Escape (4 page)

Since learning of Carlo’s death from the papers, Lisa has shut herself up in her studio apartment. It is on the fourth floor of an ancient building in Rue de Belleville, at the far end of an overgrown courtyard garden. She sits there for hours in a state of shock, huddled in an armchair in front of the tall window of her living area, looking out over the trees. Overcome by grief she nibbles, drinks coffee, thinks, sleeps and gets up from the chair as little as possible.

It all began in the autumn of ’69 when she was a young rookie journalist at
L’Unità,
daily newspaper of the Italian Communist Party, then at the height of its powers. She was sent to Milan to report live from the Siemens factory where ‘something was happening’. She still feels emotional when she remembers her awe (the word is no exaggeration) on discovering the factory in ferment. At that time, people called it ‘in a state of revolution’, and for her and a few thousand people, that word meant something. She fell out with
L’Unità
, which rejected her articles and cut off her source of income, and met one of the workers, Carlo, a good-looker and a smooth talker. It was love, naturally. Had she fallen in love with him, or with that moment when young workers believed they were making history? The question made no sense, it was simply their life. She had followed Carlo into the Red Brigades. Years later Lisa was in France, sent by the organisation to meet a delegation of Palestinians. That was in 1980, and by then, hope had already
died, and she was carrying on out of loyalty (to what? to whom? pointless questions? Loyalty to herself, to her past). While she was away, the police had surrounded their apartment in Milan, arrested Carlo and two other comrades and confiscated all their files. Carlo got a message to her via their lawyers that the police were actively looking for her, and that she should stay in France, at least for a while. At least for a while – and that had been seven years ago. Without seeing Carlo again, and without admitting to herself that the separation was permanent. Well now it is. Now he has been assassinated.

If I were a journalist, in Italy, in my real life … I’d investigate. The security guards change their route and their schedule every day. Who informed Carlo, who decided on the date and the place of the assassination? I’d want to know about the two
carabinieri
, that has to be the easiest starting point. Talk to the bank staff, they go for coffee in a nearby café in their lunch break, and they like to talk. Especially about sensational events of this kind, in which they have been directly involved. Yes, they would well remember the two
carabinieri
on that day; no, the men would not have paid in a cheque, and actually no, they would not recall ever seeing them before the day of the shooting.

I’d want to talk to
Carabiniere
Lucio Renzi. He is supposed to have come out of the bank and walked straight into an armed robbery, and killed Carlo with a single bullet in the chest. He is notorious for being trigger-happy. What is his career history? Between the infamous P2 Masonic Lodge veterans filled with resentment and the enemies of the P2 Lodge veterans, you can always get the information you need from the Italian police. And if Renzi had worked with the secret service for a while, it would all add up. This was no aborted bank robbery, it was an assassination.

Lisa stares out at the courtyard and the trees bending in the wind. The air is turning chilly. She closes the window.
But I’m not a journalist, I’m not in my real life, I’m here, in exile, in France. I left my entire life behind in Italy. I know who those
 
people are over there. I know them, I understand them, I’m cut from the same cloth, I know the networks. From here, I watch that whole world growing restless, but I can’t reach out to it. It’s as if I’m shut up in a glass cage. I stretch out my hand, I touch the glass, but I can’t get a grip on anything. I am an exile
.

A few discreet taps at the door. Lisa hesitates, then opens it. Roberto. He hugs her.

‘I came as soon as I heard. As quickly as I could.’

She rests her head on his shoulder and cries silently, not for long. No point in talking. They have too many shared memories – they both know what Carlo’s death means. Then she pulls away.

‘Shall I make you a tea, or a coffee?’

‘Coffee, please.’

She goes over to the kitchenette, splashes some water on her face, and fills the cafetière. He sinks into one of the two armchairs in the sitting-room area, without taking his eyes off her. Her tall, erect, slightly stiff outline, immaculate grey sweatshirt and trousers, her carefully brushed mass of black hair, her smooth face, her eyes only slightly puffy – why does she need to keep up appearances?

‘You’re coping … better than I am, I’d say…’ She shrugs. ‘Are you coming to the meeting between the Italian refugees and the lawyers tomorrow?’

‘No.’

She sets two cups of coffee and a packet of dry biscuits down on the coffee table, and seats herself in the other armchair.

‘I don’t want to have to listen to people I don’t know very well – people who didn’t know or love Carlo – talking to me about his death. I don’t want to have to answer questions. But I’m glad you’re here, Roberto, because when I’m with you I feel like talking, and it helps. I am carrying a huge burden. I felt his death coming, I was living with it for the last six months, without saying a word, not even to you…’

Roberto leans towards her, listening attentively.

