Escape

CHAPTER FIVE

Paris, 10 May

L’Univers des Livres, review by Jeanne Champaud

A few days ago, the publisher of Escape, the novel by Filippo Zuliani that will be appearing in bookshops this week, gave me a copy of the proofs saying, ‘Read these. I think you’ll be surprised.’ I was. And I’m prepared to bet that I won’t be the only one, and that we’ll be hearing about this novel when the literary prize season is upon us this autumn.

On first reading, this novel appears to tell a story that is not particularly original: a young hoodlum and a veteran terrorist, a survivor of the ‘Years of Lead’, meet by chance in prison and break out together. Then, as much out of choice as of necessity, they team up and organise a bank heist that turns into a bloodbath. The formula seems to be that of the traditional crime novel, but appearances can be deceptive. This novel overturns all the rules of the genre; it is a lot more and a lot better than a simple story of small-time crooks. The book has two plots that are inextricably interwoven, ultimately merging.

The sub-plot is that of the two protagonists’ escape from jail, the preparation of the heist, the heist itself and the resulting fiasco, against a background of gangland turf wars. It is the simple, effective storyline that hooks the reader from beginning to end, without allowing a pause for breath. Grafted on to that is the ‘main’ story, the one that the veteran terrorist tells his young companion, initially in prison, in the form of flashbacks, then during the run-up to the bank robbery. What the book reveals is both how the Italian left-wing extremist groups, born out of the widespread workers’ struggles of the 1970s, very quickly turned to violence and ended in gangsterism in the ’80s, and the extent to which that violence, perhaps because of its radical nature, was able to seduce our young hoodlum, and probably many other young Italians, to the point of binding him to his cellmate until death. When they are on the run, their shared love of violence inevitably leads to serious crime, into which the young hoodlum introduces his companion, then follows him, in a sort of mirror initiation novel. A classic path for an entire lost generation.

The narrative is raw, full of suspense, emotions, told with tremendous honesty. No caricatures, no stereotypes, the characters are all wonderfully alive. And the author has a definite, well-controlled sense of dramatic tension.

When I discovered that this is a debut novel by a very young Italian, who has been a refugee in France for the past few months, I naturally wanted to meet him to find out how much of this story was autobiographical, and how such a young man could have written something so accomplished.

We met in fairly conventional surroundings, near the publishing house, in the bar of a big Paris hotel with deep leather armchairs, coffee tables and a secluded atmosphere. The author arrived with an interpreter and the publisher’s publicist: they are keeping a close eye on their little prodigy. It soon turned out that we didn’t need the interpreter, since with a bit of effort we managed to understand one another. He is indeed very young, barely twenty-three, I’m told, but looks eighteen — a delicate figure, with the appearance of a teenage pop idol beneath a mop of black hair. He sits bolt upright, slightly rigid, self-conscious, in his blue jeans and white T-shirt. He rarely smiles and speaks very little. I could feel he was on the defensive, which is a very appealing admission of vulnerability. I tell him right away that I’m enchanted.

We get off to a rocky start. When I ask him how much of the book is autobiographical, he snaps back, ‘It’s a novel. That’s it.’ I press him a little, mentioning what I’ve read in the author biography provided by his publisher, plus my own research into his past life of crime, his spell in prison, his escape, the similarities between the episodes in his novel and recent events in Italy, and in which he himself was involved, directly or indirectly — that is for him to say. And lastly, I ask him about applying for political asylum in France, which he has apparently been given, or will be given shortly. That is certainly not an award for picking tourists’ pockets on the streets of Rome. If I want answers to those questions, he replies, I can talk to his lawyer, who is also the publisher’s lawyer.

So it’s back to talking about literature, nothing but literature. Very well. I get straight to the point. Given that he spent his youth in the streets and prisons of Rome, where did he learn to write in a language that is so simple, so effective and sometimes so moving? Was it in books, and if so, which ones? Which authors have influenced him? That earns me a wan smile.

