Escape

CHAPTER SIX

10 June

La Repubblica publishes an opinion piece by Romano Sebastiani, one of the foremost public prosecutors of the Milan counter-terrorist section.

Two months ago to the day, our very dear friend Roberto Ruffili died. A renowned international constitutionalist, he was assassinated by the Red Brigades PCC, the notorious splinter group that emerged from the break-up of the murderous Red Brigades. It is clear that Italy is not finished with ‘red’ terrorism, and the tragic legacy of the Years of Lead. At this same moment the French literary establishment chooses to crown a young Italian writer, Filippo Zuliani and his novel Escape, with critical and commercial success. We might be delighted at the Paris intelligentsia’s sudden interest in Italian culture, if this book did not pose a serious moral and political problem. Let’s take a closer look.

With considerable skill, the novel recounts a tragic event: two men break out of jail together, a former Red Brigades leader and a young Roman hoodlum. The two men linked by a close ‘masculine friendship’, decide to make their living by robbing banks. Devilishly romantic … but you don’t become a bank robber overnight, and their first hold-up of a big Milan bank ends in disaster. The Red Brigades veteran is shot dead, and one of his accomplices assassinates a carabiniere and a security guard while making his getaway. A dubious tale, verging on a glorification of the criminals, but that is not the issue here. The novel’s plot depicts precisely, down to the last detail, Carlo Fedeli’s escape from his Rome prison in February 1987, and how the Red Brigades’ former head of logistics turned gangster. It also describes the heist, based on that of the Piemonte-Sardegna bank in Milan three weeks later, during which Fedeli was shot dead, as reconstructed in the police investigation. Only the names of the characters, the date and place of the robbery have been changed. The moral problem, as I was saying, is that this is a shameless commercial exploitation of a very recent, and still unsolved criminal case, since the accomplices remain unidentified. It demonstrates no consideration for the victims’ families, but there is worse to come.

The novel’s author, Filippo Zuliani, is clearly the young hoodlum who broke out of jail with Carlo Fedeli. Could he also be the accomplice in the robbery, as the novel implies? If he has information on these events, and from reading his novel it would seem that he does, then Filippo Zuliani should return and disclose it before an Italian court, and not in a novel, in which he plays on every possible form of ambiguity.

The matter also presents a political problem, and a sizeable one. Just when things are so precarious here in Italy, President Mitterrand feels that France should offer asylum to certain Italian political refugees. That is his choice, not ours. But how can he justify the fact that this asylum extends to a petty crook, a criminal on the run, who, we are told, has apparently been granted refugee status as well? But perhaps our information is wrong, for we have received no official notification on this matter.

In any case, Filippo Zuliani’s place, novelist or otherwise, is not in the salons of Paris. Instead it is plainly here in Italy, where he must come and face the courts over his escape, and in addition hand over any information he has on the robbery of the Piemonte-Sardegna bank and on the relations that have been forged between the ultra-leftist groups and the gangsterism now rife in Italy.

11 June

The boss of the publishing house has read La Repubblica, which the publicist passed on to him, and is worried. He asks the in-house lawyer and the publicist to come and confer with him in his office.

‘Are we not allowing ourselves to get drawn into a very nasty business?’ he demands to know.

The lawyer seeks to temper the discussion.

‘It is true that in Italy Romano Sebastiani is an influential public prosecutor, with close ties to the Italian Communist Party, or what’s left of it, and we certainly shouldn’t take his words lightly. At the same time, like all communist sympathisers, he’s innately hostile to the Red Brigades, one of whose former leaders apparently appears and is treated sympathetically in the novel, Escape. This perhaps explains his annoyance. But what is clear from this opinion piece is that the Italian courts have no evidence against our author. Filippo Zuliani’s jailbreak is the one established fact, but it’s not a big deal when set against the bank robbery and the assassinations. And when it comes to the shootings, Sebastiani clearly has nothing to go on. A novel is not proof that can be used as evidence in court. As long as it is nothing but a moralising diatribe, no one’s in any real danger.’

