“Could you be a little less airy-fairy, Signor Russo? What does all this have to do with Etnarosso?”
Russo glanced at his watch.
“Damn it all, don’t tell me you’ve got to go,” Poldi snapped. “Come on, give!”
Russo beckoned the waiter.
“Etnarosso is the name of a water development programme which an international food company named Oceanica is planning to set up in Sicily. Mainly here in the east, which abounds in water. Oceanica trades in mineral water throughout the world.” Starting to gesticulate, Rosso put his thumb and fingertips together and shook his hand in the universal Italian gesture that underlines the importance of some statement. He clasped his hands together and shook them, raised his forefinger, clenched his fist and reopened it in front of Poldi’s eyes like a big, delicate bud. “They’re drilling wells in India, Pakistan, the States, everywhere. They’re stealing the inhabitants’ water, bottling it in plastic bottles and selling it to them. The same water that used to gush from hydrants free of charge. They’re draining whole tracts of land in this way. Bottled water has become a status symbol in the Third World, and they’re planning to create the same situation here. They’re criminals who’ll stop at nothing.”
Poldi remained quite calm. Although she could well have done with another Prosecco, she restrained herself from calling the waiter.
“And why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I want to gain your trust, Poldi. I’m not your enemy. I’m not even Valérie’s enemy.”
“Oh really?”
“I have a high regard for Valérie, and I’ll do my best to help her keep Femminamorta, but it’s no use if she goes bankrupt and loses the whole estate.”
“To you, I suppose.”
Russo rose. “Now I really must go. It’s been a pleasure, Donna Poldina.”
Poldi remained seated. On impulse, she put out her hand. He took it and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, brushed it with his lips.
“I’ll be in touch.”
As she watched him put on his sunglasses and saunter confidently down the Corso Umberto, Poldi wondered, not for the first time, what the devil life had in store for her. What was its plan? Why did it always have to take the most complicated routes? These considerations usually led her to brood in a melancholy way, so she ordered herself another Prosecco after all and quickly made a few notes of what Russo had told her. None of it made much sense to her.
“Mind you,” my aunt told me later, “life has never promised to make much sense, so you’ve always got two options.”
A brief pause for me to ask what they were.
“I’m listening.”
“Either you develop worry lines and ruin your teeth by grinding them, or you say namaste and go with the flow.”
“I never grind my teeth!”
“Yes you do. You don’t notice, that’s all. All right, do as I do.”
She put her hands together.
“This is utterly daft, Poldi.”
“Just do it.”
I complied.
“Now breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Now make a bow.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do it!”
I bowed.
“And now, say after me: Namaste, life.”
“Namaste, life.”
“Thank you, life, for helping me with my lousy novel.”
“Oh? Is that what it’s doing?”
“Go on. Dai!”
“Thank you, life, for helping me with my lousy novel.” And on impulse I added, “The rest of the world can kiss my ass.”
Poldi nodded happily, and I must admit that everything immediately felt a trifle easier. Rather as if I weren’t barking up completely the wrong tree, and as if something far away on the horizon were waiting patiently for me to catch up. And then, as I sat there on the sofa with Poldi, who scratched herself under her wig and topped up our glasses with red wine, there in the midst of all her knick-knacks, the china poodles, the photos of my Uncle Peppe and the collection of antique weapons on the walls, with a mild Sicilian November night and the distant roar of the surf outside—there at that moment I felt something else. Something I’d been missing for a long time, and which was coming back to me like a stray cat that has been busy elsewhere for a while but now leaps onto your lap, purring, as if it had never been away.
I took my Auntie Poldi’s hand and squeezed it hard. “Namaste, Poldi.”
“No problem.”
Poldi felt irritated by Russo’s blatant come-on. That was all she needed. As if she didn’t have enough trouble amore-wise. Besides, she couldn’t shake off the suspicion that everyone she questioned was shooting her one line after another. But, as she always said, “Nothing attracts an investigator more than a mixture of half-truths and subtle eroticism.” So she knocked back another Prosecco and set off for Femminamorta to see Valérie, collect her thoughts in the shade of a palm tree and plan the next steps in her investigation.
