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.’
25 June
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.