Escape

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘Vaguely. I wasn’t really interested. Milan was a long way north.’

  ‘After that, there were more bomb explosions. Brescia, the Italicus train. The Italian secret service was murdering its own people. They were using chaos and terror to fight us, to rebuild a major anti-Communist, anti-red front. Whenever we demonstrated, there were tens of thousands of us in the streets. We thought we were the people. We believed we were strong enough to follow them and fight them on the battleground they’d chosen, outside the factory, weapons in hand. And besides, we were the sons of the 1917 Russian revolution, of the Turin workers’ councils, of the Italian Communist Party and of the Italian Resistance. Memories of violent struggle were still so vivid, so close, in our families and in the factories.’

  After a lengthy hesitation, Carlo said, ‘I’m going to tell you a childhood memory.’ Filippo was surprised, childhood memories were not part of Carlo’s usual repertoire, but he waited, in silence. ‘When I was a kid, I used to spend my holidays with my grandparents, farmers in the Bologna region. Once a year, on the 5th of August, always on the same date, probably some anniversary, my grandfather would take me down to the bottom of the vegetable garden, behind a hedge. We’d dig up a metal case and he’d open it. It contained two guns wrapped in rags. Each year, he would say solemnly, “Walther P38 pistols, captured from the Germans.” He’d take them apart on a blanket, oil them very carefully, making me touch the metal and inhale the smell of oil, then he’d reassemble them and pack them away, and we’d bury the case again, always in the same place. “So there’s no risk of making a mistake when we need to dig them up. Sometimes you have to act fast,” he’d say. “They’re my weapons from when I was in the Resistance. You never know.” When I went to look for them years later, my grandfather already long since dead, I couldn’t find them.’ Carlo had a lump in his throat. He was silent for a while. Then he continued in a hoarse voice. ‘So we took up arms. We risked our lives, we risked death each day, but that’s not what is so terrible, the terrible thing is killing. And we killed. I killed. And our fathers cursed us.’ There followed a long silence. In Carlo’s life, the intensity of conviction and the violence of hope had swept everything away, smashed everything. And Filippo contemplated the wreckage, fascinated.

  Then Carlo would say, ‘Those were different times. My grandfather never knew about all that. Just as well. I couldn’t have stood it if he’d cursed me. Go to sleep, Filippo, we’ll still be here tomorrow and we can carry on talking.’ And Filippo would clamber into the top bunk and fall asleep, happy, his head full of confused dreams.

  I listened, every night for six months. Thinking it over now, alone in the mountains, abandoned and betrayed, it just sounds weird.

  Forget all that, otherwise I’m stuffed.

  Filippo gets up, stretches, grabs the bag, slings it over his shoulder and begins the descent towards the lake. His mind is made up. It will be Milan.

  10 February, Paris

  Lisa Biaggi leads a well-ordered life. Every morning she leaves her little apartment in Rue de Belleville early, takes the Métro from Belleville and commutes to La Défense where she works as a medical secretary in an occupational health centre. On the way to l’Étoile, she stops to buy the previous day’s Italian newspapers from a kiosk that stocks a good range of international papers for the tourists. She doesn’t open them straight away but lingers for a moment, her mind free. Today it is sunny and bright, like a promise of spring. She sits on a café terrace at the top of the Champs-Élysées, the sun shining on her face, and orders a cappuccino and croissants. This is the best part of the day, and she relishes it. She has been a political refugee in France since 1980 and has found a steady job that enables her to live in relative comfort, but somehow she still cannot resign herself to making her life here. She has turned forty. She can feel her body, her face, and her mind wither as she waits to return, but there is nothing to be done, and each day the news from home reawakens the ache of exile. She contemplates the swelling crowds walking past and sighs. Her cappuccino drunk, nearly time to resume her commute, and she opens the Corriere della Sera and begins to flick through it. A shock. On the inside pages, a photo of Carlo. Carlo, her man, the love of her life. Headline: Spectacular jailbreak … Her heart thumping, blurred vision, her eyes jump from one line to the next.

  In a refuse truck … with his cellmate, Filippo Zuliani, a small-time crook … accomplices among the truck drivers. The police are actively looking for the two fugitives … Photos of the two men. The small-time crook has the mug of a small-time crook. What the hell was Carlo doing with him? It is worrying.

