Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano Page A

eyelash.
    â€œI’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you there, signora. Valentino hasn’t turned up for work for the last three days. My foreman called his parents, and they had no idea of his whereabouts either. But bene , if he doesn’t want to work, nobody’s forcing him.”
    â€œYou sound a little piqued.”
    Russo smiled again. “Valentino is a boy with a lot of potential. A shame he isn’t a bit more reliable.”
    That appeared to conclude the conversation as far as he was concerned, because he turned back to Patanè, who was standing beside Poldi and eyeing her nervously.
    â€œPerhaps you know the whereabouts of Femminamorta’s missing lion?” Poldi persisted, but Russo seemed equally unperturbed by this question. He merely turned to Valérie with a look of surprise.
    â€œ Is one missing, signorina? That’s most regrettable.”
    And that was the end of that, because Carmela clapped her hands and said, “Dinner is served.”
    Instantly, like stampeding cattle, the guests trooped into the dining room. Mimì seized Poldi’s hand and gallantly steered her to the head of the table. “Sit beside me, Donna Isolde. I must tell you all about my Hölderlin biography.”
    Poldi saw Patanè practically barge an elderly lady aside in order to sit next to Russo. She would have liked to continue questioning the latter, but she had no chance to do so for the next two hours, which were devoted to food. The menu:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Risotto ai fiori d’arancio
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Timballo di pasta ripieno di ragù
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Frittata di mascolini
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Caponata
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Sorbetto di olio d’oliva
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Involtini di pesce spada
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Sarde a beccafico su finocchio selvatico
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Cassata della nonna
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Formaggi e profumi della Sicilia
    Meanwhile, two liveried Moroccans tirelessly bore in trays, terrines and dishes as if producing them from some subterranean, inexhaustible cornucopia of delicacies. Involuntarily reminded of the effort it cost her to slave over a simple leg of roast pork, Poldi was filled with admiration for Carmela, who had cooked this all yet looked as fresh as a spray of orange blossom at dawn.
    Twelve guests, as already mentioned, but food for thirty. The wine, however, sufficed for only four. This aroused a certain measure of dissatisfaction in my aunt, though she did find it amusing when four-legged Hölderlin stuck his head in Russo’s crotch and refused to budge. Russo didn’t budge either.
    â€œI’ve had Dobermanns for fifty years,” Mimì whispered to Poldi, “and I named each of them Hölderlin.”
    â€œA form of immortality in itself,” she said, before she could stop herself.
    Valérie nearly choked.
    Mimì clapped his hands in delight. “Bravo, Donna Isolde. At last a kindred spirit who can see into the depths of my heart.”
    Hölderlin-wise, this dispelled the last of Mimì’s modesty and restraint. Forza Hölderlin. Hölderlin ruled the waves. Leaning over Poldi like a junk in a gale, Mimì spent the whole evening raving to her about his idol from Tübingen, recited his hymns, patriotic poems and Hyperion , and expatiated on the poet’s insanity (which Mimì disputed), his many years of seclusion in a