Dominique Manotti - Escape

A summary of the evidence leading to the above arrests: in December 1969, against a backdrop of social unrest, a bomb exploded at the Banca dell’Agricultura, Piazza Fontana, Milan, killing seventeen people and wounding a great many more. Deputy Chief Inspector Calabresi, of the anti-terrorism squad, headed the investigation. Next morning he told the press, ‘This is the work of left-wing extremists, there can be absolutely no doubt about it.’ Both on the day of the explosion and those following, several anarchist activists were arrested, and one of them, Giuseppe Pinelli, died after falling out of the window of Calabresi’s office on the fourth floor of the Questura building where he was being questioned. The police announced that he committed suicide. The far-left organisation Lotta Continua then embarked on an intensive press campaign against Deputy Chief Inspector Calabresi and in defence of the anarchists. In 1971 it was to result in the opening of an investigation into Pinelli’s death; the release of the anarchist activist Valpreda, accused of planting the bomb; and the refocusing on the investigation into right-wing extremist circles. In 1972, Luigi Calabresi was assassinated. No one has ever claimed responsibility for his murder, and his assassins have never been identified, or at least not until this morning’s arrests, sixteen years after the event and twelve years after the disbanding of the organisation. Watch this space.

Lisa arrives at work very early because she is running the place almost single-handed during the holiday period. This can be oppressive at times. Through the bay windows she spots Cristina making her way towards the clinic, dragging a huge wheelie suitcase. She looks crumpled and tired. A surge of affection and remorse. We used to be friends, and she has always behaved well towards me. I sent her Filippo. It’s wrong of me to hold that wretched novel against her. Bad faith. Besides, I need her, that’s probably why I feel this sudden burst of affection . Cristina pushes open the door and Lisa goes over to greet her with a kiss.

‘It’s lovely to see you. Did you have a good holiday? Have you come straight from the airport? There was no need to rush.’

‘I already delayed my return by two days. I phoned in, but all the same…’

‘No problem. Things are quiet at the moment, as you know. I postponed or cancelled your appointments, and I’ve rescheduled your timetable, it’s all on your desk. Everything’s fine. Sit down. I’m going to make us an espresso. You look as if you could do with one.’

Cristina sits down in one of the armchairs in the waiting room, her suitcase beside her, her hands folded on her knees. Lisa returns carrying a tray with two plastic cups and a plate of biscuits prettily arranged in the shape of a flower. Cristina stares at the tray with tears in her eyes.

‘That’s sweet of you…’

Without a word, Lisa sits down beside her and puts her hand on her arm. Cristina looks for a handkerchief and blows her nose.

‘Giorgio, my ex, was passing through New York on Monday. My son told me when I got back from my holiday in the Rockies. I wanted to see him again, that’s why I delayed my return.’

‘And?’

‘And it went very badly. Lisa, I live alone in Paris, I feel increasingly isolated, my friends are melting away one by one. Now that I’m no longer the wife of a famous journalist, I feel as if no one’s interested in me any more. I’m old and I’ve had it. He doesn’t seem to be suffering from loneliness. She’s beautiful, blonde and American, the same age as our son, and she’s pregnant.’

Cristina stops, choked. Lisa holds out her cup of coffee.

‘Drink, it’ll get cold.’

They drink and nibble the biscuits in silence, then Cristina continues: ‘And to make everything worse, last night, when I got home, I found that someone had been in my apartment while I was away. I don’t think the intruder took anything, but he made sure to leave traces of his presence, a full glass, a book open on a table, little things like that. I was scared, really scared. I spent the night at a hotel near my place, but didn’t get a wink of sleep. It’s all too much, you know — Giorgio, tiredness, jet lag, this violation … I’m falling apart.’

‘Who could have done that? Why? Has anyone already threatened you?’

‘I’m convinced it’s Filippo.’

‘Filippo? Why? Do you have any proof?’

‘No. None. A feeling, a hunch, I don’t know how to explain it.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I have no idea…’

‘What are you going to do? Confront him? Kick him out of the flat?’

‘I don’t know.’

Lisa picks up the tray.

‘I’m going to make some more coffee. We both need it.’

When she comes back with the espressos, she finds that Cristina hasn’t budged. Lisa sits down facing her, comfortably ensconcing herself in her armchair.

‘This Filippo is a strange character. Ever since his novel came out, I’ve done my utmost to find out the exact circumstances surrounding Carlo’s death. I now have some definite evidence, which I intend to publish very soon. And the facts contained in this evidence don’t fit at all with his story. He was never on the run with Carlo, and the sole source for his account of the bank robbery is a newspaper article. Which is not a problem, that’s how all novelists work. But he’s deliberately working hard to maintain a degree of ambiguity, egged on by his publisher by the way. But by playing on that, he is putting himself in danger. The Italian authorities are going to request his extradition; they’re capable of judging him on the basis of what he’s written in his book and of pinning the execution of the carabiniere and the security guard on him. It is vital that he states, once and for all, and publicly, that his story is a work of fiction and is in no way autobiographical. It’s not difficult, but it is urgent. I simply can’t understand why he refuses to do so.’

‘Have you said all that to him?’

‘No. In fact I don’t even know him. I’ve only met him once, and that was when he arrived in France over a year ago. I helped him as best I could, and largely thanks to you, but I don’t particularly like him, and I have the feeling that it’s mutual. If I suggest we meet, I don’t think he’ll accept.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

The two women finish their coffee in silence. Then Cristina says, ‘I have an idea. I can phone him and tell him that you’d like to see him. He’s bound to be reluctant, so then I’ll suggest, if that’s OK with you, that I come too, and then maybe he’ll agree. When you’ve told him everything you have to say, you can go and leave me with him. I’ll switch the conversation to my little problem with my apartment — it’s easier in person than over the phone. I’ll see how he reacts.’

‘Good plan, OK. When are you going to call him?’

‘Later on, at two, when he wakes up. And I’ll arrange to meet him this evening, at 7.30, near my place at the Café Pouchkine. We can go there together when we leave here. It’s direct on the Métro.’

‘Perfect. That suits me. You have two appointments this morning. Do you want me to rearrange them?’

‘No, absolutely not! It’ll do me good to think about something else.’

She rises. ‘And thanks for everything, Lisa.’

Cristina leaves the room pulling her suitcase and goes off to shut herself in her consulting room. Lisa stares after her, feeling vaguely awkward. No reason to feel awkward. I’m going to meet him. Perfect. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it ?

In the course of the morning, the news of the arrest of Sofri, Pietrostefani and Bompressi, charged with murdering Luigi Calabresi, rapidly spreads among the Italian refugees. It is transmitted via phone calls from families and friends, and by the Italian radio stations, which they all rush to tune into. This development sends shock waves through the community. An impromptu meeting is called at the law firm’s offices that same evening. Between her two appointments, Lisa drops in to see Cristina in her consulting room at around eleven.