Escape

CHAPTER EIGHT

27 July 1988

Cristina arrives back from New York, where she has spent her holiday with her son, late in the afternoon. She is worn out by the heat, the flight and jet lag, and her spirits are low. She is impatient to get home and settle in. A nice shower, a big glass of fresh water with a slice of lemon, then bed, perhaps with a good novel. Her key turns in the lock, she puts down her suitcase, switches on the light and freezes. The big book on Siena lies open on the coffee table, at the double-page spread on the condottiere. Her heart beats faster. For the first time the painting appears as a threat, a declaration of war. Next to it stands the bottle of brandy and a half-filled glass. Evidently someone has been in her apartment. Fear. Maybe still there. Fear. Empty building. Fear. Mounting fear. Stop. Right now.

She shakes herself like a wet dog, marches over to the window and opens the blind. She takes a few steps on to the veranda, where the sun still shines in pools, and from the nearby woods there comes a whiff of fresh air: a familiar and reassuring universe. She calms down and goes back inside, inspecting every room meticulously. She picks up the hat from the dressing room floor and replaces it on its stand. She opens all the cupboards. In the bathroom, she tidies the dressing table and notices that the bottle of Mitsouko by Guerlain is missing. Strange. The bedroom seems to have been spared by the visitor.

She returns to the living room, removes the glass from the coffee table, stale: what a waste. Closes the book, relieved to see the menacing warrior disappear. One fresco that she’ll never look at in the same way again. Then she picks up the bottle and pours herself a full glass of brandy, more effective on this occasion than water with lemon, and slumps into an armchair. Who has been in her apartment? An immediate certainty: Filippo. Why is she so sure? A thought catches her unawares: His smell is in this room … Because I know his smell? Have I memorised it? Nonsense. It’s simpler than that. I reckon it’s Filippo because I know the guy is perfectly capable of forcing my lock — child’s play for him. He’s a petty crook, and possibly even a killer. Simpler still: because he’s an outsider to my world, because I don’t understand him, because I toyed with him yet failed to seduce him. I have a burning memory of the way he thrust my hand away when I placed it on his at the Café Pouchkine. A humiliation. Because his running away like that was already an assault. Because he’s there, close by, on the other side of the wall, and because that proximity is beginning to feel like a permanent threat of invasion. He’s signalling that he can enter my home when he pleases, as he pleases. He is master of my space, and so also of my mental space. I won’t live under this threat. First of all, I have to put myself out of his reach. Then, I’ll see.

Cristina stands up, grabs her suitcase still standing by the front door as if waiting for her, and leaves her apartment. She’ll spend this first night back in Paris at a hotel.

28 July, Paris

Agences Françaises dispatch

Adriano Sofri, Giorgio Pietrostefani and Ovidio Bompressi, two former leaders and an activist from the Italian ultra-left organisation Lotta Continua, which dissolved in 1976, were arrested in their homes at dawn this morning, and taken to various barracks in Milan. The two leaders are accused of ordering the activist to carry out the assassination of Italian state police official Luigi Calabresi in Milan in 1972.

A summary of the evidence leading to the above arrests: in December 1969, against a backdrop of social unrest, a bomb exploded at the Banca dell’Agricultura, Piazza Fontana, Milan, killing seventeen people and wounding a great many more. Deputy Chief Inspector Calabresi, of the anti-terrorism squad, headed the investigation. Next morning he told the press, ‘This is the work of left-wing extremists, there can be absolutely no doubt about it.’ Both on the day of the explosion and those following, several anarchist activists were arrested, and one of them, Giuseppe Pinelli, died after falling out of the window of Calabresi’s office on the fourth floor of the Questura building where he was being questioned. The police announced that he committed suicide. The far-left organisation Lotta Continua then embarked on an intensive press campaign against Deputy Chief Inspector Calabresi and in defence of the anarchists. In 1971 it was to result in the opening of an investigation into Pinelli’s death; the release of the anarchist activist Valpreda, accused of planting the bomb; and the refocusing on the investigation into right-wing extremist circles. In 1972, Luigi Calabresi was assassinated. No one has ever claimed responsibility for his murder, and his assassins have never been identified, or at least not until this morning’s arrests, sixteen years after the event and twelve years after the disbanding of the organisation. Watch this space.

Lisa arrives at work very early because she is running the place almost single-handed during the holiday period. This can be oppressive at times. Through the bay windows she spots Cristina making her way towards the clinic, dragging a huge wheelie suitcase. She looks crumpled and tired. A surge of affection and remorse. We used to be friends, and she has always behaved well towards me. I sent her Filippo. It’s wrong of me to hold that wretched novel against her. Bad faith. Besides, I need her, that’s probably why I feel this sudden burst of affection. Cristina pushes open the door and Lisa goes over to greet her with a kiss.

‘It’s lovely to see you. Did you have a good holiday? Have you come straight from the airport? There was no need to rush.’

