- vox populi -

“To myself?” Betrayal was all over Simone’s face. Tommy hid his beneath his palms. “Because it wasn't right. Because this country isn't capable of being responsible in war, theirs or other people’s, and we have every right to protest the way things are going. From day one the higher-ups have been trying to crush the ones helping the disadvantaged, the displaced, and the damned in equal measures - and now what, they're trying to make more people miserable in some other foreign land? It’s not unreasonable to not want any part in that."

On one side of the room they sat, the prosecutor on the other. Between them stood the polished granite counter, and their shared tools of so many years. As they talked the late afternoon sun bled past the windowsill, casting a slow glitter along well-worn corners, and Tommy felt as if he were a piece of wood being chipped steadily away. "And then what? We've been activists since we came of age, and if there's anything we've learnt from the experience, it's that Italy has no intention of helping the displaced. Maybe they weren’t obliged to when the neighbours went to war, but what’s the reasoning this time?"

"And that was all there was to it, was it?"

"I wasn't aware you needed more excuses to punish us." A pale sneer flickered across Simone's face. "You barely needed one back then."

The prosecutor sat there expressionless, wholly unmoving.

She was known in their area. She'd served during the Years of Lead during her prime, and activists despised her, and that was enough to tell where she stood regarding peace and when, if ever, the disruption of it was justified. To the boys, the thought their co-operative had swallowed their morals to reach out to such a person was unbearable - even though they knew they were in big enough trouble to warrant it, and that this was maybe the only chance to save their careers. A bitter chance indeed. "War doesn't begin or end only because the people say they want it. Whether you wanted it or not, it's happening, and you would've been better off directing your efforts elsewhere the moment the war was announced. What's the point of protesting where no one would listen?"

"So we should roll over and shut up every time something doesn't go our way?"

"Listen carefully. I am not talking about your right to protest. I am not interested in your feelings. I am asking you why you did it there, and why you chose that place to complicate your own cause and alienate the people to your meaning." Her eye flashed not unlike the sun against the glass, and Simone fell silent. "Some of your fellow protestors were injured. Someone tried to murder a police officer in cold blood, and then some. (Tommy's fingers tightened beneath the bench.) It doesn't matter what you wanted to happen: you are witnesses to a scene of violence, and the mood in the city does not favour your point of view."

She paused there, waiting to see if they had a response, and continued when they did not. "You know perfectly well that if you lose the support of the people, your activism is nothing and always will be nothing in their eyes. There is no earthly reason why the citizens of Bologna should put up with protestors from outside the city after what happened, nor why they should defend your beliefs, as well-intentioned as they are." The prosecutor had brought a heavy notebook with her, filled with the details of many cases before their own, which she set down with a decisive noise beside herself. “I am not your prosecutor, nor yet your defense. I have the power to do what benefits you. I advise you take it."

Tommy was beginning to regret not having brought up the subject of that police officer earlier. It would've helped to have acknowledged, even once, that yes, they had pushed him off a balcony, that it was from a height which was miraculous of him to survive, that they had glimpsed a line which man was not meant to cross. But the officer had been ready to cross it right there, by beating Tommy to death, and then what would've been there to discuss? If he cared so damned much, Tommy thought bitterly, about life in general, and how precious it is... then why didn't he commit a case of good cop and stop beating the shit out of us earlier? All this had taught them was that Tommy would cross this line if Simone were under harm, and Simone would do the same. It was the weight of this knowledge that was pressing, not that they had it in the first place; they ought to have talked about this earlier, worked past the panic the memory brought them, until they reached a point where they could be sincerely thankful no one had died and yet remained confident in their self-defense.

But no, straight to denial it had been. A single reminder was enough to sever Simone's thought process. Tommy watched his friend sitting there, suddenly wordless and fearful, and was grudgingly thankful they were getting past this now: a court might've taken Simone's reaction as admission of guilt, whereas this old prosecutor had no such power, at least not right now.

Finally, Tommy spoke. "I don't trust you to save us."

