Escape

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘What about the women, Lisa… ?’

  Roberto leaps up.

  ‘That’s enough, Chiara. Stop that now. Let’s get back to the topic of our meeting.’ He turns to the lawyers. ‘Does Zuliani have a chance of obtaining political asylum, and what should we do?’

  ‘We have met Filippo Zuliani once – Lisa sent him to us last year, on his arrival in Paris. We found him fairly insipid, and we didn’t pay much attention to him. That was clearly a mistake. He has a lawyer, who has not been in contact, so we have no direct knowledge of his application. But we think he has a chance, yes. Refugee status is awarded arbitrarily, at the discretion of the powers that be. And since the president prides himself on being a man of letters, anything is possible. Especially since the book is good and is getting excellent reviews. His publisher is supporting him and it will probably sell well. To defuse things, we’ll put the word out via our networks, repeat what Lisa has told us, explain that Zuliani only had a very distant connection to Carlo, and that his book is a novel. Lisa, have you got any concrete evidence you can give us?’

  Lisa closes her eyes, grits her teeth and swallows her irritation.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It would be ideal if you could come up with something.’

  ‘I’m prepared to work at it, energetically too. Last year, I asked for help, but no one came forward. Will it be any different this time?’

  ‘Of course we’re prepared to help you, all of us here, we French lawyers as well as you Italians. Meanwhile, I advise everyone to be very careful in public. No comment without consulting us first. And let’s hope that no one will be talking about the book after the summer.’

  May

  After the publication of Jeanne Champaud’s piece in the Univers des Livres, the publisher is inundated with requests from various newspapers and magazines for interviews with Filippo Zuliani, many more than anticipated. Discussion between the publisher and the publicist. How much should they focus on the breakout, should they go all-out or softly-softly? The publisher is not sure. He fears that Filippo might not be able to cope with all the media attention and will cause a scandal by taking credit for the assassinations, for example. The publicist, on the other hand, feels that the book is going to be big, so it is unthinkable not to use it, and she is confident she can handle the young Italian bad boy. When several radio stations and a TV channel request interviews, the publicist is proved right. She asks Filippo to come in for a brief ‘meeting to arrange his schedule’. He arrives, his heart pounding. Conflicting feelings. The publishing house could be the family he dreams of, he wants to feel at home here, but somehow can’t. He is afraid of letting everyone down, and admits to himself that he is ready to do anything so as not to be thrown out, which he feels puts him in a position of weakness. Besides, ready to do anything … Would that be enough?

  The publicist, Adèle, sees him in her office, a cramped, very cluttered room, with a French window opening on to a well-kept garden. She smiles at him, invites him to sit in a huge, old armchair, and offers him a coffee.

  ‘You seem tense. Relax, it’s all good news. There’s quite a buzz around Escape. She opens a file and reads out the requests she has received, commenting on each one.

  ‘There’s a terrific word-of-mouth effect, no doubt about it, and that’s very valuable because it’s not something you can create, but when there is one, you can build on it and consolidate it. Do you see?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Never mind. That’s my job, trust me. First we need to try and understand what fires the critics’ interest. And the public’s, if it takes off as we’re hoping it will…’

  She gazes at Filippo who sits very still, staring fixedly, fighting back the waves of anxiety.

  ‘…in addition to the book’s literary merit, of course. But if you knew how many good books never find an audience … in the case of Escape, the thing they’re all talking about is the thrill the journalists get from rubbing shoulders with a criminal, who may be a cop-killer. A type they rarely get to meet.’

