Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano Page B

fending off her furious blows.
    Russo’s workers, who had rapidly gathered around the scene of the action, anxious not to miss anything, were highly entertained by all this. No one laid hands on Poldi and no one made any further attempt to hustle her off the premises. She had won.
    However, it wasn’t long before she ran out of breath and had to abandon her antics. It should be borne in mind that Poldi was no longer sixteen, but sixty. So she automatically ceased to be a virago and became an elderly woman, perspiring and rather breathless. She was fully aware of this, of course, but before she allowed the security guards to lead her away, she turned and sketched a curtsey to the workmen around her. My Auntie Poldi knew how to quit the stage: namely, to a round of applause.
    â€œ Mon Dieu , what happened over there?” Valérie exclaimed when Poldi returned to Femminamorta, exhausted but not dissatisfied. “I heard you shouting. And then, applause?”
    Poldi straightened her wig and looked Valérie in the eye. “That, my dear, was only the start. I shall repeat the procedure every day until someone bloody well talks to me.”
    â€œDid Russo appear?”
    â€œAfraid not, but give me time. Hey, do you think I could have a glass of water? Or maybe a little prosecchino for my nerves?”
    â€œI thought you were supposed to be on the wagon,” I said when Poldi told me about this later.
    â€œOh, come on, one little Prosecco isn’t a drink .”
    â€œEr, no?”
    â€œNo. Look at it this way. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards used to drink and smoke grass till it came out of their ears, but now they’re all clean and teetotal, eat their muesli like good boys and don’t touch alcohol any more. Only champagne.”
    As threatened, my Auntie Poldi went back the next day and repeated the procedure. She began by strolling around Russo’s property for a while, then chatted to a few of his workers. Then the security men turned up. Having performed her little routine once more, Poldi meekly allowed them to remove her from the premises. It was a reprise of the previous day, but with one minor difference: Russo’s workers spotted my Auntie Poldi from afar and waved to her, gleefully awaited her performance and sent her on her way with loud applause. Poldi graciously acknowledged this, waving and blowing kisses in all directions. But Russo didn’t appear.
    The following day, Wednesday, she had to suspend her investigations in order to attend her usual Italian lesson with Michele in Taormina. She couldn’t possibly play truant for two reasons:
    (a) Michele himself; and
    (b) the Vigile she’d recently photographed.
    Although Michele was definitely too young for Poldi’s taste, being in his mid-thirties, she had no intention of missing a chance to feast her eyes on him.
    Far be it from me to be envious of Michele. He’s a good friend of mine, he’s amusing and a first-class teacher and businessman. He likes classical literature and gypsy swing, has seen something of the world and is on the introverted side. But appearance-wise, even an average sort of guy who has turned out more or less okay is a dead loss compared to Michele, and that’s a bit hard to cope with. Because Michele looks like a top male model, like a heroic figure dreamt up by one of Mussolini’s sculptors. I’ll say no more. Michele didn’t choose his personal appearance, nor did he parlay it into a profession; he founded a language school. No disrespect to Michele, but his courses were attended almost exclusively by (discounting Poldi) anorexic Scandinavian girls whose languishing eyes construed his every gesture as erotic. Or so I imagine.
    Anyway, Poldi never missed her Wednesday Italian lesson. She took advantage of the lunch break to go for a little walk through the old quarter of Taormina in search of the Vigile she’d recently photographed, hoping to make his