their neighbours. When the hubbub dies down, Lisa takes the floor again: ‘There’s something I must tell you. A week after Carlo was killed, his cellmate, the criminal who escaped with him, turned up at my place.’ She has the audience’s attention again. ‘Apparently Carlo gave him my address. I say “apparently”, because, instinctively, I distrust him, but I have no concrete reason to. Everything he’s told me so far fits with what I know from other sources. I’ve put his case in the hands of our lawyers.’ The audience turns to the lawyer, who nods. ‘I’ve found him a job as a night watchman and a studio flat that he’s subletting from a work colleague of mine. I owe it to Carlo’s memory to help him, and I feel I’ve done all I can. I’m quits. Let me know if you’d like him to come to our Sunday meetings, and I’ll give you his contact details. I repeat, I’m not keen, I don’t trust this guy, but it’s up to you. That’s all from me, thank you for being here, and for your support and help.’
Lisa sits down, suddenly exhausted, her gaze vacant. People avoid her, forming little knots again by the buffet. There are heated arguments in hushed voices. The lawyer pours himself a glass of fruit juice and leans over to Roberto: ‘Do you believe this business about Carlo being set up?’
‘No, but I believe that Lisa needs to believe in it to cope with Carlo’s death. She’s never stopped waiting for him.’
A woman called Chiara sidles up to Roberto, leans close to him and murmurs with pinched lips: ‘Lisa’s the only person here who believes her story. That arsehole was capable of wrecking our lives singlehandedly. He didn’t need anyone’s help. And you know it as well as I do.’
Roberto turns his back on her, without replying.
Further away Giovanni, a stocky man in his fifties, is holding forth, surrounded by three women who are lapping up his words, spoken in a half-tone: ‘I’ve had enough of her noble widow act, her scout-leader airs, the way she flaunts her generosity, her posturing, as if she were the custodian of the memory of all the radical struggles in Italy. We know as much as she does about all that, if not more. And her ridiculous stories. She’s been in France for too long. Exile creates fantasists and paranoia.’
CHAPTER THREE
MARCH 1987–FEBRUARY 1988,
LA DÉFENSE, PARIS
Night watchman at the Tour Albassur, at La Défense. The walk from the Métro exit to the staff entrance is an ordeal repeated nightly. Filippo strides across the deserted concourse, his head down. Aim: to avoid being crushed by the office blocks lined up like soldiers, dizzyingly high, threatening, blocking out the sky. Blasts of freezing or scorching-hot air. The few grey shapes scuttling soundlessly in various directions no longer seem human.
Ten p.m. Filippo begins his shift. He checks in at the security guards’ office, a long, narrow, windowless room on the ground floor, crammed with machines and CCTV screens, just behind the magnificent reception desks in the foyer. He picks up his badge and greets his colleague, his sole companion for the entire night, an elderly man who’s been given this job by Albassur so they won’t have to fire him three years before he is due to retire. He’s a sociable type and seems genuinely sorry not to be able to communicate with Filippo, who doesn’t yet speak a word of French.
Then Filippo sets off on his evening tour to inspect all the floors. The same ritual every night. Lift. Stop at the first floor. The light timer switches on, Filippo exits the lift and scans his fob into a little device on the wall. Three sets of double doors, one to his left, one to his right and one straight ahead of him. Start with the doors on the right, according to his instructions. He pushes them open. A long corridor, wanly lit by the glowfrom the luminous emergency exit signs. He advances slowly along the corridor, on thick carpet, not a sound, not a living soul, the
Lisa sits down, suddenly exhausted, her gaze vacant. People avoid her, forming little knots again by the buffet. There are heated arguments in hushed voices. The lawyer pours himself a glass of fruit juice and leans over to Roberto: ‘Do you believe this business about Carlo being set up?’
‘No, but I believe that Lisa needs to believe in it to cope with Carlo’s death. She’s never stopped waiting for him.’
A woman called Chiara sidles up to Roberto, leans close to him and murmurs with pinched lips: ‘Lisa’s the only person here who believes her story. That arsehole was capable of wrecking our lives singlehandedly. He didn’t need anyone’s help. And you know it as well as I do.’
Roberto turns his back on her, without replying.
Further away Giovanni, a stocky man in his fifties, is holding forth, surrounded by three women who are lapping up his words, spoken in a half-tone: ‘I’ve had enough of her noble widow act, her scout-leader airs, the way she flaunts her generosity, her posturing, as if she were the custodian of the memory of all the radical struggles in Italy. We know as much as she does about all that, if not more. And her ridiculous stories. She’s been in France for too long. Exile creates fantasists and paranoia.’
CHAPTER THREE
MARCH 1987–FEBRUARY 1988,
LA DÉFENSE, PARIS
Night watchman at the Tour Albassur, at La Défense. The walk from the Métro exit to the staff entrance is an ordeal repeated nightly. Filippo strides across the deserted concourse, his head down. Aim: to avoid being crushed by the office blocks lined up like soldiers, dizzyingly high, threatening, blocking out the sky. Blasts of freezing or scorching-hot air. The few grey shapes scuttling soundlessly in various directions no longer seem human.
Ten p.m. Filippo begins his shift. He checks in at the security guards’ office, a long, narrow, windowless room on the ground floor, crammed with machines and CCTV screens, just behind the magnificent reception desks in the foyer. He picks up his badge and greets his colleague, his sole companion for the entire night, an elderly man who’s been given this job by Albassur so they won’t have to fire him three years before he is due to retire. He’s a sociable type and seems genuinely sorry not to be able to communicate with Filippo, who doesn’t yet speak a word of French.
Then Filippo sets off on his evening tour to inspect all the floors. The same ritual every night. Lift. Stop at the first floor. The light timer switches on, Filippo exits the lift and scans his fob into a little device on the wall. Three sets of double doors, one to his left, one to his right and one straight ahead of him. Start with the doors on the right, according to his instructions. He pushes them open. A long corridor, wanly lit by the glowfrom the luminous emergency exit signs. He advances slowly along the corridor, on thick carpet, not a sound, not a living soul, the
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