‘What about your job…?’
‘I’m not a night watchman any more.’
‘That job wasn’t worthy of you.’
He slips his arm under hers and guides her. They walk away from the café, he can feel her hip against his, their steps attuned.
‘This is the most wonderful evening of my short life.’
Still sitting at the table, Lisa watches them walk off down the sunny street. Impressive diatribe, impressive exit. I knew I wouldn’t get anything out of him. But Roberto won’t be able to say anything now. The most puzzling thing is Cristina’s extraordinary behaviour. Are women as unreliable as men? Hard to admit. They left without paying. Of course. A pity to spoil such a magnificent exit with such a vulgar detail.
Lisa bitterly pays for the three cocktails that no one had the time to drink, picks up her belongings and leaves the Café Pouchkine. She can see the couple a hundred metres away, walking off down the street still bathed in sunlight. Almost the same height, they walk at a regular pace, chatting, leaning in towards each other. Cristina occasionally rests her head on Filippo’s shoulder. Lisa comments to herself that he is walking on the outside, as recommended in the etiquette guides from the 1900s, to protect his companion from being splashed by vehicles passing at speed, and the stupid thought distracts her.
Just then, a man bumps into her as he rushes out of the porch of an apartment building. She is knocked off balance, protests aloud. The man does not turn round but runs faster. He is wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and a stylish panama hat pulled down over his eyes. Lisa doesn’t get a look at his face. Then one thing follows another, as with a well-oiled machine. The man in the panama is closing in on the couple. A motorbike rides slowly up the street, and passes Lisa. The man in the panama catches up with the couple. Lisa hears a gunshot. No mistaking it, she’s heard enough in her life to know. A single shot. She freezes, and at the same time sees Filippo collapse, the bike pass the couple in slow motion, the man in the panama jump on to the pillion, the bike roar off, and Cristina spin round and crumple on to the pavement. Lisa springs into action, races towards the two bodies on the ground, screaming, ‘Help … Help!’
When she reaches them, she glances at Filippo’s body lying face down, a black hole in the centre of his back, his lovely beige jacket scorched. A pool of blood is spreading over the pavement close to his left shoulder. Dead. Too late to do anything. She quickly turns to Cristina, lying on her back, her entire body rigid, her face ashen, the whites of her eyes showing, her jaw locked. Lisa tries to raise Cristina’s head, but is unable to. Suddenly her body goes into spasm, shudders, her teeth chattering. Lisa, desperate, doesn’t know what to do. She looks up. A few people appear at their windows, alerted by the gunshot and her screams. A stranger is standing next to her.
‘I’m a doctor. My surgery is in the apartment building over the road. I heard the shot, and then your screams. This woman is having an epileptic fit. Do you know if it’s happened before?’
‘No, not that I’m aware of.’
‘I’ve already called an ambulance and the police. You don’t look too good either. I’m going to get a chair so you can sit down until the police get here. Don’t take it as an excuse to faint, please.’
The ambulance arrives very quickly and Cristina, still unconscious, is driven off to the nearest hospital. Shortly afterwards, three police cars pull up, sirens wailing. The police block off the street and cordon off the crime scene. A plain-clothes police officer takes Lisa to one side and starts questioning her, while others try and gather statements from the neighbours.
For the time being, Lisa is the only witness. ID? Italian refugee. Aha … Did she know the victim? Yes, Filippo Zuliani, also an Italian. The police officer looks up from his notebook.
‘The guy who wrote a book about how he assassinated a carabiniere, and boasts about it?’
Lisa shrugs helplessly.
‘If you like…’
The police officer barely lowers his voice.
‘Good riddance.’
Then she has to say, and repeat over again, the same words, explain what the three of them had been doing at the Café Pouchkine, the couple leaving together first, Lisa staying behind to pay. No, they hadn’t had a quarrel.
‘That’s not what the barman says.’
It was a discussion, they had disagreed, but it wasn’t a quarrel. She had not fallen out with the dead man. Well … not like that. When she came out, the man in the panama, no, she hadn’t seen his face. Height, build, age … in his thirties or forties, not all that young, quite well-built, that was all she could say. The motorbike, no, she hadn’t seen the licence plate, not even certain whether it had one … the police officer presses her … or not.
When he repeats his questions for the fourth time, night has fallen and Lisa, exhausted, asks him what he’s driving at, exactly.
‘All three of you are Italian, two of you are refugees with a dodgy background, possible disagreements between you back in Italy, where there are lots of shootings. You met at the café, there was a heated discussion, you didn’t leave with him. You saw the killers, but you haven’t given me any useful information. So I’m asking myself, and I’m asking you: did you lure this Filippo into a trap and give the signal to the killers?’
Probably due to the shock of the murder or the exhaustion of being interrogated, Lisa bursts out laughing.
‘I think you’re as paranoid as I am. But you’ve got a point. I’m not able to prove that I didn’t kill Filippo Zuliani.’
Now she understands what the officer wants to get out of her, she is able to breathe more easily. She is no longer in the surreal realm of the nightmare. She gets her breath back, finds her nerve, and casts her eye over the crime scene. The body has been removed, the job of the police seems to be done. A small group of onlookers is still hanging around, Roberto is in the front row. How did he hear? Always there when she needs him. The sight of him comforts her, she waves to him, smiles at him.
Shortly afterwards the police pack up their equipment. Lisa, whose home and workplace addresses have been checked out, is allowed to go home — she’ll be summoned to the police station later. She falls into Roberto’s arms. The worst of the shock has been cushioned. Too late to cry. A pity.
Her staunch friend has thought of everything. Nothing like a good meal to help face up to death. In their infinite wisdom, both French and Italian traditions prescribe a feast after a funeral. Even more reason for one after an assassination. So he takes her for dinner to the best local eatery, the only one that stays open so late. Sébillon, famed for its leg of lamb.
Lisa has great difficulty regaining her composure. She is caught up in the brutality of the absurd, torn between hysteria and despair. As they sit down at their table, Roberto first of all asks after Cristina.
‘You told me she was coming to the Café Pouchkine with you. I looked everywhere for her, but I couldn’t find her.’
‘After our meeting, she left with Filippo, to take him home to bed.’
‘So he came off best in your duel?’
‘I think that now I can admit it, yes, definitely. I didn’t even get off the ground and he was flying in the stratosphere. So, Cristina was on Filippo’s arm when he was shot.’
‘Shit!’
‘She had an epileptic fit and was taken to hospital, I don’t know which one. And right now, I don’t care. I’ll think about it tomorrow.’
She sips a pleasant Loire wine, breathes deeply then takes the plunge.
‘Roberto, I’d never have thought our secret service would assassinate Filippo. I’m thinking it’s more likely to be Bonamico.’
‘Stop fantasising, please. Not now. It’s creepy. And eat.’
‘Why did they kill him? Because they knew we were on Bonamico’s trail, and that we have proof? I don’t see the connection.’