Escape

by Dominique Manotti

  Lisa is moved, exasperated, and suspicious. First of all, she must calm down. She rises, turning her back on Filippo and potters about in the galley kitchen. She never cooks – no room, no time, no desire. But she does have a cupboard with a few emergency supplies. Right now, busying herself affords her a degree of composure and the time to think things through. His story is too polished. Well, he’s had the time to replay the film over and over again, it’s true. She returns with a dish of tortellini in broth, which she sets down on the coffee table in front of him. He pounces on it. Lisa watches him then, when he has finished eating, she says aggressively: ‘Nothing you’ve told me explains how you ended up on my doorstep.’

  ‘As soon as we were tipped out with all the rubbish, we stood up.’

  He pauses for a second, recalling the sudden feeling of panic at finding himself standing on top of that mound of refuse. What the fuck am I doing here? I should never have jumped into that skip. He had felt like crying. He clears his throat: ‘There was a ladder against the wall. On the other side, a car was waiting for us. We lay down side by side on the floor in the back, and the car drove off at speed, over very bumpy roads. I got banged around, and I’m sure Carlo did too. I think I blacked out at times, it’s a bit hazy.’

  ‘Who was driving the car?’

  ‘I’m not sure. No one I knew. A guy at the wheel and a girl next to him, that’s all I could see.’

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘Yes, a girl, I’m certain of that.’

  ‘And you weren’t able to see the guy or the girl? At any time? Didn’t they say anything?’

  ‘No, nothing. They didn’t open their mouths while I was there. And I couldn’t see anything because the driver had turned up the collar of his coat and was wearing dark glasses. The girl had her collar turned up too, and wore a headscarf. They never turned round to look at me.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘The car stopped somewhere in the mountains, by a ruin, a sort of barn. Carlo took me aside. He gave me a bag…’ Filippo jerks his thumb at the canvas bag beside him on the chair, ‘… already packed with two sandwiches, clothes and some money, and he said, “This is where we part company. I have things to do. I’ll meet you in Milan in a month’s time. Meanwhile, stay out of sight, and if things get too difficult here in Italy, head for Paris. Go to this address, tell the woman I sent you, and tell her our story. She’ll help you.” Those were his precise words: “If things get too difficult”. I only realised later what he meant. And then the three of them got into another car that was hidden in the barn, and they drove off.’

  ‘And you still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the other two?’

  ‘Vaguely, from a distance, and only from behind.’

  ‘Did you know who I was? Had Carlo told you about me?’

  ‘No, never.’

  In silence, she lets that sink in. A girl was waiting for him when he broke out, and he never mentioned me to his cellmate, during six months of cohabiting. Careful. A trap.

  ‘Did he give you any addresses in Milan?’

  ‘No. Just the name of a youth hostel. After a month, I was supposed to go there and wait until he contacted me. Later on I forgot the name.’

  ‘So what did you do next, after Carlo left and you were on your own?’

  ‘I set off on foot over the mountains, heading for Milan. I walked for days, taking care to follow disused footpaths. And then I arrived in Bologna. It was the first city I set foot in after our escape.’ Pause, his voice choked. ‘I bought the paper, and I found out … It was a shock. There’s no other word to describe it, a shock.’ He runs his hand over his face. ‘Then I felt empty. What was I going to do in Milan? A city I don’t know … and then, I suddenly felt frightened, very frightened. We broke out together … I’d vanished for three weeks … and during that time, I’d seen no one and no one had seen me. No possible alibi. My photo was in the papers after the escape: the cops were saying they had a lead, and that could only be me. A bank robbery, and now a carabiniere and a security guard dead. Carlo had said, “If things get too difficult, go and see her.” Things got too difficult, so here I am.’

  Lisa retreats into silence. She is disconcerted by these echoes of Carlo alive arriving out of the blue. She tries to get her bearings, something to hold on to. Is his story credible? Maybe, maybe not. In any case it doesn’t contradict her last phone conversation with Carlo. A joint escape in which the kid has a secondary but necessary role. Does he or doesn’t he know who the real accomplices are? If he does know them, caution will probably prevent him from saying so. Carlo was able to get rid of him by arranging to meet up in Milan, without implicating anyone else, without revealing any addresses, and with no intention of turning up. “Don’t worry. My cellmate and I have already parted company.” A month gave him time to go underground if he was worried about the kid informing on him. Not a very honourable thing to do if the kid was clean, but a possible, even likely, course of action. The truly painful thing is the disclosure that during those months of intimacy with Filippo, Carlo never once mentioned her. He never spoke about me. That girl in the car. A crazy pang of jealousy. She rises, picks up Filippo’s dirty plate and puts it in the sink. Don’t let yourself go. Seven years inside, that changes a man, that’s what Roberto was trying to tell me. He spent the last months of his life in close confinement with this kid, but his death is part of our shared history, his and mine. And I won’t let go of it. She brings a plate of biscuits over to the table, sets it down, takes one and eats it to give herself time. Then she says: ‘Carlo was set up. He was assassinated by a crack marksman, Carabiniere Lucio Renzi, lying in wait for him inside the bank. And you’re to blame for that assassination.’

