The Puppeteer (18 page)

“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 about.”

“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.

“Don’t use long words and don’t make intellectual jokes. I’m a dumb policeman. But that won’t stop me from causing you trouble.”

“You shouldn’t threaten me, Commissario.” Although flat, the voice was full of menace.

“I’m talking about murder.”

“You’re dangerous, Trotti.”

He took the chair and sat down. “Now perhaps, we can talk seriously.”

The naked face gave a thin smile. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

“Perhaps you don’t understand, but I’m talking about murder. Murder, Baldassare. And that can mean life imprisonment on some Sardinian island. Don’t become all tough little intellectual with me.”

“You’re mad—and you’re dangerous. What do I know about your daughter? A poor thing who looks like an underfed rabbit and follows me around like a faithful puppy.” He shrugged. “I thought that she was ill—some disease, some incurable disease. She pestered me, always asking questions, always trying to attract my attention. I felt sorry for her—and now I understand. Her disease is her father.” His elbow was on the table and he wagged his finger at Trotti. It was a strange gesture. Baldassare was afraid, physically afraid; yet there was no fear in his defiance. “Listen, Trotti, I am not a doctor, but I read the magazines. It didn’t occur to me that your daughter was starving herself—I didn’t realize that. But I read the papers and I’ve heard about anorexia. And I know what causes it.”

The skin on Trotti’s face felt numb.

“Nothing to do with me, Trotti. That’s your little pipe dream and if you want to think that your daughter’s starving herself out of love …” He shrugged, and the mocking smile had returned
behind the upheld finger. “But from what I’ve read about anorexia, I thought it was a way of asserting yourself. Not a broken heart, Commissario, but a way of showing yourself and showing the rest of the world that you’re in charge—that you’re an autonomous adult. Control your body—and you control your life.”

“Be careful what you say, Baldassare.”

“A way to assert your freedom—freedom from demanding parents, freedom from people who don’t consider you a real human being but merely a pawn. A pawn in their own private game of conflict and domination.”

The numbness had spread. It had reached the back of his neck. Trotti felt cold, very cold. A lump of ice within his chest.

“A poor kid who’s crying out for attention and love. But attention and love are things a man like you doesn’t need to think about. It’s easier, isn’t it, to come round here”—Baldassare gestured to the pile of scattered books on the floor and to the stream of dark ink that had almost reached his shoes—“and to accuse me of murder? Accuse me of having killed your daughter. But then, you’re a policeman—you can throw your weight around with other people, just as you throw your weight around with your daughter.” He shook his head. “Poor Commissario Trotti.”

“Save the pity for yourself.”

“Trotti, you’re finished. As a human being, you must have died a long time ago. As a policeman, you’re not worth the paper your identity card is printed on.” Baldassare rubbed his face, then leaned over and picked up the sunglasses. “By God, I’m going to see you pulled through the mud.”

Trotti stood up.

The ice was there in his heart, but his head was clear now and his body was washed of any need for revenge. He went over to the window.

It looked onto the Cloisters of Magnolia. A couple of students were sitting beside the well, enjoying the sunshine. The sun was warm and a man was sweeping the cobbled courtyard. The birch broom moved in regular, short strokes. The man was sweeping away the accumulated dirt and detritus of winter.

For the first time, Trotti noticed the smell of the magnolia.

“No, Baldassare, no.” Trotti turned and now he was smiling. “You can’t escape the facts. There’s only one person who knew where I was going last Friday morning—and that was my daughter. Nobody else—nobody. And yet a journalist found me there. A journalist, Professor Baldassare, who had been living with Signorina Guerra. Which is, I am sure, a name that is not totally unknown to you.” Trotti paused. “Your wife’s maiden name.”

The long face was looking at him. Baldassare ran a hand through his hair.

“My daughter told you—and through you, the message reached Maltese. Only now, Maltese is dead—murdered in cold blood by two men who knew that he would be at Gardesana on Lake Garda at eight o’clock in the morning. Two men who were waiting for him.”

One of the tinted lenses had been smashed in the fall.

“Tell me, Baldassare, why did you want Maltese killed?”

Baldassare smiled as he tapped the lens; small shards of glass fell onto the desk.

T
HE BEAUTY OF
the city—Roman brick, Renaissance architecture, Hapsburg ochre walls and the trees in blossom—did not touch Trotti. Nor did the gentle smell of flowers coming from the private gardens. His footsteps echoed against the high walls of the narrow streets.

Piazza Carmine was full of rows of parked traffic. The church was of red brick and in the walls, blue and white dishes had been embedded. It was said that they were gifts brought back by local dignitaries from the Crusades. Trotti brushed past a group of old women and pushed open the heavy door, worn and dirty beneath the touch of so many hands. He entered the cool chill of the church. The smell of candles reminded him of his childhood and Zia Anastasia, stiff in her black clothes and her hand firmly on his wrist, pulling him towards the altar and—she hoped—a more Christian existence.

Pioppi was a regular churchgoer and sometimes Agnese accompanied her—perhaps because she enjoyed dressing for the occasion, perhaps because she met old friends, people like her. They would never think of coming to visit her in via Milano but were happy enough to chat with her on the neutral ground of the church steps and to speak of other, anodyne things—of clothes and prices and children—but never of the policeman whom she had married.

Trotti stood by the door, looking at the burning candles. He
felt that he was an intruder upon a world that he had renounced many years earlier. A clumsy genuflection. Crossing himself while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He went to a pew and sat down.

The creak of shoes as a man—the sacristan, perhaps—busied himself before the high altar. There were rays of light coming from a window. Specks of dust fluttered and danced in silence.

Trotti placed his head on the back of the chair in front and closed his eyes. He did not move. He did not pray—did not know how to. He sat motionless for over an hour. He remembered Pioppi—when she was little, pointing at the fish that darted beneath the surface of Lake Garda. The silence of the church brought him comfort. The grittiness behind his eyes seemed to lessen and when he raised his head, he felt refreshed.

“R
AMOVERDE WAS LIVING
in Buenos Aires until about 1968, when he had a heart attack.”