Auntie Poldi and the Vineyards of Etna

by Mario Giordano

  So no one will be surprised to learn that Barnaba moved back in with Ilaria, the preternaturally beautiful Cyclopean siren, who not only initiated him into the most intimate mysteries of the female body and taught him certain amatory refinements, but supported his business endeavours with age-old earth magic. In consequence, a number of Barnaba’s envious rivals and competitors disappeared from the face of the earth, Eleonora’s father among them.

  Having purchased a thirty-room house for Eleonora and his future dynasty on the Corso Italia, in the centre of Catania, Barnaba returned to Munich, where the 1920s were just getting under way. It was the perfect time for a handsome young man with a fierce thirst for life to stake his all on the wheel of fortune.

  Everything might have gone swimmingly—and this was the next brilliant twist in my plot—had not Calogero Vizzini’s corpse been discovered in a cave on the banks of the Isar, and had not a dogged, grumpy, ultra-Bavarian police inspector named Vitus Tanner been doubtful that Vizzini had died of natural causes because of the strangulation marks on his neck.

  “You can’t be serious,” my Auntie Poldi said with a sigh after I had read her my fourth chapter the night before my departure.

  We were sitting together on the roof terrace, wrapped in blankets because a touch of autumn had found its way to Sicily at last. The nights were cool again, with a chill clammily creeping up from the sea.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Vitus Tanner. I won’t even start on the rest of your Cyclopean tripe and your descriptions of ‘it,’ but Vitus Tanner . . . That was when I finally flipped.”

  “But Tanner supplies a sort of thriller element I wanted to introduce so as to keep the conflict simmering over a low flame until—”

  “A low flame—yes, that describes it perfectly. Can’t you see what a load of codswallop you’re concocting? For God’s sake, it’s time you made up your mind what you’re writing: a family saga, a fantasy, a thriller, a police procedural or what? Combining them all into one doesn’t work. This Vitus Tanner of yours—get rid of him, he’s unbelievable. I won’t let you put my cases through the mincer and blend them with the sausage meat of your pubescent fantasies. It’s all or nothing, understand?”

  “But what about artistic licence?”

  “There’s got to be some art to make free with in the first place.”

  My Auntie Poldi knew a thing or two about art and freedom and objective criticism.

  Shaking her head, she picked up her glass of wine and glugged it.

  “Vitus Tanner! I ask you!” She looked at me and grinned. “Vitus Tanner, eh?”

  “Restraint is a sign of weakness,” I said with a shrug.

  And then we both burst out laughing.

  When our mirth had subsided, my aunt abruptly turned serious. Something seemed to be preying on her mind.

  “We may not be seeing each other for a while, my boy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t look like that. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “All right, I’ll call my Bavarian police inspector something else.”

  “Nonsense. Leave everything the way it is. Art needs to be free.”

  “But I thought I might have—”

  “It’s just that I’ll be needing the attic for a few weeks, understand? For a . . . well, for a guest.”

  The recordings on the machine Poldi had strapped to her tummy with sticking plaster put the Avola brothers’ guilt beyond doubt. Achille Avola’s SUV bore any number of scratches and traces of paint from Poldi’s Alfa Romeo. The brothers confessed to the murders of Elisa Puglisi and Madame Sahara the same night. They claimed to have been overpowered by two women, but for one thing, this couldn’t be proved, and for another, Montana put their assertion down to wounded pride. He didn’t even ask how Poldi had come into possession of a Taser with an inventory number identifying its source as police headquarters in Acireale. He didn’t ask many questions in general, just listened attentively as Poldi told him how she had finally nailed the Avola brothers. His brow looked much more furrowed than usual, she thought, but she also thought it might be wiser to curb her activities for a while.

  Not altogether, though, because she still had one more thing to do.

  The next morning, my Auntie Poldi had a brief telephone conversation with the vet who had carried out the post-mortem on little Lady. Then she rode her Vespa to Femminamorta, where the travel agency’s minibus was parked in the courtyard.

  Poldi did not go straight into the garden as usual, but went to see Mario, one of the workmen on Valérie’s palm plantation, who had created an orto, or kitchen garden, and fenced it in neatly with chicken wire to keep the hares away from the vegetables. “Grapes aren’t the only fruit of the Lord,” thought Poldi, rather touched to see the carefully tended little allotment. “Man doesn’t live by wine alone.”

