Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano Page A

mechanical digger. “ Mizzica ,” the driver swore at her in Sicilian. “ L’occhi su fatti pi taliari .”
    Poldi found this neither comprehensible nor impressive.
    â€œGood morning. Lovely day, isn’t it? What a nice machine you’ve got there – you must be the foreman. Tell me, did you know Valentino?”
    Without a word, the driver put his digger in gear and stepped on the gas again. Poldi was enveloped in a cloud of dust as it roared past her.
    â€œHey, wait,” she cried in vain.
    Next attempt: two young workmen repotting palm shoots.
    â€œGood morning. My, you’re good at that. How quick you are – very impressive. Have you worked here long?”
    They merely stared at her in silence. Undeterred, she pressed on.
    â€œDid you know Valentino?”
    â€œThe guy with the trinacria tattooed on his arm?”
    â€œYes, that’s him. Valentino Candela. Terrible, isn’t it? What was his relationship like with your boss?”
    A brief exchange of glances, then they turned away as if in response to a command and simply plodded off, leaving Poldi standing there.
    â€œHello? Signori. Please don’t walk off.”
    Next attempt: an elderly workman pruning some young olive trees. Poldi noticed that one of his little fingers was missing.
    â€œGood morning. Please excuse me, but I think I’ve lost my way.”
    â€œWhere did you want to go?”
    â€œTo see Signor Russo.”
    â€œThe boss is bound to be over there in the main building. But you’ll need an appointment, signora.”
    â€œThanks, very nice of you. Hey, isn’t it awful about Valentino? They say he was like a son to Signor Russo.”
    That was as far as she got.
    â€œSignora?”
    Poldi turned to see the two security guards familiar to her from her previous visit. They were still wearing identical shades, the narrow, wrap-around sort that resemble reptilian eyes.
    â€œKindly come with us.”
    â€œWhere to, if I may ask?”
    â€œOff the premises.”
    â€œIs it forbidden to have a little chat with someone? This is plain ridiculous.”
    â€œYou’re trespassing on private property, signora. Please don’t make any trouble.”
    â€œWho’s making trouble? Only you two comedians, that’s who.”
    The men looked like twins. They seemed rather uneasy, but a job was a job. One of them stepped forward and touched Poldi on the arm in an attempt to get her to move at last and come with them. “Please, signora.”
    But no one did that to my Auntie Poldi. In the grip of old reflexes, she fiercely wrenched her arm away. “LET GO OF ME,” she yelled at the two shades. “HOW DARE YOU. THIS IS DEPRIVATION OF LIBERTY. HELP. HEEELP.”
    She was giving vent to her wide experience of demos. Too young for the Munich riot of 1962, there was scarcely a demo in which Poldi had not taken part after 1968, when she turned sweet sixteen. She marched everywhere against state tyranny and the Shah, emergency legislation and the arms race, chanted in favour of women’s rights, sexual liberation and equality of education, and slept with revolutionaries, rock stars, honest biology students, budding terrorists and future government ministers. Until the mid-1980s she had regularly participated in peace marches and sit-ins against NATO’s “double-track” decision, Pershings and dumping sites for nuclear waste, chained herself to railings and thrown flour bags at politicians. So it might be said that my Auntie Poldi had some experience of dealing with the forces of law and order.
    Yelling alternately in Italian and Bavarian, she went berserk like a dervish on khat or Rumpelstiltskin on a caffè doppio ristretto . The scene she made did not fail to have an effect on the two security guards, who stood rooted to the spot, staring in astonishment at my fiercely gesticulating, loudly vociferating aunt, and only half-heartedly