The Puppeteer (23 page)

“Just look.” He gestured to the rows of bookcases.

Faded manilla files tied together with string, a piece of yellowing paper to identify them slipped beneath each knot, masked two walls.

“You people upstairs—you’re all the same. You get angry—you want everything immediately and you think I’m not doing a proper job because I’m still bogged down in 1968.” He nodded towards the files and then rubbed his hands. “Two more years’ work here—and looking for your files will be like looking for a grain of sand on the beach at Milano Marittima.”

T
ROTTI RECOGNIZED THE
tuneless whistle.

“Where are you going?”

The thin silhouette was caught against the light coming from the entrance. With the suede jacket thrown casually over his shoulder, Pisanelli was about to leave the Questura.

For a fraction of a second, he froze. Then Pisanelli swung round.

“Where the hell d’you think you’re going, Pisanelli?”

“To lunch.”

Trotti reached the top of the stairs and he walked towards Pisanelli. “Not now.” Trotti shook his head. “There’s work to be done.”

“I haven’t eaten, Commissario.”

“Maserati needs your help.”

“Maserati never needs help.”

“He’s downstairs in the old archives. Go and help him.”

“But Commissario Trotti, I haven’t eaten.”

“You work for the Squadra Mobile—not in a restaurant.”

Pisanelli glanced at his watch. He said, “I’m meeting a friend.”

“She’ll have to miss you.”

“But we intend to get married!”

“Then she’ll have to get married by herself.”

Pisanelli slid the jacket from his shoulder and looked at Trotti. The attempt to appear angry was only partially successful. “Etta
and I are getting married next month—and she’s expecting me at the Bella Napoli pizzeria at one thirty.” He added forcefully, “In three minutes.”

“I’ll phone the Bella Napoli and leave a message.”

“You can’t do that.”

“You want a pizza, Pisanelli? A margherita? A quattro stagioni?” Trotti brushed past him, heading towards the entrance and the granite steps that were bright in the sunlight. “I’ll have them send you a pizza.”

“But …”

“There’s three days’ work sifting through the files. Go and help Maserati—then perhaps you’ll be able to see your Etta before the end of the week.”

“What work?”

“Maserati will explain.”

Trotti stepped out into Strada Nuova, now deserted of traffic. An old woman stood on the far side of the road, near the War Memorial. Two black shopping bags were at her feet and she was looking at the limp flag.

“And where are you going, Commissario?” Pisanelli called out after him. He stood at the top of the steps, one shoulder slightly forward, as if to give himself courage. “You don’t feel that you ought to help your subordinates?”

“I’ll be back in half an hour. I’m going to the Policlinico.”

“And in half an hour, I’d be back from the Bella Napoli.”

“Stop moaning, Pisanelli.”

Pisanelli turned away in silence, reentering the darkness of the Questura while Trotti headed towards Piazza Castello to find a taxi. The air was warm, but not yet hot and windless. He regretted that he had not taken the Ganna out of the garage.

Apart from one or two students, the street was deserted.

Trotti walked past the Teatro Civico, where white and red posters announced forthcoming attractions—posters almost identical to those used by La Scala. Cool air and muffled music came from the porticoes. Bruckner, perhaps, deadened by the thick doors. The Hungarian National Orchestra on tour in Italy,
and not enough money to pay for a midday pizza. Instead, they were practising.

Trotti went past the new tavola calda, with its odor of hot oil and tomatoes.

“Commissario!”

He turned round and squinted his eyes against the light.

“Can I talk to you?”

At first Trotti did not recognize the tall man with the sad face.

“But not here, not in the street.” He gestured with his arm, and walking with a forward stoop, he hurriedly crossed the road and headed towards the university.

“Let’s go to my office in the Questura.”

The man took no notice and Trotti followed him. It was as they entered the coolness of the main quadrangle that he realized who his companion was.

“Over here.”

He stopped beneath the main flight of steps that led to the university library. There was a service door and because the man stood in the shadows, only the observant passerby would have noticed him.

“You work in the Servizio Estero, don’t you?”

The man nodded. He did not hold out his hand but looked at Trotti with his hangdog eyes. “Grandi—head of the exchange counter.”

“I think we could talk more easily in the Questura.”