‘…ever since he was transferred to that prison for common criminals. He was set up, Roberto, his escape and his assassination were planned.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘First of all, his transfer. No reason, other than that it’s impossible to escape from high-security prisons. Then, the articles in the papers – they’re all the same, as if they were publishing an official press release. And no mention of their source. Because that source is the same for all of them, it’s the police. That ridiculous claim that the two
carabinieri
went to the bank to pay in some cheques, that one of them had an account there, that he was a regular customer. A bit over-
the-top
, don’t you think? And no one went to sniff around, check the facts, interview witnesses. It’s as if they’re scared to touch it because it stinks.’

Roberto drinks his coffee, gingerly sets his cup down and frowns. He remains sceptical.

‘Not convincing. Journalists nearly always work that way, regurgitating police sources without checking them. What else?’

‘The small-time crook who broke out with him. Does that sound like Carlo, teaming up with a common criminal?’

‘He spent seven years inside, Lisa. That changes a man.’

‘What about the two
carabinieri
who “happened” to be coming out of the bank at that precise moment. I don’t buy that.’

‘Who would have engineered the whole show? The people who helped him escape? With three dead, that’s a bit much, don’t you think? But more importantly, why?’

‘To kill the declaration that the original Red Brigades leaders have just published.’

‘That’s a bit of a sledgehammer to crack a nut, isn’t it?’

‘The stakes are high for us, Roberto. Don’t underestimate them. That open letter could be the starting point for a
collective analysis. We need to read it and discuss it, together and with other left-wing organisations. So we need time, and we need calm. If we don’t analyse our defeat, each of us will be left to our own individual solitude and despair. Our generation will be airbrushed out, our history will be erased, and the traitors and scumbags will triumph.’

‘Nobody wants that debate, neither the left – or what remains of it – nor the right. Definitely not with us. We’re terrorists, outcasts.’

‘Exactly. A few days after the publication of the Red Brigades’ open letter, one of their former leaders raids a bank and kills a
carabiniere
. On the front page of all the papers, “Red terrorism from left-wing extremists, still a threat, is now pure gangsterism. Why should we open a dialogue with these people?” Don’t you find it too much of a coincidence that this sabotages all our chances of entering into a political dialogue?’

‘Carlo could very well have lost his head all by himself. And I think we can be certain that some of our former comrades will continue to attack and murder without really knowing why, and kill off the Red Brigades’ declaration without the need for dirty tricks to push them into crime.’

‘The right can’t just blame the violence on a bunch of
gun-toting
individuals as they always do. They’re bound to try, I grant you, but it could well be too late. There are good reasons to hurry.’

‘What reasons?’

‘Two months ago, in January, the ultra-right extremists who planted the bomb in Piazza Fontana were cleared. Seventeen dead. No culprits. Insufficient evidence.’

‘I don’t see the connection.’

‘The Piazza Fontana massacre was the first in a long series, carried out with the backing of the secret service, whose aim was clearly to destabilise the country.’

‘I know it, you know it, everyone knows it.’

‘That’s all very well. But when they start clearing the names
of known killers, authors of such a historically significant massacre, twenty years after the event, the right needs to divert attention while it gets its house in order.’

‘Operation whitewash has been underway for a while. Nothing new there.’

‘Yes, but it’s very much in the news because, after the Piazza Fontana killers in January, it’ll be the turn of the
Italicus
train killers in September, then those of the Brescia massacre before the year’s out. Same protagonists, the Ordine Nuovo fascists, same victims, same aims. And the same outcomes to the trials: they’ll all be whitewashed. If the farce is repeated too often, it’ll end up by not being funny any more. A distraction has to be found, and immediately. Give the press and public opinion something else to think about.’

Roberto looked out of the window, a big square of blue sky, so blue, so calm. He speaks without turning round.

‘I admire you for your ability to think and rationalise. I have to say that I’m not able to. Not yet. Right now I’m too stunned by Carlo’s death. I feel as though I’m at the bottom of a hole.’

‘Don’t you know the Roma saying? When you’re at the bottom of a hole and sinking, stop digging.’

It is dark by the time Lisa arrives home, exhausted after a stressful day at work. She had to make up her four days’ absence, four days in mourning. Piles of reports to type, appointments to rearrange, telephone ringing nonstop, no time to think about Carlo, even during the lunch hour. Now, all she wants is a hot shower, a coffee with buttered bread, and bed. She climbs the four flights of stairs puffing, rummages in her bag for her keys, and stumbles over a young man sitting outside her front door, asleep, his head on his arms resting on his knees. Intrigued, she wakes him. He looks up. A shock. In the wan light of the staircase, the photo from the newspaper, the adolescent face of the young hoodlum. She feels her legs
buckle. Pushing him aside, she hurriedly puts her key in the lock, opens the door and says to him in Italian: ‘Come in, I need to sit down.’

