About Time

by Simona Sparaco

  The woman with the little girl is unfazed. In a calm, seraphic tone of voice she replies, “You can’t even say for certain that people who look like terrorists are actually terrorists.”

  The Romanian woman is taken aback, she certainly wasn’t expecting an answer like that, but she quietens down and takes off her boots.

  I look away, and my eye falls on the little girl the woman in the queue is holding with such care. The child is probably only about one, or maybe a little older, and has just opened her eyes, awoken by her mother gently stroking her hair. Still half-dazed, she allows herself to be put down at the request of the security staff, then waits patiently for her mother to collect the luggage and take her in her arms again.

  The woman must be about the same age as me, judging from the skin on her face, the maturity of her expression, her eloquent eyes. I wouldn’t call her beautiful, but there’s something attractive about her long neck, the elegant way she holds herself. She has red hair, a haze of red hair, freckles on her face and between her breasts, large smooth lips, clear-cut features, prominent cheekbones. Her eyes have an undefined colour similar to those of the little girl she’s holding in her arms. And the little girl herself is almost insanely beautiful. She’s fallen asleep again, cradled by the devoted love her mother gives off like a perfume, a scent of milk and tenderness that overwhelms me on the escalator.

  We head for the gate. Federico walks ahead quickly, along with the rest of the group, while I drop behind, still watching the woman and the girl. “Come on, Svevo, get a move on,” he calls to me, moving away.

  The woman is walking slowly, her daughter’s little legs dangling by her side. To that sleeping little creature, her mother is a universe, her broad shoulders are the limits of space. She whispers sweet words to her, in a reassuring tone. Those that reach me evoke a jumbled series of impressions: the hay in a stable, a juice stain on a worn tablecloth, an embrace in the dead of night, a hand passing through sweaty hair.

  I think I hate children. Basically, they’re just little parasites, never satisfied with what you give them. The fact is, I can’t bear the idea of someone depending totally on me, like a dog. Children die if you don’t feed them, cry if you shout at them, copy you even when you behave like an idiot. The children I’ve never had would probably have been little monsters.

  Federico stops in front of a poster advertising an expensive watch. “This is your next present to me,” he says ironically, and for a moment I lose sight of them. Then, just as I’m about to walk right past them, I see them again. They’ve stopped by a postcard stand. For an instant, a slight but disturbing jolt spreads through my chest like hot liquid: the woman with the red hair, now holding a postcard in her hand, notices me and gives me a rapid glance which makes me feel naked. She has a serious expression on her face, but her eyes are smiling, as if they were speaking an unknown language.

  “Did you hear what I said? You could easily afford this. Come on now, don’t be stingy!”

  Almost without realizing it, I’ve come level with Federico, who gives me a humorous slap on the back and says, “Hurry up or we’ll miss the plane.”

  By the time we get to our gate, which is B10, I’ve lost sight of them again. I don’t even know why I’m so determined to see them, the woman isn’t really my type. I’ve never liked red hair, or women over thirty with lines around their eyes, or even the faded colour of the sweater she’s wearing. I’m the kind of person who cares about such things. And anyway, I have a plane to catch, and my fear to keep under control.

  “Your attention, please. Alitalia flight Z245 to Paris is now boarding. I repeat: Alitalia flight Z245 to Paris is now boarding.”

  The hostess’s words are delivered in such a husky, sensual voice that I’m actually distracted for a while. The girl is quite a looker, too: if she went into the pilot’s cabin, she’d probably cause the instrument panel to seize up. I’m just getting to my feet when the woman with the little girl in her arms once again appears ahead of me. She’s moving quite slowly, and I suspect she’s afraid of waking the girl. I offer to help her with her luggage but she thanks me and says she’s fine, she doesn’t need any help. As a courtesy, I pretend to be touched by the sleeping child, give her a very forced smile, and wish her a pleasant journey. And now suddenly everything slows down, and my attention is caught by an apparently insignificant detail: the little girl rubbing her angelic face against the woman’s neck, as if looking for a shelter in which to sleep more soundly. I’m troubled, almost annoyed, so I grab my bag and push forward as much as I can.

