And she leaves.
Filippo finds himself alone, broken, drained. What the hell was I expecting, for God’s sake? He sits down on the bed, which is covered with a brightly coloured patchwork counterpane, his shoulders hunched, his arms dangling. He casts his eye over the bookshelves where there is a mix of French and Italian books. Yet another library, like at Lisa’s. All these books he hasn’t read. He walks over to the shelves and touches the spines. If he wants to read, which book should he start with? A name comes back to him: Victor Hugo, Carlo used to say. ‘A Victor Hugo to tell our epic tale.’ How is he to find that name among all these books? He scans the spines — names, titles that mean nothing to him, seemingly arranged at random. Crestfallen. They’re all telling me: you don’t fit in here, we’re prepared to help you, then bye-bye. Cristina made that perfectly clear. She called me Filippo, my first name, no surname, she stood in the hall to talk to me, as if I was some kind of a servant. Put the money for the rent in the hall cupboard — avoid contact at all costs. Then, all condescending, ‘I arranged everything with Lisa.’ She didn’t look at me once, I was invisible, non-existent. A memory surfaces: I was invisible for Carlo, too. He said, ‘my escape’, a memory immediately blocked out, buried again. Don’t think about it any more, too painful, forget. Lisa, Cristina, all their books that I’ll never read. I’m a pawn and these two women are just playing with me. Resentment. He feels the urge to run away again. And to take the rug and the mirror with him. Not the clock, too cumbersome. He will have no trouble selling them at a flea market on the outskirts, they must have them here, and then he can do a runner and find his friends in Rome, with enough money to swagger about, at least for a few days. And treat himself to two or three girls — he can show these women he is not intimidated by them. In my dreams. I’m forgetting that I’m wanted by the cops for two murders. But I’m also forgetting I can no longer stand the life of a squatter in Rome. Be honest just for once. My arrest was actually a relief — I wasn’t able to cut loose, didn’t have the balls, no future. The cops did me a favour. Those days are over. End of. Grit your teeth and get used to being alone. He removes his shoes, lies down on the bed and falls asleep.
12 March
Every Sunday there is a weekly meeting of the Italian refugees in France. It’s a sort of rallying point, an informal gathering, people come when they can, to breathe the air of home and indulge in a little nostalgia. The discussions are sometimes highly political, all the major decisions affecting the refugees are thrashed out here with the lawyers who attend regularly to maintain close contact with the little community. The gathering also acts as a mutual support group — people pass on tips for finding a job, a place to stay in another city, and help each other out. And they drink Italian wine. They also tear one another apart; the divisions between the various exiled ultra-leftist groups are as acrimonious today as they had been in Italy, and heated arguments often break out, with people dispersing into small groups. It is more like gossiping than a political debate, but no one questions the vital importance of this fixed point to help them cope with life in exile. And the same applies to Lisa, too. She has always known that one day she will have to go back there and talk about Carlo’s death. Today, she feels strong enough to do that. She even needs to — it is a way of making his death official, the first step in coming to terms with it.
Roberto picks her up from her place and takes her for lunch at Le Pacific, a big Chinese restaurant close by, on the corner of Rue de Belleville — a light, quick meal. He senses that she is at breaking point and is worried, watching her every movement. He orders dumplings and iced tea; he knows what she likes. Attentive as the lover he might have been, years ago, had it not been for the handsome Carlo, who had the kudos of being a factory-worker — back when that counted. Roberto, though, had always looked like a white-collar worker, and was beginning to go bald — he had stood no chance. Now the field is clear, but it is way too late. All that remains between them is affection.
The Sunday afternoon meetings are held in a big room lent by a French association. A stark, shabby decor, grey-tiled floor, bare walls painted a grubby yellow, harsh light, and stacking chairs. But on a table in a corner is a buffet, with cold drinks, wine, cakes and two thermos flasks of coffee, all on a fine red tablecloth with a bunch of pink flowers. They have been told that Lisa is coming. Someone has brought two bottles of Spumante. A party wine. To console themselves for Carlo’s death, or to celebrate it? Who knows? Thirty or so people are waiting for her to arrive, chatting noisily in small groups that form and break up according to personal and political affinities. The same question is on everyone’s lips: what tone will Lisa set for the meeting? Mater dolorosa, or robust defence of the hero? Some are placing bets.
Lisa enters the room and a hush falls. Everyone remains still, waiting for her first move, her first words. She appears to falter, then makes up her mind, smiles, greets everyone, handshakes, embraces. The noise swells again, people come over to express their condolences, looking grief-stricken, some more genuinely so than others. Roberto leaves her and goes over to one of the lawyers, sitting slightly aloof, near the buffet.
Lisa quickly cuts short the expressions of sympathy, holds on to the back of a chair for support with both hands, and begins to speak in a clear, composed voice.
‘After his escape, I spoke to Carlo on the telephone.’ Surprised, the audience waits in silence for more detail, but she gives none. ‘He told me that he endorsed the declaration by the former leaders of the Red Brigades, and now felt freed from any obligation to continue the struggle in prison. He was planning to get hold of some money and fake ID — without taking any risks, he was insistent on that point — so he could go abroad and start a new life. He didn’t say any more.’ She pauses, the audience is still rapt. ‘I’m convinced he was the victim of a sting set up to discredit the entire far left and make us look like a bunch of dangerous common criminals. He was assassinated by Brigadier Lucio Renzi who hid inside the bank and then shot him. I consider it my duty to fight to the bitter end and find out what really happened that day, and make sure that Carlo doesn’t go down in history as the leader of a useless gang and a failed bank robber.’
Lisa stops, choked with emotion. The silence is broken by an anonymous female voice: ‘You seem very certain that this battle is worth fighting. I’m not. Carlo isn’t the only Red Brigades survivor who’s carried on shooting anyone and anything, tarring us all with the same brush, including those of us who were against your reckless choice to take up arms.’
Lisa wavers briefly. Whatever you do, don’t argue, not now, keep calm. She goes on, in a measured tone:
‘Yes, I’m fighting to protect Carlo’s memory because he was my man, and because I’m devastated by his death. But that’s not the only reason. I want to convince you that he wasn’t the only one to be set up, that the sting is part of a wider strategy to discredit our struggle, the entire non-parliamentary far left, whether we are pro armed struggle or not. Let’s make no mistake, our destinies are now bound together. If we don’t stand side by side and fight to preserve our past, we’ll lose the battle all over again, and we’ll be erased from the history of the struggle in Italy. And that’s why I am counting on the help — on the collaboration — of all of you to shine a light on what really happened outside the Piemonte-Sardegna bank.’