About Time

by Simona Sparaco

  Barbara is holding a newspaper, she looks impatient. “Have you read this?”

  “Yes, if you’re referring to the article about us in the Sole. Don’t tell me you’ve come just to ask me that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Signor Romano, I thought you’d missed it,” she says, her lips curling in a grimace. “Silly of me to think a man of your calibre could miss an article at nine in the morning, wasn’t it?”

  “No need to be sarcastic. Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean I’m unprepared.”

  I’m teasing her as usual, I know she thinks of herself as a modern feminist and is convinced women are superior to men, and other bullshit like that.

  Continuing in the same vein, I look for a compliment I could give her. “You look different,” I say. “You must have had a good weekend.”

  “It’s the latest thing in cosmetics,” she says, stroking the outsides of her eyes with her fingers. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

  “You don’t need it. I’ve told you a thousand times I should call the World Wildlife Fund, you’re almost an extinct species.”

  Actually, I doubt there’s any cream so advanced it could give her a charm she’s never possessed. It strikes me she’s been overdoing the nips and tucks lately: she’s starting to have the typical clownlike smile of women who’ve had facelifts.

  “Liar,” she retorts. “It’s men like you who could convince all the women in the world to move to Mars.”

  “You really know how to put the knife in. What kind of man am I?”

  “You should know, Svevo. You’re a flatterer, you’re vain, and you’re completely untrustworthy as a human being.”

  “In other words I’m a bastard. I can’t make up my mind if you’re trying to lose your job here or declaring your undying love for me.”

  She smiles. “Luckily Mars isn’t so far these days.”

  Barbara has been working in this company for much longer than I have, which has allowed her a certain familiarity from the start. She’s very good in her field and the director respects her for her commitment. Nothing seems to exist for her outside this office. And yet she’s married and has a ten-year-old son, although she’s certainly not one of those mothers you see running around in a car all day, taking their children to school or a five-a-side football game.

  Before she leaves, she makes a sarcastic comment about the latest political scandal to hit the newspapers. She loves slagging off other people, especially if she thinks you’re going to do the same. She usually finds a common target to get you on her side, and the choice is never random, it’s always been carefully thought out. When she spits poison, she purses her lips and her nostrils flare: she reminds me of a python, though I assume she thinks I’m the same as her. “He’s history,” she says if it’s someone we know, especially if it’s someone we do business with who could threaten our advantage. She scrutinizes me, half closing her eyes, waiting for a sign of approval. If I feel like it, I nod.

  As soon as Barbara leaves the room, Elena comes in and hands me an envelope and a still-sealed ream of paper.

  I unwrap the paper first and sniff it. I like the smell of new things. The interior of a car in a showroom, cashmere wrapped in tissue paper, leather shoes that haven’t been worn yet. Everything’s so spotless at the beginning, so full of promise.

  Next, I turn to the envelope. It’s from the director.

  I open it.

  Inside, there are some photographs. They’re from last night, and they show our friend the Deputy in poses somewhat unsuited to his position, like strutting with his trousers down around his knees, snorting cocaine. With his toothpick-thin legs, he looks more like a chicken than a peacock. And talking of chickens, the accompanying note includes one of the director’s favourite observations: “Romano, did you know that in prehistoric times it wasn’t unusual for the eohippus, the ancestor of the horse, to be the prey of the pterodactyl, the ancestor of the hen? Can you imagine a horse being eaten by a hen? We’re in constant evolution, my dear Romano, and history teaches us to be on the alert, to beat the others to the draw. Remember, a man you can blackmail is easy prey.”

  As far as timing is concerned the director is second to none, and he’s never had too many qualms when it comes to obtaining what he wants from people.

  I’m about to call him, but before I have time to lift the receiver the telephone rings, startling me.

  “Signor Romano, your father’s on the line, should I put him through?”

  “My father?” I echo, surprised.

  “Yes, your father.”

