Escape

by Dominique Manotti

  29 July, Paris

  Another crisis meeting at the publisher’s, just before the company closes for two weeks in August.

  ‘After yesterday morning’s arrests in Italy, it’s clear that the Italian government is launching a full-scale operation against the remnants of the far left. It is an operation that goes way beyond both the book and the person of Filippo Zuliani. This Sofri is not a dangerous lunatic. I believe, no, I’m certain I published something by him in an anthology of articles which was, if not academic, at least reputable. I’d understood that he could be considered as an Italian intellectual and that it was acceptable to associate with him. And the Italian intellectuals with whom we regularly work also considered him as such. I am completely baffled by these arrests. You have to admit that Italian politics are turbulent, often extremely violent, and pretty much unfathomable to an outsider, but that’s not the problem.’ He turns to Adèle. ‘As far as we’re concerned, we put a complete block on all media exposure for Escape. In any case, at the beginning of August, everything comes to a standstill. Come September, we’ll see how the situation has developed in Italy.’

  ‘Understood. I should warn you we’ve received several phone calls from people wanting Filippo’s home address. Of course I’ve given strict instructions that no such information should be given out. But with the continual stream of hate mail, it’s rather worrying.’

  The publisher turns to the lawyer.

  ‘Given the new circumstances in which our Italian neighbours now find themselves, is an extradition request likely?’

  ‘It is on the cards. The arrest of Sofri, Pietrostefani and Bompressi is an operation on a different scale from Prosecutor Sebastiani’s attack on Zuliani. The book is merely a pretext. I smell trouble.’

  ‘Has our author already been granted asylum? If so, is it temporary or permanent? Does the government intend to renege on its decision?’

  ‘Before giving you a definite answer, I need to find out for certain.’

  ‘Do so, and do it fast. In any case, it would be prudent to remove all traces of our various efforts on behalf of Zuliani, including the lobbying. I’m leaving for the United States this evening. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know where you can get hold of me if necessary.’

  Lisa and Cristina leave the offices of La Défense together and seat themselves at a table at the back of the Café Pouchkine to wait for Filippo, who has agreed to meet them at 7.30. The two women sit in silence. Lisa is wondering whether Cristina will be a reliable ally in this conversation, which is bound to be very confrontational, no doubt about that. She is aware of Cristina’s uncertainty, but doesn’t understand the reason. Must avoid finding herself out on a limb. Don’t introduce her into the game.

  Filippo stands framed in the doorway, impeccably punctual, his slim form clothed in a beautifully tailored, beige linen suit and a bright-red shirt open at the neck. He glances around the room, spots the two women and makes his way over to their table, a half-smile on his lips. Cristina is certain of only one thing: he is no longer the man who dumped her three months earlier in this very café. Now there is not even the slightest falter in his step or hesitation in his bearing, his style of shaking hands and sitting down, or leaning over his glass as if he didn’t know exactly where or who he was. The vague, evasive gaze. All that has gone. An assured manner, visible elegance. Even his features have changed. In what way? Cheeks thinner. And his mouth … Gone the boyish pout. Very well-defined, firm lips. She lets her gaze linger on his mouth.

  Having reached their table, Filippo gives a pronounced smile, leans towards Cristina, takes her hand, raises it and brushes it with his lips. He murmurs, ‘Mitsouko?’ Cristina laughs, she loves the thrill of the chase and seduction, when the game is well played, and she finds it very well played indeed. She suddenly realises how desperately she misses it. ‘How did you guess?’ she replies, leaving her hand in his a little longer than etiquette dictates. Then she turns to Lisa: ‘Should I make the introductions?’

  Filippo bows to Lisa with a certain stiffness:

  ‘No need, I believe we already know one another.’ He proffers his hand. She takes it after a moment’s delay, shakes it and can’t help saying: ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you.’

  Filippo sits down opposite her, smiling, relaxed.

  ‘Why? Has life in Paris changed me so much?’

  Lisa waits before replying. Yes, he has changed a great deal, and he knows it. He no longer has that helpless look of a lost street kid, and is beginning to look like a successful author, the darling of a major Paris publishing house. This is not going to make her task any easier. Her strategy relied on intimidation and fear. A simple glance at the man facing her, and she knows it won’t work. Well, at least I’ll have tried, and I’ll have told him. Roberto will be satisfied. I’ll be able to publish.

  Cristina orders cocktails for all of them. Once the drinks have arrived, Filippo leans towards Lisa.

  ‘I’ve got a date this evening, I don’t have much time. Cristina told me you wanted to speak to me. Have you got something to tell me?’

  ‘Are you aware of what’s going on in Italy at the moment?’

  ‘Only vaguely. I don’t read the Italian papers, but my publisher filled me in.’

  ‘For the last month there’s been a relentless and very vitriolic press campaign against your book and against you. At first you were described as a bastard who exploits the misfortune of the victims to make money. And then the campaign was stepped up. The police have produced a witness who claims you were at the scene of the hold-up. Ever since, the press has been having a field day. You’ve become at least an active witness to the hold-up if not one of the principle killers. The next stage will be for the courts and the Italian government to demand your extradition.’

