Escape (20 page)

Lisa picks up the bunch of keys from under a packet of tissues, and holds it out to Cristina. They go through the front door and then the inner door. Cristina switches on the light and glances around anxiously. Everything seems in order. She looks down. On the floor at her feet, a brown manila envelope, immediately recognisable as identical to the one containing the manuscript of
Escape
which Filippo had deposited. Cristina is certain it wasn’t there yesterday evening; he must have slipped it under the door. The envelope is as tempting as sin, and gives her a thrill. Whatever happens, Lisa mustn’t notice anything. She bends down, picks it up casually and slips it into the outside pocket of her suitcase, then tells Lisa: ‘Everything seems to be as it should, in the state I left it last night. Come, I’ll show you the bathroom and give you towels and a pair of pyjamas. We’re going to sleep in the same bed, if you don’t mind. It’s at least two metres wide so it should be big enough for two small women like us.’

When Lisa has finished in the bathroom, Cristina locks herself in with her suitcase. She sits down at her dressing table, retrieves the envelope and opens it. Twenty or so manuscript pages, covered in the fine, cramped handwriting she knows well. A hot flush. She skims the first few pages. Mitsouko, the chignon, the wooden hair slides, the dark floor, the glass-
and-steel
furniture, the white duvet … she chokes, puts the pages
down on the table, slips them under her make-up bag, closes her eyes and lets a few seconds go by. She is mystified. Who is this youth who has the cheek to force her to acknowledge that he broke into her apartment and that he wants to pretty much rape her? Reaction number one: kick him out of the studio flat and out of her life immediately. It’s the only sensible thing to do. She opens her eyes and looks at herself in the mirror, then meticulously begins to remove her make-up. She examines the lines at the corners of her mouth, the dark rings under her eyes and runs her hand over the skin of her neck, a merciless giveaway of a woman’s age. Reaction number two: rape, let’s not exaggerate, all very symbolic and literary. Admission: she may find this constant presence on the other side of the wall threatening, but it also excites her, a game of seduction and power.
How can I not admit that I enjoy it? And I like being the woman described in this piece? What if this is a chance to experience love once again? Who am I to refuse it
? Make-up removed, the confusion remains. She has the feeling she has lost her bearings. See what happens when she meets him tomorrow.

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.