Escape (15 page)

She returns to her desk. Go back to square one. Initially, the chain of events is clear. January ’87, open letter from the Red Brigades saying, ‘We are defeated, we are laying down our arms, we need to take stock of the past collectively and accept ourselves for who we are, the protagonists of this history.’ Unacceptable in an Italy fragmenting amid the scandal of the P2 Masonic Lodge, the wholesale corruption of politicians,
the mafia, the decline of the Communist Party. The entire edifice was so shaky that the Red Brigades, together with the entire far left of the ’60s and ’70s, had to remain the unifying scapegoat, or better, the external enemy. So something had to be done: the invention of the concept of ‘dissociation’ with the introduction of a special law, Carlo’s escape, and the entire sting operation that would result in Carlo being labelled a criminal and executed. During this sequence of events, the Red Brigades’ splinter group, the Union of Combative Communists – manipulated or not, it amounts to the same thing – kill Lando Conti, the former mayor of Florence shortly after the aborted robbery and Carlo’s death, both possible triggers. Any political debate about the Red Brigades’ declaration is well and truly nipped in the bud. Mission accomplished, according to police procedure.

Then this crackpot Filippo turns up. He tells a story that plays right into the hands of the Italian secret service, because it not only turns Carlo into a bank robber but into the leader of a Milanese gang caught up in a turf war with a Roman gang to boot. A story that legitimises the police version of events. So why are they hounding him? Suddenly, a new question occurs: are they hounding him or are they stirring things up, raising his profile? Is Filippo a secret service mole? Obviously the question has to be asked. Why is she asking it now? At a complete loss, Lisa gets up, goes back over to the window and stares at the dark silhouettes of the trees against the purple Parisian night sky. Claustrophobia, paranoia, need a breather. Phone Roberto? Not at this hour, it’s too late.

Three discreet taps at the door. She goes over to open it.

‘Pier-Luigi…’

She is surprised. A young Italian refugee whom she has frequently seen at Sunday meetings, but they have never spoken.

‘What are you doing here? Who gave you my address?’

‘Roberto. May I come in?’

She hesitates for a moment. Then, ‘Why not? Good timing,
I’ve just made some coffee. But not too long, it’s late and I’m tired.’ He settles himself into the big armchair by the coffee table and she brings over two cups of coffee and a few biscuits. Then he blurts out: ‘I knew nothing about Brigadier Renzi last year. I would have liked to help you, but I couldn’t. Now, it’s different. I know who Daniele Luciani is. Does that interest you?’

‘Obviously.’

Pier-Luigi speaks as if leading a commando operation. Precise and concise.

‘An extreme right-wing activist. A member of the terrorist wing of Ordine Nuovo. He was implicated in the Brescia massacre.’

Shocked, Lisa sits down in the armchair facing him and closes her eyes.
Calm down, breathe. Don’t forget, you don’t
know this guy. Anything’s possible
.

‘OK, let’s take this slowly. How do you know this?

‘I used to know Luciani well. I’m from Brescia, from a banking family with fascist leanings. Before the war my father was a staunch supporter of Mussolini whom he considered as the only possible bulwark against the reds and the mafia. He didn’t change his mind after the war either. My elder brother, Andrea, was one of the founders of the terrorist organisation Ordine Nuovo. The Brescia group used to meet in the shed at the bottom of our garden. My brother was in charge of liaising with the Padua Ordine Nuovo group. Delfo Zorzi, who was later accused of being involved in the Brescia bombing, often used to come to the house. And so did others.’

‘Including Daniele Luciani?’

‘Yes, including Daniele Luciani, who was called Bonamico in those days.’

Lisa feels dizzy, in need of something to hold on to.

‘Let’s start again, from the beginning.’

‘For me, the beginning was the Brescia anti-fascist demonstration of 28 May 1974.’

Lisa nods, she knows about it.

‘I had just turned eighteen.’ He stops abruptly, a happy memory, a guilty little smile: ‘Like in the song.’ He sees that Lisa is baffled and goes on: ‘I was finding it harder and harder to bear the atmosphere at home, my father’s harsh authoritarianism, my mother’s frivolity and submissiveness. I loved, or I thought I loved, a woman much older than me and I couldn’t tell anyone about her. I dreamt of a different world, and I believed we Italians were in the process of building it. I went to the anti-fascist demo in Brescia. My first demo.’ Another pause. ‘It’s funny how life can change dramatically, without you really having decided…’

‘Keep going.’

