She stands up, exhausted, tempted to give up. Leaning on the sill of the open window, she drinks a good, strong coffee in tiny sips to allow the flavour to explode in her mouth. I mustn’t let them crush me. What I need is method. First of all, one thing’s clear, I’m not the only person responsible for that entire history. And that’s something I need to tell myself over and over again, as often as necessary. Right now, my sole aim is to shed light on Carlo’s death. For myself first of all. With the publication of that novel, it’s become a personal matter. The weight of the past is already so heavy with recurrent nightmares, exile, suffering and defeat, I need at least to hang on to the conviction that the struggle was worth waging and that I went through it at the side of the man I loved. If my soulmate of nearly twenty years of impassioned and devastating political battles is to be deemed no better than a bandit, I’ll have nothing left of my past life or my personal history. But I’m not just fighting for myself and for Carlo. Nor was I fighting for abstract ideas. Life, each person’s memory, is a valuable treasure. Our collective destiny is woven from all our individual lives, and each one of us must be defended by all. Stay strong.
She returns to her desk. Go back to square one. Initially, the chain of events is clear. January ’87, open letter from the Red Brigades saying, ‘We are defeated, we are laying down our arms, we need to take stock of the past collectively and accept ourselves for who we are, the protagonists of this history.’ Unacceptable in an Italy fragmenting amid the scandal of the P2 Masonic Lodge, the wholesale corruption of politicians, the mafia, the decline of the Communist Party. The entire edifice was so shaky that the Red Brigades, together with the entire far left of the ’60s and ’70s, had to remain the unifying scapegoat, or better, the external enemy. So something had to be done: the invention of the concept of ‘dissociation’ with the introduction of a special law, Carlo’s escape, and the entire sting operation that would result in Carlo being labelled a criminal and executed. During this sequence of events, the Red Brigades’ splinter group, the Union of Combative Communists — manipulated or not, it amounts to the same thing — kill Lando Conti, the former mayor of Florence shortly after the aborted robbery and Carlo’s death, both possible triggers. Any political debate about the Red Brigades’ declaration is well and truly nipped in the bud. Mission accomplished, according to police procedure.
Then this crackpot Filippo turns up. He tells a story that plays right into the hands of the Italian secret service, because it not only turns Carlo into a bank robber but into the leader of a Milanese gang caught up in a turf war with a Roman gang to boot. A story that legitimises the police version of events. So why are they hounding him? Suddenly, a new question occurs: are they hounding him or are they stirring things up, raising his profile? Is Filippo a secret service mole? Obviously the question has to be asked. Why is she asking it now? At a complete loss, Lisa gets up, goes back over to the window and stares at the dark silhouettes of the trees against the purple Parisian night sky. Claustrophobia, paranoia, need a breather. Phone Roberto? Not at this hour, it’s too late.
Three discreet taps at the door. She goes over to open it.
‘Pier-Luigi…’
She is surprised. A young Italian refugee whom she has frequently seen at Sunday meetings, but they have never spoken.
‘What are you doing here? Who gave you my address?’
‘Roberto. May I come in?’
She hesitates for a moment. Then, ‘Why not? Good timing, I’ve just made some coffee. But not too long, it’s late and I’m tired.’ He settles himself into the big armchair by the coffee table and she brings over two cups of coffee and a few biscuits. Then he blurts out: ‘I knew nothing about Brigadier Renzi last year. I would have liked to help you, but I couldn’t. Now, it’s different. I know who Daniele Luciani is. Does that interest you?’
‘Obviously.’
Pier-Luigi speaks as if leading a commando operation. Precise and concise.
‘An extreme right-wing activist. A member of the terrorist wing of Ordine Nuovo. He was implicated in the Brescia massacre.’
Shocked, Lisa sits down in the armchair facing him and closes her eyes. Calm down, breathe. Don’t forget, you don’t know this guy. Anything’s possible.
‘OK, let’s take this slowly. How do you know this?
‘I used to know Luciani well. I’m from Brescia, from a banking family with fascist leanings. Before the war my father was a staunch supporter of Mussolini whom he considered as the only possible bulwark against the reds and the mafia. He didn’t change his mind after the war either. My elder brother, Andrea, was one of the founders of the terrorist organisation Ordine Nuovo. The Brescia group used to meet in the shed at the bottom of our garden. My brother was in charge of liaising with the Padua Ordine Nuovo group. Delfo Zorzi, who was later accused of being involved in the Brescia bombing, often used to come to the house. And so did others.’
‘Including Daniele Luciani?’
‘Yes, including Daniele Luciani, who was called Bonamico in those days.’
Lisa feels dizzy, in need of something to hold on to.
‘Let’s start again, from the beginning.’
‘For me, the beginning was the Brescia anti-fascist demonstration of 28 May 1974.’
Lisa nods, she knows about it.
‘I had just turned eighteen.’ He stops abruptly, a happy memory, a guilty little smile: ‘Like in the song.’ He sees that Lisa is baffled and goes on: ‘I was finding it harder and harder to bear the atmosphere at home, my father’s harsh authoritarianism, my mother’s frivolity and submissiveness. I loved, or I thought I loved, a woman much older than me and I couldn’t tell anyone about her. I dreamt of a different world, and I believed we Italians were in the process of building it. I went to the anti-fascist demo in Brescia. My first demo.’ Another pause. ‘It’s funny how life can change dramatically, without you really having decided…’
‘Keep going.’
‘I was on the other side of the square when the bomb went off under the arcades. I was looking elsewhere, I didn’t see anything, but I heard the explosion. Massive. Afterwards, for one or two seconds, an eternity of total silence, I thought I’d gone deaf, and then all I could hear were screams of panic, and I was swept along by the crowd surging down the side streets, trying to get away from the site of the explosion. After a while, I managed to calm down and make my way back to the square. I wanted to see and take in what had just happened. There were ambulances everywhere. The dead and the gravely wounded were being evacuated. On one side of the square an emergency medical team was tending to the less seriously injured. The fire brigade was hosing down the site of the explosion with powerful jets, removing all the rubble and with it all traces of the bomb, helped by a group of young men — my brother and his friends. Including Daniele Bonamico. I watched them from a distance. Afterwards, they left, laughing and clapping each other on the back. Happy. When the forensic team arrived, an hour later, there was nothing left to analyse. No one ever found out who gave the fire brigade the order to clean up the debris. Suspects among neo-fascist groups were arrested, including my brother, but they weren’t held for long. All the trials ended up being dismissed for lack of evidence. The final one was last year.’