  She folds the newspaper and tries to convince herself that Carlo will be all right, that he isn’t dead, but it is no good, she can visualise him dead. She picks up her belongings and heads for the Métro, towards La Défense and her office. It is too soon or too late to cry.

  At La Vielleuse, Rue de Belleville, Lisa is playing pool, seemingly absorbed in the game, her long, slim form leaning over the baize, her face masked by her shoulder-length black hair, her movements precise. A habit that goes back more than eight years, to the time of her first clandestine missions in Paris, when Carlo was the main contact for the organisation back in Milan. Playing pool occupies both hands and mind when you’re waiting for a phone call, night after night, at a set time. Lisa has come to enjoy the game, and she has carried on playing since Carlo’s arrest, even though there is no longer anything to wait for. She is even considered to be a good player by the little group of regulars who are very respectful of her. You don’t often find a woman who plays well. But today, as in the old days, she is playing to kill time. Carlo is free again … the old underground habits, why not? The phone rings for the third time that evening. Each time she jumps, just as before. The owner picks up the phone, looks over and signals to her, this time it is for her. She dashes over to the old phone booth, closed off, discreet, right at the back of the room, as before.

  ‘Lisa, it’s me.’

  Despite the overwhelming emotion, hearing his voice live for the first time in seven years makes her want to laugh. Who else could it be? A telephone date that has been on hold for seven years…

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I knew I’d find you. I love you.’

  ‘I’m frightened, Carlo.’

  ‘Everything’s OK. I don’t have much time. Listen carefully. The leadership of our organisation has declared that they’re laying down their arms, they’ve admitted defeat.’

  ‘I know, I still read the papers.’

  ‘They’re doing the right thing, I agree, even though I would like to have been consulted. But this changes things. I continued the struggle for seven years in jail, without letting up, I carried out all my instructions. But now we’re laying down our arms, it makes no sense to stay banged up. I have no liking for long, drawn-out, tragic deaths.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’m leaving.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yes, just like that. You remember? We used to call that “practising the objective”. When we consider a demand to be right and necessary, we enact it, we don’t wait for it to be handed to us. I’ve seized my freedom.’

  ‘That’s crazy, now the Red Brigades are announcing they’re laying down their arms, you’ll be released within a few months. And perhaps the rest of us will be able to come back home.’

  ‘Never. You’re talking as if you don’t know how the government works. They hate us because we exposed their rotten schemes and we frightened them, really frightened them. They found out that perhaps they were mortal. Now that they’ve won, they’re going to make us pay for it, they’re taking their revenge and will continue to do so, there’ll never be an amnesty, they’ll let us rot in jail or in exile until the end of time…’

  ‘It’s not possible, Carlo, there are still some democrats in Italy…’

  ‘Don’t be naive. Are you aware of how many emergency laws they’ve introduced, how many of our people are in jail? Five
thousand? More? You’ve seen the new law on dissociation? First the penitenti, those turned informants, then those who’ve formally repented. Just you wait, there’ll be havoc, we’re going to wither on the vine. Everything will fall apart, they’ll do their utmost to wipe us out, one by one. Our politicians, pseudo-democrats included, are pathetic, incompetent and vindictive.’

  ‘Maybe. But does that improve your chances of survival?’

  ‘At least I’ll have tried. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me die in jail. I do not repent, I do not dissociate myself from the movement, I renounce nothing, and I’m appalled by those who do, but fuck them, fuck those who’ve won. I’ll get hold of some money and an ID – taking as few risks as possible – and I’m out of here. I’ll go and live abroad, in the open.’

  ‘I’ve been worried ever since they transferred you to that prison for common criminals, six months ago. I thought there was something odd about that. I’m afraid of a trap. And now your cellmate…’

  ‘Don’t be paranoid, Lisa.’

  ‘Am I naive or am I para?’

  ‘Both. Don’t worry. My cellmate and I have already parted company.’

  ‘What about the accomplices they mention in the papers?’

  ‘The truck drivers. They’re not politicos, but small-time crooks. They were paid, they’re protected and they know nothing. My two current companions aren’t politicos either and I’m certain of them. Lisa, give me time to find the money and get my ID sorted, it’s all been planned, organised, it won’t be hard, I won’t put myself in danger, and then I’ll go abroad. I’ll call you and you can come and join me. My next call will be the beginning of our new life. I love you, Lisa…’

  ‘Stop. Be quiet. It’s too painful. I’ll wait for your next call.’

