Escape

by Dominique Manotti

  Don’t get sucked in. Danger. She’ll destroy me, she’ll devour me. I know what I don’t want, but I don’t know how to get what I do want. Get out. Now. Run. Save my skin. Think later.

  Filippo rises to his feet, his face inscrutable. He stammers: ‘Sorry, it’s late, I’m working tonight, I have to go.’

  And he leaves her sitting there, dumbfounded, in front of the two vodkas that have barely been touched. In the background, Bécaud has given way to a double-bass duo.

  It takes Cristina a few seconds to realise that Filippo has walked out, for good. Incredulity. She downs her vodka in one, to clear her mind and to try and regain her footing. I’ve just done him a huge favour, which he seemed to appreciate. Rude, really, very rude. Not surprising. Lout. No, not rude, ungrateful, that’s worse. Now he’s got what he wants, he dumps me.

  Then, without seeing it coming, she is hit by a wave of despair. In her forties, loneliness. For ever? A life sentence? She drinks the vodka that Filippo barely touched.

  I played the seductress, almost out of habit, and it didn’t work. I have to face facts, I’m no longer an attractive woman. What do I have left? A job that bores me…

  She signals to the barman: another.

  What was I expecting this evening? Hard to say, I don’t know. Romance, a young man to pamper, life, action, perhaps even a lover. An end to my loneliness. In any case, he owes me something.

  She mulls over the evening to try and pinpoint the moment it had all gone wrong.

  Arrival, Bécaud, he’d laughed, his account of the meeting with the publisher, so far so good. The publisher’s doubts as to whether Filippo could be the author of the book. But she had had no doubts, and told him so. No problem. And she placed her hand over his. Skin to skin. That was when everything fell apart. Filippo was profoundly disturbed. He lowered his head and jerked his hand away quite violently. And he departed. A doubt surfaces. So young, good-looking, prison, that passionate relationship with Carlo… He’s gay. Just my luck.

  The barman brings her third vodka.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MAY 1988

  Paris, 10 May

  L’Univers des Livres, review by Jeanne Champaud

  A few days ago, the publisher of Escape, the novel by Filippo Zuliani that will be appearing in bookshops this week, gave me a copy of the proofs saying, ‘Read these. I think you’ll be surprised.’ I was. And I’m prepared to bet that I won’t be the only one, and that we’ll be hearing about this novel when the literary prize season is upon us this autumn.

  On first reading, this novel appears to tell a story that is not particularly original: a young hoodlum and a veteran terrorist, a survivor of the ‘Years of Lead’, meet by chance in prison and break out together. Then, as much out of choice as of necessity, they team up and organise a bank heist that turns into a bloodbath. The formula seems to be that of the traditional crime novel, but appearances can be deceptive. This novel overturns all the rules of the genre; it is a lot more and a lot better than a simple story of small-time crooks. The book has two plots that are inextricably interwoven, ultimately merging.

  The sub-plot is that of the two protagonists’ escape from jail, the preparation of the heist, the heist itself and the resulting fiasco, against a background of gangland turf wars. It is the simple, effective storyline that hooks the reader from beginning to end, without allowing a pause for breath. Grafted on to that is the ‘main’ story, the one that the veteran terrorist tells his young companion, initially in prison, in the form of flashbacks, then during the run-up to the bank robbery. What the book reveals is both how the Italian left-wing extremist groups, born out of the widespread workers’ struggles of the 1970s, very quickly turned to violence and ended in gangsterism in the ’80s, and the extent to which that violence, perhaps because of its radical nature, was able to seduce our young hoodlum, and probably many other young Italians, to the point of binding him to his cellmate until death. When they are on the run, their shared love of violence inevitably leads to serious crime, into which the young hoodlum introduces his companion, then follows him, in a sort of mirror initiation novel. A classic path for an entire lost generation.

