Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions Read Online Free Page A

short-legged Bolivians in olive drab and snappy berets, wistful Siberian youngsters in fur caps – my Auntie Poldi had snapped them all. But her favourite subjects were Vigili Urbani . At least half the photos were of Italian traffic cops in their white gloves and, in some cases, white tropical helmets.
    â€œThe handsomest ones are in Rome. By far. No comparison, absolutely unbeatable. Graceful as Nureyev, every last one of them. Their hand movements, their uniforms – perfect. But don’t go thinking they’d ever smile. They never smile until they’re off duty, as I know from personal experience. But here, look, I spotted a prize specimen in Taormina the day before yesterday.”
    On Wednesdays Poldi attended a language school belonging to Michele, a friend of my cousin Ciro’s, so Wednesday was the only day of the week on which she stayed sober. Her Italian was quite sufficient for everyday use, but that wasn’t good enough for her.
    â€œWhy the stress?” I once asked her. “Why bother, when you’re planning to drink yourself to death?”
    Clumsy of me, very clumsy, to voice my other aunts’ suspicion so explicitly.
    â€œWhat sort of idiotic question is that?” she barked at me. “Until you’ve mastered the passato remoto , my boy, keep your pearls of wisdom to yourself. Understand?”
    At all events, Poldi had photographed an exceptionally smart Vigile in Taormina and planned to make his acquaintance at the next opportunity. He wasn’t in the first flush of youth, with his neatly trimmed beard and moustache and little pot belly, but he wore his immaculate uniform with the enviable arrogance of a good-looking chump whose mamma still irons his shirts.
    But back to Valentino. He wasn’t a chump – although he still lived with his parents as a matter of course – but he hadn’t managed to land a traineeship or a regular job. He really wasn’t a stupid youth, as Poldi quickly realized. Like many young Sicilians, he coped by doing odd jobs and toyed with the idea of emigrating to Germany. Sicilians find it a cinch to emigrate for decades: bag packed, bacio , addio – and off they go.
    Valentino helped Poldi with the minor repairs that became necessary soon after the renovation of her house. No disrespect to my cousin Ciro, but his builders had made a rotten job of the roof. When I went to change the bulb in the top-floor bathroom, the bowl shade tipped a Niagara of rainwater over me. A miracle I wasn’t electrocuted.
    Valentino could change fuses, put up pictures, repair the air conditioning and go shopping at the HiperSimply. He was a multi-talented youngster, and Poldi soon took him to her heart, in which, as everyone knew, there was plenty of room. She even gave him German lessons, not that the accent he acquired would have made him comprehensible outside Bavaria. But in any case the Germany project came to nothing, because early in August Valentino suddenly vanished without a trace.
    Poldi waited a whole day for him to fulfil his promise to clear a blocked drain. She didn’t take it amiss if someone stood her up once, but when she heard nothing from Valentino the next day and the day after that and he failed to answer his mobile, she became puzzled, angry and worried in turn. It dawned on her only then how little she really knew about him.
    She did know his surname, which was Candela.
    But she hadn’t the faintest idea where he lived.
    Signora Anzalone hadn’t even noticed Valentino’s disappearance, and Signor Bussacca merely shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œ Boh. Where else would he be. He’ll have hooked up with some girl. He’ll turn up again sooner or later.”
    Poldi was neither reassured nor convinced by this.
    â€œWhen was the last time you saw him?”
    Bussacca thought for a moment. “Yesterday? No, it must have been the day before. Or Monday. Yes, Monday. He bought a packet of Lucky