"That would depend on what you mean by save."

"What I mean is that I don’t trust this state to be merciful." The prosecutor tilted her head. Tommy stared down at his open palm, then closed his fingers, first one by one slowly and then in a clench. "Nor to be not cruel, nor to exercise wise judgement on who deserves or doesn't deserve a second chance."

She downcast her eyes. "I didn't think you trusted any state to do that."

"I don't. But that's the way people like you see people like us." His friend was staring at him plaintively, as if to plead Tommy to cut him loose and save himself. Tommy avoided looking at him. "Do you know what I think, signora: I think you came here with a fixed perception of who we are as people, and you're letting that inform the advice you're giving us, to the extent you're not really addressing us in the first place. You're talking to a mere idea of us, because to you we're no different to the activists before our time, and maybe you believe we should be dealt with in the same manner as well."

He took a deep breath. "I get it. To you we seem like dreamers. Chasing a pipe dream in the name of peace, or equality, or self-governance to the detriment of everything else - or else, wanting everything to burn down, because we can't handle the world as it is." His hand played over the cross of lapis lazuli, then tightened on it. "Maybe we do want it to stop. Maybe we do want it all to collapse, because the world is rotten. But this is the lot we have, and we know it won't change in our lifetimes. It is hard to trust people like you, because you don't accept that we recognize this. You talk to us like being hated is the ultimate trump card, the thing that'll make us tuck tail and abandon our cause - when really, it doesn't have any bearing on what we do or believe."

"Why not choose the lesser pain when neither will change anything?"

"Because we already know pain exists. Because the lesser pain, or doing our bit peacefully, as you'd call it, is only delaying the inevitable. Because we want life in spite of everything, even pain, persecution, agony - not sold off, or negotiated, for a morsel of curated peace."

Simone had collected himself. He sighed, reaching out silently to hold Tommy's hand, and Tommy held him tight. "You're right, signora. The war is happening. We cannot stop it, and soon, there will be great pain in the world. But it isn't life, nor peace, to give up and shut our eyes and ears to it so that we can be happy for a while. Even if that upsets less people in Bologna, even if it's the choice that hurts less."

"..."

"That's why I did it. I don't plan to close my eyes for a while."

"Nor I." Tommy added. An autumn leaf drifted outside the window, fell against the glass with a soft rattle, then was swept away.

Nothing more was said. The prosecutor was gazing at her notebook, but without opening it, nor poised to make any notes. She was so still and fixated it seemed she wished not only to see through the cover, but to phase through the book entirely; the boys had no idea if this was her way of formulating her clients' defense, or whether she was frustrated and trying to hide it, but was glad enough for the silence. At least they knew where they stood. If only they could guess where they would be standing, physically, by the end of the year - still in the workshop, maybe, or in a cell, or out again bleeding amidst their comrades. The prosecutor raised her head and stared at them as if she'd read their mind.

Tommy asked, quietly: “Do they want the protesters imprisoned?”

“Prison?” Her reply was instantaneous, blank, genuinely uncomprehending. “Prison? For what? ... No, definitely not you two, if I can help it."

"You make it sound like it's on the table, what with you going on about protester violence and the attempted murder and the pointlessness of it all."

"Oh, that." A thin smile rose to her mouth. "If that officer wanted to see people in prison for it, then I'm afraid he chose the wrong time to speak up: it turns out he's had numerous violations and complaints about his conduct, which go back a long way, and which can't be ignored any longer. His whole department will be left sweating for a while."

Her smile vanished then, although her tone softened ever more. "I'm here to offer you a lesson about endurance, not to announce you're being locked up. The caveat is that you do have to learn it. There was a reason the older people in your life told you to be careful and to play it safe, and as you understand this, there will be no bars on your windows for a long time to come."

Simone stared at her. "What are you saying?"

"You have no faith in this country and every faith in yourselves. You have every right to feel what you feel, but I wonder if you shouldn't think more on the nature of that faith while we're at it."

She leaned against the wall, head tilted high, chillingly contemplative.