The boss remains cautious.

‘I’d like to think this is the case, but as I see it, someone in Italy is firing a warning shot. Public prosecutors don’t, on the whole, amuse themselves by writing gratuitous opinion pieces, and they don’t tend to open hostilities unless armed. I fear what is in store.’

Adèle is much more upbeat: ‘The book’s doing well, very well. Sales are still growing and I’ve been assured that it will be shortlisted for the Goncourt and Renaudot prizes this autumn. The literary establishment’s recognition of a book that is controversial is a real tour de force. It gives us the opportunity to launch an autumn sales drive and get it back into all the bookshops. This was undreamt-of — it’s a title we published too close to summer, a bit haphazardly, and we’ve already sold 70,000 copies. If we win a prize, we’ll top 200,000. Now is not the time to stop pushing. If our lawyer gives us the green light, I can circulate Sebastiani’s piece, very discreetly, of course, invoking the defence of freedom of artistic expression, that sort of thing…’

‘How is your author responding? Can you rely on him? Can he cope with the pressure? No danger of him slipping up?’

‘Filippo? I don’t think he keeps up with it all.’

‘Doesn’t he read the Italian papers? All the refugees do.’

‘No.’ Adèle shakes her head in a ripple of bleached blond hair. ‘Not him. He’s perfectly happy in his bubble and that’s where he wants to stay. I get the impression that he’s not interested in Italy, and he tells me he’s starting a new book. He hasn’t said what it’s about but it will be very different from his first novel. I’m not convinced he’s got a second novel in him, but we’ll see…’

‘So let Sebastiani stew. I repeat: there’s no need to panic.’

The publisher allows himself to be persuaded.

‘All right, we’ll carry on.’

But he is still worried. He thinks for a moment then places a hand on Adèle’s arm.

‘Don’t leave your protégé in complete ignorance of his success. I think the best policy is to give him a bit of an ego boost. You know what writers are like … And you’re so good at doing what’s needed.’

He rises and the meeting is over. By way of a conclusion, he says, ‘I’m going to take a few precautions, just in case — hang around the corridors of power a bit and say hello to some old friends before everyone goes off on holiday, test the water, put out feelers. After all, we have a president who’s a man of letters. May as well make the most of it.’

Second fortnight in June

Somehow, the news of Escape’s growing success and of its chances in the scramble for a book prize reach the ears of the Italian cognoscenti, where it causes a stir. It is picked up by all the media, and the press goes on the warpath. Journalists throw caution to the winds. Their main gripe is inspired by Romano Sebastiani’s point, which they reiterate: the French are showing appalling judgement in mistaking something that is no more than a shameless commercial exploitation of a heinous event for a sign of literary talent, without any consideration for the suffering of the victims’ families. The freedom of expression argument is a pathetic smokescreen that does not conceal the moral bankruptcy of a criminal (because the author is a criminal beyond all doubt, even though his crime is not specified) attempting to flee justice at home. Police mug shots of Filippo Zuliani, full face and in profile, have conveniently found their way into the editorial office, and appear alongside those of the widows of the carabiniere and the security guard with their children, shown leaving the church after Sunday mass. The effect is compelling. This is the perfect opportunity for the Italians, so often annoyed and wounded by the intellectual arrogance of the French, to claim the moral high ground, and they have no compunction in exploiting it. The publishing house starts to receive hate mail, mainly written in Italian.

On 22 June, a thunderbolt. A new witness has spontaneously presented himself at a Milan police station. He states that he saw Filippo Zuliani in the company of two men at 14.15 in La Tazza d’Oro, a bar two hundred metres from the Piemonte-Sardegna bank in Via Del Battifolle, on the day of the hold-up by Carlo and his gang. After checking up on the story, the police consider this testimony to be valid. So the status of Filippo Zuliani, seemingly present at the scene of the heist after all, changes from that of indiscreet writer to potential accomplice.

