The Puppeteer (17 page)

“When did your sister come back to Italy?”

“For all I know Ramoverde was responsible for Papa’s death.”

“When did your sister return to Italy?”

“Is this
Lascia o Raddoppia
? Or some other stupid television quiz?”

“Please answer my question. When did Matilde return?”

“I’ve just told you. Her husband died—what remained for her in Argentina? The boy had grown up—he had a life of his own. He went to Milan University. Not a very persevering child—he gave it all up to become a journalist. A second-rate journalist.”

“When did your sister return? What year?”

The woman put her cup on the floor where one of the cats moved towards it stealthily. “I don’t know what your name is—oh, yes, I do, it’s Trotti and I’ve heard about you, Commissario Trotti—I’ve heard a lot about you. I should be most grateful if you and your comatose friend would leave me alone. You’re behaving like thugs. You ask me awkward, useless questions. I don’t remember these things—and anyway, they’re best forgotten. Ramoverde—Douglas Ramoverde was a mistake of my sister’s making. It was nothing to do with me. And anyway, it was all a very long time ago.” Her head turned and for a moment Trotti had the impression that the old eyes were staring at the flight of stairs where the body of her father had once lain.

“D’you ever see your nephew?

“Why does that matter?”

“Last week, a young man was gunned down in cold blood. In Gardesana, on Lake Garda. He called himself Maltese. But I have good reason to believe he was your nephew.”

“How strange.”

“H
AVE YOU SEEN
the newspaper?”

Trotti looked at his watch. “What time is it?”

“I think you ought to have a look.”

Trotti sat up in his bed. It was still dark, although first light was creeping round the edge of the shutters. “Why do you have to wake me up?”

A brief laugh. “On page two of the
Popolo d’Italia
there’s a photograph of your friend. Of your dead friend.”

“Who?”

“Novara—the journalist.”

“What are you talking about, Magagna?”

“Shot dead in the street of the …” He paused, as if he were reading. “Of the sixteenth arrondissement.”

“Who?”

“In Paris. You asked me to find him, Commissario. Open the paper and he’s there. Novara—the man behind the smear campaigns.” Again the laugh followed by raucous, heavy breathing.

“You smoke too much, Magagna.”

“Shot in the back of the head as he was returning from a local restaurant.” Magagna paused. “More effective than cigarettes, you’ll agree.”

“Where are you phoning from?”

“Monza. I’m still on my case.”

“Drugs?”

“This is a public phone,” Magagna said sharply. Then he added, “Why else do you think I’d want to come to Monza?” A brief, humorless cough. “If Novara knew anything about Maltese’s death, he’s not going to tell you. Not now.”

It was a moment before Trotti replied, “Novara and Maltese were journalists—and they knew what they were up against. Unless they were complete fools, they knew the rule.”

“The rule, Commissario?”

“Information is dangerous if you’re the only person to possess it. Information is power, but if you are alone in having access to that power, you—and the information—can be eliminated. With a bullet.”

The sound of a cigarette being lit.

Suddenly Trotti felt very clear-headed. “Maltese knew that he could be killed. That’s why he was hiding—but he wouldn’t have been stupid enough not to share his knowledge. A life insurance.”

“A life insurance that didn’t pay off.” Magagna added, “Now Novara is dead.”

“There’s still the girl.” Trotti said. “The Guerra girl. Unless I’m mistaken, she knows more than she admits to.”

“Good luck, Commissario.” Magagna laughed and hung up.

W
HEN HE WOKE
again, Trotti could feel the heat of the sun on the wooden blinds, and when he opened the windows, he realized that summer had come to the Po Valley. Beyond the new block of flats, with their rows of matching green sun blinds, the fields stretched out flat and windless, broken only by the occasional line of gaunt plane trees. There was a morning mist and from somewhere came the peal of church bells.

Morning traffic hurried along via Milano. Petrol fumes mingled with other, more pleasant smells of summer.

It was time he took the Ganna out of the garage and oiled it. He had grown flabby over the winter and cycling to work each day would help him get rid of the extra kilos. And perhaps, Trotti shrugged, he would give up eating sweets.