As so often, the delightful property looked deserted when Poldi dismounted from her Vespa. The only living creature to greet her was Oscar, companion of the late, poisoned Lady, and he was far less effusive than usual. No jumping up, no hoarse barking, no rolling around on the ground. Looking years older, the little mongrel with the underbite came trotting out of the house—cautiously, as if nothing there was safe any more—and sniffed Poldi’s hand in a less than excited way. Poldi picked him up and made her way round the house into the garden. She forbore to call her friend because it was siesta time. Valérie hardly slept at night (which, in my novel, only intensified my overheated description of the myth of a voluptuous nymph in an enchanted garden), so she needed her nap in the afternoons.
On entering the garden, Poldi was met by two sights that could not have been more grotesquely different from each other.
The first: the motionless figures of Doris and her German deliziosi in skimpy bikinis, lying in a row on plastic loungers on the lawn, duly anointed with factor 50 sun cream and braising in the afternoon heat.
The second: a peculiar creature on the other side of the garden. Outwardly, it appeared to be a human being. A naked human being, but Poldi couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman, nor had she ever seen a figure so beautiful, dainty and translucent, so sexless and slender, pale and graceful. And so different from herself that it almost broke her heart. The creature wasn’t much taller than a child—a tall child, perhaps. Its skin was paler than any pigmentation Poldi had ever seen: almost completely white, as if it had never been brushed by a single ray of sunlight. It resembled moonlight, thought Poldi, who could not stop looking in turn at the creature and the frying tourists.
The pale-skinned creature was crouching almost motionless under a big palm tree. Poldi now saw that it was moving, albeit infinitely slowly. Fluidly, and as if in extreme slow motion, it straightened up and, without a tremor, unfolded like a white blossom. Poldi, whose knees gave her trouble, wondered where it found the strength. Once the creature had unfurled sufficiently for her to glimpse its primary sexual characteristics, Poldi discerned that it was anatomically a man, although his little best friend was really very small—almost invisible, in fact. She also saw that the man was Japanese, and this, in turn, put her in mind of Butoh, a Japanese type of expressive free-style dancing.
“Mon dieu, one simply can’t take one’s eyes off him, can one?”
Valérie, who had suddenly materialised beside her, dared only whisper.
“Who or what is he?”
“My new guest. An alga.”
“Come again?”
“That’s what he calls himself.”
“Like that slimy green stuff in the sea, you mean?”
“His name is Haru Higashi. He’s a performance artist, though I’m not sure he really is a man. What do you think? Not that it matters. He’s . . . he’s so incredibly beautiful. Like moonlight.”
Poldi thought so too.
> Quite undisturbed by the two women’s presence, the “alga” proceeded to embrace the trunk of the palm tree and slide down it to the ground as if becoming fused with both tree and ground.
Valérie took Poldi’s arm and led her over to a table in front of the house, where another Japanese, seated in the shade, was munching Valérie’s stodgy homemade biscuits and playing a game of skill one-handed on his smartphone. He was a chubby man in his late twenties, Poldi estimated. His hair hung down over his face, and he wore a big pair of glasses and a T-shirt printed with tour dates and the logo of a Korean crossover indie band. A stereotypical nerd, in other words.
When Valérie and Poldi sat down, he looked up from his phone and beamed at them. “Good afternoon,” he said in excellent Italian. “These biscuits are delicious.”
He introduced himself to Poldi as Aki, a student of vulcanology at the University of Catania and part-time guide for Japanese tourists.
“Higashi-san has engaged me to act as his interpreter and personal assistant for three months, to enable him to present his performance with an easy mind. He is a very shy person.”
“You don’t say.”
Still munching a biscuit, Aki beamed at Poldi as though she had just paid him a compliment and went on talking with his mouth full. “Higashi-san will begin his performance beside the main crater of Etna, at over three thousand metres, and then descend by degrees to the sea. That is what he has told me. Then he will glide slowly into the sea and become an alga.”