In his family home, there were no books, so he didn’t read any, and still today, the sight of a well-stocked bookcase makes him feel anxious. He learned to write in prison, not in books. Learned to listen, first of all, he says, to listen to the political prisoners talking about their hopes, their exploits, their defeats. Learned also to love the language those men spoke, which was magnificent because it was resonant with passion and despair, and that is what made it absolutely fascinating. As a result of listening, he absorbed their way of telling a story. He thought about all those prisoners when he began to write. And it was easy. He insists, ‘The words came all by themselves.’ But why write? At this, Filippo Zuliani becomes animated, drops his aloof air. ‘Why? To allow those people an existence, a life.’ He hesitates, then continues, ‘And also to understand my own life. Maybe above all. Literature is life, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you often say in your articles?’

Life? His life? I won’t be any the wiser. He seems to be steering the entire conversation to focus only on literature, on the novel, and to divert attention from his own experience. It is hard to imagine that a book that draws so heavily on current affairs and has such richness is not inspired by real life. Filippo Zuliani won’t say, but… The main thing is that Filippo Zuliani has written a real ‘American-style’ novel, sweeping in scope, inspired by a chaotic existence, and as hard-hitting as a punch in the stomach. A must-read.

16 May

The publication of Escape and the reviews in the French press make the Italian refugees anxious and angry. The Sunday afternoon meeting is likely to be crowded and difficult for Lisa, thinks Roberto. Reviving the pain, the wrench and the shock of Carlo’s death a year on, when the wounds are still raw … she is strong. Perhaps this will be the opportunity for her to reach closure, but he doubts it. He drops by to see her in the morning, with a selection of Sicilian pastries. Lisa is lounging around, demoralised.

‘This novel breaks my heart.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘The character who everyone calls Carlo isn’t the man I knew and loved. A man of passion, of conviction, a poet. Portrayed as a gang boss. He never took part in armed action. I did, you know I did, Roberto, with all that implies. I’m paying for it, I don’t ever want to talk about it again. But not him.’

‘Lisa, I know what you’re going through and I’m here.’

‘He’s assassinating Carlo a second time. A public execution. I wasn’t expecting it. Nobody had the foresight to warn me. When I found out that Cristina had put Filippo in touch with the publisher, without having the decency to say anything to me, I decided never to speak to her again, which doesn’t make life easy at work, as you can imagine.’

‘We’re going to talk about the novel at the meeting this afternoon.’

‘Without me.’

‘You have to come.’

‘No way. Last year, when I wanted to try and find out how Carlo had been assassinated, I asked for their help. Nobody lifted a finger, Giovanni told everyone I was paranoid, and no one has been in touch with me since then. I’m not prepared to forget that. And I’ve made no headway in my investigation into his death.’

‘This book is going to have political repercussions — we should all discuss it together.’

‘Political repercussions! Are you kidding? What political repercussions? Since Carlo’s death, everything we feared, like everything we wanted to avoid, has happened in spades. The Red Brigades’ declaration was buried deep, it was never discussed or commented on by anyone. The left’s programme is the same as that of the right. First goal: massive repression of the far left, thousands of activists in prison, five thousand according to my figures, no amnesty, those turned informant, the traitors, held up as a pillar of justice and model citizens. And a new Law of Dissociation, a brilliant invention, that has hit us hard. Second goal: clear the assassins involved in the wholesale massacres, the secret service henchmen. In less than a year, they’ve had the effrontery to clear the Piazza Fontana killers, the Brescia and the Italicus train bombers. And no one protests. So they’ll continue. Result: some of our former activists, completely disoriented, can’t stop the violence. Two more supposedly political assassinations this month, for which there is no justification now that the war is over. From that point of view, you were right: setting up Carlo was pointless, we’re big enough to commit suicide all by ourselves.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say so.’

‘And the rot is contagious. As a result of being afraid to take us back, the Italian Communist Party is on its last legs, taking with it an entire shared political culture. People don’t do politics any more in Italy, they do business, it’s the grand ball of the corruptors and the corrupt.’

She stands up, opens her arms and smiles at Roberto.

‘May I have this dance?’

‘Stop, you’re doing my head in. We know all that. Sit down and listen to me. I’m talking about the impact that this book might have here, in France. The papers say that Zuliani has applied for political asylum. If he gets it, he’ll be giving the Italian government the perfect excuse to ask the French to abolish political refugee status. You, me, lots of others, we’ll all end our lives in jail.’

Lisa eats a pastry in silence staring out at the garden, and Roberto doesn’t rush her. Then he adds, ‘The lawyers will be there. Their opinion is decisive.’

