The Puppeteer (21 page)

The nurse nodded.

“Then she shouldn’t be studying, for heaven’s sake.”

“You’ll wake her, Commissario, if you shout.” In the half-light, the nurse’s face was worried, as if she now regretted letting Trotti into the small room. “Sit down if you wish. But you must let the poor thing sleep.” She pushed a chair against the back of his legs and Trotti sat down slowly. “And her mother?”

“Still in America.”

The woman nodded and smiled. “Would you like me to bring you something to drink?” Lightly her hand touched his shoulder. Trotti looked up at the regular features and the short hair that caught the reflection of the bedside lamp.

“You’re very kind.”

Soon it would be midnight and Trotti was tired. Twice his eyes closed and he came awake with a violent jerk. He wanted to sleep, but at the same time he wanted to be with his daughter. He tried to think about her—how she had been when she was a little girl—the dolls, the strange, sweet lisp that he had almost
forgotten about. He thought about these things—but from time to time, he found his determination lagging and his head began to loll forward.

The nurse brought him a cup of coffee. “Café Hag,” she said.

“Thank you.”

She stood beside him, her hands clasped loosely together. “Your daughter is very beautiful, Commissario.”

“She takes after her mother.”

“She must have many admirers.”

Pioppi had remained a child for a long time—longer than her friends at school. But when the change came, it came suddenly and from that moment on—without even admitting it to himself, and while very happy to have a pretty, adolescent daughter—Trotti knew that he was going to lose her. Something that was special between them—a day would come when it would have to come to an end. There was going to be another man in her life, younger than him, better educated, richer, and the time would come when Pioppi would have to leave him. Trotti knew that his love for his daughter was tinged with jealousy.

But at the same time, thoughts of being a grandfather, of going up into the hills, of living in Santa Maria, were always there at the back of his mind.

“A man came in the afternoon to see her.”

Trotti looked up in surprise.

“Oh, he wasn’t very young,” the nurse from Emilia said and she laughed. Her gentle laughter was like water on pebbles.

“Who was it?”

“He didn’t say—it was just as I came on duty.” She raised her hand. “It was he who left the flowers. Would you care for some more coffee, Commissario?”

“He didn’t say who he was?”

“He just left the flowers—and he said that he hoped to see you tomorrow. A nice gentleman—I thought perhaps it was your father or your father-in-law.”

Trotti frowned.

“He was very polite.”

“W
HERE
’
S
P
IOPPI
?”

“Where are you calling from?

“Where’s Pioppi, Piero?”

“She’s in the hospital.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think, Agnese—because she’s ill.”

“What’s happened? I keep trying to phone you but you’re always out.”

“So you wake me up in the middle of the night?”

“What’s wrong with her? God help me, Piero, but if anything happens to my child, I will hold you responsible.”

“If you really loved your daughter, you’d be here with her.”

“What’s happened? How is she?”

“She collapsed.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t eat enough. Because she’s underweight, as you know full well. She wasn’t eating properly when you left—but that never affected your decision to go to America. And how are things in Pearl River?”

“Piero, you know I had no choice. And don’t try to make me feel guilty.”

“She’s your daughter.”

“Is she eating now?”

“My God, Agnese, if you really cared about your daughter,
you wouldn’t be asking these questions. You wouldn’t phone me up in the middle of the night and treat me like some messenger boy. She’s your daughter and you should be by her side. Pioppi needs you and I can’t spend all my time at the Policlinico. I’ve got a job to do.”

“You’ve always had a job to do, haven’t you, Piero? Your wonderful job and all your wonderful friends in the Questura—you’ve always put them before me and your daughter.”

Trotti slammed the phone down.

He looked at his watch—just gone four and it was still dark. No noise from via Milano. The house was empty.

He pulled the blanket up over his ears but could not get back to sleep. His heart thundered silently against his ribcage.

He hoped that his wife would ring back.

G
INO SAT AT
the desk with Principessa beneath it, at his feet. Neither stirred as Trotti got out of the lift. Gino held the newspaper as though he were reading it, but behind the thick glasses, the pale eyes were immobile.

“Buongiorno.”