Lisa sinks into a chair leaving him standing there awkwardly, his eyes widening at the sight of so many books. Two walls are lined with bookshelves, and piles of books are scattered everywhere – on the floor, by the bed, on the furniture. Her eyes closed, her hands covering her face, Lisa takes a moment to regain her composure. To his credit, the boy waits, keeping quiet and showing no sign of impatience. When she opens her eyes again, she looks at him. He looks very young, with tattered clothes, a mobile, elusive face, tousled dark hair. She motions to him to sit in the other armchair facing her. When he is settled, his body rigid and his hands crossed, he says to her: ‘My name is Filippo Zuliani and I’m a friend of Carlo’s.’

‘I know who you are. I’ve read the papers. What are you doing here?’ He takes an envelope from a side pocket on his bag and holds it out to her. She reads her own name, Lisa Biaggi, and her address in Rue de Belleville. With a pang, she recognises Carlo’s handwriting. She does not touch the envelope.

‘So what are you trying to prove to me?’

The kid – because he is a kid – looks disconcerted. He has not anticipated this kind of a reaction. He hesitates and puts the envelope down on the coffee table.

‘You’d better begin at the beginning. Your escape. Why did the two of you escape?’

‘Why?’ His surprise wasn’t an act. ‘Because in prison you’re always trying to escape.’

‘Let’s keep this simple: how? Give me the details, please.’

Filippo pauses. He has been expecting this moment. Carlo had said, ‘Tell Lisa’. Since making the decision to head for Paris, he has replayed the scenes from his story, prepared himself to tell Lisa everything. And now, she is there in front of him. Not
the warm, welcoming woman he had imagined. With her fine features, she is beautiful, for sure, but glacial. There is no going back now. He embarks on his story without looking at her, keeping his mind focused on what he is saying.

‘I was Carlo’s cellmate from the day I arrived in prison, seven months ago. I liked him from the start. I don’t know how he felt. Over time, he probably grew to like me. You always end up liking the people who admire you, I think. We used to talk every night, him about Milan, the seventies. I didn’t have much to talk about since I hadn’t had much of a life before prison. In any case, not a life I’m proud of. But he was proud. He refused to join any of the workshops, and he hardly ever came out of our cell. I told him about my work, the day-to-day life of the prison, all the goings-on – it gave me something to talk about, and it entertained him. I was part of the cleaning team, and one of my jobs was to clean the bin room where a big rubbish chute emptied the waste from the whole wing into two big skips. The full skips were collected at the same time every day by a truck. Half an hour after the truck had come by, it was my job to pick up any rubbish that had fallen on the ground while the skips were being hoisted up, then wash down the area. I would tell Carlo about the filth, the heat, the stench. The bin room was tiny, completely closed in by a metal shutter. When the sun beat down on it the waste fermented, and it really stank. But he didn’t give a shit about my working conditions, he was only interested in the width of the rubbish chute. Could a man fit into it? I told him that in my opinion, a man could easily slide down it. From that moment on, the pair of us began to dream. He asked me to find the entrance to the chute, which I located behind the canteen kitchen, on the first floor. Then Carlo signed up for the canteen dishwashing team. I put out feelers to find out what time the trucks came by, but the timing didn’t fit. My shift needed to be half an hour later to coincide with when Carlo was on the dishwashing detail and I was in the bin room. But he told me not to worry, that he’d find a solution on the day.
I trusted him, I didn’t ask any questions. My job was to find out the procedure for searching the skips leaving the prison, and I got that information easily. The searches were perfunctory to say the least. Two guards lifted the tarpaulin covering the skip and gave it a quick once-over, and that was it. So we decided to go for it. Carlo set the date. That day, when I went into the bin room, I saw the skips were still full and I knew we were really going to do it. My heart was racing until I heard the trucks turning into the yard, half an hour later than usual. I checked that the chute was in the right position, and before the big main gate opened, I gave the signal by banging five times on the side. Carlo was in the canteen on the first floor, he must have been waiting by the mouth of the chute, and at the signal he dived down it. He shot out into the skip like a cannon ball. The main gate opened, the trucks were about to drive in. I grabbed the top of the skip, did an acrobatic flipover and dived in, landing next to him. We swam down to the bottom of the skip through the rubbish bags. Then, we waited, listened, breathing as shallowly as possible so as not to suffocate. For how long, it’s impossible to say. But not all that long. Then we were tipped out of the skip on to a rubbish dump. That’s it.’ He stopped, apparently exhausted, and finally looked at Lisa. Told like that, it sounded incredibly easy. Another pause. ‘It’s our story, and now I’m telling it for the first time.’