“You mean there are several such cases?”
“You can bet on it, Donna Poldina. This particular scandal came out only because one or two journalists asked awkward questions and took some aerial photographs.”
“But I still don’t understand . . . Surely a whole lake can’t disappear from the memory of the local inhabitants, just like that?”
“This is Sicily, Donna Poldina. We invented fatalism. Of course they remember the lake. They still have a clear recollection of the days when they didn’t have to pay anything for the water they drink and use for showering and cooking and irrigating their fields. But they shrug their shoulders, they’re scared, and there’s some cousin, brother-in-law or acquaintance in the local administration who may not belong there because he’s an unqualified moron, but who does one the occasional favour. Everybody knows how the system works. We Sicilians breathe an age-old aerosol of fear and nepotism. It poisons us and keeps us alive at the same time.”
“Omertà,” said Poldi.
“No comment, Donna Poldina. I’ve already said too much.”
“And how do the Sicilians put up with it all?” my Auntie Poldi asked me suddenly, halfway through her report.
She caught me completely on the wrong foot again.
“Er . . .”
I’m not too good at tests. It isn’t that I suffer from examinitis or anything like that, but I’d sooner do a job in which one is never tested or criticised in any way. Like writing novels or something of the kind.
But as usual, my Auntie Poldi didn’t expect me to answer anyway.
“By using the passato remoto,” she explained. “If you ever want to really understand Sicily, you must supplement that miserable Italian of yours with the passato remoto.”
“My Italian is quite adequate for everyday purposes,” I objected.
“Nonsense. In Milan, maybe, but not here in the south. Without the passato remoto you’ll never understand a thing about sicilianità.”
I think I already mentioned that the Italian passato remoto is the historic perfect, a past tense separate from the normal passato prossimo, which luckily doesn’t exist in German. The passato remoto is used to express actions that are far in the past and, above all, finished and done with, and it’s an utter swine of a tense for language students to learn because of its irregular formation. The verb is scarcely recognisable, it harks back so far—to the Bronze Age at least. In other words, for Sicilians, yesterday.
One generally comes across the passato remoto in literary texts, which is bad enough. It almost never occurs in everyday parlance—as long as one remains north of Naples. The farther south one goes, however, the more stubbornly it obtrudes into everyday speech, above all in Sicily. Even the humblest mandarin picker expresses past actions exclusively by means of the passato remoto. This, my Uncle Martino told me once, is because of Sicily’s centuries-long occupation by conquerors of all kinds. Phoenicians, Romans, Greeks, Arabs, Normans, Hohenstaufens, Spaniards, Bourbons, English, Americans, German deliziosi—the list is a long one. In a country being constantly plundered by someone or other, the past is better regarded as over and done with, even the day after.
“By using the passato remoto,” Poldi explained, “Sicilians convey that they live in the here and now, just like me. There’s also a connection between the passato remoto and baroque Sicilian sexuality. The passato remoto is the grammar of Sicilian eroticism, so to speak. Forget about kundalini yoga and tantric sex.”
“You can’t be serious, Poldi.”
“I most certainly am. People who live in the here and now, like the Sicilians, are better equipped to let go and focus all their energy on a single moment of ecstasy—switch off their brains, know what I mean? A bit of passato remoto would benefit your own love life. Then you wouldn’t keep quarrelling with Sicily.”
“Just a minute. When do I do that?”
“Why, all the time. Even when you order a coffee, you spend five minutes beforehand thinking how to say it, for fear of making a brutta figura of yourself. You’re always complaining of the chaos and the dirt, not to mention your stress level when driving a car or your tantrums when you’ve lost your way again, thanks to your lousy sense of direction.”
“In the first place, my sense of direction is fine, and second, the road signs are an absolute disaster.”
“Wrong. Your lousy bump of direction is a family failing—Peppe always confused left and right. You’re all deficient in that respect. Now . . . where did we get to?”
“Omertà, fatalism, disappearing lakes,” I prompted.
“And you think, Padre, that this lake has some connection with Etnarosso?” asked Signora Cocuzza.
