Escape

CHAPTER TWO

5 March

Since learning of Carlo’s death from the papers, Lisa has shut herself up in her studio apartment. It is on the fourth floor of an ancient building in Rue de Belleville, at the far end of an overgrown courtyard garden. She sits there for hours in a state of shock, huddled in an armchair in front of the tall window of her living area, looking out over the trees. Overcome by grief she nibbles, drinks coffee, thinks, sleeps and gets up from the chair as little as possible.

It all began in the autumn of ’69 when she was a young rookie journalist at L’Unità, daily newspaper of the Italian Communist Party, then at the height of its powers. She was sent to Milan to report live from the Siemens factory where ‘something was happening’. She still feels emotional when she remembers her awe (the word is no exaggeration) on discovering the factory in ferment. At that time, people called it ‘in a state of revolution’, and for her and a few thousand people, that word meant something. She fell out with L’Unità, which rejected her articles and cut off her source of income, and met one of the workers, Carlo, a good-looker and a smooth talker. It was love, naturally. Had she fallen in love with him, or with that moment when young workers believed they were making history? The question made no sense, it was simply their life. She had followed Carlo into the Red Brigades. Years later Lisa was in France, sent by the organisation to meet a delegation of Palestinians. That was in 1980, and by then, hope had already died, and she was carrying on out of loyalty (to what? to whom? pointless questions? Loyalty to herself, to her past). While she was away, the police had surrounded their apartment in Milan, arrested Carlo and two other comrades and confiscated all their files. Carlo got a message to her via their lawyers that the police were actively looking for her, and that she should stay in France, at least for a while. At least for a while — and that had been seven years ago. Without seeing Carlo again, and without admitting to herself that the separation was permanent. Well now it is. Now he has been assassinated.

If I were a journalist, in Italy, in my real life … I’d investigate. The security guards change their route and their schedule every day. Who informed Carlo, who decided on the date and the place of the assassination? I’d want to know about the two carabinieri, that has to be the easiest starting point. Talk to the bank staff, they go for coffee in a nearby café in their lunch break, and they like to talk. Especially about sensational events of this kind, in which they have been directly involved. Yes, they would well remember the two carabinieri on that day; no, the men would not have paid in a cheque, and actually no, they would not recall ever seeing them before the day of the shooting.

I’d want to talk to Carabiniere Lucio Renzi. He is supposed to have come out of the bank and walked straight into an armed robbery, and killed Carlo with a single bullet in the chest. He is notorious for being trigger-happy. What is his career history? Between the infamous P2 Masonic Lodge veterans filled with resentment and the enemies of the P2 Lodge veterans, you can always get the information you need from the Italian police. And if Renzi had worked with the secret service for a while, it would all add up. This was no aborted bank robbery, it was an assassination.

Lisa stares out at the courtyard and the trees bending in the wind. The air is turning chilly. She closes the window. But I’m not a journalist, I’m not in my real life, I’m here, in exile, in France. I left my entire life behind in Italy. I know who those people are over there. I know them, I understand them, I’m cut from the same cloth, I know the networks. From here, I watch that whole world growing restless, but I can’t reach out to it. It’s as if I’m shut up in a glass cage. I stretch out my hand, I touch the glass, but I can’t get a grip on anything. I am an exile.

A few discreet taps at the door. Lisa hesitates, then opens it. Roberto. He hugs her.

‘I came as soon as I heard. As quickly as I could.’

She rests her head on his shoulder and cries silently, not for long. No point in talking. They have too many shared memories — they both know what Carlo’s death means. Then she pulls away.

‘Shall I make you a tea, or a coffee?’

‘Coffee, please.’

She goes over to the kitchenette, splashes some water on her face, and fills the cafetière. He sinks into one of the two armchairs in the sitting-room area, without taking his eyes off her. Her tall, erect, slightly stiff outline, immaculate grey sweatshirt and trousers, her carefully brushed mass of black hair, her smooth face, her eyes only slightly puffy — why does she need to keep up appearances?