Grandi shook his head. “I won’t take up your time, Commissario Trotti.” He was carrying a leather bag slung from one shoulder. He undid the strap and took out a newspaper. “I saw the photograph in this morning’s
Provincia
.”

“What photograph?”

“Commissario, I’m a law-abiding man. But I’ve my family to think about. And I don’t like taking risks.” He coughed, but the sad eyes remained on Trotti. “The photograph of the man who got shot on Lake Garda.” He opened the paper and tapped at the passport-like photograph of Maltese.

“Well?”

“I’ve seen this man.”

Trotti felt his heart miss a beat.

“A few months ago—he came in to see the director.”

“Director?”

“At the Banca San Matteo—Signor Pergola.”

“I
WANT TO
see her.”

“I’m afraid she’s sleeping.”

“She’s my daughter. I’m allowed to sit with her.”

“The doctor gave express orders that the patient shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“My daughter’s been here for three days. Nobody’s ever stopped me from seeing her.”

“I must obey the doctor’s orders.” The woman was matronly in appearance—ample chest beneath a white smock and greying hair that was pinned up above the nape of her neck. She wore a white cap. She stood with her arms akimbo. “The patient needs rest.”

“The patient is my daughter.” Trotti was aware that he had raised his voice.

“You must come at another time. I have my orders.”

Trotti placed his hand on the door handle. “I wish to be with my daughter.”

The nurse looked at him, squinting her colorless eyes. “You leave me no choice but to call the doctor on duty.” She folded her arms beneath her chest and walked down the corridor, past the plaster statue of San Matteo in his whitewashed niche.

Trotti entered the room.

Pioppi was asleep. Now the tubes that ran into her arms had been removed. Her black hair billowed out on the pillow and
the light from the table lit up her pale face. There were flowers at the window and also beside the small transistor that was tuned to a local station. Soft, rhythmic music.

Trotti noticed that the books had disappeared.

The body rose and fell with slow, regular breathing,

Pioppi stirred and in her sleep she was smiling. He bent over her. He pushed the dark strands of hair away from where they had fallen into her eyes. Then he heard the door open behind him.

“You must leave, I’m afraid.”

“Go away.”

“Your daughter needs to rest.”

“She is resting. I won’t disturb her.”

The doctor placed a hand on Trotti’s shoulder; the other hand took him by the arm. Then the young doctor, the stethoscope swinging against his chest, tried to pull Trotti to his feet.

Trotti stood up and turned. He caught the man by the throat of his jacket. As Trotti pushed him towards the door, the eyes were suddenly stretched with surprise and fear. The doctor was thin, lighter than Trotti expected. The young man would have crumpled to the floor had he not managed to catch hold of the door handle and support himself in time.

“Now get out!”

The doctor straightened his tie. He turned and left.

Trotti returned to the bedside.

Pioppi’s eyes were open. “Papa.”

“How are you feeling, Pioppi?”

“Is Mama with you?”

“She phoned from America last night. She’s phoned several times.”

“And the Nonna?”

“We’re all missing you, Pioppi. But you’ll be home soon.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

Her smile was feeble, hesitant. “I don’t feel very strong.”

“But once you start eating, you’ll feel better …”

She frowned.

“Eat and rest. You’ve been driving yourself too hard, Pioppi.”

He leaned forward to touch her forehead. He noticed the eyes flinch.

“You’ve got to look after yourself, because we love you. We need you. Where would your mother and I be without you?”

Pioppi smiled sleepily. “Kiss me, Papa.”

His lips touched her forehead. He could smell her hair. “We’re all worried about you, Pioppi. Get well fast.”

Her eyes closed.

“I must leave you.” Trotti took her hand between his two palms. “But before I go, I want you to answer a question for me.”

Her eyes opened again and focused slowly.

“I told you and the Nonna that I intended to go to the Villa Ondina—but I didn’t tell anybody else.”

Her eyelids were closing again. She was falling asleep. “Did you tell anybody, Pioppi?”

“Tell anybody?” she mumbled.

“Did you tell anybody where I was going?”

Pioppi closed her eyes.

Her father squeezed her hand. “Did you tell someone?”