“It’s obvious, signora. Elisa Puglisi of the district attorney’s office in Catania was investigating the water Mafia and dealt with this case. And that concern Oceanica appeared on the scene at almost the same time. You really think that could be purely coincidental, Donna Poldina?”
Poldi wasn’t sure.
“We shall see. Perhaps everything will turn out to be far simpler than we imagine. Many thanks, Padre.”
Every inch the boss.
Padre Paolo reacted with a mixture of bewilderment and pique—this was still his sacristy, after all—but when Poldi went on to describe her meeting with Russo, her acquaintanceship with a Butoh dancer and her subsequent flash of inspiration, he was all ears.
“Madonna,” whispered Signora Cocuzza. “What interesting experiences you always have, Donna Poldina. How on earth do you manage it?”
Poldi said nothing, just waited.
The silent sacristy was pervaded by the mingled scents of cigarette smoke, coffee and incense. Padre Paolo puffed away. Signora Cocuzza nibbled an almond biscuit.
“What if the murderer himself has gone back in the meantime and found what he was looking for?” she asked between nibbles.
“That’d be plain bad luck.”
“Well, well,” said the padre. And again, just in case he hadn’t been heard the first time, “Well, well.”
“I shall go back to Madame Sahara’s house on my own,” Poldi said firmly. “I can’t drag you two into it.”
“That would be very unfair of you,” said the sad signora.
“More than that,” added the padre, “it would be rather foolish and doomed to failure. A thing like this calls for teamwork, planning, know-how. All the cogs must mesh.” He demonstrated with the fingers of both hands. “Or don’t you agree, signora?”
“I’m with you a hundred per cent, Padre,” replied the sad signora, and her usually pale, sorrowful face flushed a little. “Unless you want to keep the whole adventure to yourself, Donna Poldina?”
Poldi sighed. She was surprised that neither of them had suggested calling in Montana, and that could mean only one thing: they’d been carried away by the thrill of the chase.
“Do you two comedians realise that we could all wind up in jail? And you, Padre, would be excommunicated into the bargain.”
“He’d get a suspended sentence at most,” said Signora Cocuzza.
The padre made a dismissive gesture. “The route to excommunication is longer than purgatory. Besides, this operation would surely meet with divine approval.”
He did not, however, explain what made him so certain of this. Poldi could have used a beer at this stage. As if he had read her thoughts, Padre Paolo fetched an opened bottle of altar wine from a refrigerator under the wash-basin and filled three tumblers.
“To the truth, ladies, and the fruit of the Lord!”
The padre and Poldi drained their glasses. Signora Cocuzza only sipped hers.
“Very well,” Poldi said a little more firmly. “But there’s a problem.”
“No, there isn’t,” said the padre, as if he had once more read her thoughts, and he rummaged in a drawer. “I’ve everything we need.”
They sat outside Madame Sahara’s house in the Alfa and waited until it was completely dark. Poldi decreed that Signora Cocuzza should again ke
ep watch, which led to a minor altercation. Poldi ended it with a resolute “Basta! Risking your life once is enough!” Which led in turn to a brief drop in temperature inside the car.
Under cover of darkness, Poldi and the padre stole up to the front door. The priest’s professional attire acted as camouflage in any case, but Poldi had squeezed into a pair of black stretch pants and a black roll-neck sweater. Although this outfit looked pretty cool and reminiscent of a sixties film noir, the prevailing temperature brought on one bout of sweating after another. Poldi was on the verge of heatstroke, but she gritted her teeth. Listening intently for any sounds inside the house, she gave Signora Cocuzza a whispered situation report on her mobile.
“Right outside the door. All quiet.”
“Roger.” The signora pronounced it with a rolling Italian r. “Same here.”
“Please could you not say ‘Roger’? This isn’t Mission Impossible.”
“But I’ve always wanted an opportunity to say ‘Roger,’ Donna Poldina. If I can’t go inside with you, I can at least say what I want.”
“Okay, suit yourself.”
“Roger. Stand by.”
“No, not ‘Stand by,’ my dear. ‘Roger’ if you must, but not ‘Stand by,’ can we agree on that?”
“Roger. Copy that.”
It dawned on Poldi that Signora Cocuzza was only just getting into her stride.