‘You’re coping … better than I am, I’d say…’ She shrugs. ‘Are you coming to the meeting between the Italian refugees and the lawyers tomorrow?’

‘No.’

She sets two cups of coffee and a packet of dry biscuits down on the coffee table, and seats herself in the other armchair.

‘I don’t want to have to listen to people I don’t know very well — people who didn’t know or love Carlo — talking to me about his death. I don’t want to have to answer questions. But I’m glad you’re here, Roberto, because when I’m with you I feel like talking, and it helps. I am carrying a huge burden. I felt his death coming, I was living with it for the last six months, without saying a word, not even to you…’

Roberto leans towards her, listening attentively.

‘…ever since he was transferred to that prison for common criminals. He was set up, Roberto, his escape and his assassination were planned.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘First of all, his transfer. No reason, other than that it’s impossible to escape from high-security prisons. Then, the articles in the papers — they’re all the same, as if they were publishing an official press release. And no mention of their source. Because that source is the same for all of them, it’s the police. That ridiculous claim that the two carabinieri went to the bank to pay in some cheques, that one of them had an account there, that he was a regular customer. A bit over-the-top, don’t you think? And no one went to sniff around, check the facts, interview witnesses. It’s as if they’re scared to touch it because it stinks.’

Roberto drinks his coffee, gingerly sets his cup down and frowns. He remains sceptical.

‘Not convincing. Journalists nearly always work that way, regurgitating police sources without checking them. What else?’

‘The small-time crook who broke out with him. Does that sound like Carlo, teaming up with a common criminal?’

‘He spent seven years inside, Lisa. That changes a man.’

‘What about the two carabinieri who “happened” to be coming out of the bank at that precise moment. I don’t buy that.’

‘Who would have engineered the whole show? The people who helped him escape? With three dead, that’s a bit much, don’t you think? But more importantly, why?’

‘To kill the declaration that the original Red Brigades leaders have just published.’

‘That’s a bit of a sledgehammer to crack a nut, isn’t it?’

‘The stakes are high for us, Roberto. Don’t underestimate them. That open letter could be the starting point for a collective analysis. We need to read it and discuss it, together and with other left-wing organisations. So we need time, and we need calm. If we don’t analyse our defeat, each of us will be left to our own individual solitude and despair. Our generation will be airbrushed out, our history will be erased, and the traitors and scumbags will triumph.’

‘Nobody wants that debate, neither the left — or what remains of it — nor the right. Definitely not with us. We’re terrorists, outcasts.’

‘Exactly. A few days after the publication of the Red Brigades’ open letter, one of their former leaders raids a bank and kills a carabiniere. On the front page of all the papers, “Red terrorism from left-wing extremists, still a threat, is now pure gangsterism. Why should we open a dialogue with these people?” Don’t you find it too much of a coincidence that this sabotages all our chances of entering into a political dialogue?’

‘Carlo could very well have lost his head all by himself. And I think we can be certain that some of our former comrades will continue to attack and murder without really knowing why, and kill off the Red Brigades’ declaration without the need for dirty tricks to push them into crime.’

‘The right can’t just blame the violence on a bunch of gun-toting individuals as they always do. They’re bound to try, I grant you, but it could well be too late. There are good reasons to hurry.’

‘What reasons?’

‘Two months ago, in January, the ultra-right extremists who planted the bomb in Piazza Fontana were cleared. Seventeen dead. No culprits. Insufficient evidence.’

‘I don’t see the connection.’

‘The Piazza Fontana massacre was the first in a long series, carried out with the backing of the secret service, whose aim was clearly to destabilise the country.’

‘I know it, you know it, everyone knows it.’

‘That’s all very well. But when they start clearing the names of known killers, authors of such a historically significant massacre, twenty years after the event, the right needs to divert attention while it gets its house in order.’

