Auntie Poldi and the Vineyards of Etna

by Mario Giordano

  “Ah!” I exclaimed. “So Carmelo foisted his mobile phone on Enzo, who was drunk and lives in the same building, so his mobile, too, registered an unsuspicious location for the time of the murder.”

  “And Carmelo’s wife claimed her husband had been at home all night.”

  “Pretty risky.”

  “I’ll say so. Overinflated self-esteem again. Play hare and hedgehogs all your life and you automatically think you’ll win every race. It’s a routine you never get out of.”

  “But why did Achille Avola confess?”

  “Because it was a clever move. Because his DNA, fingerprints and so on were all over the body, and he knew that he and his brother had alibis. After the murder he even laid a false trail by writing ‘Etnarosso’ on Giuliana’s palm. Very risky again, but highly successful in the end. The touching story of the brother and the donated kidney, remember? In Vito’s defence it must also be said that Sean Torso was breathing down his neck at that time, and Torso didn’t give two hoots about the murder. It took a pro like me to grasp the tie-ups in their full complexity. The Avolas knew that Madame Sahara must have left a lead in her appointments diary, but they didn’t find it. Then, when they made a second attempt to do so, I got to her house before them. They didn’t dare do anything then because the padre was there. They waited till I was alone and on my way to Montana with the diary, and then they rammed me.”

  “Wow!”

  “Got it now? Ready for the showdown?”

  “Forza Poldi!”

  My Auntie Poldi was loath to waste any more time. However, she didn’t delude herself that her evidence was really watertight. It wasn’t at all. What she needed was a genuine confession, and for that, her experience of a narcissist like Achille Avola indicated there was only one way: brutal provocation.

  Poldi was back on dangerously thin ice. It might easily go wrong—lethally wrong. She realised that she couldn’t entirely dispense with assistance.

  When it came down to it, she needed Montana.

  Since she’d deleted his phone number and didn’t know it by heart, she called police headquarters. A snooty telephone operator informed her that Commissario Montana was out somewhere, and refused to give her his mobile number. Although Poldi stated that it was a matter of life or death, the operator sounded as if she heard this every day of the week. She did, however, condescend to say she would leave a message for Montana.

  Poldi hung up, cursing, and waited for an hour. And another hour. She waited until evening, but Montana never called back, and at nightfall the thrill of the chase triumphed over common sense. It’s like that when you’re overcome by the thrill of the chase: postponing things is out, as everyone knows.

  Poldi decided to call someone else.

  Alessia.

  Yes, exactly, how did she come to have Alessia’s number? The fact was, she’d had it for some weeks, ever since yielding to a base instinct and secretly going through Montana’s messages while he was asleep. One doesn’t do things like that. Never. Ugh! Especially as what Poldi saw didn’t appeal to her in the least and robbed her of sleep. Nevertheless, she now had Alessia’s mobile number.

  Unfortunately, only her voicemail replied.

  “Per favore lasciate un messaggio dopo il beep. Vi richiamerò non appena possibile.”

  A warm, friendly voice, not snooty at all, not a bit suggestive of airs and graces. A voice that could give good advice, dispense consolation, emit full-throated laughter. The voice of a woman who might under other circumstances have been a friend. A voice that made my Auntie Poldi feel sheepish. She rang off and had to rally herself for a moment before trying again.

  “Alessia, it’s Poldi. I’m . . . well, yes, you know who I am, of course. I’m afraid I can’t reach Vito, and it’s important. It’s about the case, I mean. I’m just off to see Achille Avola at his vineyard and force him to confess. Achille Avola killed Elisa Puglisi and Madame Sahara. Please could you let Vito know. And . . . thank you.”

  That evening, when Achille Avola walked into his cottage on the slope above the vineyard, after checking his steel tanks, tasting the young wine as he did every day and gently correcting the pubescent Polifemo with copper finings, he found a visitor waiting for him.