A fresh silence, then Lisa:

‘You win, Roberto, as always.’

The vast, drab room where the meeting is taking place is packed. The discussion has not yet begun. People crowd round the copious buffet and the noise level is deafening. Lisa steps into the room, tense, as if she wishes she were elsewhere. Giovanni is sitting on a table right beside the door, legs dangling, glass in hand, talking and laughing loudly.

‘Carlo’s double, betrayed and assassinated by his accomplices in a spectacular coup, I’m sure Lisa appreciates that. Conspiracy theory and showmanship, it’s all there. She could almost have penned the scenario herself.’

Lisa plants herself in front of him and hisses:

‘You’ll say anything to sound clever.’

‘And you love making an entrance. We’re quits, dear Lisa.’

Those close to both Giovanni and Lisa start telling others about the heated exchange. Roberto senses a row brewing and hastily calls for silence, then opens the meeting.

‘We’re gathered here today with our lawyers to discuss Zuliani’s book and its potential repercussions.’ People turn towards Lisa who says simply: ‘The book is a novel. Like all novels, it is of no importance, now let’s change the subject.’

While one of the lawyers explains that things aren’t quite like that, and that Zuliani, his publisher and the press are making the most of the ambiguous relations the author is alleged to have had with one of the Red Brigades leaders, Giovanni, sitting next to Lisa, leans over to her and whispers: ‘We robbed banks a few years ago, and better than Carlo. I remember a period when we were doing one a month. Nobody made such a fuss back then.’

Lisa replies in an undertone: ‘But those were different times. That’s politics for you, comrade.’

Concluding his speech, the lawyer also turns to Lisa: ‘Can you tell us what makes you so sure that this novel is entirely a work of fiction? It is important in determining how we are to proceed.’

‘Because I have learned it from two different sources. Carlo telephoned me straight after his escape. Don’t look so sceptical, Giovanni. I already told you a year ago, and I’m happy to be more specific today. When I was on a clandestine assignment in Paris, we used to have a regular telephone appointment. As soon as I read about his escape in the papers, my first reflex was to reactivate the appointment. And he called.’

She leans over to Giovanni:

‘I don’t need to tell you anything further. Satisfied? Or do you want me to tell you the place and times of our appointments too?’

Giovanni gives a dismissive wave to indicate ‘fair enough.’ Lisa goes on: ‘Carlo told me about the Red Brigades’ open letter that had just been published, about his escape — which he described as a final embodiment of “practising the objective”, the policy adopted by the movement in the autumn of ’69. In other words, highly political language. He hadn’t become a gangster. I was concerned about the young hoodlum who broke out with him. I thought he could be a potential threat, and said so. Carlo assured me that they had already parted company.’

Lisa speaks in a strangled voice. Even after all this time, she cannot get used to it. She coughs and continues: ‘Then, this Filippo Zuliani turned up on my doorstep, a few days after Carlo’s death. That too, I told you about at the time. He told me how he and Carlo had gone their separate ways immediately after the escape, which corroborated what Carlo had told me. He told me that Carlo had arranged to meet up with him in Milan, a month later. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter. In any case, Zuliani began to make his way northwards. He walked for three weeks in the mountains, without meeting a soul. When he arrived in Bologna, he read the newspapers and learned about the bank raid and Carlo’s death. And that was what frightened him, the idea that he might be suspected of being Carlo’s accomplice — understandably, since he was unable to provide an alibi. It was a knee-jerk reaction, he seemed lost, and I had the feeling that at that point, he was telling the truth. And I still think so. As far as I’m concerned, the book is definitely a novel, constructed from reading certain newspaper articles that bear no relation to the facts.’

Chiara has slipped in beside Roberto and some of the lawyers. She speaks with fieriness and resentment.

‘This business has done a lot of damage, both here and back in Italy, to those of us who aren’t gangsters. Just read the papers, you’ll see. It’s sickening, they’re all banging on about “The Italian left-wing extremists’ deadly and unstoppable slide into crime”. That tars us with the same brush. And unfortunately, I’m not certain that the book is purely fictitious, as you claim. I knew Carlo well too…’

Lisa bristles, Roberto quakes. No, not that…

‘…and I think that this Zuliani knew him well, from the way he describes Carlo’s love of guns, girls and showing off. The warmth of their relationship makes his account credible.’