‘Operation whitewash has been underway for a while. Nothing new there.’

‘Yes, but it’s very much in the news because, after the Piazza Fontana killers in January, it’ll be the turn of the Italicus train killers in September, then those of the Brescia massacre before the year’s out. Same protagonists, the Ordine Nuovo fascists, same victims, same aims. And the same outcomes to the trials: they’ll all be whitewashed. If the farce is repeated too often, it’ll end up by not being funny any more. A distraction has to be found, and immediately. Give the press and public opinion something else to think about.’

Roberto looked out of the window, a big square of blue sky, so blue, so calm. He speaks without turning round.

‘I admire you for your ability to think and rationalise. I have to say that I’m not able to. Not yet. Right now I’m too stunned by Carlo’s death. I feel as though I’m at the bottom of a hole.’

‘Don’t you know the Roma saying? When you’re at the bottom of a hole and sinking, stop digging.’

10 March

It is dark by the time Lisa arrives home, exhausted after a stressful day at work. She had to make up her four days’ absence, four days in mourning. Piles of reports to type, appointments to rearrange, telephone ringing nonstop, no time to think about Carlo, even during the lunch hour. Now, all she wants is a hot shower, a coffee with buttered bread, and bed. She climbs the four flights of stairs puffing, rummages in her bag for her keys, and stumbles over a young man sitting outside her front door, asleep, his head on his arms resting on his knees. Intrigued, she wakes him. He looks up. A shock. In the wan light of the staircase, the photo from the newspaper, the adolescent face of the young hoodlum. She feels her legs buckle. Pushing him aside, she hurriedly puts her key in the lock, opens the door and says to him in Italian: ‘Come in, I need to sit down.’

Lisa sinks into a chair leaving him standing there awkwardly, his eyes widening at the sight of so many books. Two walls are lined with bookshelves, and piles of books are scattered everywhere — on the floor, by the bed, on the furniture. Her eyes closed, her hands covering her face, Lisa takes a moment to regain her composure. To his credit, the boy waits, keeping quiet and showing no sign of impatience. When she opens her eyes again, she looks at him. He looks very young, with tattered clothes, a mobile, elusive face, tousled dark hair. She motions to him to sit in the other armchair facing her. When he is settled, his body rigid and his hands crossed, he says to her: ‘My name is Filippo Zuliani and I’m a friend of Carlo’s.’

‘I know who you are. I’ve read the papers. What are you doing here?’ He takes an envelope from a side pocket on his bag and holds it out to her. She reads her own name, Lisa Biaggi, and her address in Rue de Belleville. With a pang, she recognises Carlo’s handwriting. She does not touch the envelope.

‘So what are you trying to prove to me?’

The kid — because he is a kid — looks disconcerted. He has not anticipated this kind of a reaction. He hesitates and puts the envelope down on the coffee table.

‘You’d better begin at the beginning. Your escape. Why did the two of you escape?’

‘Why?’ His surprise wasn’t an act. ‘Because in prison you’re always trying to escape.’

‘Let’s keep this simple: how? Give me the details, please.’

Filippo pauses. He has been expecting this moment. Carlo had said, ‘Tell Lisa’. Since making the decision to head for Paris, he has replayed the scenes from his story, prepared himself to tell Lisa everything. And now, she is there in front of him. Not the warm, welcoming woman he had imagined. With her fine features, she is beautiful, for sure, but glacial. There is no going back now. He embarks on his story without looking at her, keeping his mind focused on what he is saying.