24 June

In Paris, preparations for action are afoot in the publishing house. The boss holds a crisis meeting in his office with, as ever, the lawyer and the publicist. The lawyer considers this testimony to be far-fetched but the publisher, clearly worried, feels that it would be advisable to contact and discuss the matter with their Italian connections before taking any decisions. And they need to act fast, because it will soon be impossible to get hold of anyone.

The lawyer telephones his Milanese colleague and tasks him with a fact-finding mission. The Italian lawyer calls his contacts in various police departments and phones back later that day.

‘It’s a fact. Following this new statement the police are now seeking to establish Filippo Zuliani’s presence outside the Piemonte-Sardegna bank at the time of the robbery.’

‘How can this witness have such a precise memory of the day and the time more than a year after the event?’

‘He was in the bar waiting for his appointment with a major client at 14.30. Appointment confirmed by the client in question. At 14.15, he asked for his bill, went to the toilet, and came across a very agitated guy vomiting into a washbasin. He watched him while he himself urinated and washed his hands. The man washed his face, then did a few breathing exercises to calm himself down. They left the toilets together, and, while he paid his bill, the other man went to a table at the back of the bar where two men whom our witness couldn’t see clearly were waiting for him. Our witness left, had his meeting, and left his client’s office at around 16.30. By that time the area was in a state of siege, and the hold-up had taken place. The date is therefore certain.’

‘Fine, but why now?’

‘Because he never suspected that there was a connection between the hold-up and the incident in the café until a few days ago, when he saw the photos of Filippo Zuliani in all the papers. Then he recognised the agitated customer from the Tazza d’Oro, and decided it was his duty as an upstanding citizen to tell the police what he had seen.’

‘What’s the name of this providential witness?’

‘Daniele Luciani.’

‘Who is this guy? Do we know anything about him? I mean is he a regular police informant…?’

‘I understand what you’re saying. Our firm has no information on Daniele Luciani. Do you want us to see what we can find?’

‘Yes, you never know, but without incurring too many expenses. Was it difficult for you to obtain that information?’

‘To tell you the truth, not at all. The police were very cooperative, and I think that everything I have just told you will be all over the Italian papers in the next few days.’

‘What do you think?’ asks the publisher who has been standing next to the lawyer, listening in on the telephone conversation.

‘Pretty worrying, I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I don’t believe a word of this statement, and that is precisely what is so worrying. The police can fabricate ten similar accounts whenever they want. And if that’s what they’re up to, they must have a motive that we are unaware of, and they can continue to do so when it suits them.’

‘I just don’t understand. Why attack a novel, and why now?’

‘A novel, yes, but not just any novel, as you well know. Surely it’s about the threat of it winning a major prize? It could well be that it is construed as an unacceptable provocation.’

‘Possibly, but not very convincingly so. The Italians have never taken an interest in French literary prizes before.’

A pause. The boss drums his fingers on his desk.

‘We may well have made a mistake in pushing this book, I admit. Right…’ he turns to Adèle, ‘…for our part, from today, hold back on Escape, and let’s protect ourselves as far as possible from any controversy. I think it would be wise to take immediate precautions and have the book removed from the prize entries.’

‘You’re giving in without a struggle in the face of what is effectively blackmail, censorship even. That’s a dangerous attitude,’ responds the publicist.

‘Give me a break, we’re among friends here, spare me that kind of talk. The book has already had a good innings, we’ve made a lot of money, and I trust you to ensure it continues to do well, even without a prize. So, if we can minimise the risks to ourselves … and, by the way, there’s no point talking to Zuliani about this prize business, he doesn’t know what’s going on.’

A pause, and he turns back to the lawyer. ‘I have the feeling there’s something else going on with the Italians, and I don’t know what. I find it worrying.’

‘Tell me straight — did your author kill the carabiniere and the security guard, as he describes in his novel?’

