‘Who was driving the car?’
‘I’m not sure. No one I knew. A guy at the wheel and a girl next to him, that’s all I could see.’
‘A girl?’
‘Yes, a girl, I’m certain of that.’
‘And you weren’t able to see the guy or the girl? At any time? Didn’t they say anything?’
‘No, nothing. They didn’t open their mouths while I was there. And I couldn’t see anything because the driver had turned up the collar of his coat and was wearing dark glasses. The girl had her collar turned up too, and wore a headscarf. They never turned round to look at me.’
‘And then what?’
‘The car stopped somewhere in the mountains, by a ruin, a sort of barn. Carlo took me aside. He gave me a bag…’ Filippo jerks his thumb at the canvas bag beside him on the chair, ‘… already packed with two sandwiches, clothes and some money, and he said, “This is where we part company. I have things to do. I’ll meet you in Milan in a month’s time. Meanwhile, stay out of sight, and if things get too difficult here in Italy, head for Paris. Go to this address, tell the woman I sent you, and tell her our story. She’ll help you.” Those were his precise words: “If things get too difficult”. I only realised later what he meant. And then the three of them got into another car that was hidden in the barn, and they drove off.’
‘And you still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the other two?’
‘Vaguely, from a distance, and only from behind.’
‘Did you know who I was? Had Carlo told you about me?’
‘No, never.’
In silence, she lets that sink in. A girl was waiting for him when he broke out, and he never mentioned me to his cellmate, during six months of cohabiting. Careful. A trap.
‘Did he give you any addresses in Milan?’
‘No. Just the name of a youth hostel. After a month, I was supposed to go there and wait until he contacted me. Later on I forgot the name.’
‘So what did you do next, after Carlo left and you were on your own?’
‘I set off on foot over the mountains, heading for Milan. I walked for days, taking care to follow disused footpaths. And then I arrived in Bologna. It was the first city I set foot in after our escape.’ Pause, his voice choked. ‘I bought the paper, and I found out … It was a shock. There’s no other word to describe it, a shock.’ He runs his hand over his face. ‘Then I felt empty. What was I going to do in Milan? A city I don’t know … and then, I suddenly felt frightened, very frightened. We broke out together … I’d vanished for three weeks … and during that time, I’d seen no one and no one had seen me. No possible alibi. My photo was in the papers after the escape: the cops were saying they had a lead, and that could only be me. A bank robbery, and now a carabiniere and a security guard dead. Carlo had said, “If things get too difficult, go and see her.” Things got too difficult, so here I am.’
Lisa retreats into silence. She is disconcerted by these echoes of Carlo alive arriving out of the blue. She tries to get her bearings, something to hold on to. Is his story credible? Maybe, maybe not. In any case it doesn’t contradict her last phone conversation with Carlo. A joint escape in which the kid has a secondary but necessary role. Does he or doesn’t he know who the real accomplices are? If he does know them, caution will probably prevent him from saying so. Carlo was able to get rid of him by arranging to meet up in Milan, without implicating anyone else, without revealing any addresses, and with no intention of turning up. “Don’t worry. My cellmate and I have already parted company.” A month gave him time to go underground if he was worried about the kid informing on him. Not a very honourable thing to do if the kid was clean, but a possible, even likely, course of action. The truly painful thing is the disclosure that during those months of intimacy with Filippo, Carlo never once mentioned her. He never spoke about me. That girl in the car. A crazy pang of jealousy. She rises, picks up Filippo’s dirty plate and puts it in the sink. Don’t let yourself go. Seven years inside, that changes a man, that’s what Roberto was trying to tell me. He spent the last months of his life in close confinement with this kid, but his death is part of our shared history, his and mine. And I won’t let go of it. She brings a plate of biscuits over to the table, sets it down, takes one and eats it to give herself time. Then she says: ‘Carlo was set up. He was assassinated by a crack marksman, Carabiniere Lucio Renzi, lying in wait for him inside the bank. And you’re to blame for that assassination.’
Filippo is taken aback.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’
‘I don’t get it.’
She looks at him with barely contained fury.
‘You put the idea into his head and gave him the means to escape. If he’d stayed in jail, he’d still be alive. And eventually he’d have been released, sooner or later.’
She slowly regains her self-control. He’s just a kid in rags, unable to get his breath back, disoriented. Not to blame for too much. Calm down. Mustn’t get carried away, it’s beneath me. She looks away.
‘Sorry. I’m deeply distressed by Carlo’s death. I spoke out of turn, so don’t take any notice. I’m exhausted and I have to be at work early tomorrow. You can sleep here, and we can talk it all over in the morning. You use the bathroom first, while I make up a bed for you in here.’
11 March
Filippo has an appointment with a woman he doesn’t know, in a swanky part of Neuilly. Lisa gave him some money to buy himself some clean clothes and said, ‘Here’s the address. She’s a friend of mine, and she’s agreed to rent you her studio apartment. Goodbye and good luck.’ Not a word more, no explanation. He walks down a street that stinks of the bourgeoisie, the establishment. He has a strong impulse to run away as fast as he can, as far as possible, but doesn’t have the guts. Where would he go? He keeps walking until he reaches number 18. A small, soulless, modern apartment block. Marble and mirrors in the lobby, dark wood and mirrors in the lift. Sixth floor. He rings the bell. The door opens, he is expected. A woman in her forties, magnificent as Italian women of that age are — tall, erect, curvaceous, golden-brown eyes in an open face, a dazzling smile. And a mass of coppery blonde hair like the girl in the mountains who had smiled at Carlo, and whose fleeting image had left an indelible impression on Filippo’s imagination. A crazy hope, the warmth of an older sister, lover, mother. Come all the way to Paris to find her and love her. She extends her hand, a rapid, all-purpose handshake, a formality, hopes dashed. Perhaps her smile’s a mask. She speaks to him in Italian: ‘Filippo? I’m Cristina Pirozzi. I was expecting you, come in.’
She shows him into quite a spacious hall, furnished with an elaborately carved Italian wardrobe, a huge, antique mirror, a magnificent grandfather clock and a Persian rug on the floor. Two doors facing each other. Cristina opens one of them.
‘This is the studio flat I mentioned to Lisa.’
A large, well-lit room, French window opening on to a balcony, glass-and-steel guardrail, good-quality, simple furniture, a big bookcase full of books, a bathroom and a tiny galley kitchen. And four big clothes cupboards, for him, whose only luggage is his canvas bag.
‘It was my son’s place, but he lives in New York now. Ever since Giorgio, my partner, left, I’ve lived alone in this huge apartment.’ A pause. ‘Does it suit you?’ He stammers. ‘Here are the keys. I arranged everything with Lisa. In theory the rent is 400 francs a month, all-in and cash, but of course you can pay me when you’ve got a job. My phone number’s on the kitchen table in case you have any problems.’