Lisa straightens herself up, she has lost her cool and her voice becomes shrill.

‘Love of guns … Carlo… you’re crazy, Chiara. You talk as though we were all gunslingers. None of us loved firearms. I know what I’m talking about. And even if Carlo agreed with the Red Brigades’ military actions, he himself never touched a gun. I’m saying it here, for all those who didn’t know us, and now that it’s all over: Carlo was in charge of logistics for the Red Brigades’ underground operators — organising accommodation, transport, allocating funds. He took the same risks as all of us, but the organisation was cellular, he was never involved in any armed operation. This whole story is outrageous.’

‘What about the women, Lisa…?’

Roberto leaps up.

‘That’s enough, Chiara. Stop that now. Let’s get back to the topic of our meeting.’ He turns to the lawyers. ‘Does Zuliani have a chance of obtaining political asylum, and what should we do?’

‘We have met Filippo Zuliani once — Lisa sent him to us last year, on his arrival in Paris. We found him fairly insipid, and we didn’t pay much attention to him. That was clearly a mistake. He has a lawyer, who has not been in contact, so we have no direct knowledge of his application. But we think he has a chance, yes. Refugee status is awarded arbitrarily, at the discretion of the powers that be. And since the president prides himself on being a man of letters, anything is possible. Especially since the book is good and is getting excellent reviews. His publisher is supporting him and it will probably sell well. To defuse things, we’ll put the word out via our networks, repeat what Lisa has told us, explain that Zuliani only had a very distant connection to Carlo, and that his book is a novel. Lisa, have you got any concrete evidence you can give us?’

Lisa closes her eyes, grits her teeth and swallows her irritation.

‘No.’

‘It would be ideal if you could come up with something.’

‘I’m prepared to work at it, energetically too. Last year, I asked for help, but no one came forward. Will it be any different this time?’

‘Of course we’re prepared to help you, all of us here, we French lawyers as well as you Italians. Meanwhile, I advise everyone to be very careful in public. No comment without consulting us first. And let’s hope that no one will be talking about the book after the summer.’

May

After the publication of Jeanne Champaud’s piece in the Univers des Livres, the publisher is inundated with requests from various newspapers and magazines for interviews with Filippo Zuliani, many more than anticipated. Discussion between the publisher and the publicist. How much should they focus on the breakout, should they go all-out or softly-softly? The publisher is not sure. He fears that Filippo might not be able to cope with all the media attention and will cause a scandal by taking credit for the assassinations, for example. The publicist, on the other hand, feels that the book is going to be big, so it is unthinkable not to use it, and she is confident she can handle the young Italian bad boy. When several radio stations and a TV channel request interviews, the publicist is proved right. She asks Filippo to come in for a brief ‘meeting to arrange his schedule’. He arrives, his heart pounding. Conflicting feelings. The publishing house could be the family he dreams of, he wants to feel at home here, but somehow can’t. He is afraid of letting everyone down, and admits to himself that he is ready to do anything so as not to be thrown out, which he feels puts him in a position of weakness. Besides, ready to do anything … Would that be enough?

The publicist, Adèle, sees him in her office, a cramped, very cluttered room, with a French window opening on to a well-kept garden. She smiles at him, invites him to sit in a huge, old armchair, and offers him a coffee.

‘You seem tense. Relax, it’s all good news. There’s quite a buzz around Escape. She opens a file and reads out the requests she has received, commenting on each one.

‘There’s a terrific word-of-mouth effect, no doubt about it, and that’s very valuable because it’s not something you can create, but when there is one, you can build on it and consolidate it. Do you see?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Never mind. That’s my job, trust me. First we need to try and understand what fires the critics’ interest. And the public’s, if it takes off as we’re hoping it will…’

She gazes at Filippo who sits very still, staring fixedly, fighting back the waves of anxiety.

‘…in addition to the book’s literary merit, of course. But if you knew how many good books never find an audience … in the case of Escape, the thing they’re all talking about is the thrill the journalists get from rubbing shoulders with a criminal, who may be a cop-killer. A type they rarely get to meet.’