“And then?”
“Then nothing. That’s it. Don’t ask me, I haven’t a clue about such performances. It’s pretty cool, though, don’t you agree?”
“And you’ll record the whole thing on video, so Signor Higashi can screen it later?”
Poldi had to wait for Aki to gulp down the biscuit mush in his mouth.
“No, Higashi-san wants no record of it. He also wants no audience. I’m not even allowed to take selfies with him. I have, but I’m afraid I can’t post them, or . . .” He drew a finger across his throat and grinned. “He just does his thing without making waves. He told me he’s devoted four solid years of work to rehearsing this performance. Dead cool of him!”
Poldi didn’t think so at all. On the contrary, she thought it was pretty loopy. On the other hand, she had a soft spot for crackpots and fantasists of every stripe as long as they behaved in a friendly manner, and pale, dainty Higashi-san seemed about as unfriendly as a baby Angora rabbit. My aunt was moved by the sight of this fairy-like creature, who had no wish to kill anyone—no mongrel, no fortune-teller and no district attorney—and who had come to Sicily with the sole intention of dancing from Etna into the sea, silently and unobserved, and becoming an alga. This mute self-sufficiency and total devotion to beauty briefly restored Poldi’s faith in goodness. In a world where beings like Higashi-san existed, there was still some hope, and possibly even some justice.
“Higashi-san is a superstar in Japan,” Aki nattered on. “He appears only rarely and leads a very reclusive existence, but people idolise him. A hundred thousand euros has been offered on the Internet for a single sample of Higashi-san’s procreative semen. The whole planning of this Sicilian performance had to be carried out in the strictest secrecy. Higashi-san’s management flew me to Kyoto and made me sign a mass of confidentiality agreements. If a single screaming fan turns up here, I’ll be scuppered for the rest of my life.”
“If he’s so famous, where are his management and security people?”
“Back in Japan. Higashi-san wants only me to be present, no one else. Heaven knows why, because I don’t. He’s . . . well, a very special person, you see. But he’s doing fine. He likes it here. Working for him is a great honour.”
“Mon dieu, he’s absolutely charming,” sighed Valérie. “So are you, Aki. I’m delighted to have you both here.”
A gentle breeze sprang up for the first time in weeks. Just a puff of wind, a hint of a breeze, it might have followed Higashi-san from Japan like a tenacious admirer—or so Poldi fancied. The breeze was laden with salty air and a promise that the heat would soon subside and Madame Sahara’s murder be solved. It cooled Poldi’s brow and briefly stirred her wig before wafting on and fluttering around Higashi-san. Cooler now by a couple of degrees, Poldi noticed a feature of the scene that had escaped her hitherto: Oscar.
The dog was sitting under one of Valérie’s two avocado trees, where he formed a skewed rectangle with the sunbathing Germans, the “alga” and Poldi herself. And little Oscar was doing something very unusual. Something he had probably never done before in the whole of his friendly, canine existence. Something that disturbed the order of things in a disquieting way. Poldi noticed it only because at that moment everything was hushed and still in Valérie’s paradisal garden—perfectly still except for a low, primeval sound which seemed to issue from the very depths of that shaggy body.
Poldi pointed to the dog. “Listen to him, Valérie.”
That was when Valérie noticed Oscar sitting in the shade. “Mon dieu!”
“Does he do that often?”
“Never. I didn’t think he was capable of it. What’s the matter with him?”
“Never, eh? Well, well,” said Poldi. “Interesting.”
9
Tells of existential issues, of disappearance and discovery, of inspiration, grammar and gold coins. Poldi gives her subconscious a leg up, learns how to make a lake vanish and enlightens her nephew on the connection between the passato remoto and Sicilian eroticism. Padre Paolo has some small but useful secrets, and Signora Cocuzza has to keep watch again, and because everything, but everything, in life is connected, Poldi has every reason to be grateful to her father.
