Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano Page A

backside. Then, in order to get the suspension of her contractual relationship with Death endorsed by higher authority, she did something she very seldom did: she prayed.
    Although she went to the church of Santa Maria del Rosario every Sunday, this wasn’t because she was a believer. She went because she liked chain-smoking Padre Paolo and because the Madonna beside the altar looked so heartrendingly sad – the very epitome of sorrow. Moreover, my Auntie Poldi liked the smell of incense and joined in the hymns enthusiastically, especially as she found the Italian words less annoyingly idiotic than the German. Besides, going to church on Sundays was simply a part of Torre’s social life. Your granita somehow tasted better afterwards. And anyway, atheist or not, Poldi simply thought it behoved her to say a prayer for Valentino, who had always worn a crucifix on the chain around his neck.
    So that Sunday my Auntie Poldi sat in the front pew dressed all in black with a lace shawl over her wig like a Mafia widow in a B feature, and asked the Almighty to accept Valentino’s soul and persuade Uncle Peppe to wait for her a little longer.
    The same afternoon, as expected, Poldi received a visit. She had just cut a photo of Valentino out of La Sicilia and pinned it to a corkboard on her bedroom wall when the doorbell rang.
    Montana was still wearing the same suit, but he and the suit were looking rather crumpled as though they had both been through a lot in the last day-and-a-half. Poldi, who was still attired in black, feigned surprise and invited the policeman in.
    â€œSome coffee, commissario?”
    A momentary pause. Then, “Please.”
    Montana surveyed his surroundings while Poldi was in the kitchen making coffee. He noted the half-full bottle of brandy, cast a fleeting glance into the bedroom and inspected the ebony idols, decorative spears and crudely carved masks in the living room.
    â€œHave you been to Africa a lot?”
    â€œNo,” lied Poldi, because she preferred to gloss over that chapter in the novel of her life.
    Montana turned his attention to the collection of antique firearms. “Quite an arsenal you have here.”
    â€œFrom my father,” Poldi called from the kitchen. “It doesn’t include a lupara.”
    â€œCan they be fired?”
    â€œWhat? Of course not – they’ve all been officially deactivated.”
    â€œAre you a good shot?”
    â€œFair to middling. But in any case, Valentino’s murderer didn’t need to be a marksman.”
    With a sigh, Montana sat down on the sofa. He noticed the copy of La Sicilia with the excision in it.
    â€œMind if I smoke?”
    â€œFeel free, commissario.”
    Poldi heard the click of his cigarette lighter. She could sense that he was watching her through the kitchen door. Unobtrusively bracing herself, she presented his laser-beam gaze with her best physical assets and imagined it was his hands.
    â€œAre you married, signora?”
    â€œI used to be. My husband died many years ago.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —”
    â€œYou didn’t. How about you?”
    â€œIt’s complicated.”
    Complications were another field of Poldi’s expertise. She emerged from the kitchen with the coffees and some colourful little marzipan fruit she’d bought from Signora Cocuzza just in case.
    â€œI like complications. How complicated are yours?”
    Montana cleared his throat. “When did you move here, signora?”
    â€œPoldi. Call me Poldi. Just over a month ago.”
    â€œAnd you seem to know everyone in the locality. Wherever I go, you were there before me.”
    â€œI’m the communicative type.”
    â€œYour Italian is pretty good.”
    â€œApart from my accent, you mean? Thanks. I get by.”
    â€œWhen did you learn it?”
    â€œOh, over the years. My husband was a Sicilian.”
    â€œFrom this area?”
    Poldi