Filippo is ashen, he feels a mounting panic. He stares at the floor. Adèle continues, undaunted: ‘Let me be clear. If you’re possibly a cop-killer, that makes you an attractive young hoodlum. But if you are a declared cop-killer and proud of it, then you become a criminal no one wants to be associated with. It’s a delicate balance. We have to maintain the ambiguity without putting you directly in danger. “It’s a novel, talk to my lawyer,” as we agreed, and as you did with Champaud, right? But only as a last resort. Beforehand, make a few concessions, tantalise these good people’s imaginations. You can admit that you escaped from prison with Carlo Fedeli, a former Red Brigades member who was killed a little later in a bank robbery. In any case, people will find out — it’s already public knowledge. You admit his death affected you, and it sparked the idea. Add that all literary fiction includes elements of real life, and stop there. Say any more and it becomes dangerous. Steer the conversation back to the novel and repeat “lawyer”. Are you with me? Agreed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Second thing, and just as important, the character of the author himself.’

Filippo jumps, leans towards her, his mouth open to protest. She raises her hand to stop him.

‘Don’t panic, I know what I’m doing, leave it to me. When a book arrives in my hands, it’s done, I have no power over the product. But the author … Here I think we really have to milk the distinction. Surprise them. The average literary critic imagines that a hoodlum will be violent and unkempt. So be very calm, say little, as you did with Champaud, that was perfect. If you do find yourself under attack — and that’s bound to happen — you need to be prepared. No argument, whatever you do, don’t try and have the last word, or be smart, but answer slightly off the point using carefully measured words, even a cliché, and put on the meaningful expression of someone who’s not revealing all he knows. Let the interviewer be the only one who’s aggressive and clever. I’ll be there, look at me and I’ll signal to you, that’ll help you. And now your dress. Nothing scruffy, obviously. Avoid jeans, T-shirts and trainers. A slightly over-studied elegance. Well-cut cotton trousers, jackets, or long-sleeved shirts, excellent colour coordination. Leather English shoes. I’ll give you the addresses of some good shops. Any questions?’

‘No.’

His voice falters. Filippo isn’t sure he will be able to achieve the many goals she has set him, but he keeps his anxiety to himself.

‘One more thing, and then we’ll be done. Do you intend to leave your job as a security guard?’

‘No,’ he retorts at once, clearly and without hesitation

‘Why not?’

A pause.

‘Because.’

Silence. Adèle waits for him to elaborate, which he doesn’t. She goes on: ‘OK. As you wish. When journalists ask you that, which they probably will, just add a few comments about night work stimulating your imagination. You’re a writer now, don’t forget.’

Filippo sits hunched in his chair, not moving a muscle.

‘Right. Shall we move on to your diary now?’

A routine sets in. Filippo feels as if he’s virtually under house arrest at his publisher’s, under the watchful eye of the publicist, and it suits him perfectly. Super-professional, as always, Adèle dissects Paris literary life bit by bit, like unlocking drawers, then giving him the keys. She sets him very clear, very precise rules of behaviour, what he should and shouldn’t say, and how to say it. He applies them unquestioningly, glad to find a ready-made existence. And it works. His press interviews take place in a little lounge at the publisher’s, just next to the boss’s office. Before each appointment, Adèle inspects him carefully in front of the big mirror in the toilet, checking each detail of his outfit, commenting on and correcting any mistakes. But there are fewer and fewer. When someone takes the trouble to explain things, Filippo learns fast. On this occasion, he is wearing a dark-brown suit and pink shirt, which he dons as readily as others put on blue overalls to go to work in a factory. At home, he has practised walking, sitting down and inhabiting his new clothes until it feels like second nature, as if he has always dressed like this. Then he unexpectedly catches his reflection in the mirrors in the lift, on his way out. After his initial surprise, he contemplates the man looking back at him with incredulity, and a hint of envy.

In his conversations with the journalists, he quickly finds his bearings — the restrictions on what he can or must say have been carefully signposted by the publicist, and he happily keeps to them. She sits in on all the interviews, always in the background, and he soon learns to read from her face whether to steam ahead, veer off or back-pedal. Her presence gives him confidence.

As anticipated, the journalists have done their homework, asking specific questions about his escape with Carlo Fedeli, who died three weeks later during a bank robbery that was strikingly similar to the one in the novel. So how much of the book is autobiographical?

A glance towards the publicist.