  A moment later, it all passes. I’m swallowed up by the flow of the queue at the boarding gate, and the woman disappears among the other passengers.

  Once on the plane, a bigger problem awaits me: confronting my anxiety, which is starting to increase at an unacceptable speed. My first instinct is to get off, I’m sure we’re heading for a disaster, we’re going to crash, I can’t breathe. I imagine tomorrow’s headlines: Sixty Passengers and No Way Out. There’s my name in capital letters, with the word Dead next to it. Svevo Romano is dead. The plane crashed in the Alps, they found my body still sitting in its seat with the belt fastened. Some are starting to speculate about the circumstances of the accident, my lovers mourn, remembering our nights of sex, my mood swings, how much of a bastard I could be. Some even say: When you come down to it, dying was the only thing he still had left to do.

  I feel as if I’m going mad, and yet on the surface everything’s fine. I’d like to beg the hostess to let me off, but I don’t have the guts. All I can do is resort to one of the things I always use to ward off bad luck.

  I’m obsessed with the number five, although obsession isn’t quite the right word. I call it my joker, the thing I use to overcome small glitches on a journey, when a valve cracks and the whole mechanism seizes up. It doesn’t happen often but it happens, and five is a ritual that comes to my aid, like a prayer. Before sitting down in my seat I count to five. Once seated, trying not to attract attention, I tap the little table in front of me five times, and then, almost childishly, repeat the number five, five times, as I force myself to fasten my seat belt.

  I clear my head and try to think rationally. The flight is only one hour and fifty-five minutes, I keep telling myself. I’ve planned every second and now I’m ready to close my eyes and take off.

  One hour and fifty-five minutes.

  “We would like to show you some of the safety features of this plane.”

  One hour and fifty-five minutes.

  “An oxygen mask will automatically fall from the compartment above your heads.”

  One hour and fifty-five minutes.

  “Cabin crew, prepare for take-off.”

  One hour and fifty-five minutes.

  We’re in the air.

  Now at last the warning light goes out, which means I can loosen my belt. I even start to feel a bit more relaxed. I gradually ease my grip on the arms of my seat. We’ve pierced the sky at high speed and now, as we gain height, the plane even seems to have slowed down.

  Outside the window, the sky is so dark, it’s swallowed up all the stars. I have to ignore the aisle to my left, which becomes increasingly narrow and oppressive.

  I’m getting ready to devote twenty minutes to my first item of reading material, as planned, when the light goes on again unexpectedly.

  Apparently, we have to fasten our seat belts again, even though there hasn’t been the slightest touch of turbulence.

  I turn to Federico and ask for an explanation. His answer is worse than a death sentence.

  “We’re landing,” he says. “We’ll be in Paris in ten minutes.”

  We’ll be in Paris in ten minutes.

  Paris. In ten minutes.

  It’s not possible. One hour and fifty-five minutes. I haven’t even had time to open my first magazine and we’re already about to land.

  “Are you joking? What did you say we’re doing?”

  “What do you mean? Don’t mess about… We
’re arriving in Paris.”

  It isn’t a joke, the plane really is losing height, my ears are getting bunged up. One hour and fifty-five minutes. How is it possible? My heart is beating faster, the plane itself seems to be going faster. It descends, it keeps descending, and I have the impression that everything around me has inexorably speeded up.

  At first I think it’s one of the effects of fear: I know time and space can be distorted when I look at the world through the lens of my anxiety. I remember a sentence I read in some book or other: “That which is far in time appears imminent, there is only the present.” But then all it takes is a moment when you start to lose control and nothing matters any more, except the instinct for survival. And this moment comes without warning, when I realize that time going crazy like this can’t be the result of my mind, it’s too real, it’s actually happening. I unfasten my seat belt and leap to my feet.

  One hour and fifty-five minutes. What happened to all those minutes?

  “No!” I scream.

