Escape (13 page)

‘How is your author responding? Can you rely on him? Can he cope with the pressure? No danger of him slipping up?’

‘Filippo? I don’t think he keeps up with it all.’

‘Doesn’t he read the Italian papers? All the refugees do.’

‘No.’ Adèle shakes her head in a ripple of bleached blond hair. ‘Not him. He’s perfectly happy in his bubble and that’s where he wants to stay. I get the impression that he’s not interested in Italy, and he tells me he’s starting a new book. He hasn’t said what it’s about but it will be very different from his first novel. I’m not convinced he’s got a second novel in him, but we’ll see…’

‘So let Sebastiani stew. I repeat: there’s no need to panic.’

The publisher allows himself to be persuaded.

‘All right, we’ll carry on.’

But he is still worried. He thinks for a moment then places a hand on Adèle’s arm.

‘Don’t leave your protégé in complete ignorance of his success. I think the best policy is to give him a bit of an ego boost. You know what writers are like … And you’re so good at doing what’s needed.’

He rises and the meeting is over. By way of a conclusion, he says, ‘I’m going to take a few precautions, just in case – hang around the corridors of power a bit and say hello to some old friends before everyone goes off on holiday, test the water, put out feelers. After all, we have a president who’s a man of letters. May as well make the most of it.’

Somehow, the news of
Escape’s
growing success and of its chances in the scramble for a book prize reach the ears of the Italian cognoscenti, where it causes a stir. It is picked up by all the media, and the press goes on the warpath. Journalists throw caution to the winds. Their main gripe is inspired by Romano Sebastiani’s point, which they reiterate: the French are showing appalling judgement in mistaking something that is no more than a shameless commercial exploitation of a heinous event for a sign of literary talent, without any consideration for the suffering of the victims’ families. The freedom of expression argument is a pathetic smokescreen that does not conceal the moral bankruptcy of a criminal (because the author is a criminal beyond all doubt, even though his crime is not specified) attempting to flee justice at home. Police mug shots of Filippo Zuliani, full face and in profile, have conveniently found their way into the editorial office, and appear alongside those of the widows of the
carabiniere
and the security guard with their children, shown leaving the church after Sunday mass. The effect is compelling. This is the perfect opportunity for the Italians, so often annoyed and wounded by the intellectual arrogance of the French, to claim the moral high ground, and they have no compunction in exploiting it. The publishing house starts to receive hate mail, mainly written in Italian.

On 22 June, a thunderbolt. A new witness has spontaneously presented himself at a Milan police station. He states that he saw Filippo Zuliani in the company of two men at 14.15 in La Tazza d’Oro, a bar two hundred metres from the Piemonte-Sardegna bank in Via Del Battifolle, on the day of the hold-up by Carlo and his gang. After checking up on the story, the police consider this testimony to be valid. So the status of Filippo Zuliani, seemingly present at the scene of the heist after all, changes from that of indiscreet writer to potential accomplice.

In Paris, preparations for action are afoot in the publishing house. The boss holds a crisis meeting in his office with, as ever, the lawyer and the publicist. The lawyer considers this testimony to be far-fetched but the publisher, clearly worried, feels that it would be advisable to contact and discuss the matter with their Italian connections before taking any decisions. And they need to act fast, because it will soon be impossible to get hold of anyone.

The lawyer telephones his Milanese colleague and tasks him with a fact-finding mission. The Italian lawyer calls his contacts in various police departments and phones back later that day.

‘It’s a fact. Following this new statement the police are now seeking to establish Filippo Zuliani’s presence outside the Piemonte-Sardegna bank at the time of the robbery.’

‘How can this witness have such a precise memory of the day and the time more than a year after the event?’

‘He was in the bar waiting for his appointment with a major client at 14.30. Appointment confirmed by the client in question. At 14.15, he asked for his bill, went to the toilet, and came across a very agitated guy vomiting into a washbasin. He watched him while he himself urinated and washed his hands. The man washed his face, then did a few breathing exercises to calm himself down. They left the toilets together, and, while he paid his bill, the other man went to a table at the back of the bar where two men whom our witness couldn’t see clearly were waiting for him. Our witness left, had his meeting, and left his client’s office at around 16.30. By that time the area was in a state of siege, and the hold-up had taken place. The date is therefore certain.’

