This sounded familiar to Poldi in some way.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
Another sigh.
“Because your kind never gives up, Donna Poldina. If only you could see what I see . . . Your aura is like a red-and-yellow conflagration above your head. You’re someone who sets everything ablaze, yourself first and foremost. You came here to convict me of murder and atone for something to your lover, your father and Giuliana. That’s to your credit, and I’m prepared to assist you in any way I can. Because, as I said, it wasn’t me. I have no alibi for the time of the murder, alas, but I do have a motive. This means that if you turn your commissario loose on me, I’ll have a problem. Being investigated by the police is bad for business, and my business isn’t doing too well, as you can see, so I suggest you simply ask your questions and I’ll answer them to the best of my ability.”
The mago was looking depressed, as if bowed down beneath an existential burden, and his eyes were suddenly bloodshot. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, clearly struggling to maintain his composure. And Poldi believed him, because she knew a thing or two about the difference between hypocrisy and true humanity. So she felt ashamed of her own hypocrisy and rush to judgement and was once more reminded of the traditional Sicilian principle governing true beauty: perfect sweetness and genuine quality always lie hidden beneath the most unattractive exterior. Outside, ugh! Inside, wow! It might be called an oriental concept: all splendour is private and must be protected from the envious and rapacious.
“Please excuse my cheap charade, Maestro,” said Poldi. “You’re absolutely right, but I can’t help myself.”
“I know, Donna Poldina.”
“This conversation will remain between us, I assure you. Commissario Montana will not learn of it. It’s just that I feel I owe it to Giuliana to find her murderer. I notice you also call her by her first name. Were you on close terms?”
The mago looked Poldi in the eye. “She was my sister, Donna Poldina.”
8
Tells of traditions, patriotism and algae. Poldi learns something about Madame Sahara’s career plans and feels she’s being manipulated. She gets an idea for a short cut, meets an unexpected admirer, is forced to abandon a pet theory and feels she’s being manipulated again. And then, fanned by the first cool breeze for weeks, she encounters an alga and makes a disturbing discovery.
“Our parents and grandparents were fortune-tellers too,” the mago began. “The profession was passed on down the generations. To us it was a profession like any other. You’d be surprised how much training it requires. Giuliana wasn’t as gifted as me, but she had other talents. She was good at business. She was also glamorous. People liked her, felt attracted, appreciated and loved by her. The natural warmth and strength she radiated were infectious, so it didn’t matter when her predictions went astray. Many people can discern the past and present, you know. It’s seeing the future that’s the challenge, but people paid to enjoy Giuliana’s company for a while—to recharge their batteries. Can you understand that?”
“I think I understand perfectly, Maestro.”
Rampulla sighed. “Politicians, businessmen, sportsmen, Mafiosi—they all flocked to Giuliana. She loved the influence she wielded, but she wanted more. She wanted to get right to the top.”
“Meaning?”
“Television. Her own show, that was her dream. She wanted to become known all over Italy.”
Poldi pricked up her ears. “Did she receive any firm offers?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t discuss it with me, and she wanted to produce the whole thing herself. Knowing her as I do—did, I mean—I’m sure it would have been a success. Financing was the only problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Italian banks have been very reluctant to extend credit ever since the euro crisis, especially for a TV show. Even Giuliana got nowhere, so she had to pre-finance it all herself.”
“Did she have the money?”
The mago regarded her sadly. “I can’t answer that, Donna Poldina. I only know she was afraid of something. Very afraid.”
Poldi frowned. “It’s easy to say that after the event, Maestro. I suspect this is the part of the conversation where the witness tries to lure the brilliant female detective in a particular direction, don’t you?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m only telling you what I saw, and I saw the grey specks in her aura. Giuliana was scared, I know it. I wanted to ask her about it, but a petty-minded feeling of schadenfreude held me back. The thought torments me now. I might have been able to help her. She might still be alive.” The mago took a used tissue from his jacket and clamped it to his eyes.
Poldi wondered whether to interpret this as crocodile tears, but the clairvoyant’s distress seemed genuine, and she knew a thing or two about distress and crocodile tears.
“So you really believe you would recognise Giuliana’s murderer by his aura?”
“I didn’t say that. I can recognise a murderer by his aura, but I couldn’t tell if he’d killed Giuliana.”
Poldi gave him a broad smile. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be back in no time.”
Taking her mobile from her pocket, she went out onto the veranda and made a phone call.
I can picture her from Rampulla’s viewpoint as she murmured something into her phone, sweet as sugar, while her aura blazed in all the colours of the rainbow. The mago should have been warned—he should have suspected what Poldi had in mind.
For, dogged Bavarian that she was, she wanted to work her way down her list in double-quick time and pursue her favourite suspect. She was also partly motivated, of course, by a wish to impress Montana with a sure-fire solution to the case, and although she still couldn’t be absolutely sure the mago wasn’t taking her for one hell of a ride, the aura business seemed at least worth a try. After all, my Auntie Poldi knew a thing or two about unconventional ways of solving problems.
