“Pisanelli?” Trotti shrugged apologetically. “I”m afraid that’s the way he is.”
The woman shook her head.
She had never approved of Trotti. She had always identified with the interests of Agnese’s family and had considered him as an intruder. For Signora Baccoli, the young mistress—so beautiful, so well educated—could have made a better match—a husband more like her, someone belonging to the same background, someone better than the dull policeman from the hills beyond the Po.
But Baccoli and her husband were pragmatists and the peasant woman realized where her interests lay. In the evening of her life, she did not want to be thrown out of the little house that stood on the edge of the grounds of the Villa Ondina, overlooking the terraces of vines and tomatoes that ran down to the lakeside. Agnese’s parents were dead and Signora Baccoli—a tough, peasant woman who was always referred to as “la contadina”—knew that her two daughters were too busy to spare her much time or thought. She had always been severe with them when they were little, scolding them and threatening them with the harsh punishments of a retributive and cruel Christianity.
Signora Baccoli did not like Trotti—she never had. But she needed him.
An irony, then, that while the old woman—she never wore anything other than black—still admired Agnese and put her interests first, it was Trotti who had always refused Agnese’s pet project to sell the Villa and in so doing force the old couple to leave their house.
Trotti followed the woman out of the room.
“The man,” she said, “the man they murdered.”
“Well?”
She spoke in a whisper. “I’m not a person to gossip, Signor Piero. But you are a policeman and it is only right that you should know.”
Trotti felt a sudden sense of excitement. “Know what, signora?”
“It’s Pia—you know, my sister who lives in an apartment above the bakery. Perhaps she should have told the Carabinieri, but the man is from the south and his breath smells and you can’t trust them because they’re not like us.”
“Pia?” Trotti said. “What’s she done?”
“You know she used to work in the town hall?”
Trotti nodded.
“And you know she has insomnia, ever since she worked with Sindaco Fermi—the last mayor but one—who used to make her drink so much coffee?”
“Yes, yes,” Trotti said impatiently.
“The day he was shot …”
“Who?”
“The man who was shot at Guerino’s—well, Pia saw him. She told me at Mass on Sunday. She saw him when he arrived in Gardesana. It was early, before seven o’clock. She saw him when he arrived, when he got out of his car.”
“His car? What car?”
The woman shrugged. “Pia says that there were other men in the car.”
“What car, signora? Can you describe it?”
The face smiled. “Pia knows nothing about cars. And neither do I. But she told me that it was a big car—a German one.”
“A Mercedes?”
The woman shrugged. “A big car.”
28: Vino
SIGNORA BACCOLI HAD set out the plates for supper in the kitchen. Already Pisanelli was placing his napkin on his knees.
“I thought you’d lost your appetite, Pisanelli.”
The contadina filled two plates and poured wine into the glasses.
“Drink, signore,” she said to Pisanelli and for a moment she placed her work-worn hand on the shoulder of his jacket. “It’s my husband’s wine. He made it himself—with the grapes from the vineyard.
Pisanelli drank and nodded his appreciation.
Trotti sat down in front of the food and the old woman left the kitchen. “I’ll prepare the guest room for your friend.”
They ate in silence. Pisanelli had not lost his appetite and the cannelloni was good—made with cream and parmesan cheese and spiced with pepper.
From time to time, Trotti looked at his watch.
Behind Pisanelli’s head there was a thermometer attached to the wall. Also on the wall, a colored photograph of Pope John XXIII.
Trotti said, “Maltese came here in the Mercedes.”
Pisanelli was sitting forward, slumped over his plate and traces of cream at the edge of his lips and on his mustache. The cuffs of his jacket were propped against the kitchen tablecloth. He raised his eyes—brown, intelligent eyes.
“How d’you know?”
“He was seen in the village—at seven o’clock.”
Pisanelli smiled. “At seven o’clock—then he couldn’t have followed you.”
“Precisely—I didn’t reach Gardesana until nearly eight.”
“Somebody must have told him.” Pisanelli grinned. “D’you talk in your sleep?”
Trotti glanced at him and the sheepish grin vanished. Pisanelli looked at his glass of wine. The top of his head and his forehead were completely bald.
“He came in a Mercedes—which means he came with his killers. He thought he was going to set me up—and instead the bullets were for him.”
“The killers were perhaps aiming for you, Commissario.”
Trotti shook his head. “They were professionals.”
Pisanelli wiped the smears of cream from his mouth. “Why would Maltese want to set you up?”
“Revenge, perhaps. Revenge for what happened to his father—and he held me responsible.” Trotti shrugged. “But I don’t think his father held me responsible. Like everybody else, I didn’t agree with Dell’Orto. I didn’t think there was any real evidence against Ramoverde.” Trotti pushed the empty plate away. “And I told Ramoverde that. Towards the end of the trial, I became—well, we grew to understand one another.”
“What was he like?”
“Self-assured, distant—but I’d like to think I got through to him. A strange friendship—it was as if he wanted someone to confide in—but didn’t dare. I had the impression that he knew a lot more than he let on.”
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.
29: Women
“PIERO, 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.”
The Puppeteer Page 11
