Read Online Escape by Dominique Manotti - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dominique Manotti
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absorbed in his work. He is laboriously copying out on to a pad of lined paper, in a careful, legible hand, a text extracted from twenty or so sheets of rough paper covered in crossings-out and corrections, without stopping to glance at the bank of CCTV monitors in front of him. His old colleague is so intrigued that he forgets to watch his television, craning his neck to try and see what Filippo is up to that is so engrossing. When Filippo finally sits up and carefully slips the sheets of paper inside an orange binder, he can no longer contain himself and asks, jerking his thumb in the direction of the binder:
‘What are you doing? What’s that thing?’
The very question that Filippo has been asking himself since he starting copying out his notes. ‘I’m writing.’
‘So I can see, but what are you writing?’
Filippo pauses, searches for the words in French, and blurts out an answer that he has clearly been rehearsing: ‘I’m writing my story.’
‘So you’re a writer?’
The bank raid was planned for 3 p.m. on the 3rd of March. On the first of March, Carlo, Pepe and I held a vigil back at camp. Luciana had departed early in the morning, leaving us her car. She had to walk alone for a good three hours over the mountains before finding a car to take her back to Rome, but we men wanted to be on our own. I caressed her mass of copper hair one last time, feeling very emotional, then I went into the barn with Pepe, to allow Carlo to say goodbye to her in private, surrounded by nature.
When he came back, we got out the guns, three Walther P38 pistols. Our final shooting practice, four cartridges each, we didn’t have enough ammunition for more. I’d never used firearms in my Rome days, I was wary of them, I didn’t like the alternately icy or burning feel of them, they scared me. They were like wild animals that I couldn’t tame, but I kept quiet and joined in the shooting, same as the other two. I was no worse, either, once I was over the initial shock. Then we cleaned and greased our weapons, lying disassembled on a table in front of us. Carlo lingered, with a faraway look in his eyes. It was plain that he derived a physical thrill from touching the metal, greasing it, breathing in the special smell of mingled grease and powder. We put the guns away. Then, on the same table we spread out a map of Milan and the surrounding area, a map of the neighbourhood and a sketch showing the bank entrance and the interior.
We didn’t plan to go further inside the building. The three of us stood poring over the maps, our shoulders and heads brushing, and sometimes our hands touched. Pepe and I listened while Carlo explained to us in detail, a pencil in his hand, who would do what, and the precise timing of the operation. ‘Precision is crucial,’ Carlo said. ‘Our organisation must be flawless.’ We were attentive, very solemn. We exchanged a word, a look, our movements were coordinated, we were experiencing an intense moment of comradeship. Then, when the maps were put away, we decided that the fine-tuning was done, and we broke bread. ‘Last meal before the battle,’ Carlo said, and we shivered with anticipation, fear and pleasure. Afterwards, we found it difficult to chat idly so we sat in silence, and the time dragged. We went to bed early, and took sleeping pills.
Next day, on the second of March, the three of us drove up to Milan in the car that Luciana had left us, the guns hidden under the seats. When we got there, we staked out the area around the bank, to get a clear picture in our minds, then Carlo took the bag with the guns. We dumped the car in a car park, as planned, so that Luciana could pick it up that evening, and we hid in an empty apartment that belonged to friends of Carlo’s. For the sake of having something to do, something to say, we went over the next day’s schedule twice. Carlo emphasised that as long as we followed the plan to the letter, as long as there were no cock-ups, everything
‘What are you doing? What’s that thing?’
The very question that Filippo has been asking himself since he starting copying out his notes. ‘I’m writing.’
‘So I can see, but what are you writing?’
Filippo pauses, searches for the words in French, and blurts out an answer that he has clearly been rehearsing: ‘I’m writing my story.’
‘So you’re a writer?’
The bank raid was planned for 3 p.m. on the 3rd of March. On the first of March, Carlo, Pepe and I held a vigil back at camp. Luciana had departed early in the morning, leaving us her car. She had to walk alone for a good three hours over the mountains before finding a car to take her back to Rome, but we men wanted to be on our own. I caressed her mass of copper hair one last time, feeling very emotional, then I went into the barn with Pepe, to allow Carlo to say goodbye to her in private, surrounded by nature.
When he came back, we got out the guns, three Walther P38 pistols. Our final shooting practice, four cartridges each, we didn’t have enough ammunition for more. I’d never used firearms in my Rome days, I was wary of them, I didn’t like the alternately icy or burning feel of them, they scared me. They were like wild animals that I couldn’t tame, but I kept quiet and joined in the shooting, same as the other two. I was no worse, either, once I was over the initial shock. Then we cleaned and greased our weapons, lying disassembled on a table in front of us. Carlo lingered, with a faraway look in his eyes. It was plain that he derived a physical thrill from touching the metal, greasing it, breathing in the special smell of mingled grease and powder. We put the guns away. Then, on the same table we spread out a map of Milan and the surrounding area, a map of the neighbourhood and a sketch showing the bank entrance and the interior.
We didn’t plan to go further inside the building. The three of us stood poring over the maps, our shoulders and heads brushing, and sometimes our hands touched. Pepe and I listened while Carlo explained to us in detail, a pencil in his hand, who would do what, and the precise timing of the operation. ‘Precision is crucial,’ Carlo said. ‘Our organisation must be flawless.’ We were attentive, very solemn. We exchanged a word, a look, our movements were coordinated, we were experiencing an intense moment of comradeship. Then, when the maps were put away, we decided that the fine-tuning was done, and we broke bread. ‘Last meal before the battle,’ Carlo said, and we shivered with anticipation, fear and pleasure. Afterwards, we found it difficult to chat idly so we sat in silence, and the time dragged. We went to bed early, and took sleeping pills.
Next day, on the second of March, the three of us drove up to Milan in the car that Luciana had left us, the guns hidden under the seats. When we got there, we staked out the area around the bank, to get a clear picture in our minds, then Carlo took the bag with the guns. We dumped the car in a car park, as planned, so that Luciana could pick it up that evening, and we hid in an empty apartment that belonged to friends of Carlo’s. For the sake of having something to do, something to say, we went over the next day’s schedule twice. Carlo emphasised that as long as we followed the plan to the letter, as long as there were no cock-ups, everything
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