  She hangs up. Her feelings of anguish are still just as sharp. The truck drivers aren’t politicos, does that make them reliable? No risks, she doesn’t believe that. Death lurks. She leans against the glass side of the booth and gets her breath back. Then resumes the game of pool.

  February–March, central Italy, in the mountains

  Filippo is heading in a north-north-easterly direction. It is a glorious day, with a bright, late-winter sun. He walks at dawn, the coldest time of day, to warm up, and takes a siesta in the hot midday sun, washing sometimes, not often, in the freezing rivers, and sheltering at night in ruins, in the bushes, to grab as much sleep as he can. He makes his way over the mountains, not moving too far away from the plain, stopping in villages to buy bread and cheese. He covers a good twenty kilometres a day. The paths are steep, the going tough, especially since he has never practised any sport beyond sprinting frantically through the streets of Rome to shake off the cops, but he finds it surprisingly enjoyable. After the noisy life he has lived these past years, first in Rome’s squats, then in jail, he is discovering the tranquillity of the low mountain area and gradually becoming used to it, seeing it as a protective cocoon, listening to what his body is telling him. His muscles are becoming trim and toned, and he inhales the mountain air deeply. He listens to the words, the sentences that form in his head with no shape or purpose, and rejoices in his freedom, with no ties and no future.

  One day, after walking for over a week, he rounds a bend and comes to the point where the mountains meet the plain. Spread bright in the sunshine, like a toy within his grasp, is the austere shape of a city built entirely of stone, a jungle of towers surrounded by walls, a stone universe in tones of yellow and white. From this distance, there are no visible signs of human life. There is something very familiar about this city. He has already seen it, or its twin, in a big, framed photo on the wall behind the till of the Guidoriccio da Fogliano bistro, where his mother regularly sent him to fetch his father when he was too drunk to find his own way home. In the photo, stone cities form the backdrop to a conqueror in armour and a silk tunic, sitting bolt upright on his horse, alone, the only living being in a landscape of white rocks studded with fortifications and spears. He is silhouetted against a black sky, at war with the entire earth and all its gods, aware that he is posing for eternity. Solitude is his kingdom. That conqueror of wildernesses and empty cities has been the hero of his daydreams ever since he was a child in search of his identity. He fervently admired the magnificent figure, both victorious warrior and exterminating angel who destroys all forms of life in his path. When he imagined himself at the warrior’s side, he felt a mixture of fear and desire that gave him a delicious thrill. These are the best of his childhood memories.

  Memories come flooding back to haunt him as he makes his way across the godforsaken landscape in his improbable bid for escape. Even if today the agony of those empty cities overwhelms the glory of the conqueror – merely a matter of viewpoint – the familiar image is a comfort to Filippo, giving him the strange reassurance that he is not utterly lost. He hails the town in the distance and continues on his way.

  4 March, Bologna

  Filippo walks on. The days flow into one another, without distinction, all exactly the same. He has lost count of time.

  Two or three weeks later, he comes to a huge church standing on a ridge, secluded among the trees. He ventures as far as the square in front of it. Ahead of him the steep mountainside drops down on to a plain that stretches as far as the horizon. At his feet, not far away, lies Bologna with its towers and belfries, its heart of brown stone and pink-tiled roofs ringed by modern neighbourhoods, teeming with life. The hubbub of the city rises up and reaches his ears. He stops in his tracks. He has trekked all the way to the north. A bitter memory of the rejection that had landed him right here, where he stands, on a crest between two worlds. The certainty that he is lost. Fear. You’ll have to keep a low profile for a while, until things settle down. How will he know when things have settled down? Hide, forever? In front of the church a path leads straight out of the porch and down into the city in one straight line. Partly a path, partly steps, its many yellow-and-red luminous arches trumpet the joy of returning to the company of humans, the bustle of the streets, people jostling, bumping into one another, conversing perhaps. Surprises, discoveries, woes, the thousand snippets of urban life in constant flux, the end of solitude and within reach, a few hundred metres away, the temptation is too strong. Filippo launches himself downhill, and without a second thought begins to run, racing down the steep incline, jumping from step to step, caution to the winds.