‘To be absolutely honest, since you ask me, I have no idea. And as I am neither chief superintendent nor judge, I don’t want to know. My problem is different. I have interests in Italy, relationships with authors, publishers, journalists, a whole lot of people. I publish several Italians, I love the place. I don’t want to risk ruining all that. I’m very upset by the hate mail we’re getting at the moment, several letters a day, every day. So if there is a war between France and Italy over Filippo Zuliani, it’s not our publishing house that’s going to wage it.’

‘Fine. At least, in that respect, your position is clear. But let’s not rush into things. I’m not certain we are already on a war footing. It could just be the police and the media getting carried away during the summer news vacuum. Let’s wait until we have more information from our Italian colleagues. On the other hand, I do think it’s important to inform your author now of the latest developments in Italy. He’ll find out one way or another and you need to be assured that he won’t panic and vanish into thin air, which would be an understandable reaction on his part but regrettable for us.’

‘True.’ The boss turns to Adèle, who is a bit out of her depth and has kept quiet since the publisher put her in her place so brusquely.

‘You’ll take care of that, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ she replies, resigned.

‘Our lawyer says there’s no rush. I’d like to think not, but don’t leave it too long, it’s already the end of June.’

‘It’s top of my to-do list.’

25 June

Filippo hangs around as June draws to a stormy close. The great machine of Paris literary life is beginning to slow down. Journalists are thin on the ground, writers too, and all important decisions are put off until the end of August, early September. He has far fewer gigs, and misses the thrill of constantly performing, now that he is used to the role. The heat soon becomes suffocating in his little studio flat in Neuilly, despite the proximity of the Seine and the Bois de Boulogne. He feels alone, demobbed and forsaken. Time drags out interminably. He is bored. In this great emptiness, he keeps brooding over the scene in the Café Pouchkine, the dark wood table and the two glasses of vodka, in the twilight, his ears buzzing, he can barely hear Cristina’s voice, cannot register what she says, his heart racing. He relives the panic that seized him, overwhelmed him, when she placed her hand on his, propelling him out of the Café Pouchkine, far away from her. A salutary panic, survival reflex. But he lost Cristina.

This morning, on arriving home from work, he finds a note slipped under his door. Glances at the signature: Cristina Pirozzi. Hot flush, surge of hope. He reads, ‘I’m away until 26 July. Pay the rent for July and June together. If you need access to the apartment (mains switch, leak, etc.), I’ve left the keys with the security guard.’ No hello or goodbye, usual signature. A frosty note, an overwhelming disappointment. What did I expect? She also remembers our last meeting at the Café Pouchkine. She invited me, we were supposed to drink to my success — she did a whole seduction number, took my hand and I ran away. She doesn’t get it. She can’t get it. And I didn’t try and explain. I’ve lost her. For good. He slides the note between two books on the shelf and goes to bed.

The stuffy studio apartment is too hot. Sleep punctuated by jumbled and oppressive dreams in which the image of Cristina is mixed up with scenes from the prison. Guards and fellow prisoners are brushing against him, jostling him. Strangely, they are all somehow Cristina. They beat him. He runs and escapes. Then during the exercise period Cristina confronts him alone in the prison yard, and attacks him with a screwdriver. He feels nothing, but it is Carlo who falls into his arms, dead, the screwdriver through his heart. His hands are sticky with blood. Cristina shouts at him, ‘You killed Carlo.’ He is no longer certain that the body is that of Carlo, or that he is in the prison yard. Cristina leans over the corpse which could be Carlo’s, her chignon comes undone and her long, coppery hair brushes his bloody hands. Is she Cristina or the girl who kissed Carlo in the mountains? At this point, he prefers to wake up. The presence of the live Cristina alongside the dead Carlo in the same dream, the confusion between Cristina and the girl in the mountains is deeply disturbing. He waits, his eyes wide open, for the images to recede, to fade, and lose their oppressive intensity. He convinces himself that he will forget them, that he has already forgotten them, then gets up, takes a cold shower and makes himself a very strong coffee.