  Half an hour later, she appeared in Valérie’s enchanted garden, where Doris and the deliziosi were having a farewell breakfast with Valérie before flying home. All were packed and ready to go in their sensible clothing, and all were yearning to get back to their provincial German towns.

  Doris was unsparing in her criticism of Sicily. “Take that place Noto,” she was saying, “that so-called baroque town. It’s nice and tidy, yes, but nothing compared to Ottobeuren Abbey. Back home in Upper Swabia you can see baroque buildings worthy of the name.” She broke off on catching sight of Poldi. “Oh, look who’s coming!”

  Without saying hello to Doris and her tour party, Poldi sat down at the table and asked Valérie for a few moments alone with the deliziosi.

  “Why did you send her away?” Doris demanded when Valérie had left them to themselves.

  “Because she’s such a wonderful person,” Poldi told her. “Because she never thinks her guests are anything but charming, and I don’t want to disillusion her just because one of them was a lousy dog murderer.”

  Doris started to say something, but Poldi raised her hand and put something on the table. A small cardboard tube adorned with a photo of a slug eating a lettuce leaf and the inscription Lumachicida, it was half full of blue pellets.

  “This is slug bait,” Poldi went on quietly. “You use it for ridding your garden of slugs. It contains metaldehyde, really nasty stuff capable of killing babies or dogs. Lady died of it, anyway.”

  “How awful!” Doris said. “Where did you get it?”

  “From Mario.”

  “Poor Lady. You think he . . .”

  “No. Mario and Turi were fond of Lady. Mario bought the stuff in case he had an infestation of slugs in his vegetable garden. He’s never had one, so he never opened it. Even if he had, he’s fenced in his allotment so well that the dogs couldn’t have come into contact with the filth. Just now, when I asked him about it, the tube was open and half empty. Strange, no? Mario simply couldn’t account for it.” Poldi looked Doris in the eye. “Can you, perhaps?”

  “What are you implying?”

  Poldi sighed. “It wouldn’t have crossed my mind if Oscar hadn’t growled at you the other day. I always suspected Russo, which shows one shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Mario remembered your coming to see him and asking how he got rid of vermin, and he showed you the tube.”

  “So what?” Doris demanded coldly.

  “Well, the door to his shed is always open, and he’s out working all day. Anyway, he didn’t notice until just now that someone had helped themselves to his slug bait.”

  Doris rose abruptly. “I’m afraid we must be going. Our flight leaves soon.”

  “Sit down!” snapped Poldi. “One call from me and a certain commissario who owes me a favour would be only too happy to detain you here for a day or two. In full compliance with Italian law, of course. No fun, though, I can promise you.”

  Doris sat down, but her companions and the tour guide shrank away as if she had the plague.

  “You can’t prove this.”

  “I don’t have to. I can’t bring poor Lady back to life, either. I imagine
she had to die because she annoyed you by yapping at night.”

  “So what do you propose to do?”

  “Why, I propose to tell you I despise you from the bottom of my heart. I despise you for your heartlessness and self-righteousness. No, that’s wrong. If the truth be told, I’m plain sorry for you—and, of course, even sorrier for your former pupils. But it’s like Job, isn’t it? Although he didn’t get his late wife back, he did get some decent compensation. And that, Doris, is why we’re going to the nearest bank, where you’ll make a very generous bank transfer to the account of Acireale’s animal shelter. And if I consider that bank transfer really, really generous, you may yet catch your flight home.”

  And at that moment, because everything had somehow conspired to become too much for her—because Lady and Madame Sahara and Elisa Puglisi were dead, and all for the sake of lousy money or a lousy night’s rest—tears sprang to my Auntie Poldi’s eyes. At the same time, she realised that the spell had been broken. She was finally rid of the shadow that had pursued her all her life. None of the Dorises of this world would ever succeed in making her feel awkward or inferior again.

  My Auntie Poldi heard nothing from Vito Montana in the days that followed. She hadn’t seen him since making her formal statement at police headquarters. Having wondered for the first few days whether this was a good or bad sign, she simply waited and decided to accept whatever life would bestow on her or deprive her of.