  The narrative is raw, full of suspense, emotions, told with tremendous honesty. No caricatures, no stereotypes, the characters are all wonderfully alive. And the author has a definite, well-controlled sense of dramatic tension.

  When I discovered that this is a debut novel by a very young Italian, who has been a refugee in France for the past few months, I naturally wanted to meet him to find out how much of this story was autobiographical, and how such a young man could have written something so accomplished.

  We met in fairly conventional surroundings, near the publishing house, in the bar of a big Paris hotel with deep leather armchairs, coffee tables and a secluded atmosphere. The author arrived with an interpreter and the publisher’s publicist: they are keeping a close eye on their little prodigy. It soon turned out that we didn’t need the interpreter, since with a bit of effort we managed to understand one another. He is indeed very young, barely twenty-three, I’m told, but looks eighteen – a delicate figure, with the appearance of a teenage pop idol beneath a mop of black hair. He sits bolt upright, slightly rigid, self-conscious, in his blue jeans and white T-shirt. He rarely smiles and speaks very little. I could feel he was on the defensive, which is a very appealing admission of vulnerability. I tell him right away that I’m enchanted.

  We get off to a rocky start. When I ask him how much of the book is autobiographical, he snaps back, ‘It’s a novel. That’s it.’ I press him a little, mentioning what I’ve read in the author biography provided by his publisher, plus my own research into his past life of crime, his spell in prison, his escape, the similarities between the episodes in his novel and recent events in Italy, and in which he himself was involved, directly or indirectly – that is for him to say. And lastly, I ask him about applying for political asylum in France, which he has apparently been given, or will be given shortly. That is certainly not an award for picking tourists’ pockets on the streets of Rome. If I want answers to those questions, he replies, I can talk to his lawyer, who is also the publisher’s lawyer.

  So it’s back to talking about literature, nothing but literature. Very well. I get straight to the point. Given that he spent his youth in the streets and prisons of Rome, where did he learn to write in a language that is so simple, so effective and sometimes so moving? Was it in books, and if so, which ones? Which authors have influenced him? That earns me a wan smile.

  In his family home, there were no books, so he didn’t read any, and still today, the sight of a well-stocked bookcase makes him feel anxious. He learned to write in prison, not in books. Learned to listen, first of all, he says, to listen to the political prisoners talking about their hopes, their exploits, their defeats. Learned also to love the language those men spoke, which was magnificent because it was resonant with passion and despair, and that is what made it absolutely fascinating. As a result of listening, he absorbed their way of telling a story. He thought about all those prisoners when he began to write. And it was easy. He insists, ‘The words came all by themselves.’ But why write? At this, Filippo Zuliani becomes animated, drops his aloof air. ‘Why? To allow those people an existence, a life.’ He hesitates, then continues, ‘And also to understand my own life. Maybe above all. Literature is life, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you often say in your articles?’

  Life? His life? I won’t be any the wiser. He seems to be steering the entire conversation to focus only on literature, on the novel, and to divert attention from his own experience. It is hard to imagine that a book that draws so heavily on current affairs and has such richness is not inspired by real life. Filippo Zuliani won’t say, but… The main thing is that Filippo Zuliani has written a real ‘American-style’ novel, sweeping in scope, inspired by a chaotic existence, and as hard-hitting as a punch in the stomach. A must-read.

  16 May

  The publication o
f Escape and the reviews in the French press make the Italian refugees anxious and angry. The Sunday afternoon meeting is likely to be crowded and difficult for Lisa, thinks Roberto. Reviving the pain, the wrench and the shock of Carlo’s death a year on, when the wounds are still raw … she is strong. Perhaps this will be the opportunity for her to reach closure, but he doubts it. He drops by to see her in the morning, with a selection of Sicilian pastries. Lisa is lounging around, demoralised.

  ‘This novel breaks my heart.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘The character who everyone calls Carlo isn’t the man I knew and loved. A man of passion, of conviction, a poet. Portrayed as a gang boss. He never took part in armed action. I did, you know I did, Roberto, with all that implies. I’m paying for it, I don’t ever want to talk about it again. But not him.’