27 June

Adèle invites Filippo to lunch at a restaurant in Saint-Germain that is a favourite haunt of the Paris publishing world. She says she has something she needs to discuss. Filippo is delighted to accept her invitation. He sees her less frequently now, and he realises he misses her. She has become part of his lifestyle.

He arrives at the restaurant where he is clearly expected. A maître d’hôtel holds the big swing door open for him and, without a word, shows him to his table. The restaurant’s interior has been carefully designed to meet the needs of its clientele. In the vast dining room, all the tables are hedged by antique mahogany partitions at half-height and topped with copper rails, so conversations can take place in complete privacy. But the partitions are just low enough for diners to see who comes in, with whom, and who goes to sit where.

The table Adèle has reserved is at the very back of the restaurant, and so the maître d’hôtel has him cross the entire room. Conversations stop as he passes. And the same whispers can be heard from one table to the next.

‘Did you see who just came in? Filippo Zuliani.’

‘I can understand why Jeanne Champaud fell head-overheels for him. He’s such a cute and charming young man.’

‘Have you read Escape? Apparently it’s in the running for a prize.’

‘Overrated.’

‘First novel, let’s wait for the second.’

‘The gamble’s certainly paid off for the publisher.’

They have reached the table. The maître d’hôtel pulls out the chair, Filippo sits down and orders a Perrier with a slice of lemon. Talk at the other tables has resumed.

Adèle, pirouetting from table to table, greeting people, stopping for a word here, a smile there, waves at him across the room: ‘I’m here, I’m coming’. He nods and quietly digests what has just happened: nothing less than his entrance into the literary world. Recognition from readers, recognition from people in the industry, can he still have any doubts?

Adèle puts off coming over to their table and starting a conversation that she knows will be tricky. The lawyer warned that Filippo might panic and run away or even disappear. What should she do in that case? She finally brings herself to sit down facing him, with a smile.

‘I’m working on your behalf.’ She contemplates the glass of Perrier. ‘You’re drinking water?’

‘I’ve only just woken up.’ Slight embarrassment.

‘Oh … true. Of course.’ She doesn’t look at the menu, she knows it by heart.

‘I recommend the veal chop with spinach. It’s one of their signature dishes.’ She signals to the waiter. ‘Two veal chops, Henri. And a Saumur-Champigny, as usual.’

Slowly she unfolds her white napkin. Now to prepare him for the bad news. First of all, flatter the ego of the man and the writer. An age-old female ploy which, curiously, still works. She leans towards Filippo.

‘Let’s talk business. Did you hear the whispering when you came into the restaurant?’

He laughs.

‘Yes. I felt as though I was being wafted to the table by the buzz.’

Adèle glances at him covertly from beneath her fringe. Cleverer than he’d have me believe.

‘Your book is number two in this week’s bestseller list.’ A pause, no reaction from Filippo. ‘And it’s still on the up. I had a call from Pivot’s secretary. It looks as though you’ll be a guest on his September programme.’

Filippo still says nothing, he has never heard of Bernard Pivot, and has no idea of the audience that a book programme like Apostrophes attracts. Adèle takes Filippo’s silence for an affectation of cool, which makes her task harder, and goes on, dropping her voice.

‘Are you aware that you’re now a bestselling author?’

‘Yes, I’ve just realised that. Only one question: are you sure that there hasn’t been a mistake, that it really is me?’

She stares at him, bemused. Too bad, she has to carry on — it’s what she came here to do.

‘I’ve also got to talk to you about Italy. It’s not such good news on that front. To be brutal, the Italian press is accusing you of being an accomplice — the word makes Filippo bristle — in the fatal Piemonte-Sardegna bank hold-up in Milan and of being a fugitive from the Italian justice system. You look surprised. Don’t you read the Italian press?’

‘No, I don’t.’ He has regained his composure and is smiling blissfully. ‘They’re saying that I’m an accomplice. Are those the words they use?’

