Escape by Dominique Manotti Read Free Book Online Page B

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 thebattle 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.’
    A murmur ripples through the gathering. Clearly opinion is extremely divided. Lisa continues in the same vein: ‘I’m looking for all the information we can find on this Lucio Renzi, Carlo’s killer. Ask around, ask any journalists you know, any contacts you still have in Italy. Who is he, where does he come from? I’m sure we’ll find something. Thank you, all of you, for your help.’
    Lisa pauses for a moment, people are growing restless, some go over and pour themselves a drink or start chatting to