The police seal on the front door was undamaged. A strip of adhesive tape, it was stuck over the lock and the door frame. A good sign on the one hand, but a problem on the other, because Poldi wanted to leave no traces behind. She had originally planned to break into the house via the first-floor windows, but the padre had a better solution. With a flourish, he produced a small, battery-driven hair dryer from his shoulder bag and directed a jet of warm air at the adhesive tape.
“Can’t you be a bit quieter?” Poldi hissed nervously.
“It won’t take long.”
Sure enough, after a few moments’ exposure to warm air the adhesive tape could be removed intact.
“Phase two,” said the padre. He reached into his bag and produced a set of skeleton keys he’d removed from a drawer in the sacristy a few hours earlier. These, he’d nonchalantly explained, had been left behind by the thieves who burgled his church last year.
Poldi had refrained from pressing him on the subject, because she respected the fact that everyone had their own little secrets. The padre certainly had his, because he knew not only how to remove a crime scene tape undamaged, but also how to pick a lock with a skeleton key in a matter of seconds.
“Ecco!” He happily stole into the house like a cat.
Poldi followed him inside, closed the door and turned on her flashlight.
“Where shall we start?” the padre whispered.
“You upstairs, me down here.”
“Roger.”
“I’m warning you, Padre!”
With the beam of her flashlight directed at the floor and absolutely no idea where to look, my Auntie Poldi picked her way through the chaotic clutter, which looked even worse and more depressing than it had in daylight. Doubtful that she would really find anything there, she strove to concentrate on untouched, somehow forgotten places.
Inconspicuous places.
Places that weren’t immediately noticeable.
Places where she herself might have hidden something of value.
Which was why she found it. It wasn’t difficult; she spotted it as soon as they entered Madame Sahara’s studio, the room containing the rococo chaise longue. Moonlight illuminated its hiding place, so it positively sprang to the eye. The main reason, however, was that at that moment Poldi heard the hoarse cry of a bird of prey and then had a bright idea in the form of a chain association: bird of prey–buzzard–papa–coin collection. It should be explained that Detective Chief Inspector (ret.) Georg Oberreiter of the Augsburg homicide division had since the 1950s collected not only antique weapons but also gold coins from all over the world, initially as a crisis-proof investment but later because it became a passion of his. Poldi had always detested this coin collection, as she had everything to do with Augsburg and her parents’ suburban way of life. After their deaths, she had inherited the hateful little terrace house, together with the coin and weapon collections.
And she had had to find the coin collection before she could sell the house and all the trimmings. She had spent three days turning the whole place upside down in an attempt to find the damned coins, had rummaged through every drawer, upended every vase, shaken out every sock. Nothing. Not until she had eventually found the hiding place by pure chance.
“Namaste, Papa,” Poldi whispered, profoundly moved, when she grasped how everything was interrelated.
Resolutely and confidently, she went over to Madame Sahara’s old séance table and tugged the lace cloth off it, and she wasn’t surprised to find that it was a pull-out table that could be extended in both directions. It creaked a little, as though in relief, as Poldi slid the leaves apart to reveal something secreted in the central cavity.
“The operation is over,” she whispered into her mobile phone, overcome with emotion. “I’ve found it.”
“What is it?” Signora Cocuzza croaked excitedly.
“It looks like a murder motive. We’re coming out.”
“Roger, copy that. Mission completed. Roger, over and out.”
10
Tells of inspiration, the Cyclopean legacy, solidarity, and sicilianità. Poldi pays her nephew an unexpected compliment and feels she’s being followed. Examined in the sacristy, a motive for murder gives rise to some extravagant theories. Poldi suffers from withdrawal symptoms and again feels she’s being followed. She plans to pay Montana a nocturnal visit, but is prevented from doing so by an old acquaintance.
No one will be surprised to hear that I made great strides with my family saga while staying at my Auntie Poldi’s. Energised by her stories, an abundance of Polifemo, Aunt Teresa’s seafood lunches, salt air, mild November weather, caffè, pistachio ice cream, the sound of bells, stoically smoking Etna, my daydreams about Valérie and Femminamorta—in short, by the whole Sicily package—I felt more inspired and fulfilled than I had in a long time. Forgotten were all my cavilling and vacillation, gone were my self-doubt, inferiority complex and romantic heartache (the latter wisely concealed from Poldi and the other aunts). I felt good. In tune with Sicily. I could write. I was the future of the European novel.