  Filippo is taken aback.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  She looks at him with barely contained fury.

  ‘You put the idea into his head and gave him the means to escape. If he’d stayed in jail, he’d still be alive. And eventually he’d have been released, sooner or later.’

  She slowly regains her self-control. He’s just a kid in rags, unable to get his breath back, disoriented. Not to blame for too much. Calm down. Mustn’t get carried away, it’s beneath me. She looks away.

  ‘Sorry. I’m deeply distressed by Carlo’s death. I spoke out of turn, so don’t take any notice. I’m exhausted and I have to be at work early tomorrow. You can sleep here, and we can talk it all over in the morning. You use the bathroom first, while I make up a bed for you in here.’

  11 March

  Filippo has an appointment with a woman he doesn’t know, in a swanky part of Neuilly. Lisa gave him some money to buy himself some clean clothes and said, ‘Here’s the address. She’s a friend of mine, and she’s agreed to rent you her studio apartment. Goodbye and good luck.’ Not a word more, no explanation. He walks down a street that stinks of the bourgeoisie, the establishment. He has a strong impulse to run away as fast as he can, as far as possible, but doesn’t have the guts. Where would he go? He keeps walking until he reaches number 18. A small, soulless, modern apartment block. Marble and mirrors in the lobby, dark wood and mirrors in the lift. Sixth floor. He rings the bell. The door opens, he is expected. A woman in her forties, magnificent as Italian women of that age are – tall, erect, curvaceous, golden-brown eyes in an open face, a dazzling smile. And a mass of coppery blonde hair like the girl in the mountains who had smiled at Carlo, and whose fleeting image had left an indelible impression on Filippo’s imagination. A crazy hope, the warmth of an older sister, lover, mother. Come all the way to Paris to find her and love her. She extends her hand, a rapid, all-purpose handshake, a formality, hopes dashed. Perhaps her smile’s a mask. She speaks to him in Italian: ‘Filippo? I’m Cristina Pirozzi. I was expecting you, come in.’

  She shows him into quite a spacious hall, furnished with an elaborately carved Italian wardrobe, a huge, antique mirror, a magnificent grandfather clock and a Persian rug on
the floor. Two doors facing each other. Cristina opens one of them.

  ‘This is the studio flat I mentioned to Lisa.’

  A large, well-lit room, French window opening on to a balcony, glass-and-steel guardrail, good-quality, simple furniture, a big bookcase full of books, a bathroom and a tiny galley kitchen. And four big clothes cupboards, for him, whose only luggage is his canvas bag.

  ‘It was my son’s place, but he lives in New York now. Ever since Giorgio, my partner, left, I’ve lived alone in this huge apartment.’ A pause. ‘Does it suit you?’ He stammers. ‘Here are the keys. I arranged everything with Lisa. In theory the rent is 400 francs a month, all-in and cash, but of course you can pay me when you’ve got a job. My phone number’s on the kitchen table in case you have any problems.’

  And she leaves.

  Filippo finds himself alone, broken, drained. What the hell was I expecting, for God’s sake? He sits down on the bed, which is covered with a brightly coloured patchwork counterpane, his shoulders hunched, his arms dangling. He casts his eye over the bookshelves where there is a mix of French and Italian books. Yet another library, like at Lisa’s. All these books he hasn’t read. He walks over to the shelves and touches the spines. If he wants to read, which book should he start with? A name comes back to him: Victor Hugo, Carlo used to say. ‘A Victor Hugo to tell our epic tale.’ How is he to find that name among all these books? He scans the spines – names, titles that mean nothing to him, seemingly arranged at random. Crestfallen. They’re all telling me: you don’t fit in here, we’re prepared to help you, then bye-bye. Cristina made that perfectly clear. She called me Filippo, my first name, no surname, she stood in the hall to talk to me, as if I was some kind of a servant. Put the money for the rent in the hall cupboard – avoid contact at all costs. Then, all condescending, ‘I arranged everything with Lisa.’ She didn’t look at me once, I was invisible, non-existent. A memory surfaces: I was invisible for Carlo, too. He said, ‘my escape’, a memory immediately blocked out, buried again. Don’t think about it any more, too painful, forget. Lisa, Cristina, all their books that I’ll never read. I’m a pawn and these two women are just playing with me. Resentment. He feels the urge to run away again. And to take the rug and the mirror with him. Not the clock, too cumbersome. He will have no trouble selling them at a flea market on the outskirts, they must have them here, and then he can do a runner and find his friends in Rome, with enough money to swagger about, at least for a few days. And treat himself to two or three girls – he can show these women he is not intimidated by them. In my dreams. I’m forgetting that I’m wanted by the cops for two murders. But I’m also forgetting I can no longer stand the life of a squatter in Rome. Be honest just for once. My arrest was actually a relief – I wasn’t able to cut loose, didn’t have the balls, no future. The cops did me a favour. Those days are over. End of. Grit your teeth and get used to being alone. He removes his shoes, lies down on the bed and falls asleep.