‘I already delayed my return by two days. I phoned in, but all the same…’

‘No problem. Things are quiet at the moment, as you know. I postponed or cancelled your appointments, and I’ve rescheduled your timetable, it’s all on your desk. Everything’s fine. Sit down. I’m going to make us an espresso. You look as if you could do with one.’

Cristina sits down in one of the armchairs in the waiting room, her suitcase beside her, her hands folded on her knees. Lisa returns carrying a tray with two plastic cups and a plate of biscuits prettily arranged in the shape of a flower. Cristina stares at the tray with tears in her eyes.

‘That’s sweet of you…’

Without a word, Lisa sits down beside her and puts her hand on her arm. Cristina looks for a handkerchief and blows her nose.

‘Giorgio, my ex, was passing through New York on Monday. My son told me when I got back from my holiday in the Rockies. I wanted to see him again, that’s why I delayed my return.’

‘And?’

‘And it went very badly. Lisa, I live alone in Paris, I feel increasingly isolated, my friends are melting away one by one. Now that I’m no longer the wife of a famous journalist, I feel as if no one’s interested in me any more. I’m old and I’ve had it. He doesn’t seem to be suffering from loneliness. She’s beautiful, blonde and American, the same age as our son, and she’s pregnant.’

Cristina stops, choked. Lisa holds out her cup of coffee.

‘Drink, it’ll get cold.’

They drink and nibble the biscuits in silence, then Cristina continues: ‘And to make everything worse, last night, when I got home, I found that someone had been in my apartment while I was away. I don’t think the intruder took anything, but he made sure to leave traces of his presence, a full glass, a book open on a table, little things like that. I was scared, really scared. I spent the night at a hotel near my place, but didn’t get a wink of sleep. It’s all too much, you know — Giorgio, tiredness, jet lag, this violation … I’m falling apart.’

‘Who could have done that? Why? Has anyone already threatened you?’

‘I’m convinced it’s Filippo.’

‘Filippo? Why? Do you have any proof?’

‘No. None. A feeling, a hunch, I don’t know how to explain it.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I have no idea…’

‘What are you going to do? Confront him? Kick him out of the flat?’

‘I don’t know.’

Lisa picks up the tray.

‘I’m going to make some more coffee. We both need it.’

When she comes back with the espressos, she finds that Cristina hasn’t budged. Lisa sits down facing her, comfortably ensconcing herself in her armchair.

‘This Filippo is a strange character. Ever since his novel came out, I’ve done my utmost to find out the exact circumstances surrounding Carlo’s death. I now have some definite evidence, which I intend to publish very soon. And the facts contained in this evidence don’t fit at all with his story. He was never on the run with Carlo, and the sole source for his account of the bank robbery is a newspaper article. Which is not a problem, that’s how all novelists work. But he’s deliberately working hard to maintain a degree of ambiguity, egged on by his publisher by the way. But by playing on that, he is putting himself in danger. The Italian authorities are going to request his extradition; they’re capable of judging him on the basis of what he’s written in his book and of pinning the execution of the carabiniere and the security guard on him. It is vital that he states, once and for all, and publicly, that his story is a work of fiction and is in no way autobiographical. It’s not difficult, but it is urgent. I simply can’t understand why he refuses to do so.’

‘Have you said all that to him?’

‘No. In fact I don’t even know him. I’ve only met him once, and that was when he arrived in France over a year ago. I helped him as best I could, and largely thanks to you, but I don’t particularly like him, and I have the feeling that it’s mutual. If I suggest we meet, I don’t think he’ll accept.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

The two women finish their coffee in silence. Then Cristina says, ‘I have an idea. I can phone him and tell him that you’d like to see him. He’s bound to be reluctant, so then I’ll suggest, if that’s OK with you, that I come too, and then maybe he’ll agree. When you’ve told him everything you have to say, you can go and leave me with him. I’ll switch the conversation to my little problem with my apartment — it’s easier in person than over the phone. I’ll see how he reacts.’

‘Good plan, OK. When are you going to call him?’

‘Later on, at two, when he wakes up. And I’ll arrange to meet him this evening, at 7.30, near my place at the Café Pouchkine. We can go there together when we leave here. It’s direct on the Métro.’

‘Perfect. That suits me. You have two appointments this morning. Do you want me to rearrange them?’

‘No, absolutely not! It’ll do me good to think about something else.’

She rises. ‘And thanks for everything, Lisa.’

Cristina leaves the room pulling her suitcase and goes off to shut herself in her consulting room. Lisa stares after her, feeling vaguely awkward. No reason to feel awkward. I’m going to meet him. Perfect. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it?

In the course of the morning, the news of the arrest of Sofri, Pietrostefani and Bompressi, charged with murdering Luigi Calabresi, rapidly spreads among the Italian refugees. It is transmitted via phone calls from families and friends, and by the Italian radio stations, which they all rush to tune into. This development sends shock waves through the community. An impromptu meeting is called at the law firm’s offices that same evening. Between her two appointments, Lisa drops in to see Cristina in her consulting room at around eleven.