‘I was Carlo’s cellmate from the day I arrived in prison, seven months ago. I liked him from the start. I don’t know how he felt. Over time, he probably grew to like me. You always end up liking the people who admire you, I think. We used to talk every night, him about Milan, the seventies. I didn’t have much to talk about since I hadn’t had much of a life before prison. In any case, not a life I’m proud of. But he was proud. He refused to join any of the workshops, and he hardly ever came out of our cell. I told him about my work, the day-to-day life of the prison, all the goings-on — it gave me something to talk about, and it entertained him. I was part of the cleaning team, and one of my jobs was to clean the bin room where a big rubbish chute emptied the waste from the whole wing into two big skips. The full skips were collected at the same time every day by a truck. Half an hour after the truck had come by, it was my job to pick up any rubbish that had fallen on the ground while the skips were being hoisted up, then wash down the area. I would tell Carlo about the filth, the heat, the stench. The bin room was tiny, completely closed in by a metal shutter. When the sun beat down on it the waste fermented, and it really stank. But he didn’t give a shit about my working conditions, he was only interested in the width of the rubbish chute. Could a man fit into it? I told him that in my opinion, a man could easily slide down it. From that moment on, the pair of us began to dream. He asked me to find the entrance to the chute, which I located behind the canteen kitchen, on the first floor. Then Carlo signed up for the canteen dishwashing team. I put out feelers to find out what time the trucks came by, but the timing didn’t fit. My shift needed to be half an hour later to coincide with when Carlo was on the dishwashing detail and I was in the bin room. But he told me not to worry, that he’d find a solution on the day. I trusted him, I didn’t ask any questions. My job was to find out the procedure for searching the skips leaving the prison, and I got that information easily. The searches were perfunctory to say the least. Two guards lifted the tarpaulin covering the skip and gave it a quick once-over, and that was it. So we decided to go for it. Carlo set the date. That day, when I went into the bin room, I saw the skips were still full and I knew we were really going to do it. My heart was racing until I heard the trucks turning into the yard, half an hour later than usual. I checked that the chute was in the right position, and before the big main gate opened, I gave the signal by banging five times on the side. Carlo was in the canteen on the first floor, he must have been waiting by the mouth of the chute, and at the signal he dived down it. He shot out into the skip like a cannon ball. The main gate opened, the trucks were about to drive in. I grabbed the top of the skip, did an acrobatic flipover and dived in, landing next to him. We swam down to the bottom of the skip through the rubbish bags. Then, we waited, listened, breathing as shallowly as possible so as not to suffocate. For how long, it’s impossible to say. But not all that long. Then we were tipped out of the skip on to a rubbish dump. That’s it.’ He stopped, apparently exhausted, and finally looked at Lisa. Told like that, it sounded incredibly easy. Another pause. ‘It’s our story, and now I’m telling it for the first time.’

Lisa is moved, exasperated, and suspicious. First of all, she must calm down. She rises, turning her back on Filippo and potters about in the galley kitchen. She never cooks — no room, no time, no desire. But she does have a cupboard with a few emergency supplies. Right now, busying herself affords her a degree of composure and the time to think things through. His story is too polished. Well, he’s had the time to replay the film over and over again, it’s true. She returns with a dish of tortellini in broth, which she sets down on the coffee table in front of him. He pounces on it. Lisa watches him then, when he has finished eating, she says aggressively: ‘Nothing you’ve told me explains how you ended up on my doorstep.’

‘As soon as we were tipped out with all the rubbish, we stood up.’

He pauses for a second, recalling the sudden feeling of panic at finding himself standing on top of that mound of refuse. What the fuck am I doing here? I should never have jumped into that skip. He had felt like crying. He clears his throat: ‘There was a ladder against the wall. On the other side, a car was waiting for us. We lay down side by side on the floor in the back, and the car drove off at speed, over very bumpy roads. I got banged around, and I’m sure Carlo did too. I think I blacked out at times, it’s a bit hazy.’

‘Who was driving the car?’

‘I’m not sure. No one I knew. A guy at the wheel and a girl next to him, that’s all I could see.’

‘A girl?’

‘Yes, a girl, I’m certain of that.’

‘And you weren’t able to see the guy or the girl? At any time? Didn’t they say anything?’

