Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions Read Online Free PDF Page A

handed you a voucher, contorted her face into a kind of rictus, and then went on staring into space as if every transaction cost her another vital spark. This couldn’t fail to arouse Poldi’s curiosity, which was why she patronized the bar for more than just its delicious granitas. She had spotted right away that Signora Cocuzza must once have been a very beautiful woman, but she could also tell that the decrepit creature was profoundly miserable – for, as I have already said, Poldi knew a thing or two about mental anguish.
    â€œForgive me, signora, but have you seen or heard of Valentino in the last few days?”
    The question seemed to percolate through Signora Cocuzza’s consciousness very slowly. She was still holding out the voucher for Poldi’s granita.
    â€œYou know who I mean,” Poldi persisted, taking her voucher. “Valentino Candela. The boy simply vanished into thin air three days ago. He may have turned up here in the meantime. Not that I’m worried.”
    Signora Cocuzza almost imperceptibly shook her head as if that alone cost her a superhuman effort.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she whispered.
    And relapsed into silence. Loath to press her further, Poldi started to take her voucher over to the counter. But Signora Cocuzza wasn’t finished yet.
    â€œDonna Poldina…”
    It was almost unintelligible – just a wisp of a voice. Surprised by this unexpected personal invocation, Poldi promptly returned to the till. She saw the sad signora take a ballpoint from the pocket of her apron – effortfully, as though it weighed a ton – and scribble something on a slip of paper. An address in Acireale.
    â€œHis parents,” whispered Signora Cocuzza, handing it over.
    Poldi thought for a moment. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask how Signora Cocuzza knew the address, but she left it at that for the time being. She merely thanked the woman, handed back the voucher, and changed her order.
    *
    An afternoon in August, as already mentioned. This meant, first, that it was hot, and, secondly, that Poldi wasn’t really sober. Nevertheless, she gallantly piloted her Alfa to Acireale with, on the passenger seat, a kilo of gelato in a polystyrene tub prettily wrapped in floral paper and adorned with a bow. Acireale wasn’t far – practically round the corner – but the winding, narrow Provinciale, enclosed on either side by high old walls of volcanic stone, proved a sore trial to Poldi in her condition. She had to keep swerving to avoid the lemon transporters that came thundering towards her. Just before Santa Tecla a lorry laden with mature palm and olive trees shot out of the gates of a big market garden. Poldi just managed to slam on her brakes in time. The lorry driver tooted her furiously, turned out onto the road and roared off. Poldi pulled up on the verge for a moment, breathing heavily, and stared at the big gateway with the neon sign beside it. It read:
    PIANTE RUSSO
    Damn nearly squashed by a load of palm trees, she thought, shaking her head. Some mess that would have been.
    Although she didn’t know her way around Acireale, Poldi found the address on the outskirts in double-quick time. She always found her way around wherever she was, from Jakarta to Lima, because she had an infallible trick: she kept asking directions. Regardless of the horns blaring behind her, she would pull up every hundred yards and question the first person she saw. This procedure was proof against misinformation from practical jokers, and Poldi always wound up at her destination with the precision of a satnav.
    Maria and Angelo Candela were both under fifty but looked older. Unemployed for the last four years, they lived on social security and the little money Valentino brought home. Their small apartment smelt of cigarettes, onions and despair, but Poldi was quick to notice the flat-screen TV. Valentino’s parents didn’t even look surprised when she