  After visiting the public baths, a hairdresser and a barber, Filippo buys the newspaper and sits on a café terrace to flick through it over an espresso. Not that he is used to going to the barber’s or reading the newspaper, but these seem to be appropriate rituals to mark his return to city life. He unfolds the newspaper and glances at it distractedly, when a headline catches his eye.

  IS RED TERRORISM MAKING A GRAND COMEBACK?

  Former Red Brigades leader killed in failed bank heist in Milan.

  Friends of Carlo’s, maybe? The introductory paragraph leaps out at him:

  Red Brigades veteran Carlo Fedeli, who escaped from of prison three weeks ago, was shot dead yesterday outside the Piemonte-Sardegna bank at 10 Via Del Battifolle, Milan during an attempted raid…

  His vision blurred by tears, he sits doubled up, breathless. His sense of rejection, of betrayal by Carlo is so powerful that he has completely erased all memory of him. It returns with a vengeance. ‘You’ll have to keep a low profile … Take care of yourself.’ You didn’t forsake me, you went to war, and you were trying to protect me. But I thought you were ditching me, I didn’t trust you, I’m the one who’s a traitor. I’m ashamed of myself. When he regains his breath, he continues reading.

  Yesterday, Friday 3 March, at around 3 p.m., Via Del Battifolle in Milan, a security van drew up outside the Piemonte-Sardegna bank. Two armed security guards, Massimo Gasparini and Fredo Albrizio, alighted and entered the bank, where they were scheduled to spend no more than two minutes. They are professionals. The times of their stop-offs change every day as a precaution,
but on this occasion, they were anticipated. As they entered the bank, two vans positioned themselves on the driveway entrances on either side of the façade, blocking the section of pavement outside the bank from view. The two guards emerged, one carrying two bags, the other with his hand on his holster. Carlo Fedeli leapt out of the right-hand van, brandishing a gun, and yelled at the armed guard to put his hands up, while his two accomplices burst out of the other van and snatched the bags. At that moment, by the most extraordinary coincidence, two carabinieri came out of the bank, where one of them, a regular customer at the branch, had just paid in some cheques. Everything happened very fast. The two carabinieri went for their guns. Carlo Fedeli turned towards them, aiming his gun. A shot rang out, perhaps fired by one of the security guards or by Fedeli’s accomplices. Fearing for his life, Brigadier Lucio Renzi then fired, killing Carlo Fedeli outright. Realising that the operation had failed, Fedeli’s two accomplices fled, covering themselves with a burst of gunfire and killing one of the carabinieri, Giorgio Barbieri, aged twenty-eight, married, father of two children aged three and one, as well as one of the security guards – Nino Gasparini, also married and father of a five-year-old little girl. Then they made off, probably using one or two motorbikes for their getaway. Both vans were stolen. They are being examined by the forensics team, so far yielding no results.

  The police have not yet identified the fugitives, but they have a reliable lead.

  Supposing it isn’t true? A stupid reaction. Filippo adopts an air of indifference, rises and goes to buy two other papers from the nearby kiosk. He returns to his table and opens out the papers. The same story is there in black and white. In one of the papers, there is even a double-page spread with a photo showing the three bodies covered with tarpaulins, pools of blood on the pavement. So it is true. No getting away from it. Now he can wallow in his misery, his eyes glued to the photo. A few tears. Memories. The long conversations, friendship, admiration even, for that man who was such a good talker. From listening to him all the time, I ended up thinking that the story he was telling was my story too, in a way. I feel gutted, it’s like a big hole in my life. Then, like an electric shock, Carlo’s words suddenly come back to him with clarity: ‘My escape will be in the news, I think. And they’ll be looking for you, because you broke out with me. You’ll have to keep a low profile for a while, until things settle down.’ There had been a long silence, and then Carlo had said, ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Of course not, at that point, he didn’t understand, and now he feels guilty. Those words weigh heavily on him. ‘My escape will be in the news.’ Why ‘his’ escape? It was mine too, wasn’t it? I must find papers that talk about ‘our’ escape, that’s vital. Where can I get hold of them? Filippo folds his newspapers, puts them in his bag, pays for his coffee, and sets off in search of the public library.