The Puppeteer

by Timothy Williams

  “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.

  34: Anorexia

  WHEN 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.”

  35: Bottone

  “SHE’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.”

  36: Nonna

  THE NONNA 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 hos
pital.” 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.”

  37: Ink

  THE 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.

  “Arriverderci.” Trotti gave him a push and then closed the door behind him,

  “Very impressive, Commissario.”

  Baldassare still had his feet on the top of the desk.

  He wore tinted sunglasses with large frames and lenses that became progressively bluer and darker towards the top of the rims. Receding grey hair that was long and deliberately unkempt gave him the appearance of a well-groomed bohemian. A pale blue shirt and a tie, a loose linen jacket. The shoes were new and expensive. As Trotti sat down on the chair vacated by the other man, he noted that the soles to the shoes still retained their initial varnish. They had scarcely been scuffed by wear. Dark green corduroy trousers.

  Baldassare was older than Trotti had imagined. In good condition, but at least fifty-five years old.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  “Squadra Mobile.”

  “Ah.” Amusement danced at the corner of the lips and behind the tinted lens, the skin formed wrinkles. Thin lips, a long nose and a pointed jaw.

  “Commissario Trotti of Squadra Mobile.”

  “Not a name on everybody’s lips.”

  Trotti pointed. “You know my daughter.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Even the frown suggested amusement. “I have many students and my classes would appear to be popular among the student body. But,” he placed a hand to his forehead, “I don’t think I know of a Signorina Trotti.”

  “She is at the Policlinico at this moment—where she is being fed intravenously.”

  “The poor child.”

  “She weighs just over forty-five kilos. And since last year, she hasn’t been eating. She refuses to eat.” Trotti rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, aware that the saliva was forming at the corner of his lips. “Over six months, Professor Baldassare—about the same time that she has been going to your classes. Classes on urban planning.”

  Slowly, almost casually, Baldassare took his feet from where they were propped. They fell noiselessly to the floor and then Baldassare leaned forward, placing the weight of his arms on a pile of documents. “I don’t think I understand.” The smile remained, but the lines hardened.

  “I think you do.”

  “Please explain, Commissario.”

  “I’ve nothing to explain.” Trotti knew that he was losing control of himself. The word intravenously echoed angrily around his head.

  “Am I right in thinking, Signor Commissario, that you are attributing your daughter’s problems to me?” A snort, part indignation, part amusement, worked its way through the long, narrow nose. “I don’t know Signorina Trotti. If she is anything like her father, she must have difficulty in being a charming person.”

  Trotti moved forward and grabbed him by the tie. The movement was rapid and Baldassare’s face sagged. “Careful,” Trotti said. His jaws were clamped together.

  Baldassare slumped back. He adjusted his tie. “I know nothing about your daughter.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Our marvelous, democratic police force.” Baldassare attempted a smile.

  “I’m also a father.” The anger was draining from him—Trotti could feel it seeping away, like water through the earth. “You have been playing with the emotions of a young woman. You have made use of your position as …”

  “Trotti, I don’t know your daughter.” He raised a finger. “I don’t know her and I don’t want to know her.”

  The vision of his daughter in bed, the liquid dripping into her emaciated arm. His daughter—the child of his flesh—of his and Agnese’s.

  The anger was now cold, but it was still anger. Anger with the evil man in front of him. With a brushing movement, Trotti cleared the desk of everything. Of the books and papers and the desk lamp. They fell to the floor; the lamp clattered noisily against the side of the desk, still supported by its flex.

  The eyes remained fixed upon Trotti. “You’re mad.”

  “How can you explain this?” Trotti stood up. He fumbled in his pocket. He took out the wallet that Agnese had given him many years previously and from the pouch he took the visiting card. “I found this among her possessions last night. Among the secret things that she wanted to keep hidden—like the purgatives that would stop her from putting on weight. My daughter, Baldassare, my only daughter and I found this in her drawer.” With a hand that trembled of its own accord, Trotti held the card under the other man’s nose.

  “A policeman—even with your own daughter. No privacy, no right to a life of her own, but you’ve got to be snooping. A sleuth, a clever little spy.” Baldassare laughed. “And you riffle through her possessions like a thief in the night.”

  “My child is dying—do you understand?” Trotti knew he was shouting now. It was as if he were a spectator—an outsider watching his behavior with detachment.

  “Trotti, I don’t give a shit about your daughter.”

  “She’s dying and I care for her. She is my child, and I know that you are responsible for what she is now having to go through. Urbanistica, urbanistica—that is all she can talk about. A poor child who’s fallen in love with a married man. And you, you exploit her. You exploit her innocence.”

  Baldassare sat back and folded his arms. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking abou
t.”

  “You deny that this is your card?”

  He shrugged. “If I was having an affair with one of my students, I certainly wouldn’t want to advertise the fact—or advertise my identity.” A patronizing laugh. “Come, Commissario, even a policeman can understand that.”

  “And this isn’t your handwriting, With many, many thanks? And this isn’t your signature? And this isn’t your phone number?”

  A long silence.

  “So help me, if you don’t answer, Baldassare’s, I’ll kill you.”

  Baldassare shrugged. “I didn’t know she was your daughter.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  There was no amusement in Baldassare’s smile, even though he showed bright teeth. “Poor thing—like a miserable, unhappy animal.”

  “What?”

  “I felt sorry for her.”

  “You’ll soon be feeling even sorrier for yourself.”

  “Your daughter followed me.” He shrugged. “What could I do?”

  “You’ve been exploiting her—making use of your position, of your authority. Baldassare, I’m going to have you annihilated.”

  The two men looked at each other. Trotti had regained control of himself but the anger was still there, burning like a flame that could burst into life at any moment. He put his hands on the desk to stop their trembling.

  Baldassare shrugged. He turned away from Trotti and regarded the scattered paper and books on the floor. Trotti looked, too, and he noticed for the first time that a bottle of blue ink had smashed, spilling a few dark tears onto the paper and the linoleum floor.

  Baldassare leaned over and picked up a framed photograph. He set it on the table.

  Trotti asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A friend of mine from Pizzighettone. He repairs carburetors.”

  As Trotti struck him, the sunglasses flew from his face.

  “I’ll have you thrown in jail—don’t get clever with me. D’you understand, Baldassare? Thrown into jail as an accessory to murder!”

  He looked older, more vulnerable without his glasses. Baldassare ran his fingers through his hair.