  She stops for a moment.

  ‘You’ve heard about the arrest of Sofri, Pietrostefani and Bompressi in Italy yesterday?’

  ‘No. And I have no idea who they are.’

  ‘Former political leaders of the far left, like Carlo. It doesn’t matter. Their arrest means that the dogs have been unleashed against them and all those of their ilk, so for you it means that the extradition request is imminent. I think the French government will grant it, because your status as a political refugee is very precarious, and won’t be upheld. Our lawyers aren’t handling your case, remember. Once you’re in the hands of the courts, you’ll go straight to prison. You’ll be tried for your escape, but above all, the courts will make you carry the can for the hold-up in Via Del Battifolle. It won’t be hard given their surprise witness and your wonderful novel, which describes the chain of events so vividly, just as if you had experienced them at first-hand. Wrong as it may seem, your novel will be interpreted as an admission of your involvement in the robbery. You were able to portray it so well because you were there. And we both know that you have no alibi. In the current political climate, you’re likely to get at least twenty years inside. Are you aware of all that?’

  ‘Yes, more or less. I know that my fellow Italians see me as an accomplice.’

  ‘You don’t seem too bothered by it.’

  ‘No, I’m not. And you’ve spoken at length, but I still don’t understand why you care what happens to me, nor what it is you want to say to me.’

  ‘I don’t care what happens to you, but I do care what happens to us. Carlo belonged to a political movement, and so did I. Anything that affects him, affects us all. If Carlo goes down in history as a gangster who robbed banks to live the high life with his criminal gang, whether in Rome or Milan, we all pay the political price. And that’s a very high price to pay.’

  ‘You know very well that I’m not interested in your lessons in politics.’

  ‘I know. But that doesn’t mean that politics isn’t interested in you. So let me finish. Seeing as I was affected by Carlo’s death, I investigated what really happened. I now know the identity of the miracle witness who claims to have seen you in the Via Del Battifolle. He�
�s a stooge of the neo-fascists and the secret service. He knew Carlo from jail. He’s the one who organised your escape and the fatal sting outside the Milan bank. I’m going to make sure that the French press knows about it and publishes the story.’

  ‘Fine, that’s what you think, and of course you’re free to do what you want. But again, what has it got to do with me?’

  ‘I’d like you to state publicly that your book is a novel, a story you invented based on newspaper articles, and that you were never on the run with Carlo. In other words, I’d like you to tell what we both know to be the truth and say that the book is a pure work of fiction. Doing so will have the dual advantage of putting you out of danger since no one’s going to extradite a novelist. And it will help us to rehabilitate Carlo.’

  ‘Rehabilitate Carlo! You really don’t get it, do you?’

  Filippo turns to Cristina, places his hand on the table very close to hers, and addresses her. These words are for her:

  ‘I loved Carlo. I listened to him for hours on end. He would talk about his battles, describe the colour of violence, the thrill of combat to the death. He fascinated me. He gave a meaning to my own rebellion, which I’d never been able to articulate. And above all, he taught me to love weighty words, words laden with matter, energy, emotion, words that now enable me to live. When we escaped, when we found ourselves in the rubbish skip, when I was drowning, he held his hand out to me, his touch saved me from my own panic, forever. Then I knew that I could die for him, for nothing, with pleasure. When he was killed, I wrote Escape out of loyalty and out of love.’ He turns to Lisa: ‘And you’re asking me to deny all that, his life and mine, to protect myself and for the sake of your abstract ideas? For your outdated memories of a man who’s been dead for ages? Don’t count on me. Not today, not ever.’ Then he gets up, turns his back on the two women and walks out. Cristina rushes after him, without a word. Lisa, dumbfounded, rooted to the spot, swallows her defeat.

  Cristina catches up with Filippo at the door. She halts him by putting her hand on his arm.

  ‘When I came into the Café Pouchkine, I didn’t know what to expect or what might happen afterwards…’

  He smiles.

  ‘Now you know. You have a date with me. I’m inviting you to dinner. I’ve booked a table at Sébillon, and it’s not far from here.’

  ‘What about your job…?’

  ‘I’m not a night watchman any more.’

  ‘That job wasn’t worthy of you.’

  He slips his arm under hers and guides her. They walk away from the café, he can feel her hip against his, their steps attuned.

  ‘This is the most wonderful evening of my short life.’

  Still sitting at the table, Lisa watches them walk off down the sunny street. Impressive diatribe, impressive exit. I knew I wouldn’t get anything out of him. But Roberto won’t be able to say anything now. The most puzzling thing is Cristina’s extraordinary behaviour. Are women as unreliable as men? Hard to admit. They left without paying. Of course. A pity to spoil such a magnificent exit with such a vulgar detail.

