Escape

by Dominique Manotti

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

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

  CHAPTER SIX

  JUNE 1988, FRANCE–ITALY

  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.