn’t see if Patanè returned the blow. She merely heard the two men panting, followed by hurried footsteps on the other side of the SUV. Then something flew through the air and landed beside her. Red and white in colour, it lay there unmoving. It didn’t shrink, didn’t grow, just lay there. Poldi stared at the thing, trying to work out what it could be. Then the solution dawned on her: it was a bloodstained handkerchief. No doubt about it. Poldi obviously couldn’t allow such a DNA-carrier to slip through her fingers. She fished out one of the little self-seal plastic bags she’d been carrying around in her handbag since Valentino’s death, meaning to secure the handkerchief. Alas, it was too far away. Miles away. At the other end of the world. Poldi tried to stand up, but for some reason she could no longer do so; she didn’t have the strength. It didn’t matter, though. Necessity being the mother of invention, she simply crawled towards the handkerchief on all fours and swam through an ocean of darkness and dizziness until she could at last take hold of the bundle of viscose and bag it. Done, finished, relax.

  Poldi gasped, overcome by nausea, and vomited. Cursing Russo’s lousy wine, she tried to stand up – really tried – but failed because the world had decided to rotate ever faster. She heard a voice coming from somewhere and saw some shoes just in front of her eyes. Good, well-polished, men’s black shoes. And they were the last thing she saw. Fade to black.


  Historico-Cultural Intermezzo

  When Almighty God had created the world and everything in it, He had a tiny little bit of every continent left over. He was satisfied with Himself and his work, so He casually kneaded the bits together into a lump and slapped it down on His new world, and – bingo – there was Sicily.

  At that the angels came hurrying up. “Wow,” they whispered, rustling their wings uneasily. “What a beautiful thing you’ve created, O Lord. An absolute paradise – only the best bits from all the continents.”

  “So?” the Almighty said proudly. “It’s wonderful.”

  “Yes,” whispered the angels, “but the other parts of the world will be green with envy. There’ll be a row, a regular hullabaloo. Not a good start.”

  The Almighty took their point. “Oh dear,” He said, “what shall I do?”

  “You need to even things up a bit,” whispered the angels.

  So He created the Sicilians.

  POPULAR SICILIAN JOKE AS TOLD BY MY AUNTIE POLDI

  11

  Describes a misunderstanding, the after-effects of knockout drops, and sundry discoveries. Poldi fails to find her key, expels an uninvited visitor with the aid of a muzzle-loader, and makes discovery number one. She gets personal protection and accompanies the aunts to the lido. There she makes discovery number two, conducts a serious private conversation, and soon afterwards makes discovery number three.

  Poldi got to her feet with an effort and saw Death standing in front of her. He was looking embarrassed and rather at a loss.

  “Well, well,” she said calmly. “So it’s time, is it?”

  Death put on his reading glasses and glanced at the list on his clipboard. “One moment; not so fast. You aren’t on today’s list. Something…” – he cleared his throat nervously – “something must have gone wrong.”

  “You can say that again,” Poldi grumbled, smoothing her dress down. “I always thought my end would be more dignified. Look at my dress. Do you know what that cost? Oh well, never mind, let’s make the best of it.”

  She looked across at the bottling plant. The young people outside the entrance, the wedding guests lining up outside the Portaloos, the stray cats – they all seemed frozen in mid-movement. Even the glow from the street lights looked harsh and ossified.

  “Just as a matter of interest, is this eternal damnation, or am I in Purgatory?”

  “Weren’t you listening?” Death snapped. “I just said something’s gone wrong. It isn’t your turn yet.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning you aren’t on the list,” Death repeated more meekly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hell’s bells and buckets of blood,” Poldi thundered. “Bugger the list. I’m dead and that’s that.”

  “No, Poldi, you aren’t.”

  “So where the hell am I, then? What is this?”

  Death gave an embarrassed cough. “A, er… near-death experience?”

  Poldi grabbed Death by the scruff of the neck and shook him a little. He was quite lightly built.

  “Let go of me,” Death wailed, brandishing his clipboard. “Please. I can put you down on the list any time, if you’re really so keen.”

  Poldi released him. “Okay, then, let’s do it. Where do I sign?”

  But Death lowered his clipboard again, looking positively dejected. “No, can’t be done. Listen, Poldi, it doesn’t work like that. Those knockout drops in your wine weren’t supposed to kill you. Though —”

  “Though they nearly did, is that what you mean?”

  Death became all formal again. “I’m not authorized to disclose information on the subject of destiny.”

  Poldi got the message. “So it’s a balls-up of the first order.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Death conceded. He sounded genuinely apologetic. “I’m really sorry. Well… I’ll be seeing you.” He turned to go.

  “Hang on,” called Poldi. Death was looking rather exhausted, she saw, and no wonder. If you’ve been on the go since the beginning of time, you’re bound to reach burnout sooner or later.

  “What is it?”

  “When am I for the chop? I mean, just for interest’s sake.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Come on, we’ve been having such a nice chat.”