  Filippo is ashen, he feels a mounting panic. He stares at the floor. Adèle continues, undaunted: ‘Let me be clear. If you’re possibly a cop-killer, that makes you an attractive young hoodlum. But if you are a declared cop-killer and proud of it, then you become a criminal no one wants to be associated with. It’s a delicate balance. We have to maintain the ambiguity without putting you directly in danger. “It’s a novel, talk to my lawyer,” as we agreed, and as you did with Champaud, right? But only as a last resort. Beforehand, make a few concessions, tantalise these good people’s imaginations. You can admit that you escaped from prison with Carlo Fedeli, a former Red Brigades member who was killed a little later in a bank robbery. In any case, people will find out – it’s already public knowledge. You admit his death affected you, and it sparked the idea. Add that all literary fiction includes elements of real life, and stop there. Say any more and it becomes dangerous. Steer the conversation back to the novel and repeat “lawyer”. Are you with me? Agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Second thing, and just as important, the character of the author himself.’

  Filippo jumps, leans towards her, his mouth open to protest. She raises her hand to stop him.

  ‘Don’t panic, I know what I’m doing, leave it to me. When a book arrives in my hands, it’s done, I have no power over the product. But the author … Here I think we really have to milk the distinction. Surprise them. The average literary critic imagines that a hoodlum will be violent and unkempt. So be very calm, say little, as you did with Champaud, that was perfect. If you do find yourself under attack – and that’s bound to happen – you need to be prepared. No argument, whatever you do, don’t try and have the last word, or be smart, but answer slightly off the point using carefully measured words, even a cliché, and put on the meaningful expression of someone who’s not revealing all he knows. Let the interviewer be the only one who’s aggressive and clever. I’ll be there, look at me and I’ll signal to you, that’ll help you. And now your dress. Nothing scruffy, obviously. Avoid jeans, T-shirts and trainers. A slightly over-studied elegance. Well-cut cotton trousers, jackets, or long-sleeved shirts, excellent colour coordination. Leather English shoes. I’ll give you the addresses of some good shops. Any questions?’

  ‘No.’

  His voice falters. Filippo isn’t sure he will be able to achieve the many goals she has set him, but he keeps his anxiety to himself.

  ‘One more thing, and then we’ll be done. Do you intend to leave your job as a security guard?’

  ‘No,’ he retorts at once, clearly and without hesitation

  ‘Why not?’

  A pause.

  ‘Because.’

  Silence. Adèle waits for him to elaborate, which he doesn’t. She goes on: ‘OK. As you wish. When journalists ask you that, which they probably will, just add a few comments about night work stimulating your imagination. You’re a writer now, don’t forget.’

  Filippo sits hunched in his chair, not moving a muscle.

  ‘Right. Shall we move on to your diary now?’

  A routine sets in. Filippo feels as if he’s virtually under house arrest at his publisher’s, under the watchful eye of the publicist, and it suits him perfectly. Super-professional, as always, Adèle dissects Paris literary life bit by bit, like unlocking drawers, then giving him the keys. She sets him very clear, very precise rules of behaviour, what he should and shouldn’t say, and how to say it. He applies them unquestioningly, glad to find a ready-made existence. And it works. His press interviews take place in a little lounge at the publisher’s, just next to the boss’s office. Before each appointment, Adèle inspects him carefully in front of the big mirror in the toilet, checking each detail of his outfit, commenting on and correcting any mistakes. But there are fewer and fewer. When someone takes the trouble to explain things, Filippo learns fast. On this occasion, he is wearing a dark-brown suit and pink shirt, which he dons as readily as others
put on blue overalls to go to work in a factory. At home, he has practised walking, sitting down and inhabiting his new clothes until it feels like second nature, as if he has always dressed like this. Then he unexpectedly catches his reflection in the mirrors in the lift, on his way out. After his initial surprise, he contemplates the man looking back at him with incredulity, and a hint of envy.

  In his conversations with the journalists, he quickly finds his bearings – the restrictions on what he can or must say have been carefully signposted by the publicist, and he happily keeps to them. She sits in on all the interviews, always in the background, and he soon learns to read from her face whether to steam ahead, veer off or back-pedal. Her presence gives him confidence.

  As anticipated, the journalists have done their homework, asking specific questions about his escape with Carlo Fedeli, who died three weeks later during a bank robbery that was strikingly similar to the one in the novel. So how much of the book is autobiographical?