“Papa …”

There were steps in the corridor. Fast steps and angry voices.

“Tell me. I won’t be angry with you, but I must know.”

The door opened.

“Pioppi, it’s important.”

Pisanelli.

T
HE COUNTRYSIDE WAS
flat and Pisanelli sulked.

He drove with his eyes on the road. He did not speak to Trotti except for an occasional monosyllable. Then, when they reached Piacenza, crossed the Po and skirted the city, he appeared a bit less aggrieved. “Good food in Piacenza.”

“When we get back, I’ll buy you a pizza.” Trotti smiled. “You and Maserati did well.”

“It was the first dossier I laid my hand on.”

Trotti sat with his arm through the window. “Even so, you worked fast.”

“There were at least three letters.” He added, “I took a photocopy of only one because they were all the same. They all accused Maria Campigli of being Ramoverde’s mistress.”

“Maria Elisabetta Campigli of Fluviale, Province of Piacenza.” Trotti fell silent and Pisanelli drove for another twenty minutes, then took the unsurfaced road. The car bumped on its springs. They moved down towards the river. Through the trees, they could see decaying buildings and a brick wall.

They came to a halt in the courtyard.

It must once have been a small village, stranded in a loop of the river. Three or four houses with tiles of a deep red that had turned black. In places, some of the roofs had fallen in. The air carried the smell of cattle, but there were no animals in sight. The stables were empty. Thin pillars of brick
supporting roofs built over long wooden rods. On the floor, no straw or manure.

They got out of the car and waited a few moments. There was a light wind rustling through the trees. The two men listened to the noises of the countryside—crickets, birds and the distant sound of the river. Then they heard the slow movement of feet.

An old man was walking with a stick. His boots struck against the dry earth and cobbles of the farmyard. Slung across his shoulder, he was carrying a gun. He moved slowly, his body arched forward and his legs bowed.

“Signor Campigli?” Pisanelli moved towards the man.

The man took no notice of him.

“Signor Campigli?”

“Well?” He stopped and put his weight on the stick.

“We’re from the police.”

“I’m too old to go to prison.” He spoke in dialect. Though it was nothing like Trotti’s own dialect—it was amazing how along the Po, the dialects could vary from one village to the next—Trotti had no difficulty in understanding.

Pisanelli turned to Trotti.

Trotti approached the old man. “It’s about your daughter.”

“You want to marry her, then?” The face broke into a smile that revealed a mouth without teeth. His skin was like the surface of a walnut. A gnarled hand shaded his eyes from the brightness of the sky.

“Why not, Signor Campigli? I’m sure she’s very charming.”

The man was even more amused. He leaned forward on the stick and laughed—a laugh that resembled a hoarse cough. He wiped at the specks of saliva forming at the corner of his colorless lips.

“She used to work in the city.” Trotti made a vague gesture in the direction of Piacenza.

“She used to work in the city,” the old man repeated, changing a few vowels to his own dialect. He laughed again.

Trotti glanced at Pisanelli.

“We’d like to talk to her.”

“You’re trying to find her?”

Trotti nodded. “I am from the Pubblica Sicurezza.”

“Maria Campigli?”

“Can you please tell us where she is?”

This time the old man—he was wearing a faded, collarless shirt and a thick leather belt—leaned forward to place a hand on Trotti’s arm. An old hand, scarred and worn by a lifetime of work in the fields. “If you find her, you can send her back.” He looked up and his wizened face appeared radiant. “A young, beautiful daughter …” With his hands he made a gesture that suggested a female body. “That’s what I need. That’s what an old man needs. To do the cooking, to help me in the fields, to feed the animals!” He laughed, the toothless gums pushed against his lips. “A young woman to look after me.”

“Where is your daughter?”

“They’ve gone.” He turned, moving his body slowly, pivoting on the stick, his eyes carefully watching his own hesitant feet. Then he raised the stick to gesticulate towards the dilapidated stone houses. “They’ve all gone—gone to the city. Gone away.”

“Where does your daughter live in Piacenza?” Pisanelli asked.

“My daughter lives in Piacenza?” He looked at Pisanelli’s young face and it was at that moment that Trotti realized there were tears in the old man’s eyes. “My daughter lives in Piacenza?”