The Puppeteer (14 page)

Pisanelli raised his eyes to look at Trotti. “Was he guilty?”

Trotti poured more wine into the glasses.

Pisanelli drank thirstily before asking, “Was he guilty, in your opinion, Commissario?”

Trotti shook his head. “I don’t know.” He added, “I didn’t know then—and I still don’t.”

“But you had an opinion.”

“I liked him—but I didn’t believe him.”

“Then he was guilty?”

Trotti threw up his hands. “Drink your wine, Pisanelli.”

Pisanelli did as he was told; then he emptied the bottle into his glass. “It really is very good.”

“Glad you like it.”

“You think Maltese came here to see you?”

“I told you, Pisanelli. I don’t know.”

“One thing is certain.” The same foolish grin. “Uras and Suergiu aren’t going to tell anybody.” He paused. “Perhaps that’s why they were killed.”

“Well done.”

Pisanelli shrugged. “I don’t see how else you can explain their deaths.”

“The Sardinians?”

“You saw, Commissario. Shot in the back of the neck and left in the trunk of your car. Organized crime, Southern crime—it’s the way the Mafia works.”

The two bodies had lain like mangled fetuses in the trunk of the Opel. Blood covered the rubber matting, giving it an unpleasant, metallic odor. The Carabiniere, who only a second ago had been risking his life, turned away to vomit. And from out of nowhere the flies appeared, settling on the two maimed corpses.

The right hand of each man had been severed at the wrist.

Pisanelli emptied his glass. “They have been silenced.”

“But the photograph was there.”

“What?”

“I left a photograph in the glove box—a photo of the Guerra girl and they—”

The phone rang.

Trotti went out into the hall.

“Commissario Trotti?”

“Speaking.” Outside the warm kitchen, the hall was cold.

“Mareschini here.”

Trotti said, “Ah.”

“I heard you were back in Gardesana.”

“Word travels fast, Capitano.”

“I heard you were back and I wondered if I could ask you to
drop by tomorrow. I would have come and visited you personally this evening—but after the events outside Piacenza …”

“Then you know that Uras and Suergiu have been found murdered?”

“Commissario Trotti, there are certain points concerning your statement …” He coughed. “Points that aren’t exactly clear.”

Trotti waited in silence.

“So if you could drop by tomorrow …”

“I’ll try.”

“I must ask you to collaborate, Commissario. The whole affair is very unfortunate and I want to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.”

“In the morning, Capitano.” Trotti hung up.

Back in the kitchen, he took Pisanelli’s plate and put it in the sink.

“Would you like a cup of camomile before you go to bed—it’ll help you sleep?”

“It’s a bit early to go to bed.”

“We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.” Trotti rummaged through the cupboards and took out a glass jar. “If you want to go to bed, why not take a shower?”

“Excellent wine.”

Trotti poured water into a saucepan and then set it on the gas ring.

Before long the water was bubbling. Trotti poured the steaming liquid onto the dried camomile flowers. He looked at Pisanelli. As if seeing the face for the first time, Trotti realized that Pisanelli had aged.

“A bullet in the back of the neck.” Pisanelli shook his head. “And neither of them older than me.” He sighed. “They deserved better than a car trunk for a grave—even if they were murderers.”

Trotti sucked his teeth. “Uras and Suergiu weren’t murderers.”

“They killed Maltese.”

“Sardinian shepherds—what would they have known about professional killing?”

“And they beat you up, Commissario.”

Trotti said nothing and Pisanelli, after waiting for a bit, stood up and went unsteadily out of the kitchen. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

His shoes creaked on the marble as he walked along the hall and began to make his hesitant way up the stairs.

Trotti drank the camomile in the dining room, in front of the silent television; his own reflection bounced off the curved grey screen. He thought about Maltese.

Trotti put his head back on the soft leather of the armchair—it used to be the favorite of Agnese’s father and nobody else was allowed to sit in it—and stared at the ceiling.

Somebody had been setting Maltese up—and Maltese had gone like a lamb to his own slaughter.

Trotti closed his eyes. His grip on the hot cup loosened.

“P
IERO, THE DOOR
was open.”