‘Fine, but why now?’

‘Because he never suspected that there was a connection between the hold-up and the incident in the café until a few days ago, when he saw the photos of Filippo Zuliani in all the
papers. Then he recognised the agitated customer from the Tazza d’Oro, and decided it was his duty as an upstanding citizen to tell the police what he had seen.’

‘What’s the name of this providential witness?’

‘Daniele Luciani.’

‘Who is this guy? Do we know anything about him? I mean is he a regular police informant… ?’

‘I understand what you’re saying. Our firm has no information on Daniele Luciani. Do you want us to see what we can find?’

‘Yes, you never know, but without incurring too many expenses. Was it difficult for you to obtain that information?’

‘To tell you the truth, not at all. The police were very cooperative, and I think that everything I have just told you will be all over the Italian papers in the next few days.’

‘What do you think?’ asks the publisher who has been standing next to the lawyer, listening in on the telephone conversation.

‘Pretty worrying, I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I don’t believe a word of this statement, and that is precisely what is so worrying. The police can fabricate ten similar accounts whenever they want. And if that’s what they’re up to, they must have a motive that we are unaware of, and they can continue to do so when it suits them.’

‘I just don’t understand. Why attack a novel, and why now?’

‘A novel, yes, but not just any novel, as you well know. Surely it’s about the threat of it winning a major prize? It could well be that it is construed as an unacceptable provocation.’

‘Possibly, but not very convincingly so. The Italians have never taken an interest in French literary prizes before.’

A pause. The boss drums his fingers on his desk.

‘We may well have made a mistake in pushing this book, I admit. Right…’ he turns to Adèle, ‘…for our part, from today, hold back on
Escape
, and let’s protect ourselves as far as possible from any controversy. I think it would be wise to take
immediate precautions and have the book removed from the prize entries.’

‘You’re giving in without a struggle in the face of what is effectively blackmail, censorship even. That’s a dangerous attitude,’ responds the publicist.

‘Give me a break, we’re among friends here, spare me that kind of talk. The book has already had a good innings, we’ve made a lot of money, and I trust you to ensure it continues to do well, even without a prize. So, if we can minimise the risks to ourselves … and, by the way, there’s no point talking to Zuliani about this prize business, he doesn’t know what’s going on.’

A pause, and he turns back to the lawyer. ‘I have the feeling there’s something else going on with the Italians, and I don’t know what. I find it worrying.’

‘Tell me straight – did your author kill the
carabiniere
and the security guard, as he describes in his novel?’

‘To be absolutely honest, since you ask me, I have no idea. And as I am neither chief superintendent nor judge, I don’t want to know. My problem is different. I have interests in Italy, relationships with authors, publishers, journalists, a whole lot of people. I publish several Italians, I love the place. I don’t want to risk ruining all that. I’m very upset by the hate mail we’re getting at the moment, several letters a day, every day. So if there is a war between France and Italy over Filippo Zuliani, it’s not our publishing house that’s going to wage it.’

‘Fine. At least, in that respect, your position is clear. But let’s not rush into things. I’m not certain we are already on a war footing. It could just be the police and the media getting carried away during the summer news vacuum. Let’s wait until we have more information from our Italian colleagues. On the other hand, I do think it’s important to inform your author now of the latest developments in Italy. He’ll find out one way or another and you need to be assured that he won’t panic and vanish into thin air, which would be an understandable reaction on his part but regrettable for us.’

‘True.’ The boss turns to Adèle, who is a bit out of her depth and has kept quiet since the publisher put her in her place so brusquely.

‘You’ll take care of that, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ she replies, resigned.

‘Our lawyer says there’s no rush. I’d like to think not, but don’t leave it too long, it’s already the end of June.’

‘It’s top of my to-do list.’