  One of the hostesses comes to my aid, a blonde girl with glasses, who looks even more scared than I am. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll hit her, or that I plan to throw the whole plane into a panic, or open the emergency door.

  It’s pointless, I can’t regain control. The girl looks at me indulgently, she’s talking to me, but I can’t make out what she’s saying, her voice sounds weirdly distorted. The passengers are looking at me pityingly. Some have even risen from their seats. Federico is dismayed and embarrassed at the same time, he’s never seen me in this state. “Svevo, what’s happening to you? We’re landing. There, look, we’re almost on the ground. Calm down, we’ve arrived in Paris.”

  The minutes and seconds are getting all mixed up and he’s asking me to calm down. The noises fade. I see the stewardess’s lips moving, but can’t hear what she’s saying. All I can hear now is my own breathing, which gradually slows down, until I surrender to the push of her slender arms.

  “There’s no danger,” I hear her distorted voice say, and then I feel the plane touch down, it taxis for what seems like a few seconds, then brakes suddenly and comes to an abrupt stop.

  4

  I CAN’T MEASURE THE TIME it takes us to get off the plane, reclaim our luggage and take a taxi. To me it’s like a few minutes, rushing past like mice running from a flood.

  I watch in dismay as the road speeds past the window. I wish the asphalt didn’t look that way. Like the surface of a disc, a stream of grey lines without end. Maybe that’s how it would seem to a racing driver if he was able to turn and look at it for a moment in the middle of a race, and yet according to the speedometer we aren’t going fast at all, in fact we’re going even slower than the permitted limit.

  I keep telling myself it’s just tiredness, I try to console myself with the thought that a comfortable suite awaits me at the hotel and I’ll soon be sinking into a hot bath. The bellboy will be impeccable, as always, and as soon as he’s wished me a good stay, this horrible feeling will immediately disappear.

  We’ve arrived.

  Again that thump in the chest. The journey only lasted a few minutes. I don’t dare look at my watch, it was seven o’clock a moment ago, I have no desire to discover that it’s already nine.

  I give five little knocks on the door, lick my lips five times, count five steps and start again.

  One, two, three, four, five.

  One, two, three, four, five.

  A way for me to catch my breath.

  Federico and the others don’t seem to be paying any attention to my difficulties, maybe they think I’m still trying to work off my fear of flying. He knows I don’t like talking about my phobias, he’d never guess I’d actually like to be up there still, on that plane. Still, because it’s not normal that we’re already at the hotel.

  With every step I take, I feel myself getting out of breath. I’d like to scream to everyone to stop. Slow down, why are you rushing like that? When did the porter take our luggage? And now where’s he going so quickly? The concierge didn’t even welcome us, he’s like a broker spewing out numbers in the middle of the afternoon. The lift zooms up to the top floor, the doors open wide, am I the only one who feels as if they’re throwing us out into the corridor? Before I set off towards my room I throw a last glance at Federico, my friend Federico, hoping he can see the panic in my eyes and decipher the messages I’m sending him. Try to help me, Fede, if you can.

  “Go ahead, we’ll catch you up,” Federico says to the others, then takes me by the arm and draws me aside into a little sitting area off the corridor.

  “Svevo, what’s happening to you?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but he interrupts me as if he’s been waiting too long.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s happening? Don’t you feel well? Is there anything we can do?”

  I try to think up some explanation, but he’s impatient. “If this is some kind of panic attack, I have tranquillizers.”

  “It’s all right.” I give up and let him walk me to the door of my room, letting him believe that the thought that I could take a tranquillizer if I wanted one has managed to relax me.

  The room is as I expected to find it, which ought to reassure me: the blue carpet, an infinity of mirrors, everything perfect down to the smallest detail. Gaëlle and I will have a good time here tonight. I try to abandon myself to thoughts of that. The bed looks incredibly comfortable. I love pillows and there are as many as I want. It’s still too early to get ready, so I can just collapse in the middle of these pillows and wait for everything to return to normal. Everything’s under control, I keep telling myself, I’m just a bit tired.