She was standing beside him, looking down.

“How did you get in?”

“I met Signora Baccoli as she was coming up the drive.”

“And what’s she going to say about your visiting a married man at this late hour?”

“Piero, Signora Baccoli has known me for more than forty years.”

The laughter was light, almost girlish.

Trotti stood up and kissed her on the cheek. Donatella smiled, a genuine smile that was wide and friendly. For a few seconds, they stood looking at each other with their hands loosely clasped.

“I hear you’re a grandmother. Congratulations.”

“And not a day over forty-three.”

Trotti said, “I was forty-three once.”

“And you’ve still got your hair.” Her hand brushed his forehead.

Trotti turned away, slightly embarrassed. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Papa told me you were here.” She pulled up an armchair and sat down, crossing one ankle across her knee. She had the same golden hair—years ago, the boys in the village used to call her “la Tedesca” because she was as blonde as a heroine from
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
. Her face was still smooth and young—soft features, light eyes and skin that was Mediterranean in comparison with her hair.

“The contadina has made some cannelloni. Would you like to heat it up?”

“Dear Piero, always worrying, always anxious.” She shook her head in amusement and the large smile revealed the gap in her teeth. “Tell me how you are. Two years is a long time, Piero.”

“I saw you last year, Donatella.”

She wagged her finger. “You can’t be bothered to come and see me in Sesto San Giovanni—and you never come to the lake anymore.”

“I was in Sesto a couple of weeks ago.” Now he smiled. “But I thought you had got married?”

She threw her head back to laugh; then she caught sight of the framed photograph. “And your wife?”

“Agnese’s in America.”

“She’s still very beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“That’s just like you, isn’t it? Very detached, distant—but I can remember when you were first married—and you were so in love with your wife. You’ve always been in love with her.” Again she glanced round the room. “You know, Piero, I’ve only been here once before.” She looked at the photograph of Agnese’s father. She stood up and went to the mantelpiece. “Where was this taken?”

“At the Istituto Zootecnico that he had in Brescia.”

She turned, holding her hands behind her back. She was smiling.

“There’s a moon over the lake. Let’s go outside for a moment.”

“You need a sweater—it’s cold out. I’ll go and fetch one.”

When he came back, the dining room door was open. Donatella’s light perfume still lay on the air. He went out onto the verandah—outside the air was chill—down the iron steps and through the small gate. He walked across the beach; the pebbles scraped beneath his shoes.

“I’m over here.”

She looked like a little girl in the dark. She was sitting at the end of the wooden jetty, her hands clasped round her knees. The moonlight glanced off her hair; otherwise she was in the shadow. “Piero, come and sit down beside me.”

“You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Always worrying, Piero.” She tapped the wooden plank. “Sit down and you can keep me warm.”

Beneath them the softly splashing water lapped around the wooden posts of the pontoon.

“Papa told me what happened.”

“The shooting?”

She nodded.

“The man—it was Ramoverde’s son.”

“Ramoverde—I can remember that.” She was leaning her cheek against her knees. “I can remember, you were here on the lake—and you had to leave your wife. She wasn’t very pleased.”

“Understandably. She was pregnant with Pioppi.”

“How is Pioppi?”

Trotti did not reply.

“Well?”

“Donatella, what d’you want me to say?”

“Tell me how your daughter is.”

“She’s a brilliant student … and she gets top marks in everything at the university. She wants to become a town planner and she says she wants to work in Bologna.”

“Then you ought to be very proud of her. She’s acquired your intelligence. And if she’s anything like her mother, she must be very beautiful—very beautiful indeed.”

“She looks like a skeleton.”

“A skeleton? Why?”

“She doesn’t want to eat.”

“Why not?”

“If I knew, I’d try and do something to help her.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“Pioppi refuses to go to the doctor. She says there’s nothing
wrong with her—simply that she’s not hungry.” Trotti shook his head. “She can’t keep her food down. Sometimes she vomits.”

“But, Piero, you must send her to the doctor.”

