Auntie Poldi and the Vineyards of Etna

by Mario Giordano

  And then, as ever in Sicily, everything—sweet and sour, salty and bitter—combined to form a whole. My Auntie Poldi regained her Sicilian attitude to life.

  Members of the audience began to complain, urging her to shut up and stop obstructing their view of the stage.

  “Please, signori, there are still plenty of seats,” an usher said soothingly, indicating the last unoccupied seats, which were in full sunlight.

  “No way, you goddam piece of shit!” Poldi swore at him in Bavarian. “I insist on having a seat in the shade or there’ll be hell to pay, understand? Fix it, you cretin, and make it snappy!”

  Yet again, the brutish German language demonstrated its drastic effect on a simple Sicilian soul.

  The usher flinched, then pointed panic-stricken to some vacant seats in dappled shade. “Those are still free, signori. Please sit down, the performance is in progress.”

  Just then they heard a bang. Down on the stage an explosive charge was detonated behind some artificial rocks, setting off a minor firework display, which the audience greeted with delighted oohs and aahs. While Poldi sullenly made her way towards the vacant seats, she caught sight of a stagehand busy behind the scenes. With a fag in the corner of his mouth and wearing a yellow high-vis vest, he hauled a cable from one side of the stage to the other while Prometheus, out front, was stealing fire from the gods. This explained the significance of the crane, because Prometheus was now hoisted into the air (away from the gods), where he continued to declaim. But the winding gear evidently jammed, causing Prometheus to dangle helplessly midway between heaven and earth. Overcome with panic, the actor gesticulated wildly at the ground. Another bang, a second explosive charge. Prometheus uttered a scream. The afternoon air suddenly smelt of burning, and Poldi saw little specks of ash swirling overhead. And this typically Sicilian mélange of drama, misadventure, amateurishness, showmanship and chaos was enough to make her laugh for the first time in many days.

  Her shoulders shook as the laughter burst from her like a cork from a champagne bottle. Mirthfully shaking her head, she watched Prometheus being lowered to the ground. And when she, Aunt Teresa and Uncle Martino had finally taken their new seats and the remainder of the day was promising to be quite enjoyable, Poldi spotted a familiar figure sitting four rows in front of her.

  Achille Avola.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  He was nuzzling Alessia.

  Poldi had met Alessia only twice, once with Montana at the Lido Galatea and again in the corridor of police headquarters in Acireale, but she recognised her right away, just as she recognised the wine grower. Of course, it might have been his twin brother Carmelo, but somehow Poldi had no doubt that the man was Achille. And he was canoodling in public with the woman Montana planned to marry.

  “What do you say to that?” Poldi asked me at this point.

  “Disgusting, I call it. What did you do?”

  “You mean, did I wait till the end of the performance and then catch them in flagrante? Did I make a big scene? No, that’s not my style. I told Teresa I wasn’t feeling well and the three of us just drove home.”

  I thought for a moment. “How did it make you feel, seeing them canoodling like that?”

  “Sad.”

  “Not even a little triumphant? I mean . . .”

  “That only goes to show, yet again, that you don’t have a clue how complicated love can be. Why should anyone feel triumphant, having to watch someone making a cuckold of the person they love? I didn’t want to get Vito back that way—as a broken man, so to speak. I would never have let on to him about Achille and Alessia.”

  “And they were sitting three rows in front of you, purely by chance?”

  “Four, but that’s just the way it was.”

  “And you really kept it to yourself?”

  “You always ask the wrong questions.”

  “Oh?”

  “Doesn’t it surprise you that Achille was with Alessia, of all people?”

  “Yes, it does rather.”

  “Then you must ask yourself what their connection was. It’s always about the same thing in love and criminology: connections. Remember that.”

  “And what was the connection in this case?”

  “Patience. Then came the Wednesday.”

  On Wednesdays my Auntie Poldi always drove to Taormina, to the Babilonia Language School run by Michele, a friend of my cousin Ciro’s. I don’t know why; Poldi spoke fluent Italian. It was so good, in fact, that her Bavarian accent misled Sicilians into thinking she came from Milan, which to them was almost in Sweden. But Poldi was a woman full of contradictions. Casual and negligent though she was in many spheres of life, and however chaotic and easy-going she could be, where languages were concerned she strove for perfection.