‘Can we meet Filippo tomorrow instead of tonight? Are you free?’

Cristina pulls a face.

‘On one condition. You come and sleep at my place tonight. I’m scared to go back to my apartment on my own in case I find myself face to face with either Filippo or a stranger, which would be just as bad. And I’ve had enough of the hotel.’

‘OK, we’ll figure something out.’

A dozen Italian refugees gather at the law firm’s offices, all very shaken. They hadn’t spotted any warning signs of this wave of arrests, which at first sight seem utterly baffling. The lawyers give some preliminary information.

‘It’s not good news. All three are in prison right now.’

Chiara groans. Giovanni nudges her thoughtlessly.

‘That’ll teach all of you in Lotta Continua. You’ve preached at us often enough. We’ve brought everything that has happened down on ourselves. We should never have taken up arms. Maybe now you’ll understand how the Italian state operates. And not be so smart.’

Chiara, on the brink of tears, turns away from him and speaks to the lawyers.

‘Charged with what, exactly?’

‘Sofri and Pietrostefani with being behind the assassination of Luigi Calabresi. Bompressi charged with assassinating him.’

‘In 1972! And they haven’t woken up till now…’

‘That’s not all. They are also accused of committing a string of bank robberies since the ’70s.’

Lisa murmurs, ‘Bank robberies! Well, well. Just like Carlo.’

A male voice, ‘It really is nonsense.’

Chiara, who is trying to collect herself, turns to the lawyers, ‘Do they have any proof?’

‘According to the information we’ve received, no proof, just the testimony of an informant who turned witness for the state and who claims to have driven the getaway car during the Calabresi operation.’

‘His name?’

‘Leonardo Marino.’

Three or four people turn round to look at Chiara, who hangs her head.

‘OK, OK, I knew him well. We were friends through Lotta Continua. Afterwards, I came to France. I know he joined the Italian Communist Party a few years ago.’

Giovanni, in a mocking tone, ‘Friends? Are you kidding? Not only did you lecture us on politics, but on top of that you were never particularly discerning in your choice of lovers.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘All the same. He was already a shit. Shall I refresh your memory?’

They go out into the corridor to continue their quarrel in hushed tones then, when Chiara ends up with tears in her eyes, Giovanni sets about comforting her.

In the lawyers’ offices, the heated discussion goes on.

One man who has lived in France for many long years even though he is not the subject of any proceedings in Italy, talks about one of the reasons he departed: ‘It’s outrageous. What is the Italian justice system about? It’s a farce. I remember in 1969, when Calabresi told them that Pinelli had committed suicide by jumping out of his office window, the judges swallowed his story without batting an eyelid. Then, when it was proved that Pinelli hadn’t killed himself, the judge didn’t back down, he wrote in black and white that it was out of the question that Pinelli could have been assassinated, so he must have suffered from a “sudden indisposition” that made him jump out of the window. It was noted as a death from “accidental causes”: the man deserves a prize for his literary inventiveness.’

‘Sixteen years after the event, no one’s ever been charged. Then without warning, they suddenly arrest Sofri — charismatic leader of a group that has never called on its members to take up arms — for murder. A country of madmen.’

‘No, it’s not outrageous and they’re not mad. They know they’re in the midst of a dangerous crisis. If they want to remain in power, the best way is to continue to foment fear of the reds. They are widening the circle of the damned, that’s all.’

‘And do you think that the spectre of red terrorism from left-wing extremists is enough to guarantee that they’ll remain in power? That’s according us a great deal of importance.’

‘Fear of the reds, when there was a real Communist Party, perhaps. But not of us. We carry no more weight than a feather when set against the behemoth of international communism. No, those shoes are too big to fill. We’ll never fill the void left by the decline of the USSR.’

‘He’s right. It won’t work.’

‘Not at international level. At the Italian level, they can try putting on an epic performance: we’re the baddies who play the leading roles and fill the courts, we make their headlines. And behind the scenes, their own dirty tricks are magicked away: all the fear-mongering, massacres on a huge scale, the secret services, the P2 Lodge, the mafia. After all, Italy’s the home of opera. If we ask the judge in the Pinelli case to write the libretto, the show is bound to be convincing.’

Lisa listens without comment, her face drawn, exhausted by her day at work. No desire to take part in such an abstract discussion. Roberto must be feeling the same way: ‘Right, let’s stop this global theorising and see whether we can achieve something here on the ground.’

Her words land like a cold shower on all present, who fall silent. Lisa, who has been mulling over the arrests all day to try and assimilate something so seemingly incomprehensible, takes advantage of the lull to speak, despite her fatigue.