‘No, nothing. They didn’t open their mouths while I was there. And I couldn’t see anything because the driver had turned up the collar of his coat and was wearing dark glasses. The girl had her collar turned up too, and wore a headscarf. They never turned round to look at me.’

‘And then what?’

‘The car stopped somewhere in the mountains, by a ruin, a sort of barn. Carlo took me aside. He gave me a bag…’ Filippo jerks his thumb at the canvas bag beside him on the chair, ‘… already packed with two sandwiches, clothes and some money, and he said, “This is where we part company. I have things to do. I’ll meet you in Milan in a month’s time. Meanwhile, stay out of sight, and if things get too difficult here in Italy, head for Paris. Go to this address, tell the woman I sent you, and tell her our story. She’ll help you.” Those were his precise words: “If things get too difficult”. I only realised later what he meant. And then the three of them got into another car that was hidden in the barn, and they drove off.’

‘And you still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the other two?’

‘Vaguely, from a distance, and only from behind.’

‘Did you know who I was? Had Carlo told you about me?’

‘No, never.’

In silence, she lets that sink in. A girl was waiting for him when he broke out, and he never mentioned me to his cellmate, during six months of cohabiting. Careful. A trap.

‘Did he give you any addresses in Milan?’

‘No. Just the name of a youth hostel. After a month, I was supposed to go there and wait until he contacted me. Later on I forgot the name.’

‘So what did you do next, after Carlo left and you were on your own?’

‘I set off on foot over the mountains, heading for Milan. I walked for days, taking care to follow disused footpaths. And then I arrived in Bologna. It was the first city I set foot in after our escape.’ Pause, his voice choked. ‘I bought the paper, and I found out … It was a shock. There’s no other word to describe it, a shock.’ He runs his hand over his face. ‘Then I felt empty. What was I going to do in Milan? A city I don’t know … and then, I suddenly felt frightened, very frightened. We broke out together … I’d vanished for three weeks … and during that time, I’d seen no one and no one had seen me. No possible alibi. My photo was in the papers after the escape: the cops were saying they had a lead, and that could only be me. A bank robbery, and now a carabiniere and a security guard dead. Carlo had said, “If things get too difficult, go and see her.” Things got too difficult, so here I am.’

Lisa retreats into silence. She is disconcerted by these echoes of Carlo alive arriving out of the blue. She tries to get her bearings, something to hold on to. Is his story credible? Maybe, maybe not. In any case it doesn’t contradict her last phone conversation with Carlo. A joint escape in which the kid has a secondary but necessary role. Does he or doesn’t he know who the real accomplices are? If he does know them, caution will probably prevent him from saying so. Carlo was able to get rid of him by arranging to meet up in Milan, without implicating anyone else, without revealing any addresses, and with no intention of turning up. “Don’t worry. My cellmate and I have already parted company.” A month gave him time to go underground if he was worried about the kid informing on him. Not a very honourable thing to do if the kid was clean, but a possible, even likely, course of action. The truly painful thing is the disclosure that during those months of intimacy with Filippo, Carlo never once mentioned her. He never spoke about me. That girl in the car. A crazy pang of jealousy. She rises, picks up Filippo’s dirty plate and puts it in the sink. Don’t let yourself go. Seven years inside, that changes a man, that’s what Roberto was trying to tell me. He spent the last months of his life in close confinement with this kid, but his death is part of our shared history, his and mine. And I won’t let go of it. She brings a plate of biscuits over to the table, sets it down, takes one and eats it to give herself time. Then she says: ‘Carlo was set up. He was assassinated by a crack marksman, Carabiniere Lucio Renzi, lying in wait for him inside the bank. And you’re to blame for that assassination.’

Filippo is taken aback.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you.’

‘I don’t get it.’

She looks at him with barely contained fury.

‘You put the idea into his head and gave him the means to escape. If he’d stayed in jail, he’d still be alive. And eventually he’d have been released, sooner or later.’