Trotti yawned, stretched and then found that he was humming. In the mirror, he smiled at his own reflection.
Turandot
. He wondered whether summer had arrived in New York.

Pioppi had left for the university.

He put on the coffee, then showered and shaved. With just a towel around his waist—the bruises had all but disappeared—he sat down for breakfast while listening to the radio. The same advertisements for antacids and more news from Argentina. The radio on the refrigerator spoke of the British fleet moving south. Belligerent words from London and Argentina.

Argentina.

On his father’s side, there was a whole section of the family that had gone south. Originally it was to farm, but later a couple of uncles had entered the building trade. They had left the countryside and with a slow, steady accumulation of wealth, they had settled in the residential suburbs of Buenos Aires. Sometimes at Christmas there was a card from Placido Trotti, a distant cousin and now a wealthy lawyer.

Children with Spanish names.

The English did not need the islands.

Again Trotti found himself smiling as he felt the irrational antagonism rising. The heritage, perhaps, of a fascist childhood and the posters and slogans painted on walls that reviled the English. Five meals a day and a place in the sun. Half the world painted red and up in arms because Italy dared to invade Abyssinia.

In the last months of the war, Trotti had met several Englishmen. Later, much later, he discovered that one of them—a pilot with a broken jaw and tanned skin—had gone on to become the Prime Minister of his country somewhere in Africa. They had all treated the Italians like animals.

Trotti had preferred the Americans, who were generous and handed out cigarettes and chewing gum and kissed the girls. The Americans—even the black men with their round, shiny faces and brilliant teeth beneath the lopsided helmets—had seemed more human.

He drank the coffee and glanced at his watch. It was not yet eight o’clock.

It was early for Pioppi to have left. He looked round the kitchen, wondering whether she had eaten any breakfast. The place was spotless. He opened the refrigerator. Nothing had been taken.

“Papa!”

For a moment he thought he was dreaming. It was Pioppi’s voice. He stood up and went to the window. On the radio, the man was making an announcement about washing powder. Trotti opened the kitchen blinds.

“Papa!”

The same plaintive call for help. It ran through him like a cold shiver, like the time she had fallen and hurt her back. Trotti spun round and went into her bedroom.

It was dark, the blinds were drawn and there was an unpleasant smell. The smell of sickness.

“I thought you’d gone to the university.”

A bed lamp had been left on by the desk; held in its ring of brightness, several books lay open. Pioppi was on her bed. Thin like an insect, like a locust. The gaunt, drawn face that once had been so pretty. The eyes moved slowly, with difficulty, with pain. She was crying.

“What’s the matter?”

She looked like an old woman. His daughter had not even taken off her jeans. “Papa,” she said and tried to form other words but the lips merely trembled. The eyes looked at him with imploring intensity.

Her breath was fetid. Trotti moved to her bedside and he was aware of pain in his chest—of a pain that he had never known before. Something tangible that he could feel swelling up, almost preventing him from breathing. An anger. A burning resentment for his own loneliness.

He realized in that moment that he hated Agnese. She had forsaken him and she had forsaken her own daughter.

“Papa, help me.” Pioppi’s voice was hoarse. “Papa, please help me.”

“S
HE
’
S ALL RIGHT
.”

The nurse was a girl with the accent of Emilia and short hair beneath the white cap. She took Trotti by the arm. She was gentle but firm.

“My daughter must not die.”

She laughed kindly. “Your daughter will be out of here in twelve hours.”

“She doesn’t want to eat, you see.”

“You must go home, Commissario. Go home and relax.”

“I’ll wait.”

“That won’t help.” She smiled. “I will fill in the forms for you and you can go home. We’ll feed her.”

“But she won’t eat, you understand? She refuses to eat. Sometimes she’ll pretend to eat and then later she’ll go into the lavatory and force herself to vomit.”

What he said did not affect the nurse’s smile. “We’ll feed her.”

Trotti shook his head vehemently.

The girl accompanied the smile with a small shrug. “Please don’t worry. Not through the mouth but directly into the body.”