“Ah, Commissario.” The old face broke into a smile. Gino had changed into his summer wear. The collar of his shirt was open, revealing grey hairs on his chest. It was rumored that he had once worked in the merchant navy and that it was in China that he’d been blinded when the ship’s boilers exploded. It was even said that he had a wife and child in Shanghai. “There was a man to see you.”

“A man?”

“Late last night—but I told him that you’d gone to the Policlinico.”

“I was in Milan with Magagna.”

“Magagna?” Gino smiled. “Enjoying marriage, I hope.”

“He certainly enjoys his work with Narcotici.”

Gino said, “Magagna’s an innocent.”

“The big city seems to have changed him.”

“Don’t you believe it, Commissario. Magagna’s an innocent. You know, when you can’t see, you develop other senses—and about Magagna, I know I’m right.”

“Did this man leave any message?”

As Gino shook his head, the sleeping dog stirred, yawning
to reveal a long, pink tongue. “He said you’d be pleased to see him.” He lowered his voice, and placed his hand on Trotti’s elbow. “An elderly party—seventy, seventy-five years old. Wearing American glasses.”

“I don’t know who it could be.”

“He’d be waiting for you, he said. In the bar in Piazza Vittoria—at half-past nine.” Gino frowned briefly, trying to recall something. “A friend of the family, he said—and since he was in town for a few days, he said he wanted to see you. Remember old times.”

Trotti was puzzled. “Remember old times?”

T
HE SAME AGE
as him.

As the woman came towards him smiling, her legs like the legs of a young girl, Trotti found himself wondering whether they had made a mistake in Registrations. Signora Allegra did not look a day over forty-five.

She was carrying a silver tray with two cups. “Commissario, how nice to see you!”

The sun formed deep-etched shadows along the medieval porticoes of Piazza Vittoria and for a moment, her face was caught in the penumbra. Then Trotti saw her smile, large and friendly.

The Bar Duomo.

“Not too late for a cappuccino?”

“Commissario.” She laughed and entered the Bar Duomo.

Trotti moved towards the man.

At first he did not recognize him. He sat alone at one of the tables set out in the piazza, enjoying the morning sunshine. Despite the pair of tinted glasses, he held the open newspaper at arm’s length. One eyebrow was raised.

On the white tablecloth in front of him was a tea pot.

Trotti approached.

“Ah!” The man turned and smiled.

Trotti, too, smiled, pleased to see the old investigating judge. The man stood up and they embraced.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Trotti frowned through his smile.

He was wearing a black waistcoat. He tapped the left-hand side. “The old clockwork, Piero—it needs a bit of reservicing.”

“I thought you were in Arezzo. That’s where I’ve been sending your Christmas cards these last ten years.”

“And I still am in Arezzo. But I’ve been staying in Milan—nearly three weeks now. The doctor has given me permission to go home but I wanted to see you before I return to Arezzo and to my dear wife.”

He lowered himself into the chair, his hand still on Trotti’s arm. “And how are you, Piero? It must be years since we last met.” He smiled. “And is it my imagination or are you losing your hair—the hair that you were always so proud of?”

“I am no longer a young man, Signor Giudice. In a few years’ time, I’ll be sixty.”

“Sixty!” He clapped his hands. “A marvelous age—the best. The women love a sixty-year-old—you’re old enough to be their father and women are all incestuous.” A frown fluttered across his forehead. “And don’t call me ‘Signor Giudice,’ Piero—I’ve been retired these last fifteen years.”

Slightly smaller perhaps, and the shoulders more sloping, but otherwise the old giudice istruttore had hardly changed. Of course, Trotti realized, Dell’Orto had always looked old—even twenty years before, when for nearly two years he was one of the most talked about lawyers in Italy. The change was in his clothes. The pince-nez had disappeared and he now wore a pair of tinted sunglasses—rather like Magagna’s. His thin, white hair had been well cut and waved; his suit and waistcoat were clearly of the best quality. And instead of the old wing collar that he had always worn, he now had on a fashionable tie of lovat green.

“You’re looking very well.”

“That’s not what the doctor says.”

“What does he say?”