‘I think that last year’s operation involving Carlo was just a trial run. This is the final coup. One question has been haunting me since this morning: why dig up that assassination from 1972 — sixteen long years ago — and why dig it up now? For what it’s worth I have a possible answer. The first indiscriminate massacre; ultra-right terrorism; Piazza Fontana, 1969. The first political execution that the far left claimed responsibility for was carried out in 1976 by the Red Brigades. This was seven years after Piazza Fontana and the hundreds of dead in the successive massacres that took place regularly between 1969 and 1976, plus the attempted coup d’état, and all the abuses we know about.

‘At the time we believed we were taking up arms not so much out of choice but because we were forced to by our enemies. I’m speaking for the Red Brigades, of course. To pin Calabresi’s assassination on Sofri and his friends is to say: terrorism — whether from the far right or the far left — (both took place at around the same time) — is more or less the same thing. Let’s reject both and put it all behind us.

‘And why strike now? Because the government and our enemies think they can get away with it, that we’re beaten, that we’re no longer capable of organising a broad enough protest movement to force them to back down. In the way the movement did between 1969 and 1972 over the Piazza Fontana massacre and Pinelli’s assassination, when it succeeded in implicating the far right and forcing the judges to release the anarchists. If they’re right, we’re screwed. But Italian society won’t be any better off as a result. The ruling class doesn’t know it because they’re barbarians, yet a country that represses its history rots from within.’

A silence, then Lisa continues: ‘For my part, I’ve carried on working. I’m seeing Filippo Zuliani tomorrow to keep him informed, and we’ll see what he has to say about my findings. Then I’ll come and see you.’

Chiara, who has just come back into the room, shouts, ‘Give us a break from that guy and the hold-up. An author of airport novels isn’t in the same league as a man like Sofri.’

‘Those who are in the same league, as you put it, are Carlo and Sofri. Even if you don’t like the fact that it puts Sofri on a par with people he’s never approved of and vice versa, I’ve been convinced for a while now that, like it or not it makes no difference, we are all in the same boat. And with these arrests, you and your mates will eventually realise it. Zuliani is a hiccup. An airport novel maybe, but the secret service was still riled enough to get on his case…’

She stops, hears the voice of Pier-Luigi, tinged with irony, ‘What do you imagine? That everything said in those meetings remains confidential?’ and tails off mid-sentence, too late perhaps. Giovanni, who has come back into the room on Chiara’s heels, leaps to his feet.

‘What are you talking about? Do you have information that you’re keeping from us?’

‘No, nothing special, we’ll see later. Let’s get back to Sofri and his two friends.’

She turns to the lawyer who sits saying nothing.

‘The question remains: what can we do?’

After the meeting, Lisa goes off to find Cristina who has been whiling away the time dozing in a cinema, and they return to Neuilly together. In the lift, Cristina rummages in her bag for ages looking for her keys. Lisa senses her agitation.

‘At this hour, Filippo isn’t here. You’re not likely to bump into him.’

‘I know.’

Cristina carries on rummaging, tips the contents of her bag on to the landing scattering things everywhere, but still no keys.

‘I’m sorry, Lisa, I’m at the end of my tether. I can’t help wondering what I’m going to find when I open my door. When I spoke to Filippo on the telephone earlier, I had the feeling someone was listening in, that there was someone else on the line. It sounded like breathing. I know it makes no sense. I’m hoping things will be better tomorrow. In any case, thanks for your support.’

Lisa picks up the bunch of keys from under a packet of tissues, and holds it out to Cristina. They go through the front door and then the inner door. Cristina switches on the light and glances around anxiously. Everything seems in order. She looks down. On the floor at her feet, a brown manila envelope, immediately recognisable as identical to the one containing the manuscript of Escape which Filippo had deposited. Cristina is certain it wasn’t there yesterday evening; he must have slipped it under the door. The envelope is as tempting as sin, and gives her a thrill. Whatever happens, Lisa mustn’t notice anything. She bends down, picks it up casually and slips it into the outside pocket of her suitcase, then tells Lisa: ‘Everything seems to be as it should, in the state I left it last night. Come, I’ll show you the bathroom and give you towels and a pair of pyjamas. We’re going to sleep in the same bed, if you don’t mind. It’s at least two metres wide so it should be big enough for two small women like us.’

When Lisa has finished in the bathroom, Cristina locks herself in with her suitcase. She sits down at her dressing table, retrieves the envelope and opens it. Twenty or so manuscript pages, covered in the fine, cramped handwriting she knows well. A hot flush. She skims the first few pages. Mitsouko, the chignon, the wooden hair slides, the dark floor, the glass-and-steel furniture, the white duvet … she chokes, puts the pages down on the table, slips them under her make-up bag, closes her eyes and lets a few seconds go by. She is mystified. Who is this youth who has the cheek to force her to acknowledge that he broke into her apartment and that he wants to pretty much rape her? Reaction number one: kick him out of the studio flat and out of her life immediately. It’s the only sensible thing to do. She opens her eyes and looks at herself in the mirror, then meticulously begins to remove her make-up. She examines the lines at the corners of her mouth, the dark rings under her eyes and runs her hand over the skin of her neck, a merciless giveaway of a woman’s age. Reaction number two: rape, let’s not exaggerate, all very symbolic and literary. Admission: she may find this constant presence on the other side of the wall threatening, but it also excites her, a game of seduction and power. How can I not admit that I enjoy it? And I like being the woman described in this piece? What if this is a chance to experience love once again? Who am I to refuse it? Make-up removed, the confusion remains. She has the feeling she has lost her bearings. See what happens when she meets him tomorrow.