She slowly regains her self-control. He’s just a kid in rags, unable to get his breath back, disoriented. Not to blame for too much. Calm down. Mustn’t get carried away, it’s beneath me. She looks away.

‘Sorry. I’m deeply distressed by Carlo’s death. I spoke out of turn, so don’t take any notice. I’m exhausted and I have to be at work early tomorrow. You can sleep here, and we can talk it all over in the morning. You use the bathroom first, while I make up a bed for you in here.’

11 March

Filippo has an appointment with a woman he doesn’t know, in a swanky part of Neuilly. Lisa gave him some money to buy himself some clean clothes and said, ‘Here’s the address. She’s a friend of mine, and she’s agreed to rent you her studio apartment. Goodbye and good luck.’ Not a word more, no explanation. He walks down a street that stinks of the bourgeoisie, the establishment. He has a strong impulse to run away as fast as he can, as far as possible, but doesn’t have the guts. Where would he go? He keeps walking until he reaches number 18. A small, soulless, modern apartment block. Marble and mirrors in the lobby, dark wood and mirrors in the lift. Sixth floor. He rings the bell. The door opens, he is expected. A woman in her forties, magnificent as Italian women of that age are — tall, erect, curvaceous, golden-brown eyes in an open face, a dazzling smile. And a mass of coppery blonde hair like the girl in the mountains who had smiled at Carlo, and whose fleeting image had left an indelible impression on Filippo’s imagination. A crazy hope, the warmth of an older sister, lover, mother. Come all the way to Paris to find her and love her. She extends her hand, a rapid, all-purpose handshake, a formality, hopes dashed. Perhaps her smile’s a mask. She speaks to him in Italian: ‘Filippo? I’m Cristina Pirozzi. I was expecting you, come in.’

She shows him into quite a spacious hall, furnished with an elaborately carved Italian wardrobe, a huge, antique mirror, a magnificent grandfather clock and a Persian rug on the floor. Two doors facing each other. Cristina opens one of them.

‘This is the studio flat I mentioned to Lisa.’

A large, well-lit room, French window opening on to a balcony, glass-and-steel guardrail, good-quality, simple furniture, a big bookcase full of books, a bathroom and a tiny galley kitchen. And four big clothes cupboards, for him, whose only luggage is his canvas bag.

‘It was my son’s place, but he lives in New York now. Ever since Giorgio, my partner, left, I’ve lived alone in this huge apartment.’ A pause. ‘Does it suit you?’ He stammers. ‘Here are the keys. I arranged everything with Lisa. In theory the rent is 400 francs a month, all-in and cash, but of course you can pay me when you’ve got a job. My phone number’s on the kitchen table in case you have any problems.’

And she leaves.

Filippo finds himself alone, broken, drained. What the hell was I expecting, for God’s sake? He sits down on the bed, which is covered with a brightly coloured patchwork counterpane, his shoulders hunched, his arms dangling. He casts his eye over the bookshelves where there is a mix of French and Italian books. Yet another library, like at Lisa’s. All these books he hasn’t read. He walks over to the shelves and touches the spines. If he wants to read, which book should he start with? A name comes back to him: Victor Hugo, Carlo used to say. ‘A Victor Hugo to tell our epic tale.’ How is he to find that name among all these books? He scans the spines — names, titles that mean nothing to him, seemingly arranged at random. Crestfallen. They’re all telling me: you don’t fit in here, we’re prepared to help you, then bye-bye. Cristina made that perfectly clear. She called me Filippo, my first name, no surname, she stood in the hall to talk to me, as if I was some kind of a servant. Put the money for the rent in the hall cupboard — avoid contact at all costs. Then, all condescending, ‘I arranged everything with Lisa.’ She didn’t look at me once, I was invisible, non-existent. A memory surfaces: I was invisible for Carlo, too. He said, ‘my escape’, a memory immediately blocked out, buried again. Don’t think about it any more, too painful, forget. Lisa, Cristina, all their books that I’ll never read. I’m a pawn and these two women are just playing with me. Resentment. He feels the urge to run away again. And to take the rug and the mirror with him. Not the clock, too cumbersome. He will have no trouble selling them at a flea market on the outskirts, they must have them here, and then he can do a runner and find his friends in Rome, with enough money to swagger about, at least for a few days. And treat himself to two or three girls — he can show these women he is not intimidated by them. In my dreams. I’m forgetting that I’m wanted by the cops for two murders. But I’m also forgetting I can no longer stand the life of a squatter in Rome. Be honest just for once. My arrest was actually a relief — I wasn’t able to cut loose, didn’t have the balls, no future. The cops did me a favour. Those days are over. End of. Grit your teeth and get used to being alone. He removes his shoes, lies down on the bed and falls asleep.