  On the other hand, it might have been because of Michele’s attractive teaching staff. Gianfranco, for example, had been a 400-metre freestyle national champion and possessed a Michelangelesque face as well as a perfect body, and Poldi once told me that no woman in her right mind had ever dropped out of a one-to-one course with Gianfranco.

  Quite apart from that, however, the Babilonia is one of the best language schools in Italy. It occupies an excellent site beyond the Porta Messina and beside the Greek theatre. The teachers are competent, the classrooms welcoming and air-conditioned, and for intermissions there’s a wonderful, shady inner courtyard, great for improving one’s vocabulary and flirting. What more could anyone want?

  Anyway, it was in the said courtyard at lunchtime on the said Wednesday that Poldi, after her one-to-one lesson with Gianfranco, encountered an old friend from her Munich days.

  “No, don’t tell me!” I broke in when she drew a deep breath in readiness to unveil her big surprise. I already sensed what sort of “old friend” Poldi was going to come up with, and I wasn’t going to let her get away with it this time.

  “Stop behaving as if I’m an open book. If you never let a girl have her say, you can kiss goodbye any nookie later on, so bear that in mind. No matter how good you are with your tongue, the preliminary phase of foreplay depends on three things: listening, listening, listening. A few convincing nods and interested questions don’t do any harm either, understand?”

  “Drop it, Poldi. I just don’t believe you.”

  “Why, what have I said?”

  “Just skip it, okay? Skip it and get on with the story of your investigation. We’ve reached the third act. It’s heading for a brilliant dénouement.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a playwright, are you? Don’t be such a bighead, Mr. Would-be Novelist. Listen to your aunt. As my nephew, you owe me some respect, you hear?”

  “Forza Poldi!” I said with a sigh. “Let me guess: Madonna was sitting in the courtyard, swotting up on her passato remoto.”

  “Stuff your sarcasm, laddie. Of course it wasn’t Madonna—Madonna knows Italian from her background. No, it was Cher.” A pause for effect, to allow the name to sink in.

  “I know who Cher is, but I don’t believe you. Not in the courtyard of the Babilonia.”

  Poldi was unmoved. “She’s a very dear friend of mine,” she went on. “Such a nice person. After her concert in Munich she had a nervous breakdown in the P1 Club, so Peppe and I put her up at Westermühlstrasse. She stayed with us for a week, did Cher. Hardly ever left the house, just wept. We chewed the fat all day long, the two of us. She loved Bavarian sausage, and we spent the time boozing and having a laugh. Happy days! Needless to say, the paparazzi found out and were lurking outside the door, but I got hold of Georgie, who was the chief gossip columnist of the Abendzeitung. ‘Georgie,’ I told him, ‘give Cher a break or there’ll be trouble.’ Well, Georgie knew where to draw the line. He’d always been keen on me, and he didn’t want me to think less of him. Smart guy, Georgie. Good in bed but dead now, worse luck. Drugs.”

  Poldi was once more wearing the faraway expression she always adopted when indulging in sentimental memories of happier days. It was reminiscent of the sky a
bove the Ammersee on a November afternoon, just before the first snowfall.

  “Where did I get to?”

  “Babilonia, courtyard, Cher.”

  “Exactly! Cher was waiting for her new lover, my teacher Gianfranco. As soon as she saw me she jumped to her feet. “Darling!” she cried and flung her arms round me. Thanks to her, like it or not, I was back on the case again soon afterwards.”

  “Listen, darling,” I said, “this really is a bit too much like Inspector Chance. Ding-dong, hello, hokum alert! Who’s going to believe all this?”

  “Nobody has to believe me, just you. It all depends if you’re talented enough to put it across believably.”

  “Not for the first time, Poldi, forget it. You’re not going to make me the chronicler of your Münchhausen stories. My aim is to write proper literature, not pulp fiction, capisci?”

  All right, I’ll put it down on paper the way my Auntie Poldi told it to me, disclaiming liability for any pulp-fiction allergies. On the other hand, Poldi wasn’t a person who lied at the drop of a hat. She wore her heart on her tongue and usually found lying far too stressful, because she could never remember what she’d told to whom. I’ve never checked whether all those celebs genuinely were friends of hers, nor do I care in the least. There simply are people who can stretch time, space and the truth to suit themselves. People with the talent to open up vistas for you. People who make you feel light and airy in their presence, and you can only be grateful for it. Angelic people. Namaste, Poldi! Forza Poldi!