29 July, Paris

Another crisis meeting at the publisher’s, just before the company closes for two weeks in August.

‘After yesterday morning’s arrests in Italy, it’s clear that the Italian government is launching a full-scale operation against the remnants of the far left. It is an operation that goes way beyond both the book and the person of Filippo Zuliani. This Sofri is not a dangerous lunatic. I believe, no, I’m certain I published something by him in an anthology of articles which was, if not academic, at least reputable. I’d understood that he could be considered as an Italian intellectual and that it was acceptable to associate with him. And the Italian intellectuals with whom we regularly work also considered him as such. I am completely baffled by these arrests. You have to admit that Italian politics are turbulent, often extremely violent, and pretty much unfathomable to an outsider, but that’s not the problem.’ He turns to Adèle. ‘As far as we’re concerned, we put a complete block on all media exposure for Escape. In any case, at the beginning of August, everything comes to a standstill. Come September, we’ll see how the situation has developed in Italy.’

‘Understood. I should warn you we’ve received several phone calls from people wanting Filippo’s home address. Of course I’ve given strict instructions that no such information should be given out. But with the continual stream of hate mail, it’s rather worrying.’

The publisher turns to the lawyer.

‘Given the new circumstances in which our Italian neighbours now find themselves, is an extradition request likely?’

‘It is on the cards. The arrest of Sofri, Pietrostefani and Bompressi is an operation on a different scale from Prosecutor Sebastiani’s attack on Zuliani. The book is merely a pretext. I smell trouble.’

‘Has our author already been granted asylum? If so, is it temporary or permanent? Does the government intend to renege on its decision?’

‘Before giving you a definite answer, I need to find out for certain.’

‘Do so, and do it fast. In any case, it would be prudent to remove all traces of our various efforts on behalf of Zuliani, including the lobbying. I’m leaving for the United States this evening. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know where you can get hold of me if necessary.’

Lisa and Cristina leave the offices of La Défense together and seat themselves at a table at the back of the Café Pouchkine to wait for Filippo, who has agreed to meet them at 7.30. The two women sit in silence. Lisa is wondering whether Cristina will be a reliable ally in this conversation, which is bound to be very confrontational, no doubt about that. She is aware of Cristina’s uncertainty, but doesn’t understand the reason. Must avoid finding herself out on a limb. Don’t introduce her into the game.

Filippo stands framed in the doorway, impeccably punctual, his slim form clothed in a beautifully tailored, beige linen suit and a bright-red shirt open at the neck. He glances around the room, spots the two women and makes his way over to their table, a half-smile on his lips. Cristina is certain of only one thing: he is no longer the man who dumped her three months earlier in this very café. Now there is not even the slightest falter in his step or hesitation in his bearing, his style of shaking hands and sitting down, or leaning over his glass as if he didn’t know exactly where or who he was. The vague, evasive gaze. All that has gone. An assured manner, visible elegance. Even his features have changed. In what way? Cheeks thinner. And his mouth … Gone the boyish pout. Very well-defined, firm lips. She lets her gaze linger on his mouth.

Having reached their table, Filippo gives a pronounced smile, leans towards Cristina, takes her hand, raises it and brushes it with his lips. He murmurs, ‘Mitsouko?’ Cristina laughs, she loves the thrill of the chase and seduction, when the game is well played, and she finds it very well played indeed. She suddenly realises how desperately she misses it. ‘How did you guess?’ she replies, leaving her hand in his a little longer than etiquette dictates. Then she turns to Lisa: ‘Should I make the introductions?’

Filippo bows to Lisa with a certain stiffness:

‘No need, I believe we already know one another.’ He proffers his hand. She takes it after a moment’s delay, shakes it and can’t help saying: ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you.’

Filippo sits down opposite her, smiling, relaxed.

‘Why? Has life in Paris changed me so much?’

Lisa waits before replying. Yes, he has changed a great deal, and he knows it. He no longer has that helpless look of a lost street kid, and is beginning to look like a successful author, the darling of a major Paris publishing house. This is not going to make her task any easier. Her strategy relied on intimidation and fear. A simple glance at the man facing her, and she knows it won’t work. Well, at least I’ll have tried, and I’ll have told him. Roberto will be satisfied. I’ll be able to publish.

Cristina orders cocktails for all of them. Once the drinks have arrived, Filippo leans towards Lisa.