12 March

Every Sunday there is a weekly meeting of the Italian refugees in France. It’s a sort of rallying point, an informal gathering, people come when they can, to breathe the air of home and indulge in a little nostalgia. The discussions are sometimes highly political, all the major decisions affecting the refugees are thrashed out here with the lawyers who attend regularly to maintain close contact with the little community. The gathering also acts as a mutual support group — people pass on tips for finding a job, a place to stay in another city, and help each other out. And they drink Italian wine. They also tear one another apart; the divisions between the various exiled ultra-leftist groups are as acrimonious today as they had been in Italy, and heated arguments often break out, with people dispersing into small groups. It is more like gossiping than a political debate, but no one questions the vital importance of this fixed point to help them cope with life in exile. And the same applies to Lisa, too. She has always known that one day she will have to go back there and talk about Carlo’s death. Today, she feels strong enough to do that. She even needs to — it is a way of making his death official, the first step in coming to terms with it.

Roberto picks her up from her place and takes her for lunch at Le Pacific, a big Chinese restaurant close by, on the corner of Rue de Belleville — a light, quick meal. He senses that she is at breaking point and is worried, watching her every movement. He orders dumplings and iced tea; he knows what she likes. Attentive as the lover he might have been, years ago, had it not been for the handsome Carlo, who had the kudos of being a factory-worker — back when that counted. Roberto, though, had always looked like a white-collar worker, and was beginning to go bald — he had stood no chance. Now the field is clear, but it is way too late. All that remains between them is affection.

The Sunday afternoon meetings are held in a big room lent by a French association. A stark, shabby decor, grey-tiled floor, bare walls painted a grubby yellow, harsh light, and stacking chairs. But on a table in a corner is a buffet, with cold drinks, wine, cakes and two thermos flasks of coffee, all on a fine red tablecloth with a bunch of pink flowers. They have been told that Lisa is coming. Someone has brought two bottles of Spumante. A party wine. To console themselves for Carlo’s death, or to celebrate it? Who knows? Thirty or so people are waiting for her to arrive, chatting noisily in small groups that form and break up according to personal and political affinities. The same question is on everyone’s lips: what tone will Lisa set for the meeting? Mater dolorosa, or robust defence of the hero? Some are placing bets.

Lisa enters the room and a hush falls. Everyone remains still, waiting for her first move, her first words. She appears to falter, then makes up her mind, smiles, greets everyone, handshakes, embraces. The noise swells again, people come over to express their condolences, looking grief-stricken, some more genuinely so than others. Roberto leaves her and goes over to one of the lawyers, sitting slightly aloof, near the buffet.

Lisa quickly cuts short the expressions of sympathy, holds on to the back of a chair for support with both hands, and begins to speak in a clear, composed voice.

‘After his escape, I spoke to Carlo on the telephone.’ Surprised, the audience waits in silence for more detail, but she gives none. ‘He told me that he endorsed the declaration by the former leaders of the Red Brigades, and now felt freed from any obligation to continue the struggle in prison. He was planning to get hold of some money and fake ID — without taking any risks, he was insistent on that point — so he could go abroad and start a new life. He didn’t say any more.’ She pauses, the audience is still rapt. ‘I’m convinced he was the victim of a sting set up to discredit the entire far left and make us look like a bunch of dangerous common criminals. He was assassinated by Brigadier Lucio Renzi who hid inside the bank and then shot him. I consider it my duty to fight to the bitter end and find out what really happened that day, and make sure that Carlo doesn’t go down in history as the leader of a useless gang and a failed bank robber.’

