Dad turned off Tom Tom because Tom Tom kept telling us, in his robotic-newsreader voice, to go straight ahead. There were two other cars in front that had been blocked by the tree. Of course, no one in those cars spoke English. Although it really didn't matter because the problem was obvious.
The driver of the first car told us in sign language that he'd called someone on his cell I wished I knew how to say in Italian, Do you have a plan B? But I was pretty sure the answer was no.
Everyone was standing round as though someone was going to have some brilliant idea as to how the enormous tree could be moved. A couple of times we leaned up against the trunk of the tree and pushed. Nothing happened, except the mountain rumbled again and the smell of rotten egg gas got stronger. Everyone but us was talking real fast and waving their hands about. Gradually, more and more cars stopped behind our car.
Of course, no one had a chainsaw.
Charlie and me decided we should walk down the mountain. Dad and Mom didn't like the idea. We tried to convince them it was like having an each-way bet. Either we'd end up orphans or they'd end up childless. Mom didn't think it was funny and told us to be quiet. Actually, Charlie and me didn't think it was that funny either. We were just desperate.
But then Mom said to us in a real soft voice, "If anything happens to Dad and me, then you can live with any relative you like."
A cold shiver swept through me.
Then a small truck came round the bend. The driver got out and started talking to the other Italians. Everyone got excited. I wished I could understand them. Why hadn't Mom's parents taught her Italian? A translation would've been better than nothing. Dad paced up and down. Then the driver got two crowbars and some bits of wood out of his truck. Where was the chainsaw?
First, we had to move our cars away from the fallen tree. The driver lined up the crowbars under the tree and yelled instructions. Three men, including Dad, got on each crowbar and managed to lift the tree onto the bits of wood. Everything took forever, lifting the tree, moving the wood, resting the tree back on the wood and doing it all again so eventually the tree would swing around closer to the side of the road. Everyone got involved, even me and Charlie. We worked in two teams, so one team got a rest while the other one did the hard work.
After what seemed like hours, the tree had moved enough for all the cars to drive around it. We all slapped each other on the back, said Grazie, Arrivederci, Ciao lots of times and got back in our cars just as Etna rumbled again.
We flopped back in our seats. My body ached all over.
Dad laughed. "What a great story."
He was so predictable. The closer we came to dying the happier Dad was, because he'd have a great story to tell his golfing mates.
It was dark by the time we got back to the hotel. For once we agreed about dinner. We didn't need it; we were too tired to eat. Mom didn't even say, Having a shower isn't optional. We all just wanted to sleep.
Two Carabinieri and their machine guns were still on guard outside the hotel. They stood either side of the entrance staring straight ahead like they were guarding Buckingham Palace. A doorman opened the door for Charlie and me.
The moment I walked through the door I felt a hand on my shoulder. A voice with an Italian accent said, "Please come with me."
I looked up to see a Carabiniere.
"What for?" At first I thought there must be a mistake.
"Yeah, what for?" Charlie wasn't so polite.
"We'd like to ask you some questions pertaining to the death of Franco Petruzzelli."
An electric shock zapped through me. Franco had been murdered!
The Carabiniere waved us down a corridor and into an office.
"Our parents should be with us," said Charlie, who always knew his rights.
He laughed. "They are on their way."
We sat down in front of a desk. A Carabiniere was sitting at the desk and talking on the phone. Of course, we couldn't understand a word he was saying. He had thick black hair; it looked like a bad wig.
Mom and Dad looked liked they'd suddenly woken up. They sat real straight on the chairs against the wall.
The guy behind the desk hung up the phone, leaned over and shook our hands. Then he introduced himself to Mom and Dad and thanked us for talking with him. As if we had a choice. He said to Charlie and me, "Yesterday, you met with Mr. Petruzzelli at the pool?"
"Yes," we both replied.
"And what did you talk about?"
I wanted to ask how he'd been murdered and if he really was our great uncle, but I didn't. "He asked us where we came from and if we liked football. He let us swim."
"Anything else?"
I was about to speak when I felt Charlie kick me. "No."
"So, no money changed hands?"
"What?"
"Did he give you money?"
Suddenly I realized that being given money by Mr. Mafia probably didn't look too good. I acted real offended. "No!"
He stared at me real hard. The color of his eyes was so dark; I couldn't tell where his pupils ended. "That's not what it looked like on the security camera."
I froze. I'd just been caught lying to a foreign military policeman who was in charge of men who carried machine guns.
I know what you're thinking, Geez, Max, how could you lie to a Carabiniere? I imagined spending the rest of my life in a Sicilian jail. I turned to Charlie for help. He was old and smart; he should be doing the talking.
Charlie said, "Mr. Petruzzelli asked us to send him Australian stamps when we got home. He insisted we take twenty euros."
"Stamps?" The Carabiniere didn't look like he believed Charlie.
"Yeah," replied Charlie. "The things you stick on letters so they'll be delivered."
The Carabiniere looked up at the other officer, who was standing at the door, and said something in Italian. The officer left and soon came back with one of Franco's bodyguards. They discussed something in Italian and then the bodyguard left.
The Carabiniere said to us, "Unbelievable. We thought we knew everything about Franco Petruzzelli. We didn't know he was an enthusiastic collector of stamps." He sighed and sat back in his chair.
I turned to Mom and blurted out, "Are we related to Franco?"
"What?" The Carabiniere leaned forward.
"Of course not." Mom didn't sound happy. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
I said to her, "Why did you send us up to meet him at the pool?"
"I suggested you go and have a swim." She sounded offended. "How would I have known he was there?"
I slumped and looked down at my trainers. "Oh." Even if we weren't related to him, it was still sad that he'd been murdered. Every year before Christmas, I would've sent him lots of stamps.
Charlie said to Mom, "We thought you might be related to him and you set up an accidental meeting. We thought it might be cool to be related to a mafia boss."
Mom and Dad couldn't help laughing and then the Carabinieri guys laughed too. Charlie and me looked at each other and started laughing too.
Dad would tell this Charlie and Max being dumb story for the rest of his life. Then we went quiet as though all at the same time we remembered Franco was dead.
The Carabiniere shook our hands. "That will be all," he said. "You know airport closed, because Mount Etna a little upset at the moment. Anyway, please don't leave Taormina. We might need to speak to you again."