‘I’ve got a date this evening, I don’t have much time. Cristina told me you wanted to speak to me. Have you got something to tell me?’

‘Are you aware of what’s going on in Italy at the moment?’

‘Only vaguely. I don’t read the Italian papers, but my publisher filled me in.’

‘For the last month there’s been a relentless and very vitriolic press campaign against your book and against you. At first you were described as a bastard who exploits the misfortune of the victims to make money. And then the campaign was stepped up. The police have produced a witness who claims you were at the scene of the hold-up. Ever since, the press has been having a field day. You’ve become at least an active witness to the hold-up if not one of the principle killers. The next stage will be for the courts and the Italian government to demand your extradition.’

She stops for a moment.

‘You’ve heard about the arrest of Sofri, Pietrostefani and Bompressi in Italy yesterday?’

‘No. And I have no idea who they are.’

‘Former political leaders of the far left, like Carlo. It doesn’t matter. Their arrest means that the dogs have been unleashed against them and all those of their ilk, so for you it means that the extradition request is imminent. I think the French government will grant it, because your status as a political refugee is very precarious, and won’t be upheld. Our lawyers aren’t handling your case, remember. Once you’re in the hands of the courts, you’ll go straight to prison. You’ll be tried for your escape, but above all, the courts will make you carry the can for the hold-up in Via Del Battifolle. It won’t be hard given their surprise witness and your wonderful novel, which describes the chain of events so vividly, just as if you had experienced them at first-hand. Wrong as it may seem, your novel will be interpreted as an admission of your involvement in the robbery. You were able to portray it so well because you were there. And we both know that you have no alibi. In the current political climate, you’re likely to get at least twenty years inside. Are you aware of all that?’

‘Yes, more or less. I know that my fellow Italians see me as an accomplice.’

‘You don’t seem too bothered by it.’

‘No, I’m not. And you’ve spoken at length, but I still don’t understand why you care what happens to me, nor what it is you want to say to me.’

‘I don’t care what happens to you, but I do care what happens to us. Carlo belonged to a political movement, and so did I. Anything that affects him, affects us all. If Carlo goes down in history as a gangster who robbed banks to live the high life with his criminal gang, whether in Rome or Milan, we all pay the political price. And that’s a very high price to pay.’

‘You know very well that I’m not interested in your lessons in politics.’

‘I know. But that doesn’t mean that politics isn’t interested in you. So let me finish. Seeing as I was affected by Carlo’s death, I investigated what really happened. I now know the identity of the miracle witness who claims to have seen you in the Via Del Battifolle. He’s a stooge of the neo-fascists and the secret service. He knew Carlo from jail. He’s the one who organised your escape and the fatal sting outside the Milan bank. I’m going to make sure that the French press knows about it and publishes the story.’

‘Fine, that’s what you think, and of course you’re free to do what you want. But again, what has it got to do with me?’

‘I’d like you to state publicly that your book is a novel, a story you invented based on newspaper articles, and that you were never on the run with Carlo. In other words, I’d like you to tell what we both know to be the truth and say that the book is a pure work of fiction. Doing so will have the dual advantage of putting you out of danger since no one’s going to extradite a novelist. And it will help us to rehabilitate Carlo.’

‘Rehabilitate Carlo! You really don’t get it, do you?’

Filippo turns to Cristina, places his hand on the table very close to hers, and addresses her. These words are for her:

‘I loved Carlo. I listened to him for hours on end. He would talk about his battles, describe the colour of violence, the thrill of combat to the death. He fascinated me. He gave a meaning to my own rebellion, which I’d never been able to articulate. And above all, he taught me to love weighty words, words laden with matter, energy, emotion, words that now enable me to live. When we escaped, when we found ourselves in the rubbish skip, when I was drowning, he held his hand out to me, his touch saved me from my own panic, forever. Then I knew that I could die for him, for nothing, with pleasure. When he was killed, I wrote Escape out of loyalty and out of love.’ He turns to Lisa: ‘And you’re asking me to deny all that, his life and mine, to protect myself and for the sake of your abstract ideas? For your outdated memories of a man who’s been dead for ages? Don’t count on me. Not today, not ever.’ Then he gets up, turns his back on the two women and walks out. Cristina rushes after him, without a word. Lisa, dumbfounded, rooted to the spot, swallows her defeat.

Cristina catches up with Filippo at the door. She halts him by putting her hand on his arm.

‘When I came into the Café Pouchkine, I didn’t know what to expect or what might happen afterwards…’

He smiles.

‘Now you know. You have a date with me. I’m inviting you to dinner. I’ve booked a table at Sébillon, and it’s not far from here.’

‘What about your job…?’

‘I’m not a night watchman any more.’

‘That job wasn’t worthy of you.’

He slips his arm under hers and guides her. They walk away from the café, he can feel her hip against his, their steps attuned.

‘This is the most wonderful evening of my short life.’