Lisa stops, choked with emotion. The silence is broken by an anonymous female voice: ‘You seem very certain that this battle is worth fighting. I’m not. Carlo isn’t the only Red Brigades survivor who’s carried on shooting anyone and anything, tarring us all with the same brush, including those of us who were against your reckless choice to take up arms.’

Lisa wavers briefly. Whatever you do, don’t argue, not now, keep calm. She goes on, in a measured tone:

‘Yes, I’m fighting to protect Carlo’s memory because he was my man, and because I’m devastated by his death. But that’s not the only reason. I want to convince you that he wasn’t the only one to be set up, that the sting is part of a wider strategy to discredit our struggle, the entire non-parliamentary far left, whether we are pro armed struggle or not. Let’s make no mistake, our destinies are now bound together. If we don’t stand side by side and fight to preserve our past, we’ll lose the battle all over again, and we’ll be erased from the history of the struggle in Italy. And that’s why I am counting on the help — on the collaboration — of all of you to shine a light on what really happened outside the Piemonte-Sardegna bank.’

A murmur ripples through the gathering. Clearly opinion is extremely divided. Lisa continues in the same vein: ‘I’m looking for all the information we can find on this Lucio Renzi, Carlo’s killer. Ask around, ask any journalists you know, any contacts you still have in Italy. Who is he, where does he come from? I’m sure we’ll find something. Thank you, all of you, for your help.’

Lisa pauses for a moment, people are growing restless, some go over and pour themselves a drink or start chatting to their neighbours. When the hubbub dies down, Lisa takes the floor again: ‘There’s something I must tell you. A week after Carlo was killed, his cellmate, the criminal who escaped with him, turned up at my place.’ She has the audience’s attention again. ‘Apparently Carlo gave him my address. I say “apparently”, because, instinctively, I distrust him, but I have no concrete reason to. Everything he’s told me so far fits with what I know from other sources. I’ve put his case in the hands of our lawyers.’ The audience turns to the lawyer, who nods. ‘I’ve found him a job as a night watchman and a studio flat that he’s subletting from a work colleague of mine. I owe it to Carlo’s memory to help him, and I feel I’ve done all I can. I’m quits. Let me know if you’d like him to come to our Sunday meetings, and I’ll give you his contact details. I repeat, I’m not keen, I don’t trust this guy, but it’s up to you. That’s all from me, thank you for being here, and for your support and help.’

Lisa sits down, suddenly exhausted, her gaze vacant. People avoid her, forming little knots again by the buffet. There are heated arguments in hushed voices. The lawyer pours himself a glass of fruit juice and leans over to Roberto: ‘Do you believe this business about Carlo being set up?’

‘No, but I believe that Lisa needs to believe in it to cope with Carlo’s death. She’s never stopped waiting for him.’

A woman called Chiara sidles up to Roberto, leans close to him and murmurs with pinched lips: ‘Lisa’s the only person here who believes her story. That arsehole was capable of wrecking our lives singlehandedly. He didn’t need anyone’s help. And you know it as well as I do.’

Roberto turns his back on her, without replying.

Further away Giovanni, a stocky man in his fifties, is holding forth, surrounded by three women who are lapping up his words, spoken in a half-tone: ‘I’ve had enough of her noble widow act, her scout-leader airs, the way she flaunts her generosity, her posturing, as if she were the custodian of the memory of all the radical struggles in Italy. We know as much as she does about all that, if not more. And her ridiculous stories. She’s been in France for too long. Exile creates fantasists and paranoia.’