  Death hesitated. “Very well, Poldi, since it’s you,” he eventually said with a sigh. He consulted his clipboard again.

  Although Poldi couldn’t make out any of the names, she saw that they were listed in quite small print and neatly arranged in date order. Death ran his ballpoint down the list name by name and sheet after sheet.

  And then…

  “Ah, there you are. Officially certified, rubber-stamped and signed. Your date of death is the —”

  Unfortunately, that was when Poldi woke up.

  It’s hard to say in retrospect who put the knockout drops in my aunt’s glass, just as the whole course of the evening remained hidden behind a sort of blackout curtain. Poldi was able to reconstruct only parts of it later on, and we can’t tell whether everything happened just the way she thought, whether certain conversations actually took place, whether her recollections are accurate, and whether she really overheard Russo and Patanè arguing. The one tangible clue was a bloodstained handkerchief in a zipper bag and her final memory of a pair of men’s black shoes.

  Groaning, cursing and afflicted with the thickest of thick heads, Poldi recovered consciousness on the ground beside the SUV. She was still a little dizzy, she was thirsty, she had a metallic taste in her mouth, and the veil of oblivion was lifting only slowly. But she was alive. She did feel rather miffed at failing to learn her sell-by date, but there were more important issues to be addressed at present. Like what had actually happened.

  She could remember nothing at this stage, only those black shoes and the fact that Death had said something about knockout drops, but that sufficed her for the moment.

  Still groaning, she staggered to her feet like Polyphemus blinded by Odysseus, drew several deep breaths while waiting for the drumbeats in her head to subside a little, and looked around. It was still dark. She could make out the old bottling plant, but it wasn’t illuminated any more. Everything was steeped in gloom. No one to be seen. The party was over.

  And nobody missed me, let alone came looking for me, Poldi thought bitterly. She peered at her watch. Just after half past three. How long had she been lying on the ground? No idea. All she knew was that she could have simply died there, for all anyone would have cared. Balls to the lot of them.

  Still rather wobbly on her legs, Poldi straightened her dress, retrieved her handbag from the ground and looked up at the night sky. The stars twinkled at her and the moon seemed to perform a coquettish little hop before it dipped below the horizon.

  “Namaste, life,” Poldi said softly, somehow glad not to have been on tonight’s list after all, and set off for home. Cautiously, step by step, stomach churning with rage and assailed by waves of nausea, she tottered home along the esplanade, steadying herself against the walls of the buildings that lined the waterfront. She felt she was in a totally unfamiliar place. She passed no one, no lights were on in the houses, and the dark sea was lethargically slapping the rocky shore. The whole town seemed to be guiltily avoiding her eye. It merely flickered its street lights in a nervous way and pretended to be asleep.

  “If that’s your attitude,” muttered Poldi, “you can kiss my ass.”

  On reaching No. 29 Via Baronessa, she felt in her handbag for the key and found the self-seal bag containing the bloodstained handkerchief. She stared at the small plastic envelope for a moment, trying to remember where she’d got it from. She failed, and she also failed to find her key, even when she emptied out her handbag on the doorstep. The key was gone.

  Just then, Poldi heard noises. They were definitely not in her head. Crisp, rhythmical blows, not loud but coming from not far away, they were interspersed with scratching and scraping sounds. The noises tric
kled down on my aunt from above like crumbling plaster, mingled with the sound of shuffling feet and heavy breathing. They were coming from the roof terrace, no doubt about it.

  Poldi wondered what to do. Shout for help till the whole street was awake? Tiptoe away and call the police? No, because her stomach was still churning with rage, and besides, she knew from a reliable source that she wasn’t scheduled to die yet. Whoever it was that had invaded her house with her key was going to get an earful.

  Gingerly, she tried the front door. It was locked, but that didn’t matter because Poldi, who often forgot her key, had taken the precaution of sticking a spare one to the back of her letter box. She lifted the little metal box off its mount as quietly as possible, detached the spare key and silently let herself in.

  Without turning a light on, Poldi tiptoed into the living room and over to the wall on which hung the antique firearms Montana had eyed so suspiciously. She took down an eighteenth-century infantry musket dating from the War of the Bavarian Succession, a plain, unadorned muzzle-loader from the Fortschauer Armatur factory, 19 mm calibre, with a walnut stock and a long barrel. Its numerous dents and signs of use indicated that the weapon had probably mangled the intestines of several Prussian fusiliers, shattered their limbs and perforated their skulls. Poldi’s father had taken an enthusiastic interest in that particular aspect of Bavarian history, and although Poldi had never really shared his passion, she had kept his small collection of firearms as a memento of him. The guns had long been deactivated, because the barrels were welded up and plugged with steel, but they still had their bayonets.

  Despite the darkness and despite her headache and nausea, Poldi managed to fix the bayonet on the barrel. The musket, which now weighed heavy in her hands, seemed to awake from a long dream and whisper to her about the atrocities it yearned to commit once more. And who could blame it, it whispered. After all, killing was the only thing it had ever been taught to do.