  Besides, Taormina is a magical place in which the most unusual encounters can occur. Picturesquely perched on the flanks of Monte Tauro, the little town overlooks the Bay of Naxos and the Gulf of Catania, and has thus been strategically valuable to conquerors since ancient times.

  Taormina is famous for its Teatro Greco, which is really a Roman building erected on the foundations of a Greek theatre. A gap in the middle of the stage affords a splendid view of Etna, whose impressive eruptions occasionally upstage the actors and steal the show.

  The town enjoyed a brief heyday in the Middle Ages, after which it gradually went downhill until, in the eighteenth century, it was just a poverty-stricken fishing village. Taormina was visited by Goethe, who described how enchanting he found it in his Italian Journey, which became the most important generator of modern Italian tourism. Several decades later, English aristocrats discovered the town, made it their winter quarters and developed it into the jewel it is today. At the end of the nineteenth century, attracted by its mild climate, the tubercular photographer Wilhelm von Gloeden settled in Taormina, where he photographed half-naked young fishermen in suggestive poses. This, in turn, attracted painters and writers like Oscar Wilde, Thomas Mann and D. H. Lawrence, who needed a respite from the wintry weather and prudery of their native lands and may also have . . . well, consorted with Gloeden’s young fishermen. At all events, Taormina is still a favourite destination of the international gay community, which always makes such places blossom into miniature paradises. Anyone who needs convincing of this should visit the Bar dei Cazzi up in Castelmola.

  Taormina also holds a film festival that has been attracting international stars since the 1950s, so it’s quite possible that Cher, wearing a black tunic, hat and big sunglasses, really was waiting for her young lover in the Babilonia’s inner courtyard.

  She was simply sitting there—no bodyguard—in a basket chair in the shade of an almond tree, reading a screenplay given her by Gianfranco, who wanted more out of life than being a teacher and an object of desire. Cher had already posed for some selfies and was enjoying the peace and quiet, but that went out the window once she sighted Poldi. The star leapt to her feet, dashed over to my aunt and hugged her as if she’d just saved her life—which Poldi and Peppe may actually have done thirty years earlier.

  There ensued a whirlwind of hugs, kisses and reciprocal compliments on each other’s fit and youthful appearance. Dismay at the news of charming Peppe’s death almost ten years before, sentimental memories of that magical week in Munich, pleasure at the news of Poldi’s new life as a detective in Sicily, and swift updates on their current love lives.

  “What do you think of Gianfranco?”

  “Hot,” Poldi said. “A simple soul, but definitely hot.”

  “I know, he’s too young. And a lousy screenwriter. On the other hand, he does have . . . well, you know, certain other talents. Do you still have a thing for traffic cops?”

  “I also go for detective chief inspectors these days.”

  “Omigod, that sounds great! What are Sicilian detective chief inspectors like?”

  “In a word, volcanic.”

  “Omigod, introduce me to one, Poldi. I could use a Sicilian policeman!” In high delight, Cher took my Auntie Poldi by the arm and towed her out of the courtyard. “I must introduce you to someone. A real cop, the hard-bitten kind, you’ll like him. I met him yesterday in the hotel bar. He’s just what you need right now.”

  Brooking no dissent, and without waiting any longer for the talented Gianfranco, Cher led my aunt out into the Via Teatro Greco and set off in the direction of the ancient theatre. Seemingly untroubled by the fact that the tourists and strollers on the Corso gawped at her and instinctively whipped out their mobile phones, she shepherded Poldi to the entrance of the Grand Hotel Timeo, where the rich and beautiful sojourned, where the waiters were snooty and the prices exorbitant, and where Poldi used to sip the occasional limoncello.

  Just as they reached the handsome wrought-iron gateway leading to the hotel garden, Poldi saw a familiar face outside on the terrace. The man was sitting by himself in the shade of a sun umbrella, but she recognised him at once. He looked just as he had the last time she saw him: jeans, polo shirt, baseball cap, buzz cut.

