The Puppeteer

The Anne Marie Laveaud Novels
Another Sun
The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe

The Piero Trotti Novels
Converging Parallels
The Puppeteer
Persona Non Grata
Black August
Big Italy

AI LAGHI: to the lakes

“AMOR, DAMMI QUEL FAZZOLETTINO”: “Love, Give Me That Handkerchief,” a Italian song popularized by actor-singer Yves Montand in 1963

AUTOSTRADA: highway

BORGO GENOVESE: Genovese village

BUONGIORNO: hello, good morning

CAPITANO: captain

COMMISSARIO: commissioner

CONTADINA: woman from the countryside

DIRETTO: direct, nonstop

DOTTOR: doctor

FERRAGOSTO: the 15th of August, the Feast of the Assumption of Mary

GIRO D’ITALIA: an annual Italian bicycle race

GIUDICE ISTRUTTORE: investigating judge/magistrate

GRANO DURO: durum wheat

GRAPPA: a dry, clear grape brandy

IL TEMPO: the weather, the time

ISTITUTO ZOOTECNICO: Agricultural Institute

JUVENTUS: a professional Italian soccer club based in Turin

LA TEDESCA: the German (fem.)

LASCIA O RADDOPPIA:
Leave It or Double It
, an Italian game show that aired from 1955-1959

LICEO: high school

LO SCIOCCO: the fool

LUNGOLAGO: road around a lake

MARINAIO: sailor, seaman

MATURITÀ: maturity

METROPOLITANA: subway

MONTE BALDO: a mountain in the Italian Alps that runs through the provinces of Trentino and Verona

NUCLEO POLITICO: political segment of the Carabinieri

OMERTÀ: code of silence

PALAZZO: building, palace

PALAZZO DI GIUSTIZIA: courthouse

PIAZZA: plaza

PER FAVORE: please

POLICLINICO: hospital

POPOLO D’ITALIA:
The People of Italy
, an Italian newspaper founded by Mussolini in 1914

PRONTO SOCCORSO: first aid

PROVINCIA PADANA: an Italian newspaper, also known as
La Padana

QUATTRO STAGIONI: literally “four seasons,” a pizza divided into four sections with different ingredients, traditionally artichokes, mozzarella, ham and olives

SCUOLA SUPERIORE: high school

SERVIZIO ESTERO: foreign service

SESTO: sixth

SEZIONE ARCHIVI: departmental archives

SIGNORA: madam, lady

SIGNORINA: miss, young lady

SINDACO FERMI: the previous mayor

SOCIETÀ SICULA PER L’ELETTRICITÀ: Sicilian electric company

STADIA: sports stadium, coliseum

TAVOLA CALDA: cafeteria

TENENTE: lieutenant

URBANISTICA: city planning

VENERABILE MAESTRO: Venerable Master

VENTIQUATTRO MAGGIO: May 24th

VIA XX SETTEMBRE: street name meaning “Road of September 20th” after the date of the Capture of Rome in 1870, the final step to Italian unification

VIALE RIMEMBRANZA: street name meaning “Avenue of Remembrance”

VITA E SORRISI: life and smiles

ZIO: uncle

“A
MERICA
?” T
HE BARMAN
raised his eyebrows.

“She’s been there now for four months.”

There was a butter dish and a couple of fresh bread rolls on the tray. Guerino placed them on the table. “On holiday?”

“She works for a pharmaceutical company.” Trotti added, “In New York.”

“Lucky girl.”

“After thirty years of marriage, I no longer think of my wife as a girl.”

The other man put his head back and laughed. “Wait till you’re my age, Commissario—then everybody under fifty is an adolescent.” He took the jug from the tray and poured out some coffee. He then added milk. “You’re staying up at the Villa Ondina?”

“I’ve just arrived.”

“We rarely see any of you now. The villa’s been empty since Agnese’s parents died. You should come and see us more often, Commissario. When you need a rest, you know that there’s nowhere better than the lake.” The older man looked out over the flat surface of the water. “And there’s nowhere more beautiful on Garda than Gardesana.”