  My Auntie Poldi was wearing full combat gear—tight black stretch pants under some tension, together with black sneakers and a tight black T-shirt—and had made herself at home in an old easy chair. Strapped to her tummy with sticking plaster beneath the T-shirt was a small recording machine, and loosely held across her lap was her father’s ancient muzzle-loader from the Fortschau factory, a 19 mm rifle with a walnut stock and a worn barrel. Deactivated, admittedly, but pretty impressive if you didn’t know that.

  “Good evening, Achille.”

  “Poldi!” The wine grower stared at my aunt and her antiquated firearm.

  He didn’t look particularly surprised, she thought. That should have made her smell a rat, but it’s always the same: once the play has begun, all you can think of is remembering your lines.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Oh, Padre Paolo showed me a trick, and your lock is old.”

  Avola shut the door behind him and came a step closer. “Listen, Poldi, it was only one night. I don’t know what you were expecting, but for me that was it, so put that gun away.”

  Poldi burst out laughing. “Oh, Achille! Don’t worry, I didn’t come here to insist on a shotgun wedding. Sit down, then we can talk.”

  “What about?”

  Poldi pointed the gun at him. “Siddown!”

  This time the wine grower complied. He sat in the nearest chair at a due distance from my aunt.

  Scrutinising the man under the dim ceiling light, she found it strange that he should ever have had such an effect on her. He bore no real resemblance to her Peppe despite his lanky build, Adam’s apple and muscular forearms. “Hey,” she thought to herself, “maybe there’s something in these pheromones after all.” In a way, she thought that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  She held up a small plastic aerosol can. “Look what I found in your bathroom: Cyclops, and there’s a little can of Maxlove as well. What do you use Cyclops for, you loser—really tough young nuts or old bags like me?”

  “I can explain everything if you put that gun away.”

  “Oh yes, you’re going to explain a few things. What it feels like to be a nobody, for instance. A failure in bed. A loser who can’t get it up any more. I may have passed out, but I know this much: you flunked it that night.”

  This more or less summarised Poldi’s interrogation tactics—provocation and sarcasm directed at the subject’s amour propre. It always scored a direct hit.

  Avola reacted according to plan. He sprang to his feet, but Poldi raised the rifle again.

  “Sit down! You used me purely as an unconscious alibi, but you must explain how you managed to seduce Elisa Puglisi. I mean, how could a classy woman like Elisa bear to do it with a failure like you? The pheromones must have flowed in torrents. Do you spike your wine with them sometimes? And what about Madame Sahara? Did you already know you were going to kill her when we met that afternoon? Had you planned it long ago, you and your brother?”

  Achille Avola had himself under control. He sat back in his chair.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Poldi.”

  “I can prove it, Achille.”

  “Really? So why are you sitting here all on your own? Why aren’t the police here?”

  “They’re on their way—be here in a minute. I didn’t want to be deprived of the pleasure of hearing it from the horse’s mouth, that’s all. So, how did you plan it, you losers?”

  And at that point everything went wrong. The interrogation crashed and the play took an unscheduled turn. Poldi should really have known better. Cue: hare and hedgehogs. Unfortunately, she didn’t notice her mistake until it was too late.

  Achille sprang to his feet and hurled himself at her—not exactly what a nobody would do, but appr
opriate to someone with a full-blown personality disorder. Poldi pointed the useless muzzle-loader at him but didn’t even have time to shout “Bang!” Simultaneously, she sensed a movement behind her and, before she could call out, Carmelo Avola jabbed a hypo into the back of her neck, just as he’d done to Signora Cocuzza at Madame Sahara’s house. Poldi hadn’t considered that possibility.

  All she had time for, before lapsing into unconsciousness, was resentment that the hedgehogs had tricked the hare once again.

  The first thing she felt when she came round was pain in her wrists and ankles. No wonder, because they were tightly bound with zip ties. The Avola brothers had also gagged her with duct tape and were toting her across the vineyard by her hands and feet.

  Not really the outcome Poldi had been planning.

  “I underestimated the dose. She’s coming to.”

  “Let her, who cares? It’ll all be over soon.”

  That didn’t sound good, thought Poldi. Far from promising, in fact. She made desperate attempts to kick and struggle, but the brothers held her too tightly.

