Auntie Poldi and the Lost Madonna by Mario Giordano

Author:Mario Giordano
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780358251415
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2021-05-18T00:00:00+00:00

8

Tells of failure and petits fours, of killer remarks and love, of wild mice, neglect, transparent envelopes, and Black Madonnas. Poldi’s nephew abnegates first and then steps on the gas. Poldi is sent another note and earns respect. She makesAntonella’sacquain­tance at last, but something again intervenes. Brrrooom, to be precise.

“Failure,” Poldi is fond of emphasizing, “is always breathing down our neck. Every success is merely the outcome of a series of failures, so bear that in mind. It applies to everyone—investigators, lovers, and authors of trashy novels included.”

I could have devised that maxim myself—all except the bit about success, because I know a thing or two about failure. In my case, failure always sits up front behind the wheel. Which is to say that things weren’t going well between Valérie and me at our first reunion since France. I mean, we’d had some magical moments, and that had to signify something. Perhaps, I sometimes thought, you’re just an uptight control freak who simply isn’t made for drama and erotic passion. Besides, misunderstandings were preprogrammed thanks to my clumsy Italian and my lousy French. I talked my head off, which is always counterproductive, and all I gathered was that Valérie was somehow between two stools. She no longer knew what she wanted, because scarcely had I come into her life when—ta-daaa!—David popped up like an internet banner ad that you can click off as often as you like but that still reappears again and again. I called him Petit-Four David, because he kept throwing her emotional tidbits to which she responded mistrustfully but eagerly, as though starving. He resembled a comet that circles its sun in an elongated ellipse without ever coming close enough to burn up. David was the thorn in Valérie’s heart, the unanswered question, the eternal disturber of her equilibrium.

But let’s not delude ourselves, the second hardest thing is to realize that we can never change anyone. Only ourselves, but that’s the hardest thing of all, and we usually prefer not to. I do, anyway. What I did want, though, just for once, was to be better than my Auntie Poldi at one thing: letting go. I didn’t want her to lose another woman friend on my account, so I tried at least to be self-sacrificing.

“In that case, let’s just remain friends,” I said feebly, feeling immensely self-sacrificing and mature, like a character in a Hollywood movie in which a couple who were made for each other have to spend half a lifetime apart before reuniting in their twilight years.

“Go to hell!” Valérie hissed angrily. “Mon Dieu!”

We were going in circles, and red wine never helps. I wanted to ask what she meant, but she abruptly changed the subject.

“I’m worried about your aunt.”

“Eh? Why, exactly?”

“I think she’s in real trouble.”

“Oh, it’s just a tempest in a teapot. Poldi has everything under control.”

Valérie stared at me.

“Mon Dieu, what has to happen before you take off that supercool mask of yours?”

“Er, meaning?”

“What if she died tomorrow? Is ‘eh?’ and ‘er’

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