  He must need a loan, that’s the only explanation that comes to mind. He rarely telephones me, and when he does our conversations are usually full of long, embarrassing silences. At the end of every call, to avoid another one, which might be even more painful, I arrange for a large bank transfer, hoping that’ll keep him off my back for a while.

  “Svevo? It’s me. How are you?”

  The hoarse, cavernous voice echoes in my mind like a childhood song, but only for a few seconds, because the nostalgia fades immediately, leaving me irritable and anxious to hang up and get on with my work. I glance at my watch, then at my diary, and sigh.

  “Fine,” I reply.

  “Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

  “Is there a particular reason you’ve called? I’m a bit behind.”

  “Oh, you, you’re always behind.”

  Then silence again. A silence that chokes any words at birth. Even a monosyllable would feel inappropriate in comparison with this silence. And yet I can sense there’s something he wants to tell me, I can tell it from the way he’s breathing, slowly and noisily. There’s pride in that sound.

  “Your cousin’s graduating,” he says at last, as if that’s any concern of mine. He’s just beating about the bush, I know he’ll get to the point sooner or later.

  “Good.”

  “Yes.”

  I imagine dinners at my mother’s sister’s: the smell of boiled chicken that gets into your clothes, my two cousins, in their early twenties, going on about their little lives, my aunt nodding, as stiff as ever, in a permanent state of mourning. They’re all so distant from me, I’d be very surprised if they ever talked about me.

  “I’m not asking you to come to the graduation.”

  “I have a lot of things to do.”

  “I know you’ve bought a new house… A villa in Cortona, isn’t it?”

  I don’t think he’s trying to invite himself. I think he wants a loan, he’s probably got a few creditors after him.

  “I’m renovating it. I don’t know when it’ll be ready. Look, I really have to dash.”

  “OK. Bye then.”

  “Bye.”

  The call leaves me with a sense of unfinished business, which I try to shake off by calling Elena on the intercom and asking her to take care of the bank transfer. She doesn’t demur when she hears the figure, though she must think it’s a serious matter this time. I only hope she hurries up about it.

  I go back to my diary to catch my breath. One page follows another in a regular, unceasing rhythm. There’s something corresponding to every hour: an appointment, a lunch, a meeting. I’m sure You’ve looked at me sometimes: hard at work, convinced that being productive means knowing how to structure time, making sure that every action is channelled into a pre-arranged schedule, delegating effectively, making full use of the waiting periods by avoiding pointless meetings that are of no professional benefit. I’m sure You’ve also noticed my obsequious attitude to the director as we walk together to the conference room, with his hand on my shoulder and my head tilted, listening with great interest to his admonitions and suggestions.

  “Please, Romano, I’m counting on you to see this business through,” he whispers in my ear in that slightly paternal tone of his. “Righini is in your hands, it’s an important acquisition.”

  The director walks beside me, and I nod and look at him with eyes full of gratitude. Why are You surprised? He was th
e one who introduced me to the people who matter in this city. And what about the expression on my face when I sit down at the table to negotiate? That gleam in my eyes is pure competitiveness, our daily bread. My rapid way of speaking, my thoughts constantly pursuing new strategies, and at the end of the meeting the mobile phone that starts ringing again, bringing more appointments I can’t be late for. Distances have been wiped out, dear Father Time, and You can’t do anything about it. Technology allows us to do everything in an instant, we’re always ready to receive information from anywhere in the world.

  “Mazzoli, calling from New York.”

  Elena on speakerphone.

  “Thanks,” I reply, and lift the receiver. “Hi, how are things? Yes, go on… Absolutely not. It’s already been sent and should be there by now… Of course… And don’t forget Wednesday evening. Everything’s all set up… We’ll talk about it… Yes, of course… See you soon.”

  When I put the phone down, I notice my mother staring at me from the photo frame on the bookshelf. I can’t remember her, it’s pointless for me even to try. My memories of her are fading year by year, just like that photograph, which shows her in her wedding dress, mouth open in a smile of delight. I think it was that smile that bewitched my father. And I think it’s because of that smile that he’s never got over her death.