Still sitting at the table, Lisa watches them walk off down the sunny street. Impressive diatribe, impressive exit. I knew I wouldn’t get anything out of him. But Roberto won’t be able to say anything now. The most puzzling thing is Cristina’s extraordinary behaviour. Are women as unreliable as men? Hard to admit. They left without paying. Of course. A pity to spoil such a magnificent exit with such a vulgar detail.

Lisa bitterly pays for the three cocktails that no one had the time to drink, picks up her belongings and leaves the Café Pouchkine. She can see the couple a hundred metres away, walking off down the street still bathed in sunlight. Almost the same height, they walk at a regular pace, chatting, leaning in towards each other. Cristina occasionally rests her head on Filippo’s shoulder. Lisa comments to herself that he is walking on the outside, as recommended in the etiquette guides from the 1900s, to protect his companion from being splashed by vehicles passing at speed, and the stupid thought distracts her.

Just then, a man bumps into her as he rushes out of the porch of an apartment building. She is knocked off balance, protests aloud. The man does not turn round but runs faster. He is wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and a stylish panama hat pulled down over his eyes. Lisa doesn’t get a look at his face. Then one thing follows another, as with a well-oiled machine. The man in the panama is closing in on the couple. A motorbike rides slowly up the street, and passes Lisa. The man in the panama catches up with the couple. Lisa hears a gunshot. No mistaking it, she’s heard enough in her life to know. A single shot. She freezes, and at the same time sees Filippo collapse, the bike pass the couple in slow motion, the man in the panama jump on to the pillion, the bike roar off, and Cristina spin round and crumple on to the pavement. Lisa springs into action, races towards the two bodies on the ground, screaming, ‘Help … Help!’

When she reaches them, she glances at Filippo’s body lying face down, a black hole in the centre of his back, his lovely beige jacket scorched. A pool of blood is spreading over the pavement close to his left shoulder. Dead. Too late to do anything. She quickly turns to Cristina, lying on her back, her entire body rigid, her face ashen, the whites of her eyes showing, her jaw locked. Lisa tries to raise Cristina’s head, but is unable to. Suddenly her body goes into spasm, shudders, her teeth chattering. Lisa, desperate, doesn’t know what to do. She looks up. A few people appear at their windows, alerted by the gunshot and her screams. A stranger is standing next to her.

‘I’m a doctor. My surgery is in the apartment building over the road. I heard the shot, and then your screams. This woman is having an epileptic fit. Do you know if it’s happened before?’

‘No, not that I’m aware of.’

‘I’ve already called an ambulance and the police. You don’t look too good either. I’m going to get a chair so you can sit down until the police get here. Don’t take it as an excuse to faint, please.’

The ambulance arrives very quickly and Cristina, still unconscious, is driven off to the nearest hospital. Shortly afterwards, three police cars pull up, sirens wailing. The police block off the street and cordon off the crime scene. A plain-clothes police officer takes Lisa to one side and starts questioning her, while others try and gather statements from the neighbours.

For the time being, Lisa is the only witness. ID? Italian refugee. Aha … Did she know the victim? Yes, Filippo Zuliani, also an Italian. The police officer looks up from his notebook.

‘The guy who wrote a book about how he assassinated a carabiniere, and boasts about it?’

Lisa shrugs helplessly.

‘If you like…’

The police officer barely lowers his voice.

‘Good riddance.’

Then she has to say, and repeat over again, the same words, explain what the three of them had been doing at the Café Pouchkine, the couple leaving together first, Lisa staying behind to pay. No, they hadn’t had a quarrel.

‘That’s not what the barman says.’

It was a discussion, they had disagreed, but it wasn’t a quarrel. She had not fallen out with the dead man. Well … not like that. When she came out, the man in the panama, no, she hadn’t seen his face. Height, build, age … in his thirties or forties, not all that young, quite well-built, that was all she could say. The motorbike, no, she hadn’t seen the licence plate, not even certain whether it had one … the police officer presses her … or not.

When he repeats his questions for the fourth time, night has fallen and Lisa, exhausted, asks him what he’s driving at, exactly.

‘All three of you are Italian, two of you are refugees with a dodgy background, possible disagreements between you back in Italy, where there are lots of shootings. You met at the café, there was a heated discussion, you didn’t leave with him. You saw the killers, but you haven’t given me any useful information. So I’m asking myself, and I’m asking you: did you lure this Filippo into a trap and give the signal to the killers?’

Probably due to the shock of the murder or the exhaustion of being interrogated, Lisa bursts out laughing.

‘I think you’re as paranoid as I am. But you’ve got a point. I’m not able to prove that I didn’t kill Filippo Zuliani.’

Now she understands what the officer wants to get out of her, she is able to breathe more easily. She is no longer in the surreal realm of the nightmare. She gets her breath back, finds her nerve, and casts her eye over the crime scene. The body has been removed, the job of the police seems to be done. A small group of onlookers is still hanging around, Roberto is in the front row. How did he hear? Always there when she needs him. The sight of him comforts her, she waves to him, smiles at him.