  A glance towards the publicist.

  ‘Yes, I was in prison and there I met Carlo Fedeli who became a very good friend of mine. He used to speak eagerly and eloquently about Italy’s recent history, especially about those years dubbed the “Years of Lead” by the press, and which Carlo, if I remember correctly, called “the years of fire”. I used to listen to him for hours, not having lived through anything like it myself. I have him to thank for inspiring me to write, and for my style in doing so.’

  The journalists would push him, asking for more precise details.

  ‘You broke out of prison with Carlo Fedeli, as everyone knows. Is it your escape that you write about in your novel? Did you take part in the robbery during which Carlo Fedeli was shot dead? How much of the account is fictitious?’

  Filippo puts on a masterful show of being annoyed.

  ‘Yes, Carlo Fedeli’s death and the circumstances in which it occurred affected me deeply. But why are you asking me these questions? My escape? The hold-up? What do you want to know? You’ll have noticed that the novel isn’t written in the first person. I’ve done my job as a novelist, that’s all. Obviously, in my writing I draw on the “events” of my life, like my escape, but I have nothing further to tell you. Do you ask other novelists the same questions? All novelists’ imaginations are inspired by real-life events. There is an autobiographical element in my novel, as in all novels. No more, no less.’

  The publicist smiles.

  ‘Any other questions? My current job? Night watchman. No, I don’t read when I’m on duty. I didn’t read in prison, I listened and now, at night, I don’t read, I write. In prison, I heard stories, complaints, flights of fancy, fragments of broken stories. The transition to writing wasn’t easy. We can talk about that, if you like, about the process of writing rather than my life story.’

  At this point, the interview abruptly ends. As the publicist had warned him, writing is a subject that very few literary critics want to explore, over and above a few well-worn clichés and a handful of adjectives.

  Adèle discreetly mimes her silent applause. He is happy and thanks her with a smile. He is grateful to this woman who never uses her female charms. She does her job. He is aware how much he owes her, although he does not feel in any way obligated to her.

  First radio interview, flawless. The interviewer finds his Italian accent charming.

  His first TV appearance is arranged. He turns out to be very telegenic. Make-up and lighting: without losing that pop idol look, his face is sharper, more forceful.

  The publicist has organised a book signing in a major bookshop on Boulevard Saint-Germain. When she talks to him about it (‘meet your readers’), he panics. He doesn’t know anything about readers. Neither his family, nor his Rome gang, his fellow prisoners, his colleague at the Tour Albassur, nor he himself were readers. He had wanted to write for Lisa and Cristina, women he knew, and he’d had a very specific purpose. But readers?

  ‘Will there be a lot of people?’

  ‘I hope so. I’ll do my utmost to ensure there are.’

  He pictures himself surrounded by strangers calling him a liar and an imposter, and proposes they avoid such a confrontation. But Adèle is adamant. It is a must and there is no getting away from it.

  Given her efficiency, the date and the venue of the signing are announced in all the major newspapers and on some radio stations. The book has garnered a great deal of critical attention and aroused people’s curiosity, so there is a big turnout.

  The bookshop’s layout makes it difficult and slow to move around. On the ground floor, the publisher has laid on a buffet around which the regulars cluster, blocking access to the staircase and the mezzanine where the signing table is set up. Some people are coming up, others going down, it is all a bit chaotic. Small groups stand around, halfway up, deep in conversation, before jostling their way to the buffet. There is a sense of success in such a crush of fans.

  Sitting at a table in one corner of the mezzanine, Filippo begins signing with a trembling hand, not daring to look up from the flyleaves on which he scrawls his name. Adèle, sitting behind him, is chatting with a friend. Before him, he is aware of a wall of bodies all merged together; without looking up he takes the proffered books and asks the person’s name, signs, hands the book back and takes the next. This task absorbs him and gradually he relaxes. He is not conscious of any hostility in the atmosphere. He straightens up. He sees a moving mass, mainly women, and just in front of him, leaning slightly towards the table, clutching their books, two girls stand smiling at him. They are blonde and fresh, and he finds them beautiful. He feels flattered. One of them says: ‘Thank you for your book.’

