Escape (11 page)

‘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 bear 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.’

‘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.’

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.’