Escape by Dominique Manotti Read Free Book Online Page A

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 strongenough 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,