water. He has just struck a blow against despair. The overlapping circles covering the entire surface of the page in front of him take on the shape of a crowd of faceless heads. A crowd with no voice. He doesn’t throw this sheet away, but puts it carefully to one side for the time being.
After his leap into the skip came separation. At this point, his voice becomes husky, the words stop flowing. A complex tangle of confused feelings. No desire to try and unravel them. Filippo puts it all to the back of his mind.
I’ll think about it later
. Then Carlo’s death, his own escape, Paris. He recalls his meeting with Lisa, then Cristina. Looking for a shoulder to cry on. A little love. Didn’t find it. Lisa’s fury. Hatred, the word forms, imposes itself.
She hates me. Why? She told me. Because I’m to blame for Carlo’s death, I put the idea into his head and gave him the means to escape. Harsh words. But now, I understand them, I accept them. To blame for his death, OK. What about Cristina? She doesn’t hate me, she doesn’t even know I exist. For those two women, Carlo’s a prince and I’m a piece of shit. They helped me because Carlo asked them to. Fair enough. But Carlo doesn’t belong to them. They don’t know him. The closeness of being in jail, the breakout, the dangers, the ordeal we went through together, that’s our story, Carlo’s and mine, not theirs
.
He picks up the sheet of paper with the anonymous crowd on it. With a few pencil strokes he adds Lisa’s dark hair, Cristina’s chignon, here a look, there a mouth, and their faces emerge and replicate.
Before Carlo died, as he set off for his final battle, he said to me, ‘Tell Lisa.’ I’ve got to tell it. How? Put my trust in Carlo, listen to my memories, let his words come out. And when I have my whole story nice and tight
… he hunches over the sheet of paper and contemplates the faces.
Those two will come to understand that Carlo is mine, not theirs, and that he never did belong to them. A story of men
.
The time for tears is over. He dreams of conquering the two women, the way you conquer a land, for the pleasure of conquering, and then leaving for pastures new.
That day, I went into the bin room to clean it, as I did every day. And I knew that today was the day. The screw who opened the doorfor me didn’t notice that the skip was full, whereas usually it was empty, and he locked the door behind me, as he did every day. I was breathing fast and my hands were clammy. I waited, straining my ears, counting the seconds by my heartbeat. According to our calculations, we had thirty minutes before the alarm would be raised.
After one minute, or a bit more – the minute went on so long – I heard the sound of an engine in the yard. It was the truck come to pick up the skip and take it to the dump. I gave five sharp knocks on the rubbish chute. Carlo was on dishwashing detail in the canteen, on the floor above. He heard the signal that we’d rehearsed over the last few days. He sneaked over to the mouth of the rubbish chute and jumped in. He shot out into the skip like a cannon ball and plunged down, swimming his way to the bottom. Then I jumped too. I grabbed the top of the skip wall, steadied myself and dived in after him. As I jumped, the metal shutter that closed off the bin room from the yard began to open. The guards checked that the room was empty, the truck was about to load the skip. I slid down among the plastic bags, the pressure was crushing, I couldn’t tell which way was up or down, and some of the bags had split. I felt something slimy and rough against my face, I wanted to throw up, I could hardly breathe, and I began to panic and choke. Drowning in a sea of rubbish. Carlo’s hand grabbed my arm, he brought his face very close to mine, pushed a bag out of the way to give me some air, and whispered, ‘Protect your face with your T-shirt, everything’s fine.’ Then a crash to make us shudder: the skip had been loaded on
After his leap into the skip came separation. At this point, his voice becomes husky, the words stop flowing. A complex tangle of confused feelings. No desire to try and unravel them. Filippo puts it all to the back of his mind.
I’ll think about it later
. Then Carlo’s death, his own escape, Paris. He recalls his meeting with Lisa, then Cristina. Looking for a shoulder to cry on. A little love. Didn’t find it. Lisa’s fury. Hatred, the word forms, imposes itself.
She hates me. Why? She told me. Because I’m to blame for Carlo’s death, I put the idea into his head and gave him the means to escape. Harsh words. But now, I understand them, I accept them. To blame for his death, OK. What about Cristina? She doesn’t hate me, she doesn’t even know I exist. For those two women, Carlo’s a prince and I’m a piece of shit. They helped me because Carlo asked them to. Fair enough. But Carlo doesn’t belong to them. They don’t know him. The closeness of being in jail, the breakout, the dangers, the ordeal we went through together, that’s our story, Carlo’s and mine, not theirs
.
He picks up the sheet of paper with the anonymous crowd on it. With a few pencil strokes he adds Lisa’s dark hair, Cristina’s chignon, here a look, there a mouth, and their faces emerge and replicate.
Before Carlo died, as he set off for his final battle, he said to me, ‘Tell Lisa.’ I’ve got to tell it. How? Put my trust in Carlo, listen to my memories, let his words come out. And when I have my whole story nice and tight
… he hunches over the sheet of paper and contemplates the faces.
Those two will come to understand that Carlo is mine, not theirs, and that he never did belong to them. A story of men
.
The time for tears is over. He dreams of conquering the two women, the way you conquer a land, for the pleasure of conquering, and then leaving for pastures new.
That day, I went into the bin room to clean it, as I did every day. And I knew that today was the day. The screw who opened the doorfor me didn’t notice that the skip was full, whereas usually it was empty, and he locked the door behind me, as he did every day. I was breathing fast and my hands were clammy. I waited, straining my ears, counting the seconds by my heartbeat. According to our calculations, we had thirty minutes before the alarm would be raised.
After one minute, or a bit more – the minute went on so long – I heard the sound of an engine in the yard. It was the truck come to pick up the skip and take it to the dump. I gave five sharp knocks on the rubbish chute. Carlo was on dishwashing detail in the canteen, on the floor above. He heard the signal that we’d rehearsed over the last few days. He sneaked over to the mouth of the rubbish chute and jumped in. He shot out into the skip like a cannon ball and plunged down, swimming his way to the bottom. Then I jumped too. I grabbed the top of the skip wall, steadied myself and dived in after him. As I jumped, the metal shutter that closed off the bin room from the yard began to open. The guards checked that the room was empty, the truck was about to load the skip. I slid down among the plastic bags, the pressure was crushing, I couldn’t tell which way was up or down, and some of the bags had split. I felt something slimy and rough against my face, I wanted to throw up, I could hardly breathe, and I began to panic and choke. Drowning in a sea of rubbish. Carlo’s hand grabbed my arm, he brought his face very close to mine, pushed a bag out of the way to give me some air, and whispered, ‘Protect your face with your T-shirt, everything’s fine.’ Then a crash to make us shudder: the skip had been loaded on
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