At night I dreamt of nymphs and sirens, and of gigantic Cyclopes descending from Etna with measured tread and wading into the sea, where they turned into kelp. They strode over me—I could hear their breathing and their murmurous singsong voices, which sometimes seemed to utter my name. Yes, they were calling me, and I rose and followed them. I followed the call of my blood. I was a Cyclops. I was halfway through Chapter Three.
Great-grandfather Barnaba had by now arrived in Munich and was living with his Aunt Pasqualina, the illusionist and spy, in Westermühlstrasse. A magical new world of wonders and horrors opened up before him: Germany, the raucous German language, German food, discipline, traffic, blond girls. For weeks he could think of nothing other than his beloved Eleonora, whom he had left behind in the blazing heat of his distant homeland, where (all this seemed suddenly to write itself) she gave birth to the fruit of their volcanic passion—a boy, of course—and naturally had to conceal this from her tyrannical father (or possibly ran away? I left a tag at this point). Meantime, Barnaba was wasting away from nostalgia, frustration and an allergy to red cabbage. But young Italian males are like Etna: too much pent-up magma leads to massive eruptions. That is the only reason why the geologically youthful Mongibello is regarded as a good-natured volcano: it regularly lets off steam, does little damage and is very fertile. Like a young Sicilian, in other words. It was unsurprising, therefore, that athletic Barnaba with his olive complexion and sorrowful eyes soon gained a certain reputation among the young ladies of Munich’s Glockenbach quarter. Wheneve
r they spoke of him among themselves, they giggled dreamily and referred to him by various risqué code words.
Very few of them remembered his name.
Pasqualina, whose experience of life and love was wide, at first took an indulgent view of Barnaba’s success with the young ladies of Munich. She also took a certain pride in it, but after he had spent several weeks in athletic idleness, she visualised the whole of the Glockenbach quarter teeming with little Barnabas and could imagine a host of angry claims for child support, none of which would be conducive to her secret double life. Although she sensed that the magic talisman given him by the preternaturally beautiful siren Ilaria would temporarily protect her eruptive and overly fertile nephew from unwanted fatherhood, it was time he did some work. Consequently, she found him a job with Calogero Vizzini, an occasional lover of hers from Ragusa, who ran a greengrocer’s stall in Munich’s central market. From now on, happy to be among his own kind and surrounded by the familiar cooing of his native dialect, Barnaba toted around crates and pallets filled with oranges, lemons, artichokes and aubergines from midnight until well into the day. He unloaded wagons and loaded horse-drawn carts, swept the stall, carried out all kinds of repairs and, protected by the preternaturally beautiful siren Ilaria’s talisman, fought with Vizzini’s neighbouring stallholders and customers whenever questions arose over the exact boundaries of Vizzini’s stall or the current price of mandarins.
A thoroughly agreeable phase in his life.
At this point, satisfied with my progress, I inserted another tag (Research!!!) with the intention of opulently colouring in Barnaba’s tough years of apprenticeship at a later stage, painting a rich and vibrant picture of Munich in the 1920s and acquainting the reader with Barnaba’s inner pain and the harsh, unvarnished reality of a Sicilian migrant’s life in that period. A stark, savage, sensually baroque novel was taking shape. Passion, poverty, fatalism, hope, violence—it had everything, plenty of mandarins included. The quintessence of Sicily, in fact. I visualised my hero, who had yet to reach the age of twenty, as an unpolished lump of obsidian filled with Cyclopean strength and savagery. He spoke not a word of German and would never learn the language, he worked stripped to the waist all year round, and his muscular body was covered with scars, both inward and outward. Needs and desires, poise and purpose, contradictions and development—my hero possessed all that I’d learnt in various seminars and from books about how to create unforgettable characters. I felt I was at the zenith of my narrative potency. I loved my hero. I discovered an immense number of subconscious parallels with myself. I was Barnaba.
Auntie Poldi and the Vineyards of Etna Page 17