  ‘Lisa, I know what you’re going through and I’m here.’

  ‘He’s assassinating Carlo a second time. A public execution. I wasn’t expecting it. Nobody had the foresight to warn me. When I found out that Cristina had put Filippo in touch with the publisher, without having the decency to say anything to me, I decided never to speak to her again, which doesn’t make life easy at work, as you can imagine.’

  ‘We’re going to talk about the novel at the meeting this afternoon.’

  ‘Without me.’

  ‘You have to come.’

  ‘No way. Last year, when I wanted to try and find out how Carlo had been assassinated, I asked for their help. Nobody lifted a finger, Giovanni told everyone I was paranoid, and no one has been in touch with me since then. I’m not prepared to forget that. And I’ve made no headway in my investigation into his death.’

  ‘This book is going to have political repercussions – we should all discuss it together.’

  ‘Political repercussions! Are you kidding? What political repercussions? Since Carlo’s death, everything we feared, like everything we wanted to avoid, has happened in spades. The Red Brigades’ declaration was buried deep, it was never discussed or commented on by anyone. The left’s programme is the same as that of the right. First goal: massive repression of the far left, thousands of activists in prison, five thousand according to my figures, no amnesty, those turned informant, the traitors, held up as a pillar of justice and model citizens. And a new Law of Dissociation, a brilliant invention, that has hit us hard. Second goal: clear the assassins involved in the wholesale massacres, the secret service henchmen. In less than a year, they’ve had the effrontery to clear the Piazza Fontana killers, the Brescia and the Italicus train bombers. And no one protests. So they’ll continue. Result: some of our former activists, completely disoriented, can’t stop the violence. Two more supposedly political assassinations this month, for which there is no justification now that the war is over. From that point of view, you were right: setting up Carlo was pointless, we’re big enough to commit suicide all by ourselves.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say so.’

  ‘And the rot is contagious. As a result of being afraid to take us back, the Italian Communist Party is on its last legs, taking with it an entire shared political culture. People don’t do politics any more in Italy, they do business, it’s the grand ball of the corruptors and the corrupt.’

  She stands up, opens her arms and smiles at Roberto.

  ‘May I have this dance?’

  ‘Stop, you’re doing my head in. We know all that. Sit down and listen to me. I’m talking about the impact that this book might have here, in France. The papers say that Zuliani has applied for political asylum. If he gets it, he’ll be giving the Italian government the perfect excuse to ask the French to abolish political refugee status. You, me, lots of others, we’ll all end our lives in jail.’

  Lisa eats a pastry in silence staring out at the garden, and Roberto doesn’t rush her. Then he adds, ‘The lawyers will be there. Their opinion is decisive.’

  A fresh silence, then Lisa:

  ‘You win, Roberto, as always.’

  The vast, drab room where the meeting is taking place is packed. The discussion has not yet begun. People crowd round the copious buffet and the noise level is deafening. Lisa steps into the room, tense, as if she wishes she were elsewhere. Giovanni is sitting on a table right beside the door, legs dangling, glass in hand, talking and laughing loudly.

  ‘Carlo’s double, betrayed and assassinated by his accomplices in a spectacular coup, I’m sure Lisa appreciates that. Conspiracy theory and showmanship, it’s all there. She could almost have penned the scenario herself.’

  Lisa plants herself in front of him and hisses:

  ‘You’ll say anything to sound clever.’

  ‘And you love making an entrance. We’re quits, dear Lisa.’

  Those close to both Giovanni and Lisa start telling others about the heated exchange. Roberto senses a row brewing and hastily calls for silence, then opens the meeting.

  ‘We’re gathered here today with our lawyers to discuss Zuliani’s book and its potential repercussions.’ People turn towards Lisa who says simply: ‘The book is a novel. Like all novels, it is of no importance, now let’s change the subject.’