There was no wind and the early morning mist still hovered a few meters above Lake Garda. The sun was showing over the shoulder of Monte Baldo.

Bar Centomiglia was a simple, unpretentious place. Not sophisticated—a far cry from the groomed elegance of Milan or Rome. Here there was just the smell of fresh coffee, a couple of rows of chairs that Guerino set out in the summer months, and a reassuring sameness to the décor—advertisements for vermouth and perhaps an out-of-date notice of films in the parish hall.

The orange trees were already coming into blossom.

“I’ve been very busy,” Trotti said.

“The robbery at the Banco San Matteo?”

Trotti turned. “You know about that?”

“We get the papers here, too.” He whistled under his breath. “I saw that you were in charge of enquiries. Banca San Matteo—and a man murdered.”

“Nobody was murdered,” Trotti said. “The manager was shot in the leg.”

Guerino was leaning against the side of the table and he held the empty tray under his arm. He put his head to one side as if he expected Trotti to say more.

Trotti looked at the lake in silence.

Guerino asked, “How’s Pioppi?”

“At university.”

“Not married, then?”

Trotti’s smile was tired. “I don’t think she’s interested in men.”

“Except for her father.” Guerino touched Trotti’s shoulder. “Even when she was a little girl, she adored you.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“A long time ago,” Guerino repeated in his mocking Roman accent and went back into the bar.

As Trotti ate his breakfast, he watched the sun climb into the sky.

From out on the lake came a mechanical beating sound. Later the mist began to lift and he saw the
Giuseppe Verdi
, the black smoke at her funnel almost vertical, working towards the shore.

There were a few cars parked here and there along the
lakeside, a double row of orange trees and the well-kept flower beds. At the jetty, the old captain—exactly as Trotti remembered him—was waiting for the steamboat to pull alongside.

A man came and sat on the same long bench as Trotti; he muttered “Buongiorno” and opened the paper, which he started to read. When Guerino appeared, the new arrival scarcely looked up as he ordered a cup of coffee.

He held the paper in front of his face and his forehead was wrinkled in concentration. He needed a shave; he did not look like a villager. He was wearing a suit that was slightly crumpled. No tie.

Guerino was whistling under his breath—an old fascist tune that he had probably learned in Abyssinia—when he brought the coffee. He placed the cup on the table; the man grunted a perfunctory thanks.

On the front page of the newspaper there was the picture of a battleship.

“War,” Guerino said. “They had Kenya, the English—they had most of Africa.” He tapped his chest. “I was in Kenya for four years, a prisoner of the British—and they had to throw it all away. And now they’re going to war over a few wretched islands in the middle of the ocean that nobody in his right mind would even want to visit.”

The man behind the newspaper glanced at Trotti. Their eyes met.

Trotti asked, “How’s Donatella, Guerino?”

(Sometimes, in the first years of marriage, to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the Villa Ondina, Trotti used to take the bicycle and cycle into the village. It was in this bar that he had first met Donatella. In those days she was blonde, with short bobbed hair and an easy friendly smile. Later—and not yet twenty years old—she married a boy from the village.)

Again the smile on Guerino’s face and the Roman gesture. “Donatella? She’s a very beautiful grandmother.”

“Grandmother?” Trotti frowned before smiling. “Then you are a great-grandfather, Guerino?”

“Here.” He took his wallet from a trouser pocket and pulled
out the photograph. “Over three kilos—and Valeria had him baptized Guerino, after me.” He placed the Polaroid photograph on the table and his work-worn finger touched the pink image of a newborn baby. “She says he looks just like me.”

The
Giuseppe Verdi
let out a mournful hoot as it moved towards the quay. An officer standing on the deck threw the rope to the Capitano, who caught it and looped it round a bollard. Both men spoke in dialect and the Capitano laughed. A gangplank was heaved into place and a couple of passengers stepped gingerly down towards dry land.

The woman had grey hair. The man wore a grey suit and a leather case hung from his neck—probably a camera. He held the woman’s hand.

Guerino shrugged. “I’ll be needing more than a couple of German tourists this year if I’m to redecorate this bar.”

“The Centomiglia is all right as it is.”