  There’s a knock at the door. The porter must have forgotten an item of luggage.

  I go to open it, and there’s Federico, already dressed for the evening, staring at me with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Haven’t you changed yet? It’s nearly ten. Gaëlle will be here any minute now. She said not to keep her waiting.”

  Again that thump in the chest. I run my hand through my hair.

  “Are you tired? Did you fall asleep?”

  How can I tell him I thought I’d only come into this room a few minutes ago? How can I explain that I wanted to take a bath more than anything else in the world and thought I had at least two hours to spare? There’s no way, I can’t even explain it to myself.

  “Well, you might as well go like that. You don’t look too bad, though you could comb your hair a bit… Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  Oh, yes, I’m all right. Yes, I’m perfectly all right. Apart from the fact that I have the impression I’m about to die at any moment. And apart from the fact that ever since I got on that damned plane my perception of time has turned upside down, I feel dirty and sweaty, and I have a premonition that I won’t even have time to wash my hands. Maybe it’s the drugs, Fede, we’ve taken too many of them over the past few years, there’s no getting away from that, and now I’m paying for it, I’m paying the full price. Or maybe this is the end, maybe I’m dying and before you die time goes faster to tell you that if there’s anything you wanted to do in your life you’d better hurry up about it. But how can I tell you all this, my friend? Stop, at least give me time to try.

  All at once I find myself in the car with Gaëlle, without having been able to do anything to prevent it. She’s quite excited, happy to see me, and a wave of nausea takes me by the throat.

  “Well, guys, how was the flight?” she asks, as she puts her foot down on the accelerator of her brand-new Mercedes.

  I’d like to scream at her to let me out, but my mouth stays tightly shut.

  “Everything was fine,” Federico replies.

  Gaëlle lightly touches my knee with one hand and looks at me hesitantly. “And you, darling? You look so pale.”

  All I can do is downplay the whole thing. “Everything’s fine,” I assure her.

  She’s wearing a draped black dress with a silver belt worn low on the waist, she looks like
a Greek heroine, or rather a goddess, with her feet well planted on the ground in a pair of sandals with dizzyingly high heels. She’s also wearing a weird little hat: a bouquet of feathers, like a coloured breath that has come to rest on her black hair, held in one of her most sophisticated hairdos. At any other time, I’d just have to look at her to regain my balance. Help me, Gaëlle, if your beauty can’t do it, I really don’t see what else can get me out of this nightmare.

  “Everyone’s there tonight, Svevo. You can’t imagine the people who phoned me to ask for an invitation!”

  I nod, feigning enthusiasm, and now we’re already slowing down to look for a parking space.

  The restaurant is packed, as usual. Everybody who matters in Paris is here, and many of them are desperate to say hello to us. And yet I feel like a goldfish in a bowl, with these people gawping at me through the glass like wide-eyed children. The world is all distorted, but I can’t let this madness get the better of me, I can’t allow it.

  “Alors, ça va, Svevo?” It’s Matthieu, a crazy painter in a gaudy striped jacket who probably thinks he’s original. He calls himself the last of the abstract painters, he’s actually just as much of an idiot as anyone else.

  “You’re here, too… C’est magnifique!”

  And here’s his muse, Charlotte, five foot three of femininity. On any other occasion I would have rattled off one of my usual compliments, but not tonight, tonight I don’t feel like talking. Wherever I turn there’s someone smiling, expecting something, a greeting, a joke. There are quite a few people here who might be useful to me in my business, but I can’t say anything, I seem to have left all my enthusiasm on that plane.

  I feel embalmed, the city is moving around me unaware of my anguish. Meanwhile, Matthieu is deafening me with his observations, which don’t seem to follow any logical thread. Gaëlle has ordered for the two of us, and a second later she tells me my filet has already—already—arrived.

  From the little I’m able to understand, I get the impression they’re all talking rubbish. I must have involuntarily raised my eyes to heaven, because Gaëlle throws me a reproving look, she can’t stand my impatience, tonight of all nights she really wants everything to be perfect.