“Would you care to come and have a coffee with me?” she asked Rampulla after finishing her phone call.
The mago hesitated, possibly uncertain of my aunt’s intentions—and no wonder.
“I’ll happily stand you a gelato as well,” she added. “Or two. Oh, don’t look so scared, I’m not going to eat you! I simply want your help in identifying a murderer.”
And who could have said no to that?
Half an hour later she was with Mago Rampulla at the Cipriani, her favourite café bar in Acireale. Not only did it sell the best pistachio ice cream in the world, but it was situated immediately opposite the church of San Sebastiano, patron saint of gays and my aunt’s favourite too, because he agonised so fetchingly under a shower of arrows fired at him by Diocletian’s Numidian archers. Poldi had always considered it a virtue to preserve one’s charm—indeed, to look even more seductive—when suffering.
She was not, in fact, sharing a table with Rampulla but sitting outside on her own, clearly visible, while the mago had been instructed to twiddle his thumbs inside the café, where he would have a good view of the auras of my Auntie Poldi and her date.
Her date turned up punctually, wearing jeans and the sort of salmon-pink polo shirt that looks good only on well-tanned Sicilians. The rest of his outfit consisted of white sneakers without socks and the trendy sunglasses without which no Italian male in his right mind would ever sally forth, and which he didn’t remove until he spotted my aunt. Poldi noticed for the first time quite how good-looking Russo was. Firm little tum-tum, and obviously gym-toned everywhere else as well. Bright, watchful eyes, full lips. Unhurried and unsuspecting, he nodded graciously to various people as he approached on his own, unaccompanied by Hans and Franz. He was a man afraid of nothing and no one, not even my Auntie Poldi.
A king mingling with his subjects.
A boss.
Without more ado, he sat down at Poldi’s table and plonked his sunglasses down between them like Hernán Cortés planting the Spanish flag in Mexican soil—or so
I imagine.
“What a surprise, Donna Poldina.”
“Nice of you to spare me some time at such short notice, Signor Russo,” said Poldi, looking him in the eye. “I know you’re a very busy man.”
“But a man above all else,” Russo replied without taking his eyes off her for an instant. “An inquisitive man. A man who could never deny a beautiful woman.”
Poldi scraped the last of the sugar from her espresso cup and licked the spoon. “Now you’re embarrassing me.”
Which was true in a way, because she hadn’t expected him to switch to flirtation mode so quickly, though his glances at the vineyard that afternoon had already conveyed something of the kind.
Russo ordered a coffee and a granita di limone, then gazed at Poldi intently.
She felt herself blush and had to pull herself together. She wasn’t there to flirt, after all. Far from it.
“Where did you get my mobile number?”
“Valérie was kind enough to give it to me.”
Russo nodded. He was looking totally relaxed.
“And how can I help you?”
“Perhaps by telling me who killed Madame Sahara.”
Russo didn’t turn a hair. “Come now, Donna Poldina, you can do better than that. Let’s start again. How can I help you?”
Touché.
Poldi composed herself. “That afternoon at the vineyard,” she began again, “Madame Sahara read my hand. But I was less impressed by what she told me about my future than by her aura. I took to her at once, and I can’t understand why such a wonderful person had to die. I want to find her murderer.”
The coffee and the granita came.
Russo sugared his espresso, taking his time over it. “That’s better,” he said. “Giuliana was a wonderful woman. I don’t know why she had to die—I don’t have the slightest idea, but I think it’s the job of the police to find that out, not yours or mine.”
“Is that a threat? If I don’t back off, will you have me torn limb from limb by those dogs of yours?”
“You’ve got the wrong idea, Donna Poldina. Hans and Franz love you! Their behaviour is a way of expressing pure affection. Stay out of it, I really mean that. Whoever killed Giuliana will kill you too if you happen to pick up his trail.”
“That sounds as if you know who the murderer is,” Poldi said softly, leaning forward to display a little more cleavage. “Don’t you think?”
Russo pursed his lips and took a spoonful of granita. Very symbolic, thought Poldi. It looked as if he needed to cool down. Deciding to go in for the kill, she took her coffee spoon and helped herself to some of Russo’s sorbet. He raised no objection.
“I’m worried about you, Poldi, that’s all. I may call you Poldi, mayn’t I?”
“If you think I’m in danger, then you don’t think Achille Avola killed Giuliana?”
Russo drew a deep breath. “I went to school with Achille. We . . . oh, never mind. No, it certainly wasn’t Achille.”
“So why has he confessed?”
“Ask him that, not me.”
“But I’m asking you now.”
“Perhaps you should ask his brother.”
“Why? What would he tell me?”
Russo spread his hands as if what he was about to say was common knowledge. “Perhaps he’d tell you about the kidney he donated to his twin brother.”
Poldi caught on. “Are you implying that his brother killed Giuliana, and Achille covered for him out of gratitude for the kidney that saved his life?”
“I’m not implying anything. I only know that Achille would never commit murder. I know him. Besides, he had no motive.”
“But his brother did?”
“As I said, ask him yourself.”