I had in the meantime gone back to Germany to spend a joyless month slaving away at my novel and my job at the call centre, filled with nostalgia for granitas, involtini di pesce spada, pasta al nero, Cyclopean dreams and the machine-gun chatter of Sicilian dialect, not to mention evenings on the sofa with my Auntie Poldi. Whenever I had to help customers reset their mobile phones or listen to their angry tirades, I pictured Poldi putting a suspect through the mill or sitting in the garden with Valérie. Discounting a few fun nights with my cousins in the newsgroup, I heard nothing from Sicily for four long weeks. Poldi was naturally too busy, and my other aunts still regard phoning Germany as a “long-distance” call, to be made only when someone is dying, war has broken out, or at Christmas. I knew it all too well. Sicily lives so much in the here and now that it forgets you as soon as your plane takes off. However, it remembers you just as quickly when you emerge from the airport, to be told to pick up your cousin’s daughter from nursery school and deliver her to Aunt Caterina. This family silence annoyed me, I must admit. However, since I don’t like to impose and was, alas, too broke to book myself a flight, I waited eagerly for an invitation. It came in the middle of November, by way of a call from Aunt Luisa.
“Can you come, tesoro? It’s urgent.”
Her voice sounded tense.
“No problem,” I said as coolly as I could manage. “Has something happened?”
“You’ll see,” Aunt Luisa prevaricated. “She’s been . . . a bit unstable, and she asked for you. Could you come tomorrow?”
I certainly could. I didn’t even need to pack a bag, because I’d left all the essentials in my stuffy Sicilian attic in the Via Baronessa, which had by now become a second home. Exultantly, I ditched my part-time job at the call centre.
But when Poldi came to the door I was appalled. Her left arm was in plaster, and I made out a bandage under her wig. She was also wearing sunglasses to hide the bruise under her right eye, and she limped a little.
“Good Lord!”
“I’m all right,” she said dismissively. “It looks worse than it is.”
“You look like you were involved in a showdown worthy of Scorsese.”
“That’s not far from the truth, but all in good time.”
In fact, Poldi stubbornly refused to tell me wha
t had happened and bullied the aunts and cousins into maintaining the strictest secrecy about it. At least this accounted for her weeks-long silence, which I even found a trifle flattering.
So I forced myself to be patient, spent the days tinkering with my novel as usual and heard the latest results of the investigation on the sofa in the evening.
“I suppose you aren’t going to tell me what Oscar was doing,” I grumbled when she got to the episode with the “alga” at Valérie’s.
“I’d be daft, wouldn’t I? I mean, if this were a novel. If you ever write a thriller, which would be quite a challenge in view of your butterfly brain, I’ll remind you of it.”
“What do you mean, butterfly brain?”
“Why, you think I haven’t noticed you can’t focus on one particular thing for love nor money? You’re always jumping up and running around, looking this way and that. Your novel will never come to anything like that.”
“Come off it, Poldi. These are just cheap tricks designed to heighten dramatic tension. I learnt it all at the last writers’ workshop I attended: the reader and the investigator must always be at the same stage of enlightenment. Information must be disseminated nice and evenly, so conclusions can be drawn.”
“Really? Don’t you think the reader wants to be surprised occasionally?”
“Yes, but that’s where the skill lies,” I argued. “Anyway, I already know what Oscar did.”
Poldi didn’t pursue the subject. “Skill doesn’t come into it. Writing a thriller is no more of an art than investigating a murder. You concentrate on your work as hard as you can and hope you don’t get bogged down or go astray. To a pro like me it’s rather like maths. You only get the result and are supposed to derive an equation with twenty-five unknowns from it. And that takes the sort of concentration you lack.”
“Drop it, Poldi.” I sighed. “I’ll never write a thriller anyway.”
My Auntie Poldi looked at me, and her face took on an expression midway between mischievous and melancholic.
“Never say never.”
Auntie Poldi and the Vineyards of Etna Page 15