‘Yes, I was in prison and there I met Carlo Fedeli who became a very good friend of mine. He used to speak eagerly and eloquently about Italy’s recent history, especially about those years dubbed the “Years of Lead” by the press, and which Carlo, if I remember correctly, called “the years of fire”. I used to listen to him for hours, not having lived through anything like it myself. I have him to thank for inspiring me to write, and for my style in doing so.’

The journalists would push him, asking for more precise details.

‘You broke out of prison with Carlo Fedeli, as everyone knows. Is it your escape that you write about in your novel? Did you take part in the robbery during which Carlo Fedeli was shot dead? How much of the account is fictitious?’

Filippo puts on a masterful show of being annoyed.

‘Yes, Carlo Fedeli’s death and the circumstances in which it occurred affected me deeply. But why are you asking me these questions? My escape? The hold-up? What do you want to know? You’ll have noticed that the novel isn’t written in the first person. I’ve done my job as a novelist, that’s all. Obviously, in my writing I draw on the “events” of my life, like my escape, but I have nothing further to tell you. Do you ask other novelists the same questions? All novelists’ imaginations are inspired by real-life events. There is an autobiographical element in my novel, as in all novels. No more, no less.’

The publicist smiles.

‘Any other questions? My current job? Night watchman. No, I don’t read when I’m on duty. I didn’t read in prison, I listened and now, at night, I don’t read, I write. In prison, I heard stories, complaints, flights of fancy, fragments of broken stories. The transition to writing wasn’t easy. We can talk about that, if you like, about the process of writing rather than my life story.’

At this point, the interview abruptly ends. As the publicist had warned him, writing is a subject that very few literary critics want to explore, over and above a few well-worn clichés and a handful of adjectives.

Adèle discreetly mimes her silent applause. He is happy and thanks her with a smile. He is grateful to this woman who never uses her female charms. She does her job. He is aware how much he owes her, although he does not feel in any way obligated to her.

First radio interview, flawless. The interviewer finds his Italian accent charming.

His first TV appearance is arranged. He turns out to be very telegenic. Make-up and lighting: without losing that pop idol look, his face is sharper, more forceful.

The publicist has organised a book signing in a major bookshop on Boulevard Saint-Germain. When she talks to him about it (‘meet your readers’), he panics. He doesn’t know anything about readers. Neither his family, nor his Rome gang, his fellow prisoners, his colleague at the Tour Albassur, nor he himself were readers. He had wanted to write for Lisa and Cristina, women he knew, and he’d had a very specific purpose. But readers?

‘Will there be a lot of people?’

‘I hope so. I’ll do my utmost to ensure there are.’

He pictures himself surrounded by strangers calling him a liar and an imposter, and proposes they avoid such a confrontation. But Adèle is adamant. It is a must and there is no getting away from it.

Given her efficiency, the date and the venue of the signing are announced in all the major newspapers and on some radio stations. The book has garnered a great deal of critical attention and aroused people’s curiosity, so there is a big turnout.

The bookshop’s layout makes it difficult and slow to move around. On the ground floor, the publisher has laid on a buffet around which the regulars cluster, blocking access to the staircase and the mezzanine where the signing table is set up. Some people are coming up, others going down, it is all a bit chaotic. Small groups stand around, halfway up, deep in conversation, before jostling their way to the buffet. There is a sense of success in such a crush of fans.

Sitting at a table in one corner of the mezzanine, Filippo begins signing with a trembling hand, not daring to look up from the flyleaves on which he scrawls his name. Adèle, sitting behind him, is chatting with a friend. Before him, he is aware of a wall of bodies all merged together; without looking up he takes the proffered books and asks the person’s name, signs, hands the book back and takes the next. This task absorbs him and gradually he relaxes. He is not conscious of any hostility in the atmosphere. He straightens up. He sees a moving mass, mainly women, and just in front of him, leaning slightly towards the table, clutching their books, two girls stand smiling at him. They are blonde and fresh, and he finds them beautiful. He feels flattered. One of them says: ‘Thank you for your book.’

He grows flustered. His shyness delights the reader, who adds: ‘You’re just like your characters.’

The other girl continues: ‘You write about the world of male violence with sympathetic characters who appeal to women like us.’

‘Yes, we want to hug them.’

‘You too, by the way.’

Giggles.

