Auntie Poldi and the Handsome Antonio by Mario Giordano

Author:Mario Giordano
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781328518415
Publisher: HMH Books
Published: 2020-08-04T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

I felt like a condemned man on his way to the gulag. Poldi told me to pack a few things and be quick about it.

“Just the bare essentials for two or three days,” she decreed impatiently. “We won’t be any longer than that, and the Maserati isn’t a family sedan.”

“But it’ll be dark soon,” I protested feebly.

I felt sick. Setting out on a suicide mission without much sleep was a nerve-racking prospect.

“Can’t we leave tomorrow morning?”

She brushed my pathetic objection aside. “Every hour counts from now on. I’ve wasted enough time bringing you up to date, but there was no alternative. Please hurry.”

Soon afterwards we shoehorned our small bags into the measly boot. The Maserati Spyder with its tiny rear seat affords only enough room for two adults and two hobbits, plus lunch bags, and the roof is so low that even a person of average height would repeatedly hit their head on it.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” I muttered. “I must be absolutely mad, getting myself involved in this caper.”

“You’re a regular Sancho Panza, did you know that?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning personalities have a binary structure, just like luck. You’re either a Don Quixote or a Sancho Panza. One always wants to ride headlong into escapades, the other prefers to stay home. But every Sancho Panza needs a Don Quixote and vice versa, believe me, so quit bellyaching and drive.”

“Drive to where, pray?”

“Catania. First we have to pick up the satnav.”

“What satnav?”

“The special one covering Sicily, of course. Stop asking stupid questions. Just drive.”

That meant nothing to me, but by now I’d reached a stage where I just didn’t care. To soothe my nerves, I concentrated on my novel. This would simply turn out to be a grotesque research trip, I surmised, and I pictured myself describing it later on chat shows. If the truth be told, I didn’t really believe that Poldi was hell-bent on tangling with a bunch of Mafiosi. She might calm down during the drive, or so I hoped. In any event, it would certainly be better if she didn’t embark on this hare-brained venture solo.

Poldi directed me straight into Catania’s evening rush-hour traffic. I like that city’s blend of baroque and art nouveau and volcanic basalt, especially on summer nights, when sodium street lights cast a magical glow over the city centre, the cathedral, the black elephants, the Piazza Università, the Via Etnea, the narrow side streets, the palm-fringed avenues, the garbage dumps, the deserted fish market and the air of decay. One could believe one was somewhere in the tropics.

I recall long nights spent with my cousin Ciro and emerging into the Via Alessi in the small hours from the Trattoria Nievski, where all the well-tanned jeunesse of Catania hung out. Where they drank beer from plastic cups, smoked pot, canoodled and talked anticapitalism. Where the music was loud and the girls were pert and pretty—​and where shy, inhibited me felt like the gooseberry of all gooseberries.

But before we puttered home

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