âWellwellwellwhatâsallthisthen?â Which, in mongrel speak, meant, âYes, thatâs right, youâre welcome to jump up and scrabble me with your dirty paws.â The two mutts, which needed no second bidding, left big, black smears of volcanic soil, humus and dust on her caftan. Then, before Poldi could curse, they scampered off in search of rats and more adventures.
Dusty, sweaty and grimy, Poldi was promptly intercepted in the lobby of Russoâs palm-tree empire by two security guards in black tracksuit bottoms and sports shirts and ushered off the premises. âVery sorry, signora, but you need an appointment â no, nothing to be done without an appointment, Signor Russoâs a very busy man â no, you really canât see him without an appointment, no, not even if you have come specially from Germany, send us an email or phone for an appointment with one of our garden consultants, theyâll gladly call on you without obligation and give you an estimate, but youâre also welcome to order online, have a nice evening, signora.â
âI did tell you,â Valérie sighed when Poldi returned, crestfallen, to Femminamorta.
The two mongrels, Oscar and Lady, were good-naturedly rollicking around her and biting each otherâs tails. Grumpy and thirsty, Poldi flopped down behind the wheel of her Alfa. She badly needed a beer to dispel the frustration and thirst that were warring within her.
Valérie came over to the driverâs window. âDo you really think something has happened to Valentino?â
âI donât know,â Poldi grunted wearily. âI simply want to find him before it does, know what I mean?â
Valérie nodded. âBut Russo employs more than a hundred people. Why should he know where one of his part-timers has got to?â
Poldi was feeling really thirsty now. She needed a beer. Or two. Or something stronger. Most of all, she wanted it quickly, but she gave Valérieâs question some thought.
âKnow what itâs like when you wake up in the morning and something is troubling you? An almost imperceptible change in the temperature? The wind has veered, the light is different, something is creeping up on you, the ice beneath your feet is creaking softly. Perhaps you had a bad dream that was meant to warn you, but you canât remember it. Thereâs nothing left but this sense of unease that pursues you all day long, whispering unintelligibly in your ear.â
Valérie stared at her.
âWhat I mean is, Valérie ââ
The young woman made a dismissive gesture. âI think I get it. Would you care to accompany me to an informal little serata this evening, Poldi? The host is a cousin of my fatherâs. Heâs a frightful bore, but his wife Carmela is a fantastic cook. Sheâs recently been doing a show on Channel Five where she presents clever variations on traditional Sicilian dishes.â
âIsnât there some young man who would give his right arm for the chance to escort you?â
Valérie laughed. âMaybe Iâd sooner go with a woman friend. Besides, Russo is also invited.â
Poldi beamed.
The serata proved to be rather less free and easy than expected because the host, Domenico Pastorella di Belfiore, known as Mimì, was a great admirer of the German poet Hölderlin.
3
                  Tells of Poldiâs introduction to Hölderlin, of some less impoverished descendants of the Sicilian Bourbons, and of what there was to eat. In a fit of melancholy, Poldi really lets fly. When sheâs sober again she makes an unpleasant discovery and dials the wrong number.
Shortly before nine, when Valérie collected Poldi from Torre to chauffeur her to Acireale, the French girl was wearing a strapless, figure-hugging black dress and sneakers. Poldi, freshly showered, titivated and discreetly scented, had
Learning to Kill: Stories