Filippo hangs around as June draws to a stormy close. The great machine of Paris literary life is beginning to slow down. Journalists are thin on the ground, writers too, and all important decisions are put off until the end of August, early September. He has far fewer gigs, and misses the thrill of constantly performing, now that he is used to the role. The heat soon becomes suffocating in his little studio flat in Neuilly, despite the proximity of the Seine and the Bois de Boulogne. He feels alone, demobbed and forsaken. Time drags out interminably. He is bored. In this great emptiness, he keeps brooding over the scene in the Café Pouchkine, the dark wood table and the two glasses of vodka, in the twilight, his ears buzzing, he can barely hear Cristina’s voice, cannot register what she says, his heart racing. He relives the panic that seized him, overwhelmed him, when she placed her hand on his, propelling him out of the Café Pouchkine, far away from her. A salutary panic, survival reflex. But he lost Cristina.

This morning, on arriving home from work, he finds a note slipped under his door. Glances at the signature: Cristina Pirozzi. Hot flush, surge of hope. He reads, ‘I’m away until 26 July. Pay the rent for July and June together. If you need access to the apartment (mains switch, leak, etc.), I’ve left the keys with the security guard.’ No hello or goodbye, usual signature. A frosty note, an overwhelming disappointment.
What did I expect? She also remembers our last meeting at the Café
 
Pouchkine. She invited me, we were supposed to drink to my success – she did a whole seduction number, took my hand and I ran away. She doesn’t get it. She can’t get it. And I didn’t try and explain. I’ve lost her. For good
. He slides the note between two books on the shelf and goes to bed.

The stuffy studio apartment is too hot. Sleep punctuated by jumbled and oppressive dreams in which the image of Cristina is mixed up with scenes from the prison. Guards and fellow prisoners are brushing against him, jostling him. Strangely, they are all somehow Cristina. They beat him. He runs and escapes. Then during the exercise period Cristina confronts him alone in the prison yard, and attacks him with a screwdriver. He feels nothing, but it is Carlo who falls into his arms, dead, the screwdriver through his heart. His hands are sticky with blood. Cristina shouts at him, ‘You killed Carlo.’ He is no longer certain that the body is that of Carlo, or that he is in the prison yard. Cristina leans over the corpse which could be Carlo’s, her chignon comes undone and her long, coppery hair brushes his bloody hands. Is she Cristina or the girl who kissed Carlo in the mountains? At this point, he prefers to wake up. The presence of the live Cristina alongside the dead Carlo in the same dream, the confusion between Cristina and the girl in the mountains is deeply disturbing. He waits, his eyes wide open, for the images to recede, to fade, and lose their oppressive intensity. He convinces himself that he will forget them, that he has already forgotten them, then gets up, takes a cold shower and makes himself a very strong coffee.

Adèle invites Filippo to lunch at a restaurant in Saint-Germain that is a favourite haunt of the Paris publishing world. She says she has something she needs to discuss. Filippo is delighted to accept her invitation. He sees her less frequently now, and he realises he misses her. She has become part of his lifestyle.

He arrives at the restaurant where he is clearly expected. A maître d’hôtel holds the big swing door open for him and, without a word, shows him to his table. The restaurant’s interior has been carefully designed to meet the needs of its clientele. In the vast dining room, all the tables are hedged by antique mahogany partitions at half-height and topped with copper rails, so conversations can take place in complete privacy. But the partitions are just low enough for diners to see who comes in, with whom, and who goes to sit where.

The table Adèle has reserved is at the very back of the restaurant, and so the maître d’hôtel has him cross the entire room. Conversations stop as he passes. And the same whispers can be heard from one table to the next.

‘Did you see who just came in? Filippo Zuliani.’

‘I can understand why Jeanne Champaud fell head-overheels for him. He’s such a cute and charming young man.’

‘Have you read
Escape
? Apparently it’s in the running for a prize.’

‘Overrated.’

‘First novel, let’s wait for the second.’

‘The gamble’s certainly paid off for the publisher.’