Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions Read Online Free

flux. Work in progress.”
    I had rashly told her during the drive about my self-destructive plan to write a big, epic family saga spanning three German–Sicilian generations. A regular doorstop of a novel, full-bodied, juicy, masterfully told, full of twists and turns, replete with brilliant images, quirky characters, stubble-chinned villains, ethereal beauties, plenty of sex, amatory entanglements, escapades, scorching days and velvety nights, and abrim with historical strands running parallel to the plot. The only trouble was, I’d made no progress at all. Writer’s block, total paralysis. I felt like Sisyphus within the first few feet. I had told Poldi all this between the Brenner Pass and Messina, and she’d merely nodded, being an expert on failure.
    â€œI was only thinking,” she said. “If you like it up there you could stay on. Or come here now and then – regularly, I mean, to write and do your research. It’d do your Italian good, too.”
    I sighed. “Thanks. No pressure, then.”
    But for some reason my Auntie Poldi wouldn’t let the matter drop. “I just don’t understand what more you want. Up there you have your own bathroom and your own peace and quiet. You can come and go as you please, and if something turns up on the amore front, you’re welcome to bring her home any time.”
    That was all I needed. My aunts naturally endorsed the idea with enthusiasm – it meant they would have a family member on the spot to keep an eye on Poldi – and when Aunt Teresa invited me to lunch the following Sunday, I knew further resistance was futile. After all, I told myself, even a failure can feast his eyes on the sea – that’s something, at least. And so I flew down from Germany once a month at the aunts’ expense, lodged in the attic at No. 29 Via Baronessa, chafed at my mediocrity during the day, and in the evening, if my Auntie Poldi was tipsy enough, marvelled at her accounts of the progress of her investigations into Valentino’s murder.

2
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Tells of Valentino, of Poldi’s ultra-private photographic project, of afternoons in Torre Archirafi, and of sad Signora Cocuzza. Poldi becomes anxious and is nearly killed by some palm trees. She snaffles something in Acireale and soon afterwards discovers a small but heavily guarded paradise, which has been bereft of a lion.
    Valentino was a quiet, slim young man of not quite twenty. He was one of those Sicilian types in whom Sicily’s Arabo-Norman heritage shows through: olive complexion, broad nose, generous mouth, blue eyes.
    â€œA good-looking lad,” was Poldi’s verdict. “Just as sexy as my Peppe used to be. One could really take a shine to him.”
    Believe it or not, despite her sixty years and ample figure Poldi was still in great demand, certainly to judge by the glances she got from the local menfolk. She had always been a hottie and a fan of men in general, especially men in dapper police uniforms. That became clear to me when she showed me the photo albums containing her collection. The fact was, Poldi had a hobby: photographing good-looking traffic cops from all over the world. Having travelled widely in the previous thirty years, she had filled five capacious albums with steam-ironed, uniformed masculinity from Alaska to Australia, Belgrade to Buenos Aires. All the photos were neatly dated and many bore names indicating that Poldi had become better acquainted with the custodians of the law in question. Tattooed Maoris in snow-white shorts posed for the camera, a moustachioed Sikh in immaculate khaki brandished his lathi, and mounted New York cops wearing mirrored sunglasses bared their teeth. It was a proud parade of dapper figures, well-pressed trousers and bristling moustaches. Canadian Mounties in their flaming red full dress uniforms, narrow-hipped Scots in black and white,