Escape by Dominique Manotti Read Free Book Online

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.’
    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