  The following Sunday, she and Valérie went for a picnic to an old lava field high up on Etna, a lunar landscape composed of rugged volcanic tuff extending as far as the eye could see.

  Parked not far away was a car in which Aki was playing a game of skill on his smartphone, and in the midst of the lava field, naked and slug-like, the “alga” was gliding over the rocks. For once, Higashi-san had permitted Valérie and Poldi to watch his performance. In return, Poldi had had to describe her investigation in every detail.

  The pallid Japanese dancer appeared almost to melt into the rocks. It looked at times as if the lava would entirely absorb him like the first rain after a long summer, only for Higashi-san to detach himself from it like a sulphurous cloud and seem to float away on the wind. Poldi thought she had never seen anything more peaceful and dignified, and this reconciled her a little to a life that gave and took away as it pleased. Or to the accounts department of the universe. Or to Padre Paolo’s Lord God, who tended or pruned his vines as he thought fit, not that Poldi could discern any plan underlying his activities.

  She sighed.

  If she turned her head a bit, she could see Death. He was stretched out on a rock with his hoodie off and his pale, weedy chest exposed to the late autumn sunlight. His clipboard lay unheeded beside him.

  As if that were not enough of an indication that all was well for the moment, Poldi heard a hoarse cry overhead and saw a buzzard circling above the lava field.

  “Namaste, life,” she murmured softly in German. And then, as ever, “The rest of the world can kiss my ass!”

  “Pardon?” said Valérie. The German language always made her feel uneasy.

  “Nothing.” Poldi pointed to the naked Japanese. “Doesn’t he feel the cold?”

  “Mon dieu, let’s hope he doesn’t catch pneumonia!”

  “How long did Aki say he would take to reach the sea?”

  “Two months.”

  “It’ll certainly be cold by then.”

  For a while they reverted to watching the “alga” in silence, nibbling their panini from time to time and enjoying the mild November sunlight.

  “How’s your nephew?” Valérie asked.

  “Good. He’s busy writing his novel.”

  “A novel about you, Poldi?”

  “Madonna, no! He’s a proper novelist. He’s writing an impressive family saga covering three generations. It’s going to be really juicy, full of twists and turns, shady characters, stubble-chinned villains and ethereal beauties. Lots of flesh, sizzling sex, sweltering days and velvety nights. Parallel historical threads galore. It’s his big throw of the dice, his ticket to international bestsellerdom. The only trouble is, the poor boy’s making so little progress, him with his constipated jeans-and-navy-blue-polo-shirt look. He’s completely stuck, writer’s block. And I know a thing or two about getting stuck.”

  Valérie laughed at her. “But also about starting afresh.”

  “Because I had to,” Poldi said with a sigh. “Letting go is the only thing I’ve never mastered.”

  As though on cue, a car was making its way up the winding mountain road. Poldi recognised Montana’s Alfa at once. He parked beside Aki’s car and came towards her. Poldi rolled her eyes when she saw what he was wearing: jeans, navy-blue polo shirt, brown leather blouson and sneakers.

  Valérie got to her feet. “Mon dieu, I’m getting cold. See you back at the car.”

  Montana said hello to Valérie in passing and sat down beside my aunt. Poldi put a finger to her lips and indicated the ethereal Higashi-san, who, having slowly unfurled like an orchid, stiffened like congealing lava.

  My aunt and the commissario just sat there for a while, watching the performance artist.

  “Incredible,” Montana whispered, clearly impressed. Then, “Poldi, what I wanted to—”

  “Shh!” Poldi sealed his lips with her finger. “It’s all right, Vito.”

  Montana cleared his throat, moved a little closer to her and then . . . then he held her hand again. And Poldi returned the pressure of his shapely, beloved hand, determined never to let go of it again.

