Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano Read Free Book Online Page B

floodlights. As if that were not enough, big torches were burning on either side of the entrance. Poldi was amazed at how secluded this mansion was. Unlike Femminamorta, however, it had about as much charm as the HiperSimply car park. She also doubted whether Goethe had really overnighted or written a poem there.
    But Hölderlin, not Goethe, was the prevailing spirit in the Pastorella household, and Poldi encountered him as soon as she crossed the threshold. She glimpsed the shadowy form out of the corner of her eye as it almost soundlessly darted towards her out of the gloom.
    My aunt was fond of dogs, as I have said.
    With one exception: dogs with sharp muzzles, slit eyes and bat-like ears – long-legged, glossy black packets of muscle. Poldi considered them the embodiment of malignity.
    The Dobermann suddenly materialized in front of her. An adult male with enormous balls, it came up almost to her chest. Its growl was so spine-chilling that Poldi’s scream died in her throat and all that emerged was a strangled squeak. She stood rooted to the spot.
    So did Valérie, but she recovered herself in an instant. “Shush, you brute,” she cried. “Shush, ’Ölderlin. Piss off.”
    The Dobermann had no intention of doing so. On the contrary, it bared still more of its immaculate teeth and tensed its muscles in readiness to spring at their throats. Poldi felt sure her time had come, and for one brief moment she found that prospect a lousy idea.
    â€œBut you don’t mind dying of cirrhosis of the liver, eh?” I blurted out later, when she was telling me the whole story.
    â€œNow you’re talking like Teresa. You don’t know the meaning of genuine despair.”
    â€œCarry on, I’m listening.”
    â€œNo, you aren’t, you keep on interrupting me. You were like that as a boy. Know what your father said to me once? It was lucky you didn’t speak better Italian, or you’d talk us into the ground.”
    â€œSo why are we sitting here, then?”
    â€œBecause hope is the last thing to die,” said my aunt.
    Which brought us back to the subject of death, hope and Hölderlin.
    â€œHölderlin. Sit.”
    Salvation appeared in the shape of a white-haired gentleman with slender hands, dainty gestures and a mellifluous voice.
    Hölderlin responded to his command as if Jupiter himself had spoken. He throttled back his growls from volume ten to three, lowered his bat-like ears and meekly sat down on his huge balls.
    â€œBeg your pardon, my dears,” the master of the house said softly, fondling the Dobermann’s head. “Hölderlin is in his Sturm und Drang mode, but he’s really such a sensitive soul.”
    Mimì kissed Valérie lightly on both cheeks before turning his full attention to Poldi. Or rather, to her cleavage.
    â€œYou must be Donna Isolde,” he said in German, and kissed her hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
    â€œPoldi. Plain Poldi,” replied my aunt, who was gradually recovering her habitual composure.
    â€œBut how mundane that sounds for such a…” Mimì gulped, “… for a beauty such as yourself, signora. Where have you sprung from?”
    â€œTorre Archirafi. Via Munich.”
    â€œAh. Munich isn’t far from Hölderlin’s Tübingen, is it?”
    â€œJust around the corner, so to speak.”
    Mimì beamed at Poldi and offered her his arm. “Are you fond of Hölderlin?”
    Poldi squinted at the Dobermann, which was just trotting off with a blasé air. “Well, we’ve had a rather difficult relationship up to now.”
    â€œTrust me, Donna Isolde, I shall open your eyes to a new cosmos.”
    Without paying any more attention to Valérie, Mimì led my Auntie Poldi into the house and introduced her to his wife. Carmela looked a good thirty years younger than him, but Poldi wasn’t entirely sure because she’d