“Senile and confused.” He tapped his chest. “And my heart isn’t as young as it used to be. I’m an old man, Piero. An old man of eighty-two. Nearly as senile as our illustrious president,
Pertini.” Dell’Orto shrugged. “And you, Piero? Your face looks bruised.”

“One of the risks of the job.”

“You must be careful. Don’t take risks, for heaven’s sake. Not long before you should be retiring—and your family needs you.” The judge leaned forward. “I was sorry to learn that your daughter is in the hospital.”

“You were very kind to take her some flowers.” Trotti repressed a sigh. “She doesn’t appear to want to eat.”

“Poor thing—I remember her when she was a little girl. She had your chin, Piero—and your determination. But you must get her to eat. If you want, I know a doctor …” Dell’Orto smiled, putting his head back. “If only I had married a girl like that—today I’d be a millionaire. But instead I’ve a wife who can’t turn the page in her women’s magazines without caressing the advertisements for spaghetti—grano duro, mind, and her favorite is Number Seven. Something she can get her teeth into.”

“How is Signora Dell’Orto?”

“Getting fatter every day. And yet nimbler on her feet than the day we met. In L’Aquila, on June twenty-ninth, 1929.”

“Your marriage has been blessed.”

“Piero, if anybody has a gorgeous wife, it is you.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” He laughed. “Just like you to say that, Piero Trotti. But you adore Agnese, you adore the ground she walks on. And she loves you—as much as when you were first married. It was she who contacted me, don’t forget, when there was that problem.”

“Problem?”

“In seventy-eight and they kidnapped Moro—although, quite frankly I never had any time for the man and his mock humility. He could’ve been a priest—and enough of his close collaborators were feathering their nests instead of running this country. You were having a slight problem with the Questore, I seem to remember. It was Agnese who contacted me. She was so worried, poor thing. Not worried about herself—but worried about you, Piero.”

“She never mentioned a word.”

“She knew you had other things on your mind.”

“Why did she contact you?”

“What was his name, the Questore? A stupid man.”

“You mean Leonardelli?”

“I believe he’s in America now.”

Trotti realized that he had allowed his mouth to gape. “You mean to say that you were instrumental …?”

Dell’Orto held up his hand.

“But, Signor Giudice, I nearly lost my job—I thought I had lost it—and then nothing.”

Dell’Orto smiled. “Nearly sixty years old, Piero, and you manage to remain naive about this country.”

“And you …?”

“I still have friends—and in this country, friendship is important. Real friends, Piero—not southerners or, God forbid, Sicilians—but people whom I can count on.” He shrugged. “Your poor wife was distraught. There are times when I think you take her for granted.”

Signora Allegra arrived at the table, bringing Trotti’s cappuccino and two small cakes on a saucer. “A little treat for our Commissario,” and she gave a laugh that Trotti found provocative. He looked at the woman as she bent beside him and their glances met. She smiled. She was wearing a lot of makeup, a lot of foundation, but beneath all the powder, she was still very attractive. “It is not often that an old lady has the opportunity of spoiling her favorite client.” She turned. “Another pot of herbal tea for the signore?”

Dell’Orto responded to her smile. Gallantly he nodded his appreciation. “You are very kind, signora. But the doctor …” He lifted his open palms. “More than one cup of anything pleasant is strictly forbidden.”

“Then perhaps something else. Something that will do your health good. An amaro—or a vermouth.”

Dell’Orto tapped his chest. “You tempt me sorely, signora—but I must look after the clockwork. Unfortunately—or so the medical profession assures me—alcohol causes rusting.”

She smiled, took the empty pot and returned to the bar.

“Old Franceschini’s daughter—a charming woman.”

The cappuccino was hot.

“I was in Milan, Piero.” He tapped Trotti’s arm. “I wanted to see you, anyway … see how you were doing. And now things have been forced upon me.”

“What things?”

He had put the paper down on the edge of the white tablecloth and his hand smoothed the wrinkled pages in a reassuring gesture. “At my age, I’d like to feel that I was entitled to a little rest and a little privacy, without having to put up with people who think they can pick up the telephone at any hour night or day. Just because—or so people like to think—there was a time when I was a powerful man.”

Trotti sipped at the coffee.