‘I was on the other side of the square when the bomb went off under the arcades. I was looking elsewhere, I didn’t see anything, but I heard the explosion. Massive. Afterwards, for one or two seconds, an eternity of total silence, I thought I’d gone deaf, and then all I could hear were screams of panic, and I was swept along by the crowd surging down the side streets, trying to get away from the site of the explosion. After a while, I managed to calm down and make my way back to the square. I wanted to see and take in what had just happened. There were ambulances everywhere. The dead and the gravely wounded were being evacuated. On one side of the square an emergency medical team was tending to the less seriously injured. The fire brigade was hosing down the site of the explosion with powerful jets, removing all the rubble and with it all traces of the bomb, helped by a group of young men – my brother and his friends. Including Daniele Bonamico. I watched them from a distance. Afterwards, they left, laughing and clapping each other on the back. Happy. When the forensic team arrived, an hour later, there was nothing left to analyse. No one ever found out who gave the fire brigade the order to clean up the debris. Suspects among neo-fascist groups were arrested, including my brother, but they weren’t
held for long. All the trials ended up being dismissed for lack of evidence. The final one was last year.’

Lisa, irritated,
stop wasting time
.

‘I know all that.’

‘I became obsessed with the sight of the dead and wounded. I was convinced that my brother and his friends had planted the bomb. That summer I left my family and Brescia for good, without saying anything – the act of a coward. I went to Milan to study. As soon as I got there, I joined Lotta Continua, which dissolved itself shortly afterwards. I felt as though I was losing my family a second time. I was very young, with no political training, and I did a lot of stupid things. I looted shops, attacked police stations, perhaps worse, and then I ended up here…’

‘What about Daniele Bonamico?’

‘I never saw him again. And I’ve never resumed any contact with any member of my family. I was very fond of my two sisters, and really missed them. That’s the way things are where I come from. If you stray, you’re dead to your family. I found out later from a classmate I met up with in Milan that Daniele had kept in touch with Andrea for a while, and then he and my brother had a falling out, apparently a violent one. I don’t know why. Daniele reportedly had to leave Brescia. Then he changed his name. When my friend ran into him in Milan, he was called Luciani, and he pretended not to recognise him. I discovered all that some time ago, by chance, and I didn’t think anything of it until I saw Daniele Luciani’s name in the papers.’

‘So, in your view, he could be playing the agent provocateur?’

‘I didn’t say that, and I have no idea. I’ve told you what I know for certain. And what I’ve heard trusted friends say. No more.’

‘Let’s suppose that this Daniele is working with the cops. If Filippo has a genuine alibi for the time of the bank robbery, people will say that the cops mistook a novel for real life and they’ll look ridiculous.’

‘But they know he hasn’t got an alibi.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said so yourself at the Sunday meeting just after the book came out, over a month ago, don’t you remember? What do you imagine? That everything said in those meetings remains confidential?’

Lisa sinks deeper into her chair, hands pressed together, her face burning, and says very quietly: ‘It’s true. You’re right.’

After a long silence: ‘Do you have any proof of what you’re saying?’

‘No. I’ve told you what I know, and I don’t intend to start again. I came to see you because I admire your courage and your obstinacy. You never give up. There’s something classy about that. I’m different. I’ve found a real job I like at last, in Brittany. I’m going to move there, and it’s goodbye to Italy and the Italians. I don’t want to be accountable to anyone, do you understand? I just want to forget. It’s been nothing but calamity. As for the proof, you’ll have to sort that out yourself.’

It is long past midnight, Lisa and Roberto are still at their usual table in their favourite Chinese restaurant on the corner of the Rue de Belleville. Even at this late hour, the service is discreet and fast.

‘There, Roberto. I’ve told you everything. What do you think?’

‘Pier-Luigi may be genuine, but he might also be working for the Italian secret service. His departure for a job in Brittany, right after telling you this story … in either case, it means that you’re spot on and that Carlo didn’t die in a simple bank robbery.’