  He grows flustered. His shyness delights the reader, who adds: ‘You’re just like your characters.’

  The other girl continues: ‘You write about the world of male violence with sympathetic characters who appeal to women like us.’

  ‘Yes, we want to hug them.’

  ‘You too, by the way.’

  Giggles.

  Filippo is at a loss, out of his depth. What are they talking about? His book? Impossible… He checks the title of the book in his hand. Escape. Oh yes they are, no question. On autopilot, he writes on the flyleaf, ‘Thank you for being so beautiful’, and signs. He watches them walk off, elbowing their way through the crowd, their books under their arms.

  Adèle comes over to him, then whispers in his ear:

  ‘Chatting up the girls, are we?’ Filippo stutters. ‘Don’t panic, you’re not the first.’

  While he tries to think of an answer, the throng swells even more. It is becoming a hand-to-hand battle with a seething mass of bodies. He is inundated, thrilled, exhausted. An hour later, the crowd ebbs away, leaving him feeling faintly nauseous.

  When the bookshop closes, Adèle kisses him – a new experience – and sends him home in a taxi. A hot bath, then he lies down, closes his eyes and pictures the crowd, hears it again, with its disjointed words and snatches of conversation. His first physical contact with his readers. Disorienting. A whole mass of readers. Readers who look at him, but he cannot recognise himself in their eyes. He feels as if he is living a thousand fragmented, atomised existences, outside his control. But it is his book, his signature. No doubt about that. Beleaguered by the flood of sensations, he gives up trying to order them. I’ll think about it all later. And falls asleep.

  By the end of May, Filippo Zuliani has become media savvy and is able to play the role of writer to perfection when faced with the press, readers, or booksellers. He has mastered every nuance, every inflection and become the darling of the Paris literary scene. A representative of the ‘dangerous’ classes, a ‘raw artist’ who’s been tamed, a handsome young man with brown eyes. But deep down, without ever talking to anyone about it, he knows it is a made-up part, a usurper’s role maybe, and doubt lurks inside him like a shadow. He is constantly anxious that his mind will go blank, or that he’ll perform badly and disappoint. It is hugely stressful, but he carries it off. And that
almost imperceptible little hint of underlying anxiety only adds to his charm.

  Escape makes it into the week’s top-ten bestseller list. It reaches tenth place in the first week, up to seventh the following week. The publisher is optimistic about the future – things have taken off fast, and should get even better. Filippo isn’t informed of the sales figures, Adèle doesn’t think it necessary, it might make their relations difficult if he gets big-headed. Better to wait till the trend is confirmed, and besides, he doesn’t seem bothered for the time being, he never asks how well the book is selling.

  Each afternoon, after the round of press interviews, Filippo goes back to his studio flat in Neuilly. He changes his clothes, eats a sandwich, drinks a coffee, and fantasises about Cristina. Impossible to stop thinking about her. She fills his mind the minute he stops performing in front of his audience. He is tormented by his inability to penetrate her world and by his aching wish to erase his frantic flight from the Café Pouchkine. He dreams of finding someone to hold his hand and tell him what to do down to the last detail, as Adèle does in his life as a writer, so that he can rewind their disastrous encounter and give it a different outcome. But there are no candidates for the job. Invent a future with Cristina? His imagination fails him. He cannot even replay the scene that has begun to take shape, the two of them sitting at the same desk, working together on the same text, a paradise lost. He feels nothing but empty longing. Every day, he veers between desire and the fear of running into her in the downstairs lobby or the apartment entrance, but he never does. Maybe she is avoiding him. Holding his breath, he listens out for movements, for sounds from her apartment, but there are few signs of life on the other side of the wall.