  Lisa bitterly pays for the three cocktails that no one had the time to drink, picks up her belongings and leaves the Café Pouchkine. She can see the couple a hundred metres away, walking off down the street still bathed in sunlight. Almost the same height, they walk at a regular pace, chatting, leaning in towards each other. Cristina occasionally rests her head on Filippo’s shoulder. Lisa comments to herself that he is walking on the outside, as recommended in the etiquette guides from the 1900s, to protect his companion from being splashed by vehicles passing at speed, and the stupid thought distracts her.

  Just then, a man bumps into her as he rushes out of the porch of an apartment building. She is knocked off balance, protests aloud. The man does not turn round but runs faster. He is wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and a stylish panama hat pulled down over his eyes. Lisa doesn’t get a look at his face. Then one thing follows another, as with a well-oiled machine. The man in the panama is closing in on the couple. A motorbike rides slowly up the street, and passes Lisa. The man in the panama catches up with the couple. Lisa hears a gunshot. No mistaking it, she’s heard enough in her life to know. A single shot. She freezes, and at the same time sees Filippo collapse, the bike pass the couple in slow motion, the man in the panama jump on to the pillion, the bike roar off, and Cristina spin round and crumple on to the pavement. Lisa springs into action, races towards the two bodies on the ground, screaming, ‘Help … Help!’

  When she reaches them, she glances at Filippo’s body lying face down, a black hole in the centre of his back, his lovely beige jacket scorched. A pool of blood is spreading over the pavement close to his left shoulder. Dead. Too late to do anything. She quickly turns to Cristina, lying on her back, her entire body rigid, her face ashen, the whites of her eyes showing, her jaw locked. Lisa tries to raise Cristina’s head, but is unable to. Suddenly her body goes into spasm, shudders, her teeth chattering. Lisa, desperate, doesn’t know what to do. She looks up. A few people appear at their windows, alerted by the gunshot and her screams. A stranger is standing next to her.

  ‘I’m a doctor. My surgery is in the apartment building over the road. I heard the shot, and then your screams. This woman is having an epileptic fit. Do you know if it’s happened before?’

  ‘No, not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘I’ve already called an ambulance and the police. You don’t look too good either. I’m going to get a chair so you can sit down until the police get here. Don’t take it as an excuse to faint, please.’

  The ambulance arrives very quickly and Cristina, still unconscious, is driven off to the nearest hospital. Shortly afterwards, three police cars pull up, sirens wailing. The police block off the street and cordon off the crime scene. A plain-clothes police officer takes Lisa to one side and starts questioning her, while others try and gather statements from the neighbours.

  For the time being, Lisa is the only witness. ID? Italian refugee. Aha … Did she know the victim? Yes, Filippo Zuliani, also an Italian. The police officer looks up from his notebook.

  ‘The guy who wrote a book about how he assassinated a carabiniere, and boasts about it?’

  Lisa shrugs helplessly.

  ‘If you like…’

  The police officer barely lowers his voice.

  ‘Good riddance.’

  Then she has to say, and repeat over again, the same words, explain what the three of them had been doing at the Café Pouchkine, the couple leaving together first, Lisa staying behind to pay. No, they hadn’t had a quarrel.

  ‘That’s not what the barman says.’

  It was a discussion, they had disagreed, but it wasn’t a quarrel. She had not fallen out with the dead man. Well … not like that. When she came out, the man in the panama, no, she hadn’t seen his face. Height, build, age … in his thirties or forties, not all that young, quite well-built, that was all she could say. The motorbike, no, she hadn’t seen the licence plate, not even certain whether it had one … the police officer presses her … or not.

  When he repeats his questions for the fourth time, night has fallen and Lisa, exhausted, asks him what he’s driving at, exactly.

  ‘All three of you are Italian, two of you are refugees with a dodgy background, possible disagreements between you back in Italy, where there are lots of shootings. You met at the café, there was a heated discussion, you didn’t leave with him. You saw the killers, but you haven’t given me any useful information. So I’m asking myself, and I’m asking you: did you lure this Filippo into a trap and give the signal to the killers?’

  Probably due to the shock of the murder or the exhaustion of being interrogated, Lisa bursts out laughing.

  ‘I think you’re as paranoid as I am. But you’ve got a point. I’m not able to prove that I didn’t kill Filippo Zuliani.’

  Now she understands what the officer wants to get out of her, she is able to breathe more easily. She is no longer in the surreal realm
of the nightmare. She gets her breath back, finds her nerve, and casts her eye over the crime scene. The body has been removed, the job of the police seems to be done. A small group of onlookers is still hanging around, Roberto is in the front row. How did he hear? Always there when she needs him. The sight of him comforts her, she waves to him, smiles at him.

  Shortly afterwards the police pack up their equipment. Lisa, whose home and workplace addresses have been checked out, is allowed to go home – she’ll be summoned to the police station later. She falls into Roberto’s arms. The worst of the shock has been cushioned. Too late to cry. A pity.

  Her staunch friend has thought of everything. Nothing like a good meal to help face up to death. In their infinite wisdom, both French and Italian traditions prescribe a feast after a funeral. Even more reason for one after an assassination. So he takes her for dinner to the best local eatery, the only one that stays open so late. Sébillon, famed for its leg of lamb.