Filippo is at a loss, out of his depth. What are they talking about? His book? Impossible… He checks the title of the book in his hand. Escape. Oh yes they are, no question. On autopilot, he writes on the flyleaf, ‘Thank you for being so beautiful’, and signs. He watches them walk off, elbowing their way through the crowd, their books under their arms.

Adèle comes over to him, then whispers in his ear:

‘Chatting up the girls, are we?’ Filippo stutters. ‘Don’t panic, you’re not the first.’

While he tries to think of an answer, the throng swells even more. It is becoming a hand-to-hand battle with a seething mass of bodies. He is inundated, thrilled, exhausted. An hour later, the crowd ebbs away, leaving him feeling faintly nauseous.

When the bookshop closes, Adèle kisses him — a new experience — and sends him home in a taxi. A hot bath, then he lies down, closes his eyes and pictures the crowd, hears it again, with its disjointed words and snatches of conversation. His first physical contact with his readers. Disorienting. A whole mass of readers. Readers who look at him, but he cannot recognise himself in their eyes. He feels as if he is living a thousand fragmented, atomised existences, outside his control. But it is his book, his signature. No doubt about that. Beleaguered by the flood of sensations, he gives up trying to order them. I’ll think about it all later. And falls asleep.

By the end of May, Filippo Zuliani has become media savvy and is able to play the role of writer to perfection when faced with the press, readers, or booksellers. He has mastered every nuance, every inflection and become the darling of the Paris literary scene. A representative of the ‘dangerous’ classes, a ‘raw artist’ who’s been tamed, a handsome young man with brown eyes. But deep down, without ever talking to anyone about it, he knows it is a made-up part, a usurper’s role maybe, and doubt lurks inside him like a shadow. He is constantly anxious that his mind will go blank, or that he’ll perform badly and disappoint. It is hugely stressful, but he carries it off. And that almost imperceptible little hint of underlying anxiety only adds to his charm.

Escape makes it into the week’s top-ten bestseller list. It reaches tenth place in the first week, up to seventh the following week. The publisher is optimistic about the future — things have taken off fast, and should get even better. Filippo isn’t informed of the sales figures, Adèle doesn’t think it necessary, it might make their relations difficult if he gets big-headed. Better to wait till the trend is confirmed, and besides, he doesn’t seem bothered for the time being, he never asks how well the book is selling.

Each afternoon, after the round of press interviews, Filippo goes back to his studio flat in Neuilly. He changes his clothes, eats a sandwich, drinks a coffee, and fantasises about Cristina. Impossible to stop thinking about her. She fills his mind the minute he stops performing in front of his audience. He is tormented by his inability to penetrate her world and by his aching wish to erase his frantic flight from the Café Pouchkine. He dreams of finding someone to hold his hand and tell him what to do down to the last detail, as Adèle does in his life as a writer, so that he can rewind their disastrous encounter and give it a different outcome. But there are no candidates for the job. Invent a future with Cristina? His imagination fails him. He cannot even replay the scene that has begun to take shape, the two of them sitting at the same desk, working together on the same text, a paradise lost. He feels nothing but empty longing. Every day, he veers between desire and the fear of running into her in the downstairs lobby or the apartment entrance, but he never does. Maybe she is avoiding him. Holding his breath, he listens out for movements, for sounds from her apartment, but there are few signs of life on the other side of the wall.

While waiting for something to happen that will kickstart his life back into motion, he occasionally (when he has the time and before going on to La Défense) makes a detour via the nearby Bois de Boulogne where love can be bought. Without shame and almost without desire, a basic hygienic procedure. An impoverished sex life without illusions, not so different from his practice in Rome, when his little gang ran a dozen or so completely lost girls, supplying them with dope, passing them around among themselves, and using them sometimes as bait to attract lonely tourists.

Then, at 10 p.m., he begins his second life. Security guard at the Tour Albassur. The corridors and offices are empty of their ghosts now that the book is finished, and he and Antoine have got into the habit of playing endless games of draughts. Here he unwinds, breathes freely, de-stresses, purges his anxiety, his mind empty and calm. A sort of intermission, an in-between time of blessed relaxation. One day, perhaps, he might feel like writing again. He has no idea whether or not he will, and there is no rush. For the time being, he tries not to think about it.