  “Madonna, what a weight she is!”

  “We’re almost there.”

  Not being in the first flush of youth, they grunted and panted at every step.

  From her position Poldi could see little more than shadowy rows of vines and a cloudless Sicilian night sky with a waning moon at the zenith. All was silent because nearby Etna had stopped erupting, as if it were breathlessly following the course of Poldi’s destiny.

  After a while, Poldi saw where the brothers were taking her. It was a narrow shaft leading down into the mountainside, probably a bubble in a solidified stream of lava formed thousands of years ago. The Avolas dumped her on the ground in front of it and cut the zip ties. Needless to say, she instantly tried to stand up and make a run for it, but Carmelo put a knife to her throat.

  “Keep still!”

  Achille ripped the duct tape off her mouth.

  Poldi now saw that he had the muzzle-loader slung over his shoulder.

  “Scream as much as you like, no one’ll hear you up here.”

  Poldi needed no further prodding.

  “HEEELP!!! HEEELP!!!”

  Unperturbed, Achille shone a flashlight down the shaft. “This is a natural refrigerator,” he said. “It’s pretty deep. Our grandparents and great-grandparents used to store Etna snow down there so they had something to cool their drinks with in August.”

  It was chilly at an altitude of nearly a thousand metres. Poldi was trembling, but not because of that alone.

  “Now the shaft is just a hazard for the grape pickers,” Carmelo added. “People fall in and end up in hospital. It’s high time we filled it in before someone else gets hurt.”

  Poldi got the message. “Please don’t do this,” she said as bravely as she could manage.

  But she realised there was no point in arguing or pleading with them. Resolute action was the only answer.

  “Kneel down!” Achille told her, forcing her to the ground. “That’s right.”

  “I’m not outis, not no one,” thought Poldi as she knelt on the edge of the shaft. She guessed what his plan was and knew this was her last chance.

  Achille wiped the muzzle-loader with a cloth and pulled on gloves. “Open your mouth.”

  Poldi complied. Achille thrust the muzzle of the old gun into her mouth. His finger curled round the trigger. Poldi saw Carmelo step back. Then Achille pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  That was the moment.

  Taking advantage of Achille’s surprise, my Auntie Poldi grabbed the barrel with both hands and pushed him away from her with every ounce of strength she possessed. That, however, had been the full extent of her plan. How she was going to extricate herself from this unenviable predicament and get the better of two grown men, she didn’t know. So she improvised, because my Auntie Poldi knew a thing or two about men and improvisation.

  I picture her wrenching the gun from Achille’s grasp and trying to roll sideways, ninja fashion. She didn’t get far, because (a) she was no ninja, and (b) Carmelo hurled himself at her, and he still had his knife. She swung the rifle and cracked him across the shins, causing him to yelp and stumble. She raised the gun again, but Achille tore it from her hands. She did her best to scramble up and away from the mouth of the shaft, but the brothers pinned her down.

  I can picture my Auntie Poldi fighting for her life in that vineyard, advancing years and bad knees notwithstanding. She didn’t present a particularly dignified sight, spreadeagled on the ground in a clinch with the Avola brothers, but all that counts at such moments is sheer survival. It’s clear that my Auntie Poldi fought like a tigress. It’s also clear that a person’s strength multiplies tenfold in such a situation, and that Poldi might well have dealt with the two men single-handed.

  Maybe not, though.

  In any case, this is all idle speculation. The fact is that each brother uttered a yell in quick succession, twitched violently and then went limp.

  Poldi was too nonplussed at first to grasp what had happened. She merely saw Alessia standing in front of her with a flashlight in one hand and a police stun gun in the other.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Uh, yes, I think so.”

  “Quick, give me a hand, they’re coming round already.” Alessia produced a bunch of zip ties from her pocket and handed them to Poldi. “I’d never have found you if you hadn’t called for help,” she said as she swiftly pinioned Carmelo’s wrists and ankles.

  Poldi did the same for Achille, who was surfacing with a groan.

  “Where’s Vito?”

  “You must call him. I came on my own, and I’m going to make myself scarce in a minute.”

