‘Yes.’
‘Second thing, and just as important, the character of the author himself.’
Filippo jumps, leans towards her, his mouth open to protest. She raises her hand to stop him.
‘Don’t panic, I know what I’m doing, leave it to me. When a book arrives in my hands, it’s done, I have no power over the product. But the author … Here I think we really have to milk the distinction. Surprise them. The average literary critic imagines that a hoodlum will be violent and unkempt. So be very calm, say little, as you did with Champaud, that was perfect. If you do find yourself under attack — and that’s bound to happen — you need to be prepared. No argument, whatever you do, don’t try and have the last word, or be smart, but answer slightly off the point using carefully measured words, even a cliché, and put on the meaningful expression of someone who’s not revealing all he knows. Let the interviewer be the only one who’s aggressive and clever. I’ll be there, look at me and I’ll signal to you, that’ll help you. And now your dress. Nothing scruffy, obviously. Avoid jeans, T-shirts and trainers. A slightly over-studied elegance. Well-cut cotton trousers, jackets, or long-sleeved shirts, excellent colour coordination. Leather English shoes. I’ll give you the addresses of some good shops. Any questions?’
‘No.’
His voice falters. Filippo isn’t sure he will be able to achieve the many goals she has set him, but he keeps his anxiety to himself.
‘One more thing, and then we’ll be done. Do you intend to leave your job as a security guard?’
‘No,’ he retorts at once, clearly and without hesitation
‘Why not?’
A pause.
‘Because.’
Silence. Adèle waits for him to elaborate, which he doesn’t. She goes on: ‘OK. As you wish. When journalists ask you that, which they probably will, just add a few comments about night work stimulating your imagination. You’re a writer now, don’t forget.’
Filippo sits hunched in his chair, not moving a muscle.
‘Right. Shall we move on to your diary now?’
A routine sets in. Filippo feels as if he’s virtually under house arrest at his publisher’s, under the watchful eye of the publicist, and it suits him perfectly. Super-professional, as always, Adèle dissects Paris literary life bit by bit, like unlocking drawers, then giving him the keys. She sets him very clear, very precise rules of behaviour, what he should and shouldn’t say, and how to say it. He applies them unquestioningly, glad to find a ready-made existence. And it works. His press interviews take place in a little lounge at the publisher’s, just next to the boss’s office. Before each appointment, Adèle inspects him carefully in front of the big mirror in the toilet, checking each detail of his outfit, commenting on and correcting any mistakes. But there are fewer and fewer. When someone takes the trouble to explain things, Filippo learns fast. On this occasion, he is wearing a dark-brown suit and pink shirt, which he dons as readily as others put on blue overalls to go to work in a factory. At home, he has practised walking, sitting down and inhabiting his new clothes until it feels like second nature, as if he has always dressed like this. Then he unexpectedly catches his reflection in the mirrors in the lift, on his way out. After his initial surprise, he contemplates the man looking back at him with incredulity, and a hint of envy.
In his conversations with the journalists, he quickly finds his bearings — the restrictions on what he can or must say have been carefully signposted by the publicist, and he happily keeps to them. She sits in on all the interviews, always in the background, and he soon learns to read from her face whether to steam ahead, veer off or back-pedal. Her presence gives him confidence.
As anticipated, the journalists have done their homework, asking specific questions about his escape with Carlo Fedeli, who died three weeks later during a bank robbery that was strikingly similar to the one in the novel. So how much of the book is autobiographical?
A glance towards the publicist.
‘Yes, I was in prison and there I met Carlo Fedeli who became a very good friend of mine. He used to speak eagerly and eloquently about Italy’s recent history, especially about those years dubbed the “Years of Lead” by the press, and which Carlo, if I remember correctly, called “the years of fire”. I used to listen to him for hours, not having lived through anything like it myself. I have him to thank for inspiring me to write, and for my style in doing so.’
The journalists would push him, asking for more precise details.
‘You broke out of prison with Carlo Fedeli, as everyone knows. Is it your escape that you write about in your novel? Did you take part in the robbery during which Carlo Fedeli was shot dead? How much of the account is fictitious?’
Filippo puts on a masterful show of being annoyed.
‘Yes, Carlo Fedeli’s death and the circumstances in which it occurred affected me deeply. But why are you asking me these questions? My escape? The hold-up? What do you want to know? You’ll have noticed that the novel isn’t written in the first person. I’ve done my job as a novelist, that’s all. Obviously, in my writing I draw on the “events” of my life, like my escape, but I have nothing further to tell you. Do you ask other novelists the same questions? All novelists’ imaginations are inspired by real-life events. There is an autobiographical element in my novel, as in all novels. No more, no less.’
The publicist smiles.
‘Any other questions? My current job? Night watchman. No, I don’t read when I’m on duty. I didn’t read in prison, I listened and now, at night, I don’t read, I write. In prison, I heard stories, complaints, flights of fancy, fragments of broken stories. The transition to writing wasn’t easy. We can talk about that, if you like, about the process of writing rather than my life story.’
At this point, the interview abruptly ends. As the publicist had warned him, writing is a subject that very few literary critics want to explore, over and above a few well-worn clichés and a handful of adjectives.
Adèle discreetly mimes her silent applause. He is happy and thanks her with a smile. He is grateful to this woman who never uses her female charms. She does her job. He is aware how much he owes her, although he does not feel in any way obligated to her.
First radio interview, flawless. The interviewer finds his Italian accent charming.
His first TV appearance is arranged. He turns out to be very telegenic. Make-up and lighting: without losing that pop idol look, his face is sharper, more forceful.
The publicist has organised a book signing in a major bookshop on Boulevard Saint-Germain. When she talks to him about it (‘meet your readers’), he panics. He doesn’t know anything about readers. Neither his family, nor his Rome gang, his fellow prisoners, his colleague at the Tour Albassur, nor he himself were readers. He had wanted to write for Lisa and Cristina, women he knew, and he’d had a very specific purpose. But readers?
‘Will there be a lot of people?’
‘I hope so. I’ll do my utmost to ensure there are.’
He pictures himself surrounded by strangers calling him a liar and an imposter, and proposes they avoid such a confrontation. But Adèle is adamant. It is a must and there is no getting away from it.
Given her efficiency, the date and the venue of the signing are announced in all the major newspapers and on some radio stations. The book has garnered a great deal of critical attention and aroused people’s curiosity, so there is a big turnout.
The bookshop’s layout makes it difficult and slow to move around. On the ground floor, the publisher has laid on a buffet around which the regulars cluster, blocking access to the staircase and the mezzanine where the signing table is set up. Some people are coming up, others going down, it is all a bit chaotic. Small groups stand around, halfway up, deep in conversation, before jostling their way to the buffet. There is a sense of success in such a crush of fans.