  My diary reminds me that this evening I have to go and collect Gaëlle, who’s flying in from Paris. I pick up the phone and call her. I’ll come for her at nine and take her to dinner with some friends at a restaurant that was only opened last month, and to round out the evening I’ve booked a table in one of the best clubs in town. It’s only what she’d expect.

  I imagine her nodding at her mobile phone with that aristocratic pout of hers, crossing her legs in a way that’s as arousing as it’s artificial. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the embodiment of beauty and sensuality. Feminine, self-composed, able to stay in control even after an evening fuelled by coke and alcohol.

  We met in London, when I was there on a business trip. I spotted her in a club in the West End, under the coloured glare of spotlights. A tight-fitting black sweatshirt, hair gathered in a glossy ponytail. Not a single imperfection, skin like a little girl’s, full lips curled in a cute grin. She came to our table to greet an actor who was with us, and as soon as she saw me she started staring at me quite openly. When I stood up to go to the toilet, I felt a hand pulling me by my belt. She smiled at me and told me to take her away. Gaëlle never asks, she smiles. And her smile is the sweetest invitation to go crazy that you could ever hope to receive.

  “Remember to wash the car, Stefano, I need it for tonight,” I say to the garage owner over the phone before I get back to work.

  At the end of the day, usually between seven and eight, I go to the gym, it’s become a habit and I never skip a session if I can help it. The gym is the one place where I keep to all my good resolutions. I go there and lift weights, surrounded by mirrors, which appeals to my vanity. I push my muscles to the limit, making sure I reach the targets I’ve set myself. For the biceps, four sets of twenty, ten kilos each. My mind empties. I start another set of twenty, I feel pleased with myself, my thoughts are weightless, I’m regenerated.

  Before dinner, I finally meet my baby. She’s waiting for me at the back of the garage. Washed and polished for the occasion, even more gorgeous than the last time I saw her. She has a perfection that no woman, not even Gaëlle, could ever aspire to.

  And it’s in my baby that I pull up outside the hotel. Gaëlle emerges through the main door, looking every inch a diva, and the roar of the 460-horsepower engine is joined by the echo of her heels on the paving stones. She comes to me, lightly touches my face with her fingertips, and with an air of intrigue whispers, “Merci, mon cher.” Then she gets in the car, leaving me with an idiotic smile on my face.

  I’ve always let Gaëlle treat me like shit. The truth of the matter is, she drives me wild and she knows it. Self-controlled, aloof, sometimes almost mechanical, just like my Aston Martin, she knows exactly what gets me. The more elusive she is, the more I want her. She says she’ll call me back, then disappears for weeks without a trace. She’s the only woman who’s able to keep my interest alive, one of those women who have the spirit of conquest in their blood. And on that basis, we’ve struck the right balance, we’ve learnt how to get along.

  At the restaurant, I can’t take my eyes off her, and I don’t think I’m the only one. A stunning face, with the kind of casual, involuntary beauty that verges on perfection, two icy blue eyes you just can’t escape if they glance in your direction. She’s wearing bright lipstick and has a simple but classy hairdo. She jokes with my friends, letting her head fall back when she laughs, her eyes lighting up with mischief. There isn’t the slightest suspicion of a line around her eyes. She likes to joke with her girlfriends about the preventive effects of Botox: she makes it seem like an innocent game.

  “What kind of dessert do you suggest, Svevo?” she asks me in her captivating French accent.

  “Yes, go on, Svevo, recommend a little dessert!”

  Federico is teasing me, but his presence makes everything more familiar. We understand each other perfectly, sometimes all we need is a smile. We’re on the same wavelength. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am right now: that it would take an artist to paint the group at this table. Two blonde models who seem to have come straight from a painting by Degas, elegant, ageless ballerinas, and the two of us, young and attractive, smiling brazenly like sheikhs. With a bit of coke circulating in our veins we feel indestructible.