  Sean Torso.

  Poldi stopped dead and yanked her friend back into a space between the gate and the wall of the hotel, hoping that Torso hadn’t spotted her. The shock of seeing him was mingled with something else—something that came back to her from far away and filled her with renewed oomph: the thrill of the chase.

  And something else came back to her as well: a recollection of what she had grasped when looking at her corkboard during her near-death experience.

  That the curious names on the slip of paper were all anagrams.

  Anagrams of “Etnarosso.”

  Just like Sean Torso.

  Sean Torso, the Hedgehog.

  “What was it? What did you see?” demanded Cher, who, according to my Auntie Poldi, had believed in paranormal phenomena ever since her nervous breakdown in Munich.

  “That man in the baseball cap—is he the cop you wanted to introduce me to?”

  “Yes, his name is—”

  “Sean Torso, I know.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you’re sure he’s a cop?”

  “Darling, I know a cop when I see one, and that guy’s a hundred and twenty per cent cop. He plays the oddball dowser, but he wears a graduation ring from the FBI Academy in Quantico.”

  “Oh.” Poldi hadn’t noticed that the last time. “Not bad.”

  Cher smiled at her. “What now, darling? Are we going to stand here whispering till the last tourist has finished snapping us?”

  She wasn’t far from the mark. A small knot of people had already gathered, and Poldi saw another problem approaching from the other side of the Corso: Italo Russo and Mago Rampulla.

  They were heading straight for the hotel, deep in animated conversation like two men discussing some important business venture. Poldi had no time even to fulminate about Rampulla’s audacity; they would spot her in a few moments. She had to act.

  “Go in and speak to Torso,” she told Cher quickly. “Mwah-mwah, small talk, then go up to your room. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay, chief. Great, some action at last. What’ll you be doing meanwhile?”

  “Watching, darling.”

  Poldi now tried to keep an eye on two things at once: her pal Cher plus Russ
o and Rampulla, who were coming steadily nearer and would undoubtedly blow her cover in the next few seconds. She urgently needed some camouflage.

  As soon as that word whizzed through her mind she realised what she had to do. She reached in her handbag and produced the oldest of all detective’s camouflage: a new, still unread edition of La Sicilia. Open it in one swift movement (crack!), hold it in front of her face (ecco là!), and Poldi was virtually invisible.

  “Oh yeah?” was my only comment when she told me about it.

  “Sex and criminology, the same rule applies: when in doubt, always fall back on tried and tested tricks. Then you can’t go wrong and you’ll stay the course.”

  And my Auntie Poldi knew a thing or two about staying the course.

  Her camouflage appeared to be working. Like the Doppler effect of a police siren, she heard from behind her newspaper how the voices of Russo and Rampulla, who were talking animatedly in Sicilian, first approached in the lower-frequency range and then receded in the higher-frequency range. No sign that she’d been spotted.

  For safety’s sake, Poldi continued to hold La Sicilia in front of her face for a few more moments, not least because her eye had just lighted on an interesting article about the recently discovered reservoir at Caltagirone. It seemed that a number of suspects had been arrested, but the men behind the scenes were still on the wanted list. Poldi was surprised to see a photo of the nervous young drunk from the vineyard. The caption beneath it read: “Dott. Enzo Rapisarda, press officer of M5S, Catania Province.”

  Well, well, so neurotic . . . a dottore, thought Poldi. However, that means as little in Italy as it does in Austria, where everyone is either a Herr Doktor or a Herr Baron. Any Italian who has graduated from high school is often addressed as dottore, or at least as ragioniere, which really means “accountant” but always passes for a polite form of address.

  Dottore or not, Enzo looked quite as cracked and fanatical in the photo as Poldi remembered. In his capacity as spokesman of the Five Star Movement, he commented on the affair as follows: “This business is a disgrace to the whole of Sicily. The Mafia and our decadent political elite have robbed us Sicilians of our water. It is clear that we must seek out the persons behind this in government, judiciary and civil service, but I strongly doubt we shall ever see anyone arrested. This country is going to the dogs and needs radical reform, but as long as corrupt officials connive at devouring our beloved Sicily like a Christmas panettone in company with the Mafia, the multinationals, the EU and, above all, Germany, this should not surprise us.”