Escape

by Dominique Manotti

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘That’s sweet of you…’

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

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

  ‘And?’

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

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

  ‘Drink, it’ll get cold.’

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

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

  ‘I’m convinced it’s Filippo.’

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

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

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘I have no idea…’

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

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Lisa picks up the tray.

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

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

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

  ‘Have you said all that to him?’

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

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Cristina pulls a face.

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

  ‘OK, we’ll figure something out.’

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

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

  Chiara groans. Giovanni nudges her thoughtlessly.

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

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

  ‘Charged with what, exactly?’

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

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

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

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

  A male voice, ‘It really is nonsense.’

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

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

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Leonardo Marino.’

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

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

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

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘He’s right. It won’t work.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She turns to the lawyer who sits saying nothing.

  ‘The question remains: what can we do?’

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

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

  ‘I know.’

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

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

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

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