‘In any case, your story deserves to be published.’
‘I’d love that, but I don’t know how to go about it.’
‘I can help you. I’ve lived here in Paris for a long time, with a well-known Italian journalist. I’m very familiar with the world of the press, and publishing. If you let me have your manuscript, I can have it read and possibly find you a publisher.’
He wavers for a moment, and then: ‘I’m so thrilled that I don’t even know what to say.’
‘Don’t say anything. Drink your vile cup of coffee and leave it to me. I’ll probably be in touch next week.
20 February
Summoned by the publisher to whom Cristina had sent his manuscript, Filippo enters the ancient building in the heart of Paris’s Left Bank, fear in his belly and a vague sense of guilt. A warm welcome from the boss’s PA, a beautiful blonde soberly dressed in black.
‘Monsieur Zuliani, we’re expecting you. Would you like me to relieve you of your jacket?’
He jumps.
‘My jacket? No, I’ll hold on to it.’ They were expecting me… He wants to run away. Drop the whole thing. Impossible. Obsessive image of Cristina leaning towards him, a smile on her lips, her perfume and her beery breath. ‘This story is your story.’ He can’t let her down.
He forces himself to advance, putting one foot in front of the other, letting his mind go blank.
The boss of the publishing house is waiting for him in his office. When Filippo walks in, he rises and comes to greet him. A handsome man in his late fifties, tall and slim, with a magnificent mane of kempt white hair. He shows Filippo over to a deep armchair.
‘A coffee? Béatrice, would you kindly bring us two coffees.’
Then he turns to Filippo, and speaks to him in Italian, with relative fluency.
‘Well, my dear sir, Cristina Pirozzi, who is a good friend of mine, showed me your manuscript.’ A pause, Filippo says nothing. ‘Would you like to talk to me about it?’ Filippo hasn’t prepared anything, doesn’t know what to say, he can’t even remember what he’s written in that wretched manuscript. His mind a blank, he stammers: ‘No, I’d rather not … I can’t.’
The publisher raises his eyebrows, intrigued, but says nothing. The coffees arrive. They each take their cup, and Filippo becomes engrossed in watching the bubbles burst slowly on the surface of the coffee, with a sense of having ruined everything. The publisher gulps his coffee down, puts his cup back on the saucer and stares at Filippo belligerently.
‘Right, we’re interested in this story. But I’m going to be brutal, forgive me. If we work together, there has to be trust. Are you the author of this story? I mean are you the only author?’
Filippo is flabbergasted. He puts down his cup, looks up and finally dares meet the publisher’s eye. On this territory, he is sure of himself, he becomes articulate, almost loquacious.
‘Before going to jail, I’d never left Rome. My family, all my friends are there, and since my escape, all my ties have been broken. I’m alone in Paris, I don’t know anyone. I’ve spent almost a year without talking to a soul. I wrote at night, every night. Without my realising it, without my deciding it, writing became my only lifeline. Who could have written it for me, and why, for what purpose?’
‘Cristina?’
Filippo smiles.
‘Cristina Pirozzi put me up when I was completely broke and had no job, she helped me survive, and I’m very grateful to her, but the first time she spoke to me was when I gave her my manuscript.’
The publisher knows Cristina. Credible, very credible, what the young man is saying. Obvious even. Judiciously observed. And his passion is convincing. The opposite of what he had feared initially; in fact, it was la Pirozzi who was trying to get herself back into the saddle with the help of this young man. He is won over, and proffers his hand to Filippo, who shakes it after a slight hesitation.
‘Let’s say no more about it, but you know the publishing world is full of surprises … Right, let’s talk business. Your manuscript. We are agreed that it is definitely a novel. Let me make it plain: I don’t want to know any more. I want to be able to carry on thinking and saying that it’s a novel with total conviction. Are we agreed?’
‘Yes. It’s a novel.’
‘Excellent. What we like about this novel is the authenticity of the voice, the true-to-life experience on every page, and I’m convinced the critics will feel the same way. Some passages are particularly outstanding from that point of view. Like the section where you describe the different attitudes of Carlo and the narrator towards guns, flying in the face of all the clichés. Carlo, with his political background, is very familiar with them, he loves them, looks at them, caresses them, while the narrator, who is a petty criminal, is afraid of them and, at some points, even goes so far as to dismiss their existence. Wonderful, given the ending, but you skate over this relationship to guns a bit too quickly. You’ll need to go back to it, pad it out with action, dialogue, one or two anecdotes. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Same for the affair between Carlo and Luciana. Nice touch to describe Filippo’s love for Carlo through the way he observes relations between the two lovers.’
Filippo gulps.
‘I didn’t write that Carlo and Filippo were in love with one another…’
‘Of course not, you couldn’t have written it so blatantly — it’s a feeling that neither of your characters can acknowledge. What you have done is much better. You can feel the emotion between them whenever they are in one another’s presence, and it’s excellent the way it is. You have written a novel about masculine friendship, a very particular form of love. I’m simply asking you to flesh out the scenes with the three of them — Luciana, Carlo and Filippo — in the same vein, if you feel you can.’
‘Yes, I can.’
The publisher seems satisfied. He picks up the telephone.
‘Béatrice, bring me the contracts. He turns to Filippo: ‘We have found you a very good translator. He loves your book, and he’ll help you to fine-tune it. I’ve discussed it with him, and he and I have the same approach. I think you’ll get on very well together, he’s charming. Oh, one thing, we’ve talked to our lawyers, and they recommend changing the first names and surnames, as well as the dates and place of the bank raid. As a precaution. The robbery that turned into a bloodbath and the violent death of Carlo Fedeli, whom you knew very well in fact, are too close in time, barely a year between them. You don’t object? It is a novel, isn’t it?’
Filippo leaves the publishing house in a daze. He pauses for a moment on the pavement outside and sees everything in a blur, the passers-by, the cars, despite the cold light of the bright winter sun. He sets off down the street and a cyclist knocks into him, swearing. That brings him to his senses. Telephone Cristina. He goes in search of a phone. Public telephone, the number of the occupational health centre at La Défense. Lisa answers. He recognises her voice, her Italian accent. Stuttering, he asks to speak to Dr Cristina Pirozzi. Lisa pauses briefly. Has she recognised him? He panics, then she puts him through, without a word. He breathes a sigh of relief.
‘Cristina, it’s done.’ In his excitement, he can’t get the words out fast enough. ‘I’ve signed a contract. The book’s coming out in May. I’m meeting the translator tomorrow to start polishing the text.’ He gets his breath back. ‘I wanted to thank you, sincerely. Without you…’