She realises that in all the time she’s known him, she’s never seen him smile like that, with a sort of calm assurance. What had the lawyer said? Wasn’t he supposed to panic?

‘Yes, that’s what they’re saying. Aren’t you worried?’

‘Why should I be? I tell a story set in Italy, the Italians are interested in it, and what’s more, they fall for it. They find the story convincing, they even think and say it’s true. I think that’s brilliant, don’t you?’

‘Maybe … well, I don’t know…’

‘As a writer I felt a fraud, I needed some sort of endorsement, and I’m getting it from Italy, I couldn’t dream of more.’

Adèle is flummoxed by his reply. She clings to her role as hostess and refills their wine glasses. An oblivious guy, unpredictable. She is completely out of her depth in this situation, but she has delivered the message, so mission accomplished. Not long till the holidays. She relaxes, and hastens the end of the meal.

The minute she has finished her coffee, Adèle makes her getaway. ‘Other urgent meetings … We’ll touch base soon. Are you staying in Paris over the summer? I’ll call you.’

Filippo makes his way back to Neuilly on foot along the banks of the Seine and the Champs-Élysées, a glorious walk, which takes him nearly two hours. He is a writer, someone people talk about, who has flesh-and-blood readers — he’s met them. He feels light, walks rhythmically and smiles at passersby in summer dress who cross his path. He has told a simple story in his own words, a story in which he is neither betrayed nor abandoned, a story with friends and accomplices, one whose pace he controls. He gives a passing girl the eye, without slowing down. An accomplice of criminals, the words go round and round in his head. Accomplice, an echo of the press articles he’d read in Bologna, over a year ago. ‘Accessory to a jailbreak … Accessory to a bank robbery…’ At the time the word and the thing had felt too heavy to bear, and he fled Bologna in a panic, as he later fled the Café Pouchkine. But now, no more frantic running away. He has found his place, that of the accomplice, and he is recognised for what he says he is. He’s come to terms with it.

He is relieved, relaxed. Elated, he walks faster past the Champs-Élysées gardens, walks with a dance in his step, humming to himself, on this wonderful June day, in this beautiful city. He, Filippo Zuliani, has an extraordinary power. What he has written is real. Not the truth, much more than that: reality. Or its opposite. He becomes a little muddled, but it doesn’t matter, he is happy.

On entering his building, he looks at himself in the mirrors in the lift, and smiles at his reflection. Attractive guy, the accomplice. Once inside his flat, Filippo showers, puts on a T-shirt and pours himself a large glass of cold water. His gaze lights on Cristina’s note, sitting on the bookshelf. Away until 26 July. So the apartment next door is empty. The apartment Cristina has never invited him to enter. He remembers their first meeting, in the hall, the polite handshake, her distant smile, and his disappointment then bitterness — the fleeting temptation to steal things from her, objects she’d left just within his reach, and to run away. Out of revenge. That was over a year ago. He’s moved on since, perhaps, but … Once he had dreamt of sitting beside her, in her apartment, at her desk. Then came the Café Pouchkine episode, the missed opportunity, his loss of control, running away. And today, ‘If you require access to the apartment…’ An invitation. A sudden urge to break in, to invade Cristina’s territory and leave his mark there. Accomplice. He not only has the urge, he has the ability.

He rummages in the kitchen drawer for an instrument with which to force the lock, and finds a slim screwdriver. He picks it up, looks at it and toys with it. There’s no mistaking it, this is the screwdriver from his dream, the one Cristina used to attack him in the prison yard — the one that stabbed Carlo through the heart. Break open Cristina’s door with the weapon that killed Carlo. A flash of anxiety, a flash from his dream. Then he shakes himself and goes to the door of Cristina’s apartment. He hasn’t lost the knack, the door gives way within moments. He stands on the threshold of the vast living room, holding his breath. No alarm, a glance round the room, no sign of CCTV cameras, the feeling that his intrusion is accepted. Desired?