These vague allusions were beginning to get on Poldi’s nerves, and she wondered what Russo was playing at. Then it occurred to her that she herself was playing a game with him, because the mago was still sitting inside, consuming one gelato after another and examining Russo’s aura.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Poldi said hurriedly, and she swept off into the café.
As instructed, Rampulla was seated at a small bistro table near the entrance, busy with his third gelato. He wasn’t looking particularly happy.
“I don’t have much time,” Poldi told him. “How’s it looking?”
The mago shook his head. “His aura has a few grey specks, it’s true, but in other respects it’s green on the inside and a fiery red on the outside. It’s the aura of a man who doesn’t balk at getting his hands dirty if he has to. But a murderer? No, that he isn’t.”
Poldi couldn’t disguise a certain feeling of disappointment. “Are you quite sure? I mean—”
“Donna Poldina, you asked me to do you this favour, and I’ve done it. If you’ve no objection, I’d like to go home now and grieve for my sister.” The mago rose and handed Poldi his chits. “Take good care of yourself, Donna Poldina.”
“No hard feelings,” Poldi said with a sigh, “and thanks all the same.”
Rampulla hesitated. Evidently there was something on his mind.
“May I ask you something, Donna Poldina?”
“Of course.”
“Find Giuliana’s murderer. Sensing a murderer’s aura is extremely taxing, but I’ll gladly help you if I can. Giuliana and I had a difficult relationship, even as children. I was always the fat little brother everyone was ashamed of. But she was my sister, wasn’t she? I . . . well, there it is.”
Poldi felt touched. “I’ll do my best, Maestro,” she promised, “and I shall take you up on your kind offer. Many thanks.”
Mago Rampulla smiled sadly. Before he finally took his leave, a figure in a suit as grubby as his own aura may have been, he turned once more. “Incidentally, Russo’s aura becomes more intense in your vicinity, Donna Poldina. It becomes positively incandescent, which usually means—”
“Yes, yes, thank you,” my aunt said hastily. “I can imagine, but my life is more than complicated enough already.”
Having waited for him to leave the café, she paid his bill, ordered herself a Prosecco and knocked it back. Then, composed and refreshed, she rejoined Russo, who was just tapping out a text message on his phone.
“You’re looking discontented,” he said. “Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” Poldi warbled. She sat down again, but this time took care to display less cleavage. “Okay, so you don’t want to tell me anything more about the Avola brothers, I get that, but I’d still like the answer to one question.” She paused for effect. Russo looked attentive but not apprehensive. “Why are you interested in the vineyard?”
“Am I?”
“Come off it, Signor Russo, I—”
“Italo. Call me Italo, Donna Poldina.”
“Oh sure, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I have dinner with you tonight and we wind up in the sack, is that what you’re thinking?”
My Auntie Poldi was never one to beat about the bush, but Russo did not seem at all disconcerted.
“Stop grinning!” she told him. “Okay, why are you interested in the property?”
Russo turned serious. Her rebuff seemed to bounce off him. “Because I want to buy it. We were supposed to sign the contract that evening, but Achille backed out at the last moment.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Why would you want to buy a vineyard, anyway? It must be less than ten hectares and it’s miles away from your tree nursery.”
“It’s not about the wine. Achille could go on making his wine there. I’m interested in something far more valuable—something that lies beneath that extinct crater.”
He looked at Poldi as if the answer were obvious, but she was stumped.
“Er, what would that be?”
“Water, Donna Poldina. It so happens that that old secondary crater sits on top of one of the biggest natural reservoirs in the whole region.”
“I see,” said my aunt. �
��And of course, you need water for growing your palm trees. A lot of water.”
Russo brushed this aside. “I’ve enough water already. People always behave as if Sicily is a desert, but look around you. Does this look like a desert? Everything remains green and luxuriant, even in summer. In the ancient world we were Europe’s granary. Sicily abounds in lakes and springs. Distribution and access are the problem. The Arabs had a sophisticated irrigation system, but their know-how got lost like so many other things.”
“Don’t make me weep,” Poldi said sarcastically. “Why should you need to buy a mountain full of water if you don’t need it?”
“Ah, now we’re coming to the crux of the matter. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me about Etnarosso all this time, Donna Poldina.”
She stared at him with her mouth open. “Well, blow me down with a feather. How did you . . . ?”
Russo relished her surprise. “It doesn’t matter. You see, for me the purchase would have been just another write-off. I could have helped my old school friend Achille out of a financial fix when he invested in the new winery, and I wanted to prevent someone else from buying the vineyard. Someone who wouldn’t treat a vital resource as responsibly as I, who was born here and loves his native land. Someone descending on Sicily like a biblical plague of locusts.”
“The Mafia.”
Russo burst out laughing. “Donna Poldina! The Cosa Nostra is a Sicilian infection we’ll never manage to cure, but which will never be the end of us. Ours is a symbiotic relationship between host and parasite. No, the people I’m talking about are vampires. If we let them, they’ll suck this country dry and leave behind a withered husk.”
Auntie Poldi and the Vineyards of Etna Page 14