Shortly afterwards the police pack up their equipment. Lisa, whose home and workplace addresses have been checked out, is allowed to go home — she’ll be summoned to the police station later. She falls into Roberto’s arms. The worst of the shock has been cushioned. Too late to cry. A pity.

Her staunch friend has thought of everything. Nothing like a good meal to help face up to death. In their infinite wisdom, both French and Italian traditions prescribe a feast after a funeral. Even more reason for one after an assassination. So he takes her for dinner to the best local eatery, the only one that stays open so late. Sébillon, famed for its leg of lamb.

Lisa has great difficulty regaining her composure. She is caught up in the brutality of the absurd, torn between hysteria and despair. As they sit down at their table, Roberto first of all asks after Cristina.

‘You told me she was coming to the Café Pouchkine with you. I looked everywhere for her, but I couldn’t find her.’

‘After our meeting, she left with Filippo, to take him home to bed.’

‘So he came off best in your duel?’

‘I think that now I can admit it, yes, definitely. I didn’t even get off the ground and he was flying in the stratosphere. So, Cristina was on Filippo’s arm when he was shot.’

‘Shit!’

‘She had an epileptic fit and was taken to hospital, I don’t know which one. And right now, I don’t care. I’ll think about it tomorrow.’

She sips a pleasant Loire wine, breathes deeply then takes the plunge.

‘Roberto, I’d never have thought our secret service would assassinate Filippo. I’m thinking it’s more likely to be Bonamico.’

‘Stop fantasising, please. Not now. It’s creepy. And eat.’

‘Why did they kill him? Because they knew we were on Bonamico’s trail, and that we have proof? I don’t see the connection.’

‘That’s absurd. They didn’t know. Who could have told them? Neither you nor I, and no one else knows about your investigation. Satisfied?’

Lisa attacks her food. Delicious lamb, cooked to perfection, the meat melts in her mouth. It’s tricky, cooking leg of lamb. Someone knew. She thought of her telephone conversations with Stefania, the Corriere di Brescia journalist. ‘My boss asked me if I was in contact with you.’ The information had surfaced and quickly. Am I the one who sparked the whole thing off? No way I can tell Roberto. Stefania’s voice continues to ring in her ears.

Suddenly she freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. What had Stefania said? Bonamico, the lover of the Tomasino girl, the Brescia banking family, a photo from 1974, a terrifying face, the eyebrows joined, the scar … Just like Marco in Escape: eyebrows, scar, vicious, brutal … Filippo saw Bonamico with Carlo, he says so in his book. And the moment Prosecutor Sebastiani tried to bring him back to Italy to stand trial — and was likely to succeed — was the moment Filippo was sentenced to death. Lisa closes her eyes. A hollow ache in her chest. Hard to accept. Even the story he told me about his and Carlo’s escape, more than a year ago, was no more reliable than the rest. At the end of the day, maybe he did take part in the hold-up after all. I’ll never know. No choice, I’ll have to live with it. She slowly readjusts to the reality of the restaurant, Roberto, their conversation. It’s no longer a time for passion, but for appraisal.

In a neutral voice, she says, ‘The French police will conduct a lengthy investigation into Filippo’s assassination, but they won’t find the killers. They’ll only be sure of one thing. The modus operandi: a professional hit man, a single bullet shot at point-blank range, an accomplice on a motorbike, speedy getaway, no clues, no witnesses, it’s a professional hit. Then a police officer will recall having read Filippo’s book: Carlo’s double was shot after the Rome gang informed on him. To avenge him, Filippo’s double shoots Marco, the leader of the Rome gang, who take their revenge by having Filippo killed. It all makes sense.’

‘You’re talking nonsense.’

‘You’ll see. I’m willing to bet on it.’

Roberto desperately casts about for a topic of conversation to distract her.

‘It would be better to talk about our own affairs. There’s no reason not to continue with Bonamico. Who shall we contact to publish your report?’

Lisa stops eating, she looks straight through Roberto, and stares into the far distance.

‘I don’t think you realise what’s just happened. We’re not going to publish anything at all. There’s no point. There’s nothing more to be done. Nobody can fight against a death as romantic as Filippo’s. He’s become a sort of legend, that of the hoodlum at a turning point in his life — he steals, he kills, he writes and he dies at the age of twenty-three, shot on the streets of Paris by strangers, with a bullet straight through his heart. Twenty-three years old, just think. The age I was when I met Carlo. Filippo is a comet, and his book will now be sacrosanct. He has taken Carlo off into a world of his own. Nothing more to be done. Adieu, Carlo, bon voyage.’

‘Are you giving up?’

Still gazing into the distance, she says nothing for a while.

‘Yes, I’m giving up. That particular battle’s lost. If I want to try and salvage our past, there’s only one thing left for me to do. Write novels.’