As a reflex he closes the front door, jams the lock with the screwdriver for peace of mind, then takes two steps forward and looks slowly about him. Dark wooden flooring, silky smooth, designed to be walked on barefoot, white walls, two big bay windows that probably look out on to a veranda, closed off by blinds that allow minimal light to filter through the metallic slats. The dining room on the left, steel and glass furniture, sitting room on the right, bookshelves taking up an entire wall, black-and-white leather armchairs, and on a coffee table beside a ponyskin and steel chaise longue that is the ultimate in lightness and elegance, is a familiar-looking blob of colour. He goes over to it. Guidoriccio da Fogliano, the lone conqueror, features on the cover of a heavy tome. He had forgotten him ever since he began his new life, and here he is, grabbing him again. Filippo is completely shaken. There’s no such thing as coincidence, but the gods move in mysterious ways. Black letters spell out the book’s title: Siena. He leans over and opens it. On the flyleaf, a brief handwritten dedication: ‘To Cristina, so that during your exile in Paris you won’t forget the magical city where we met.’ A signature he doesn’t attempt to decipher. He tells himself that perhaps he’s jealous, and the thought amuses him. He flicks through a few pages, lots of photos of a red-and-brown brick city, which leave him with a taste of death in his mouth. A dozen photos of Guidoriccio and the surrounding landscape speak of conquests, in a language he knows well. He puts the book back on the coffee table, leaving it open at the double-page spread devoted to ‘Guidoriccio da Fogliano’, in all his majesty.

On a trolley within his reach are bottles of spirits and glasses. He selects a brandy, because he has never had one before, fills a balloon glass to the brim and takes a large gulp. He hesitates. Too rough? Too sweet? Too strong. He leaves the glass three-quarters full beside the book, goes out of the sitting room, through a door and finds the bedroom and then the dressing room, lined with dark wood. A shelf houses a collection of hats on wooden stands. He takes one down and holds it, a weird bunch of pink and white flowers with a white tulle veil. He holds it at eye level and Cristina is there in front of him, her chignon half undone. He helps her adjust her hairpins, scoop up the coppery mass, place the flowers on her hair and lower the veil over her face, blotting it out. A smile behind the veil, charm he would sell his soul for, then she disappears.

He drops the floral hat on to the floor and goes into the bathroom and switches on the light. Vast. To the left, a huge mirror lit by eight bulbs, like the ones he has sometimes seen in hair salons, a dressing table cluttered with pots, tubes and jars, and an armchair. He sits down, picks up a bottle and opens it. A fragrance. He remembers. In Rome, the stakeouts in front of the perfumeries of the Via Veneto where they used to select wealthy customers in the shops, await them at the exit, follow them in the street and snatch their bag at the first opportunity. He recalls the pleasure he felt watching them, on the other side of the window, in that luxurious, feminine world, their slow, restrained, balletic movements in tune with those of the sales assistants, the way they inclined their heads and closed their eyes to inhale the fragrance of a drop of perfume on the back of their hand, their smiles. They lived and moved in another world, and he dreamt that one day he would take the arm of one of those elegant women, instead of snatching her bag, that together they would walk up the Via Veneto, hips touching, steps chiming, that they would walk past an admiring gang of hooligans standing against the wall, Did you see how he picked up that rich bitch? and that she would introduce him to the luxury world of expensive women, the ones who smelt good.

He spins out the dream. He toys with a bottle, knocks it over, rights it, removes the stopper and rubs it on the back of his left hand, as he’d seen the women doing inside the shop, and the subtle fragrance greets him. He says aloud, ‘Mitsouko, by Guerlain’, and closes his eyes. And now … He replaces the stopper and puts the scent bottle in his pocket, gets up, switches off the light, returns to his flat, lies down on the bed and slips the bottle of perfume under the pillow. The dream machine starts up, expensive women, war and conquest, the story is already there at his fingertips. Exhilaration. Above all, don’t lose the thread. Start writing again. He has no more doubts, no more anxiety. With words, everything is possible. Writing, the weapon of victory. He is no longer bored.