‘That’s absurd. They didn’t know. Who could have told them? Neither you nor I, and no one else knows about your investigation. Satisfied?’
Lisa attacks her food. Delicious lamb, cooked to perfection, the meat melts in her mouth. It’s tricky, cooking leg of lamb. Someone knew. She thought of her telephone conversations with Stefania, the Corriere di Brescia journalist. ‘My boss asked me if I was in contact with you.’ The information had surfaced and quickly. Am I the one who sparked the whole thing off? No way I can tell Roberto. Stefania’s voice continues to ring in her ears.
Suddenly she freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. What had Stefania said? Bonamico, the lover of the Tomasino girl, the Brescia banking family, a photo from 1974, a terrifying face, the eyebrows joined, the scar … Just like Marco in Escape: eyebrows, scar, vicious, brutal … Filippo saw Bonamico with Carlo, he says so in his book. And the moment Prosecutor Sebastiani tried to bring him back to Italy to stand trial — and was likely to succeed — was the moment Filippo was sentenced to death. Lisa closes her eyes. A hollow ache in her chest. Hard to accept. Even the story he told me about his and Carlo’s escape, more than a year ago, was no more reliable than the rest. At the end of the day, maybe he did take part in the hold-up after all. I’ll never know. No choice, I’ll have to live with it. She slowly readjusts to the reality of the restaurant, Roberto, their conversation. It’s no longer a time for passion, but for appraisal.
In a neutral voice, she says, ‘The French police will conduct a lengthy investigation into Filippo’s assassination, but they won’t find the killers. They’ll only be sure of one thing. The modus operandi: a professional hit man, a single bullet shot at point-blank range, an accomplice on a motorbike, speedy getaway, no clues, no witnesses, it’s a professional hit. Then a police officer will recall having read Filippo’s book: Carlo’s double was shot after the Rome gang informed on him. To avenge him, Filippo’s double shoots Marco, the leader of the Rome gang, who take their revenge by having Filippo killed. It all makes sense.’
‘You’re talking nonsense.’
‘You’ll see. I’m willing to bet on it.’
Roberto desperately casts about for a topic of conversation to distract her.
‘It would be better to talk about our own affairs. There’s no reason not to continue with Bonamico. Who shall we contact to publish your report?’
Lisa stops eating, she looks straight through Roberto, and stares into the far distance.
‘I don’t think you realise what’s just happened. We’re not going to publish anything at all. There’s no point. There’s nothing more to be done. Nobody can fight against a death as romantic as Filippo’s. He’s become a sort of legend, that of the hoodlum at a turning point in his life — he steals, he kills, he writes and he dies at the age of twenty-three, shot on the streets of Paris by strangers, with a bullet straight through his heart. Twenty-three years old, just think. The age I was when I met Carlo. Filippo is a comet, and his book will now be sacrosanct. He has taken Carlo off into a world of his own. Nothing more to be done. Adieu, Carlo, bon voyage.’
‘Are you giving up?’
Still gazing into the distance, she says nothing for a while.
‘Yes, I’m giving up. That particular battle’s lost. If I want to try and salvage our past, there’s only one thing left for me to do. Write novels.’