“She won’t eat, I tell you.”

“Commissario!”

Another voice.

“For six months now—ever since she started her course on town planning at the university—she’s been refusing to eat. It’s
my fault. And this morning, when I didn’t see her, I thought she’d gone to university. That’s all she ever does. The university and on Sunday she goes to church. If only she could …”

“Commissario Trotti!”

A hand was placed on his arm and almost reluctantly, Trotti allowed himself to be pulled round. “I thought I recognized you.”

The round rims of the glasses glinted. The emaciated face broke into a hollow smile. The tall man held out his hand. In the same moment, he gave the nurse a sideways glance. She nodded and hurried away, going through the swinging doors that closed in rubberized silence behind her.

Trotti watched her go.

Dottor Bottone linked his arm through Trotti’s. “Come, Commissario.” He led him out of the cool hall into the morning sunshine.

“I’ve always tried to give the best to Pioppi.”

The old florist and his daughter were doing brisk business on the other side of the road. A cart covered with flowers and several vases with their tight-budded roses and their neat carnations.

“I always think, Commissario, a hospital’s the last place for talking about these problems.”

T
HE
N
ONNA WAS
waiting for him and for an hour he sat with his mother, holding her cold hand and wanting to cry. His mother said nothing, but rocked herself back and forwards.

At six he drove back to the hospital but he was not allowed to see his daughter. A nurse informed him that Pioppi was sleeping.

He made a meal for his mother and then went back to his house on the other side of the garden. It was as he went up the stairs that he heard the telephone.

“Pronto?”

“Piero?”

A woman’s voice and for a second he thought it was Agnese.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to thank you for the other night.”

“Thank me, Donatella? What for?”

“You were very gentle.” There was a long pause. “I would like to see you again, Piero. Not in another four years but soon.”

“Pioppi’s in the hospital.” He added, “She’s very weak and they’re having to feed her.”

“Oh.” Along the line, her voice sounded distant, muffled. “Can I be of help?”

“For the time being, she’s in the doctors’ hands.”

“Would you like me to drive down, Piero? I’m here in Sesto and in an hour …”

Trotti smiled into the mouthpiece. The muscles of his face
were weary and his eyes felt gritty. For an instant he imagined Donatella, the brown eyes, the look of concern, and the blonde hair. “Not now, Donatella. I need to think. But thank you. Perhaps later.”

“Who’s going to look after your mother?”

“I’ll ask one of the neighbors.”

“I can help you, Piero, if you want me … That’s what women are for.”

“Thank you.”

“Kiss Pioppi for me. And ring me, won’t you, if there’s any news.”

T
HE SAME PORTER
.

The black shoes creaked officiously. “Wait a minute, dottore.” The small man crossed the green linoleum floor. He had taken off his peaked cap and held it beneath his arm. The other arm swung like a soldier’s. The blue serge suit was well-pressed but shiny. A non-commissioned officer in retirement.

The university porter tapped at the window of ground glass. He held his body slightly bent, in preparation for future obsequiousness.

The man entered the office and for a moment, Trotti waited. Unesco magazines on the table, an old typewriter and this morning’s
Provincia Padana
. A student was reading at the table, a mousy-haired girl with an unhealthy complexion who sat poring over a series of books. She wore glasses, a roll-neck sweater and her ample chest was supported by the edge of the table.

The girl’s fingers were ink-stained.

“Professor Baldassare will see you in a few minutes.” The porter reemerged from the door and whispered like an acolyte at High Mass.

Trotti brushed past the man and entered the office.

It was untidy.

Baldassare was sitting behind a desk with his feet propped against the edge. He was smoking and he raised his eyes in faint surprise.

Trotti stepped forward.

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

“Now,” Trotti said.

Another man sat near the desk. Large patches of damp had formed at his armpits. The smile on his face was frozen.

“Now, Professor Baldassare,” Trotti said. “And in private.”

The other man hesitated.

Trotti jerked his thumb towards the door. Then he laid his hand on the man’s arm. Trotti’s grip was firm and the man did not resist. He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and accompanied to the door.