(A storage room can be seen, or a cabinet, framed by the computer webcam. There’s a chair and to the left, what looks like a photocopier. Behind the chair, some wooden shelving is stacked with office paper stock, toilet and kitchen rolls; the tip of a broom handle can be seen. A man appears in front of the camera: Petri. He sits.)
My name is Giuseppe Petri. I was known as ‘Pino’ when I was working as a criminal. I was born in Turin, on the 6th of January 1946. My family is from Pescocostanzo in the Abruzzo. They migrated north to work in the factories like many others. I have a younger sister. My parents’ two salaries meant I was able to go to school. I liked literature, but I always thought that instead of going to university, as the son of working people, I should focus on work. So I signed up for accounting, got my diploma, and was employed as accountant in a Fiat factory. From my privileged position, I saw the conditions of the manual labourers and I was drawn first to the Italian Communist Party, then to the extra-parliamentary left. In short: I journeyed all the way to terrorism. I was one of 380 the hit squad coordinators; I planned the attacks and took part in them. I discovered I was good at two things in life: planning and shooting. I’m a killer. I murdered nine people, though I’ve only been sentenced for eight. The other victim was pinned on someone else, and that is who is being talked about in the video that follows. The recording was made on the 12th of September 1979, in the cellar of Bottega Rossa, a famous Primaticcio eatery at the time. The clientele was mostly left wing, though not exclusively. It was a hybrid zone, where you brushed up against all sorts of anti-statists, from the killers to the armchair theorists.
That was where we planned the murder I carried out, but which was not attributed to me. I haven’t hurt anyone by not speaking up earlier since the people it was pinned on have died, including the innocent man involved. It wouldn’t have made any difference. I want to make that clear. But I wouldn’t have spoken, either way. The people involved in the murder, however, weren’t just the actual killers. And I have now come to realise that everyone must take their share of responsibility. The video you’ll see is a secret recording: the people in it didn’t know I was making it. I was famous for my extreme caution. But this affair has proven me right. I needed to know who I was dealing with.
Now, if someone is watching this, and I sincerely hope it is you, Colonel Canessa, it means I’m dead. I have never been afraid of dying, but I have been afraid of not finishing what I’ve started. I will be entirely free in a couple of months, but it couldn’t wait; the Lord showed me the way. I have never been a snitch, as I said: this is the truth. It’s time it was told in full. Because what the Lord said is true: the truth shall set you free. And if I don’t tell the truth, I will never be truly free. That is a fact. Don Filippo told me that it wasn’t enough to tell the Lord, through him. I have to 381 tell everyone. It is an uncomfortable, difficult, dangerous truth. I needed an honest man. I hope you understand.
And I chose you, Colonel. I’ve always admired you. You were as fierce as we were, but your sense of what was right was something we couldn’t aspire to, no matter how hard we tried. Because you were on the right side of history, I know this now. Knowing what actually happened, you won’t just keep it to yourself, you won’t let it get buried. Not everyone is equal before the law: I shouted it back then and I still say it now. I have never feared the judges or man’s courts. At the time, it was because I despised them and considered them slaves to power, but now I realise it’s because there is no value to the justice of men. Or rather, its value is relative. I do understand that there must be rules, and someone to enforce them. I used to believe that the people were that enforcer, and that they administered this justice through me.
I was wrong, but so were you, Colonel Canessa. You served other laws, other judges.
There is only one Judge, and to Him I relinquish my spirit.
(The screen goes black before the frame changes. Petri has edited his confession before another clip. The image is clear, though visibly aged: a recording made with what was cutting edge technology at the time, but is obsolete in the third millennium. In the frame, we see what is clearly the cellar of a café or restaurant. The camera is on a shelf somewhere. In the middle of the cellar is a table, with a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling above it. There are some glasses and a bottle of wine on the table. On the walls, we see shelves of wine bottles, beer kegs, soft drinks, food. From an entrance out of frame, on the opposite side from the camera, two men walk in. Giuseppe ‘Pino’ Petri and Adelmo Federzoni. They look around, and then Petri sits on one of the chairs and pours himself some wine.) 382
federzoni: You might wait.
petri (arrogant): For who, the two snitches we’re meeting? Why do we have to meet them anyway? And why do we have to wear balaclavas? I like looking people in the eye.
federzoni: Do they pay you by the question? They’re not snitches. They’re supporters, and we have many, even in unlikely places. You know that. And you know how crucial they are for the affirmation of our struggle.
petri: I don’t like it. Why do we have to meet them?
(Federzoni shakes his head and hands him a balaclava.)
federzoni: Pino, Pino. You’re too suspicious. It’s a trait that helps you to stay alive, but too much of a good thing can be bad. We have to meet them because we’ve decided to eliminate an investigating judge, someone who might turn out to be important. He’s a potential ruthless inquisitor, someone who isn’t on the front line against terrorism but is still a servant of the economic powers. And they have a name and the information we need.
(Federzoni sits down and pours himself some wine.)
petri (sarcastic): I thought we were supposed to wait for our ‘guests’?
fe derzoni (chuckles): I don’t think they’re drinkers. But remember, they’re comrades. They contribute to the cause, just in another way.
petri: Cheers. (Looks at his watch.) One minute to go.