“My daughter is no longer a child—and she does as she pleases.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Donatella said, “Only yesterday. Time flies—I can remember Pioppi when she was in her pram—and now …” She sighed. “It seems scarcely more than a couple of years ago. Pioppi’s a grown woman—like my own daughter Valeria.” She shook her head and the moonlight danced on the blonde hair. “Time passes so fast and we don’t have time to enjoy our children.” She hugged her knees and stared out at the water. “Valeria’s married now and has a child of her own.”

“She’s happy?”

Donatella took his hand but without looking at him. Her perfume was sweet; not one of Agnese’s French perfumes, but light, with a hint of lemon. “I was always jealous of your wife.” She turned and an oblique ray of light was caught in the iris of her eye. “It was 1960, wasn’t it? That’s when Papa bought the bar—we’d been living in Rome. 1960 and that’s when I first saw you with your wife. She was pregnant and you were so proud of her. I saw you once walking along the road to San Giorgio—now they’ve built a luxury residence for all the Germans—but in those days, there were just the olive groves and the meadows that ran down to the edge of the lake. I saw you picnicking there.” Again the light laugh. “I can even remember the checkered cloth that you were sitting on.”

She fell silent.

“That was a long time ago, Donatella.”

“I was jealous of her—and that’s why I wanted to be pregnant. It wasn’t very difficult, I can assure you—behind the old parish church with Gianni Potta. My God, that was a mistake. He never wanted to marry me—and I shouldn’t have forced him. In his way, he’s not a bad man. Violent—and I soon realized that I could never live with him. But at the time, I wanted Valeria to have a father. So we got married and in those days, there was
no divorce.” She turned and in the light, he saw the brightness of her smile. “Poor Gianni—he now works in Sweden. Married and done well for himself.”

“You’ve done well for yourself, too, Donatella. You have a beautiful daughter—and now a grandson.”

“Time hurries past and you don’t notice a thing—it’s other people who seem to be getting older. And then one day you look in the mirror and you see all the wrinkles and you know that you’re old. And you know that those days—days that you thought would last forever—are never coming back.”

“You’re young and pretty.”

“I’m an old woman!”

Trotti said, “We can go back inside.”

Donatella placed her head on his shoulder. “Hold me, Piero. Keep me warm.”

“P
IERO
!” T
HE WOMAN
gave him a large smile and held out her hand above the high counter.

“Signora Pia, how are you?”

The smile vanished. “But how are you, Piero? I saw you nearly get killed on Friday—if you hadn’t jumped backwards, that car would have killed you.”

“I’m all right—a few bruises.”

“And that stupid Massimo—he’s a good boy but he doesn’t always understand.” She shrugged. “It’s not always easy to find people who want to stay on in the village. They go away to Brescia or Milan—where they can escape from their families. Massimo is a good boy but …”

The air was warm with the smell of fresh bread and Signora Pia, standing behind the counter, wearing a white overall, was smiling at Trotti. Unlike her sister, Pia’s face was gentle, despite the marks that time and worry had left upon it.

Pisanelli stood by the window, eating a doughnut. Already the granules of sugar had nestled into his mustache.

“I would like to ask you a few questions, Signora Pia.” Trotti glanced at the other customers. “In private if you don’t mind. Just for a few minutes.”

The woman came out from behind the counter—she had a short, sturdy frame, and although she was nearly seventy, she moved briskly. Her legs were strong. Her white hair was held in
tight permanent waves. She went to the door and pulled down the blind. Then hurriedly she served the remaining customers.

“And you, signore?”

Pisanelli shook his head.

“The gentleman is with me,” Trotti said tersely.

Signora Pia led Trotti into the back of the shop. High ovens and a smell of flour. It was very hot. Trotti recognized Massimo, who was standing near an automatic mixing machine. The boy looked up and nudged at his thick glasses. There was no recognition in the eyes.

She looked carefully at the bruises on his face. “You must look after yourself, Piero,” the woman said, placing her hand on his arm.

“I’m all right—but I need your help.” He lowered his voice. “Your sister tells me that you saw the car.”

“I nearly saw you run over. And if Massimo hadn’t braked in time, he might well have been killed—and what would his mother have done without the wages that he brings home?”

“They murdered the man—and he died in my arms.” He looked at her. “But you didn’t tell the Carabinieri.”