  While one of the lawyers explains that things aren’t quite like that, and that Zuliani, his publisher and the press are making the most of the ambiguous relations the author is alleged to have had with one of the Red Brigades leaders, Giovanni, sitting next to Lisa, leans over to her and whispers: ‘We robbed banks a few years ago, and better than Carlo. I remember a period when we were doing one a month. Nobody made such a fuss back then.’

  Lisa replies in an undertone: ‘But those were different times. That’s politics for you, comrade.’

  Concluding his speech, the lawyer also turns to Lisa: ‘Can you tell us what makes you so sure that this novel is entirely a work of fiction? It is important in determining how we are to proceed.’

  ‘Because I have learned it from two different sources. Carlo telephoned me straight after his escape. Don’t look so sceptical, Giovanni. I already told you a year ago, and I’m happy to be more specific today. When I was on a clandestine assignment in Paris, we used to have a regular telephone appointment. As soon as I read about his escape in the papers, my first reflex was to reactivate the appointment. And he called.’

  She leans over to Giovanni:

  ‘I don’t need to tell you anything further. Satisfied? Or do you want me to tell you the place and times of our appointments too?’

  Giovanni gives a dismissive wave to indicate ‘fair enough.’ Lisa goes on: ‘Carlo told me about the Red Brigades’ open letter that had just been published, about his escape – which he described as a final embodiment of “practising the objective”, the policy adopted by the movement in the autumn of ’69. In other words, highly political language. He hadn’t become a gangster. I was concerned about the young hoodlum who broke out with him. I thought he could be a potential threat, and said so. Carlo assured me that they had already parted company.’

  Lisa speaks in a strangled voice. Even after all this time, she cannot get used to it. She coughs and continues: ‘Then, this Filippo Zuliani turned up on my doorstep, a few days after Carlo’s death. That too, I told you about at the time. He told me how he and Carlo had gone their separate ways immediately after the escape, which corroborated what Carlo had told me. He told me that Carlo had arranged to meet up with him in Milan, a month later. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter. In any case, Zuliani began to make his way northwards. He walked for three weeks in the mountains, without meeting a soul. When he arrived in Bologna, he read the newspapers and learned about the bank raid and Carlo’s death. And that was what frightened him, the idea that he might be suspected of being Carlo’s accomplice – understandably, since he was unable to provide an alibi. It was a knee-jerk reaction, he seemed lost, and I had the feeling that at that point, he was telling the truth. And I still think so. As far as I’m concerned, the book is definitely a novel, constructed from reading certain newspaper articles that be
ar no relation to the facts.’

  Chiara has slipped in beside Roberto and some of the lawyers. She speaks with fieriness and resentment.

  ‘This business has done a lot of damage, both here and back in Italy, to those of us who aren’t gangsters. Just read the papers, you’ll see. It’s sickening, they’re all banging on about “The Italian left-wing extremists’ deadly and unstoppable slide into crime”. That tars us with the same brush. And unfortunately, I’m not certain that the book is purely fictitious, as you claim. I knew Carlo well too…’

  Lisa bristles, Roberto quakes. No, not that…

  ‘…and I think that this Zuliani knew him well, from the way he describes Carlo’s love of guns, girls and showing off. The warmth of their relationship makes his account credible.’

  Lisa straightens herself up, she has lost her cool and her voice becomes shrill.

  ‘Love of guns … Carlo… you’re crazy, Chiara. You talk as though we were all gunslingers. None of us loved firearms. I know what I’m talking about. And even if Carlo agreed with the Red Brigades’ military actions, he himself never touched a gun. I’m saying it here, for all those who didn’t know us, and now that it’s all over: Carlo was in charge of logistics for the Red Brigades’ underground operators – organising accommodation, transport, allocating funds. He took the same risks as all of us, but the organisation was cellular, he was never involved in any armed operation. This whole story is outrageous.’