(Sounds of muffled knocking.)
federzoni (stands up, puts on his balaclava and heads to the right, not where he came in with Petri): Put yours on. 383
(Petri does so. Sound of a door opening, indistinguishable voices, then Federzoni reappears with two men, also wearing balaclavas. They have on the same outfit, trousers and polo shirts in different shades of blue.)
federzoni: Franco and Luca. This is Pino.
(No handshakes. The other men sit on one side of the table; Federzoni sits next to Petri.)
federzoni: Okay, let’s talk.
franco: We have an interesting name for the brief you gave us. (He holds a file in his gloved hands. He places it on the table.)
petri: Aren’t you hot with those on?
franco: No, and you can never be too safe.
petri: Oh, I know. I’m actually fighting on the front line, unlike you.
franco (wry): What is this, a political discussion or a planning meeting?
federzoni: Pino, please, calm down. Don’t waste time. Go on, Franco.
(Franco takes out some papers.)
franco: This is all the information about the target, Rodolfo Lazzarini, investigating judge specialising in financial cases. He’s not all that well known, but he’s very well liked and is making a name for himself. He’ll be an important judge and is already in the service of the multinational-funded imperialist state. We’ve highlighted two cases in which he sided with the owners rather than the workers.
federzoni: Sorry, what’s his name?
franco: Rodolfo Lazzarini. It’s all in here, address, family, routine. Whereas here… 384
petri (interrupting): Comrade, does your friend never speak? Why is he here? (He turns to Luca.)
franco: Only one of us needs to explain. We conducted the research (sarcastic tone) together, but I’m the only speaker. He’s here to prove his involvement. Is that okay with you?
petri (shrugging theatrically): It’s not, but that’s how it has to be (he turns to Federzoni), right comrade?
federzoni (cold): It does. Franco, continue.
franco: Thank you. Let’s make this short. All the info is in here. And here (he takes the other paper) is the draft of a note claiming responsibility for the attack. All ready to use. You can change what you like. (Federzoni takes the paper, reads it, nods.)
federzoni: That seems good to me.
petri: The full service.
(Federzoni stands up.)
franco: Another thing.
(Petri moves his hand under the table. Franco notices but doesn’t move. He smiles.)
franco: You’re suspicious, comrade Pino. But you can leave the gun alone. I just wanted to inform you that they’ve found the via Salis hideout. They’re watching it. You need to vacate it.
federzoni (surprised): Are you sure? I guess you are. Okay. Stay here ten minutes, then leave. I suggest one of you take the back exit, and the other go that way (he points to the door he and Petri used). You have to go past the toilets to get there. Whichever one of you goes that way, just pop inside, and pretend you were there from the start. Are we clear?
franco: We’re clear.
385 (There are no handshakes. Federzoni heads to the back exit and leaves the frame. Petri follows, walking backwards, pretending he’s holding a gun. Sound of a door closing. One minute goes by in silence. Luca stands up and takes off his balaclava. It’s Federico Astroni, clearly recognisable even after all this time.)
astroni: Finally. I couldn’t stand this any longer. Why did you drag me here?
franco (also removes his balaclava. It’s Giannino Salemme, several kilos thinner and with a lot more hair): Why? Because you and I are accomplices, we’re on the same diving board – I jump, you jump. I’ve done all the dirty work so far. I even went as far as contacting these idiots, waiting for them to trust me, to consider me one of their own. I wrote the note. You wanted to stay at home, comfy and warm. But no, sir. You’re in this with me.
astroni: You pretend to be a leftist, but I never pretended. I actually believe it’s possible to change the system and I believe in a more just society. I was a part of the movement and I supported some of its demands.
salemme (cackles): Good, now you’ve gone all the way, from the cultural revolution to armed conflict.
astroni (sits down, puts his head in his hands): What have we done?
salemme (stands up, pours himself a glass of wine, then another for Astroni): We tried covering our lives, our interests, our arses.
astroni (suddenly furious): You did! You and your corrupt career. You take bribes and meddle with trials. Eventually Lazzarini would have found out since he was following a fraud case that would have led him to you and your trafficking. 386
salemme (drinks, then looks at the wine still in the glass): Great stuff! These terrorists have good taste. But, my dear incorruptible colleague, you always seem to forget the part that involves you: you’re here with me today because you also want Lazzarini out of the picture. He stole the woman of your dreams. You hate him with all your being, even more than I do.
astroni (stands up and knocks the chair over): Don’t you dare…
salemme: You’re a hypocrite. You actually hate him, envy him, and it’s eating you up. For me it’s just business. Nothing personal, as the Godfather would say.
astroni (his voice breaking): What have we done (does not sound like a question).
salemme: What we always do, what everyone has always done. We have conspired to remove a dangerous rival. For love and money, the most trivial and the most common reasons. (Looks at his watch.) Time to go. I’ll go through the back, so I can use the toilet. I need to piss.
(They go their separate ways. All that’s left in frame is the cellar, the table, the bottle, the glasses. After a few seconds, the recording ends.)