  12 March

  Every Sunday there is a weekly meeting of the Italian refugees in France. It’s a sort of rallying point, an informal gathering, people come when they can, to breathe the air of home and indulge in a little nostalgia. The discussions are sometimes highly political, all the major decisions affecting the refugees are thrashed out here with the lawyers who attend regularly to maintain close contact with the little community. The gathering also acts as a mutual support group – people pass on tips for finding a job, a place to stay in another city, and help each other out. And they drink Italian wine. They also tear one another apart; the divisions between the various exiled ultra-leftist groups are as acrimonious today as they had been in Italy, and heated arguments often break out, with people dispersing into small groups. It is more like gossiping than a political debate, but no one questions the vital importance of this fixed point to help them cope with life in exile. And the same applies to Lisa, too. She has always known that one day she will have to go back there and talk about Carlo’s death. Today, she feels strong enough to do that. She even needs to – it is a way of making his death official, the first step in coming to terms with it.

  Roberto picks her up from her place and takes her for lunch at Le Pacific, a big Chinese restaurant close by, on the corner of Rue de Belleville – a light, quick meal. He senses that she is at breaking point and is worried, watching her every movement. He orders dumplings and iced tea; he knows what she likes. Attentive as the lover he might have been, years ago, had it not been for the handsome Carlo, who had the kudos of being a factory-worker – back when that counted. Roberto, though, had always looked like a white-collar worker, and was beginning to go bald – he had stood no chance. Now the field is clear, but it is way too late. All that remains between them is affection.

  The Sunday afternoon meetings are held in a big room lent by a French association. A stark, shabby decor, grey-tiled floor, bare walls painted a grubby yellow, harsh light, and stacking chairs. But on a table in a corner is a buffet, with cold drinks, wine, cakes and two thermos flasks of coffee, all on a fine red tablecloth with a bunch of pink flowers. They have been told that Lisa is coming. Someone has brought two bottles of Spumante. A party wine. To console themselves for Carlo’s death, or to celebrate it? Who knows? Thirty or so people are waiting for her to arrive, chatting noisily in small groups that form and break up according to personal and political affinities. The same question is on everyone’s lips: what tone will Lisa set for the meeting? Mater dolorosa, or robust defence of the hero? Some are placing bets.

  Lisa enters the room and a hush falls. Everyone remains still, waiting for her first move, her first words. She appears to falter, then makes up her mind, smiles, greets everyone, handshakes, embraces. The noise swells again, people come over to express their condolences, looking grief-stricken, some more genuinely so than others. Roberto leaves her and goes over to one of the lawyers, sitting slightly aloof, near the buffet.

  Lisa quickly cuts short the expressions of sympathy, holds on to the back of a chair for support with both hands, and begins to speak in a clear, composed voice.

  ‘After his escape, I spoke to Carlo on the telephone.’ Surprised, the audience waits in silence for more detail, but she gives none. ‘He told me that he endorsed the declaration by the former leaders of the Red Brigades, and now felt freed from any obligation to continue the struggle in prison. He was planning to get hold of some money and fake ID – without taking any risks, he was insistent on that point – so he could go abroad and start a new life. He didn’t say any more.’ She pauses, the audience is still rapt. ‘I’m convinced he was the victim of a sting set up to discredit the entire far left and make us look like a bunch of dangerous common criminals. He was assassinated by Brigadier Lucio Renzi who hid inside the bank and then shot him. I consider it my duty to fight to the bitter end and find out what really happened that day, and make sure that Carlo doesn’t go down in history as the leader of a useless gang and a failed bank robber.’

  Lisa stops, choked with emotion. The silence is broken by an anonymous female voice: ‘You seem very certain that this battle is worth fighting. I’m not. Carlo isn’t the only Red Brigades survivor who’s carried on shooting anyone and anything, tarring us all with the same brush, including those of us who were against your reckless choice to take up arms.’

  Lisa wavers briefly. Whatever you do, don’t argue, not now, keep calm. She goes on, in a measured tone:

  ‘Yes, I’m fighting to protect Carlo’s memory because he was my man, and because I’m devastated by his death. But that’s not the only reason. I want to convince you that he wasn’t the only one to be set up, that the sting is part of a wider strategy to discredit our struggle, the entire non-parliamentary far left, whether we are pro armed struggle or not. Let’s make no mistake, our destinies are now bound together. If we don’t stand side by side and fight to preserve our past, we’ll lose the battle all over again, and we’ll be erased from the history of the struggle in Italy. And that’s why I am counting
on the help – on the collaboration – of all of you to shine a light on what really happened outside the Piemonte-Sardegna bank.’