Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano

like the activity portrayed by television commercials. It has nothing to do with coffee as a beverage , only with sugar. Coffee is merely a hot, aromatic, caffeinated liquid designed to dissolve sugar, so you don’t need much of it. It can be small as long as it’s strong, but sweetness is paramount. That’s why many baristas mix coffee and sugar in the filter itself. There’s nothing more bizarre to a Sicilian than drinking an espresso without sugar. Mind you, having a cappuccino after lunch and cycling along the Provinciale are probably considered more bizarre still.
    Valérie regarded my aunt attentively over her coffee cup. Poldi showed her the pieces of glazed ceramic. “You aren’t by any chance missing the floor these came from?”
    Valérie shook her head, but she seemed to get the point.
    â€œNo. I’m missing a lion, though.”
    â€œExactly when did it disappear?”
    Valérie thought awhile. “I noticed it was gone on Wednesday. Why are you interested?”
    â€œDo you still assume it was a warning from Russo?”
    Valérie shrugged her shoulders.
    â€œLooking at it from another angle,” Poldi persisted, “what would a lion like that be worth on the open market?”
    â€œ Mon Dieu , I’ve no idea. A couple of thousand euros, maybe? Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
    The shaggy mutt beneath the avocado tree stretched and got to its feet. It gave Poldi a pathetically mournful look, shook itself briefly and trotted off as if that said it all. Poldi felt a familiar itch beneath her wig and drew a deep breath.
    â€œI may have an idea why Valentino had to die.”

5
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Tells of Poldi’s tenacity and of how she follows up her original suspicion. In this connection, she finds it useful to resort to behaviour she often engaged in at anti-imperialist demos in the distant past. She has an unpleasant encounter and takes a photograph in Taormina. Vito Montana wears a smart suit and is at pains to present a bella figura at all times.
    â€œWhy Russo?” Valérie asked uneasily.
    â€œIt’s obvious,” said Poldi. “One, Valentino probably belonged to a gang that looted old country houses. Two, Valentino worked for Russo. Three, Russo wants to put you under pressure, so he stole your lion.”
    â€œThat’s only a suspicion, though. I can’t prove anything.”
    â€œBut just assume it’s true. Russo would need trustworthy henchmen like Valentino.”
    â€œBut, mon Dieu , why should he have murdered him?”
    The question of motive was a sore point with Poldi, who dodged it like a police press officer. “Well,” she said, “our inquiries are still at a very early stage.”
    â€œ Our inquiries?”
    â€œCommissario Montana’s and mine. Does Russo have a son as well as a daughter?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAh, I knew it.”
    â€œI don’t understand, Poldi.”
    â€œLook, that night at your Uncle Mimì’s, Russo said something significant: that Valentino had a lot of potential. He seemed positively hurt, as though the boy had disappointed him in some way. I suspect he was fond of him – he may even have regarded him as a son. What if Valentino let him down badly over something and he blew a fuse?”
    â€œI’m afraid you’re getting carried away, Poldi.”
    â€œJust wait and see.”
    It was no use arguing. Resolutely, Poldi marched across Valérie’s garden and invaded Russo’s arboreal empire for a second time, intent on questioning his workforce. In an exalted, forensic frame of mind, she strolled, as if blown there by some capricious gust of wind, through the orderly ranks of palms, olive groves, lemon trees, bougainvilleas, oleanders and strelitzias. She was so busy nodding affably in all directions, she narrowly missed being run over by a