‘Now what?’

‘Do you want to drop it?’

‘No. Especially not now that I finally have something resembling a lead.’

‘Well that sounds obvious. You’ll have to dig deeper, until you find something that either confirms or demolishes
Pier-Luigi’s
story. You’re our expert in this sort of work, and of course, I’m here if you need a hand with anything specific. Do you know Pier-Luigi’s surname?’

‘Of course. Tomasino. I didn’t need to ask him.’

‘Have you memorised the list of all the refugees?’

‘More or less.’

‘I think you should start with his family. It shouldn’t be too hard to find information about a prominent Brescia banking family, if they do exist.’

‘Supposing I manage to confirm Pier-Luigi’s story?’

‘If the cops’ surprise witness turns out to be a highly dubious character who was in jail with Carlo and then subsequently changed his name, you’ve won – the entire hold-up business stinks.’

‘So what do we do with that information?’

‘We talk to our lawyers first. They’ve asked us to be cautious and to go through them. The League of Human Rights, the journalists we know, and perhaps the publisher too. We go public, making as much noise as possible. Filippo is now famous enough for the story to make the news. But you have to tell him all this now, discuss it with him, tell him what we know, what we’re looking for, and try to get him to agree on the way to conduct this whole thing.’

‘I really have no wish to see him. I loathe the guy and I don’t understand him. He writes a novel, as of course he’s entitled to. What’s more, it’s a bestseller. Why doesn’t he state, once and for all, that he made up the whole story based on a newspaper article and that he has nothing to do with Carlo?’

‘Because he does have something to do with Carlo, whether you like it or not. They were cellmates, and clearly, from what I’ve heard and read, there was a strong bond between them that has nothing to do with politics, and they escaped together. We don’t know what happened afterwards. He gives one version
of events, which isn’t the same as yours. The relationship between reality and fiction is always very complex. But one thing is certain: he shared a cell with Carlo for six months. What happened afterwards, what he felt, what he made up, it’s impossible to know. Thousands of people are moved by his story – he himself has ended up believing it. And he’s stuck. Not to mention that it might be true … I sometimes think that he feels guilty towards Carlo, perhaps because he helped him escape, and it ended in tragedy.’

Lisa lets this sink in. She recalls very clearly what she said to Filippo, the one time she met him, a lost kid:
You’re to blame for that assassination
. Devastating. No question of sharing this memory with Roberto. She smiles at him and reaches across the table to brush his cheek with her hand.

‘I’ve never understood a thing about men. Too unpredictable and too irrational for me…’

‘You’re so stubborn. It’s all very well changing the subject, but you’re going to have to cooperate with Filippo.’

Things are slow at the occupational health centre as June draws to a close. Cristina, one of the two doctors, has already gone on holiday and appointments are few and far between. Lisa takes advantage of the lull to bring her address book into the office – the precious address book in which she keeps every contact in media and cultural circles that she’s gathered over the years and scrupulously kept up to date. Names of all those who have severed communications are crossed out, others are annotated with details of their habits, tastes, weaknesses, favours granted or, more rarely, sought. It is her secret weapon, which she has never shown anyone, not even Roberto. Perhaps a feeling of shame at keeping tabs on her contacts. Armed with her little book she sets out with a sense of excitement, to find contacts who might be able to talk to her about Daniele Bonamico/Luciani. At least when she has a
clear and precise task to occupy her, she forgets the heartache of exile, and feels alive, energetic.

Find a journo in Brescia. The best would be to try the local press to start with, without directly mentioning Daniele Luciani’s name, or that of Filippo Zuliani. After twenty or so phone calls, she comes across an ‘old friend’ in the Socialist Party and a reporter for Canale 5, the television channel owned by Berlusconi, now well on his way up the career ladder. Not yet too proud of being there, and very happy to redeem himself in his own eyes and do a little favour for a reprobate, keeping it quiet of course. He gives her the phone number of his niece, a young journalist who has just been hired as an intern at the
Corriere di Brescia
and is working on the news-in-brief section. ‘A real go-getter,’ he adds, with a hint of disapproval in his voice.
Just what I need
, thinks Lisa.