  “But why?” Poldi asked in surprise.

  Both the Avola brothers were now lying safely immobilised on the ground.

  Alessia straightened up, drew Poldi aside and pointed to Achille. “Because I don’t want Vito to find out about him. I don’t know what possessed me. He was so persistent, and I was angry with Vito and jealous of you, and there was something irresistible about the man. I didn’t go to bed with him, I’m happy to say.”

  Poldi looked at Alessia, her face bathed in moonlight.

  “Achille uses pheromones,” Poldi said. “He’d already outsmarted Vito. He was only interested in cuckolding him as well.”

  “Yes, I thought as much. The worst thing is, he’s a murderer. I feel so . . . so dirty.”

  She trembled and started to cry. Poldi put her arms round the policewoman and held her tight.

  “Shh, it’s all right. You saved my life, Alessia. I’d be dead but for you.”

  But Alessia couldn’t stop crying, and my Auntie Poldi, who also wept easily, cried too. She had reason enough to, after all.

  So Alessia and Poldi held each other and wept together. Meanwhile, the Hedgehogs writhed around on the ground, panting and clearly mystified by the turn of events. At length the two women drew apart—carefully, as if at pains not to hurt one another’s feelings.

  “He loves you far more than me,” Alessia said in a low voice, smiling bravely.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .”

  “Yes, he does. Besides, it would never have worked with us. I’m going back to Milan, and Vito hates Milan. He’s a Sicilian through and through. All the best.” With a laugh, Alessia handed Poldi the Taser. “Here, take it. You managed this all by yourself, okay? Not a word about me to Vito.”

  “I promise,” said Poldi, touched. She put her hands together and bowed to Alessia. “And . . . namaste.”

  15

  Tells of surprising developments, of letting go and arriving. Poldi is obliged to pull a fast one on her nephew, discovers how to deal with a slug plague and rids herself of her shadow. She picnics with Valérie in a lava field, holds Montana’s hand and, soon afterwards, other parts of the commissario’s body. Finally, right at the end, she receives an unexpected visitor.

  Another week at my Auntie Poldi’s
was over, and I was feeling proud of myself. That needs saying occasionally. I was in full flow. I was the adjective ace, the metaphor magician, the sorcerer of the subordinate clause, the expresser of emotions, the master of a host of startling but entirely plausible turns of events. The whole of my fourth chapter had been completed within a week. I was a paragon of self-discipline and inspiration, the perfect symbiosis of Germany and Italy. I was a Cyclops of the keyboard. I was Barnaba. All I lacked was a nymph, but my new Sicilian styling would soon change that.

  In the fourth chapter, Barnaba had fathered another son with his beloved Eleonora during his first trip home in years. His firstborn, little Federico, subsequently my grandfather, was a rather sickly, tearful child who coughed a lot and didn’t like pasta. This tended to arouse Barnaba’s suspicions, but Federico’s great big paws and the characteristic kink in his little finger left no doubt as to Barnaba’s paternity. Although this ultimately saved Federico from a tragic accident while bathing, Barnaba’s relationship with his eldest son would never be an affectionate one. But I’m anticipating.

  Barnaba had succeeded by making shrewd investments and pulling the right strings in conning half his property out of Eleonora’s father, the hard-hearted landowner Grasso, for next to nothing, thereby developing his Munich market stall into a miniature fruit importer’s empire. For, native land and sicilianità notwithstanding, Barnaba’s thoughts were forever turning to Germany—to his business in Munich, acrobatic Rosi in Westermühlstrasse and tea dances in smart Munich restaurants.

  Of course, he still loved Eleonora with all the passion of a mythical centaur, but he also began to detect a typical Sicilian lassitude and somnolence in her. Eleonora often complained of the heat, preferred to spend the whole day in bed in her darkened bedroom, guzzled marzipan cherries, cocked her little finger when speaking and yearned for the evenings. Barnaba’s innate Cyclopean virility demanded sexual gratification every hour, but Eleonora allowed him access to her only after nightfall and always fell into an exhausted sleep after the third coupling.