  The restaurant is luxurious and a bit unusual. At the back of the room, behind a large pane of glass, there’s a wall of rock with little circles of stones embedded in it according to some geometrical pattern, it must be some kind of Zen idea—you find those stones everywhere these days. Attractive waitresses parade nonchalantly between the tables in their gorgeous blue-green kimonos, with their hair gathered in buns, smiling at whoever’s turn it is, in this case Federico, who tells me with his eyes that he’s crazy about this place. I care a lot about the mood of the people around me.

  Gaëlle is enjoying being the centre of attention, but she never takes her eyes off me. In the car on the way to the club after dinner, she whispers a few exciting fantasies in my ear, then leans back in her seat, amused.

  “Can you stop looking at me like that?” she says, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke into the air.

  “Are you trying to provoke me?”

  “I just want to let off steam.”

  “And I want to see you dance.”

  I slip a couple of grams in her purse and tell her to be good.

  In the car park, before getting out, as usual I check that everything’s neat and tidy. She’s let a bit of ash fall on her seat, I seem doomed always to go for women who smoke. As I give my baby a little clean, Gaëlle doesn’t miss the opportunity to tease me. So I grab her by the arm and kiss her roughly. I’m about to slip my hand inside her knickers, just to make it clear that nobody jokes with me, but before I can do that she pushes me angrily back inside the car.

  From the outside I guess I’m a pretty reprehensible specimen. I like touching my baby’s steering wheel and running my fingers over the slightly rough stitches of the leather while Gaëlle’s lips move up and down without stopping. I like it when the insignificant people who are waiting in line outside the club move aside to let us pass. I like the big white leather sofas in the private area and our women, always a little tipsy, jumping on them for fun. Gaëlle dancing on the glass table and half the club watching her wiggling her hips like a professional go-go dancer. Federico letting his ear be licked by a young blonde as he knocks back one shot of tequila after the other. And me being carried away by the music, until I feel like all the others and stop being disgusted by them. When you come down to it, we’re all human, we all go crazy when the rhythm is in time with our heartbeats and the club becomes our world and we turn into one single entity dan
cing.

  3

  I’VE ALWAYS BEEN AFRAID of planes. Maybe it’s some kind of trauma from my childhood. What scares me is the thought of being trapped in a pressurized box at a height of ten thousand metres and a speed of almost a thousand kilometres an hour, without any control over what’s happening. In a situation like that, I feel it’s more necessary than ever to take charge of time, to know how much of it we’ll take to reach our destination, and exploit every last second of it. That’s the only way I can stop my mind from getting the better of me.

  It’s Friday afternoon and I’m at the airport with a group of friends, waiting to board a plane for Paris, where Gaëlle is waiting for me. We’ve been invited to a party for the French Oscars or something like that. I’m pacing restlessly between the check-in desks. I’ve put the hands of my watch five minutes back, to be in sync with the airport clocks. I’ve bought all the magazines I can, hoping they’ll help me keep my mind occupied during the two-hour flight. One hour and fifty-five minutes, to be precise.

  I’ve booked a seat by myself, an aisle seat in the fifth row, because I don’t like chatting, it makes me lose my concentration. On top of all that, Federico has to talk business with a daddy’s boy he’s been working on for a few weeks now, and has also brought along a couple of Romanian women togged out in designer clothes from head to foot.

  Going through security, one of the Romanian women is asked to remove her boots because they’ve set off the metal detector. She loses her temper, and starts sounding off about how pointless the whole procedure is. I feel embarrassed even though I’ve only just met her. Federico tries to intervene, but the bitch won’t calm down, she even turns for support to the person in the queue behind her, a young woman with a little girl asleep in her arms.

  “Do I look like a terrorist? I mean, I ask you…They’ve got it in for me, that’s obvious. Do you really think I look like a terrorist?”