  That night, it may be supposed, my Auntie Poldi and the commissario embarked once more on a magical voyage replete with erotic marvels and adventures. At last, Poldi succumbed to the rising magma of Montana’s volcano. After all, the man was a detective chief inspector and a Sicilian—in other words, a sexual force of nature. A hurricane of lust raged in Poldi’s bed for half the night. Those two less than youthful, slightly shop-soiled lovers entwined like a pair of infatuated octopuses, copulated à la Cyclops and nymph, sometimes tenderly and sometimes with wild abandon. Like a female lobster mating, Poldi discarded her shell—in other words, her wig—and gave herself to Montana utterly, submitting to his passion in a soft and defenceless way, quite without shame or restraint. The Via Baronessa vibrated that night to animal cries of encouragement and delight whenever, after a brief intermission at No. 29, a limp sardine transformed itself once more into a full-grown moray eel, vital and voracious, convulsive and dangerous. Or so I imagine.

  Whenever they kissed, Poldi tasted the concentrated flavour of Sicily. Sweet, salty, sour, spicy—the works. Sicilians are a baroque people, so there’s no need to roll your eyes in an uptight or embarrassed way. My Auntie Poldi knows a thing or two about Sicily and kissing.

  It was hardly surprising, therefore, that Poldi was far too tired to budge when the doorbell rang at around nine o’clock the next morning. And rang again.

  Whenever you think “That’s that,” life demonstrates that the terminal full stop isn’t yours to insert.

  Poldi had pulled the covers over her head, so Montana got up after the third ring, wound a towel around his waist and answered the door with ill grace.

  Standing outside was a tall African in his early forties, Montana estimated. He had a big, broad, watchful face as devoid of false bonhomie as it was of guile—Montana registered this instantly. He was muscular, a head taller than Montana, and wore pale chinos, a white T-shirt and a green puffer jacket.

  The two men eyed each other in surprise.

  “Yes?” said Montana.

  “I’m looking for Poldi Oberreiter,” the man said in English. “Doesn’t she live here?”

  “And who might you be?”

  Montana had switched to commissario mode, and the frown lines in his forehead rapidly deepened.

  The African looked wholly unimpressed.

  “I need to speak to Poldi Oberreiter. It’s urgent.”

  Montana drew a deep breath and prepared t
o deliver a retort, but just then he heard a startled exclamation behind him.

  Poldi was standing in the passage, naked but for her colourful sarong and her wig. She was holding her hand over her mouth in consternation.

  The African caught sight of her. “Poldi!” he cried. “Hey, Poldi, it’s me!”

  “Can you explain what’s going on here?” Montana demanded.

  Poldi hesitated for a moment, then uttered a cry and brushed past him.

  “Vito,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “may I introduce my husband, John Owenya?”

  Keep reading for a sample from the next Auntie Poldi adventure

  Auntie Poldi

  and the Handsome Antonio

  * * *

  Out in Spring 2020

  The sassiest sleuth in Sicily is back on the case . . .

  1

  Tells of the perils of intercultural communication, of men, fish cleavers, engine size and Poldi’s past. Poldi is in something of a tight spot, Handsome Antonio gets noisy, Poldi’s nephew burns some rubber, and Montana gets jealous again. And all because of John.

  Handsome Antonio was sick of messing around. He held a fish cleaver to my Auntie Poldi’s throat—it resembled a machete and could easily have bisected a mature tuna—and repeated his question. “Where. Is. It?”

  Whereupon my Auntie Poldi repeated her reply. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, so put that in your pipe and smoke it!”

  Which exemplifies the misunderstandings that were clogging the situation like limescale in a tap. The first one, of course, was lack of communication, because Handsome Antonio put his questions in strongly accented Sicilian Italian, whereas Poldi answered him in immaculate Bavarian German. Misunderstanding number two was the fact that Poldi hadn’t a clue where “it” was. Handsome Antonio had hitherto rejected her assertions to that effect by brandishing his cleaver and yelling, with the result that Poldi had dug in her heels and switched to Bavarian. From her point of view, what aggravated this extremely limited form of communication was misunderstanding number three: the tear-proof duct tape with which Handsome Antonio had secured her to a chair by her wrists and ankles. But the greatest misunderstanding, from my point of view, was . . . me. Like the crucial detail in a spot-the-error picture, I was sitting beside my aunt, secured to a chair likewise and almost wetting myself with terror. Expecting to bite the dust at any moment, I visualised my death as an amusing GIF animation looping endlessly on the internet: the cleaver whistling down, my panic-stricken face, the blade lopping off my head (like a knife through butter), the fountain of blood and finally the Great Light and some weird, plinky-plunky music.