As I eat I have the feeling my perception of time is going back to normal, but it’s a false feeling, because when I look up from my plate, I realize that everybody has already finished, whereas I’ve barely touched my filet. To reassure everyone, Federico makes an ironic comment on how slow I am.
“Svevo, what’s happening to you? Do you need someone to feed you?”
The table explodes in one of those laughs that echo, and I make an effort to smile, though what I’d really like to do is kill the lot of them.
Yet another panic attack. I don’t know if I can control it this time, I’m being sucked into a vortex of anxiety. What’s happening to me? What if it isn’t time that’s going faster but me who’s slowed down? Do these people think I’m coming down from a bad trip? Who would take me seriously if I tried to explain what I’m experiencing? What if I really am coming down from a bad trip? The drugs last night. Maybe they were badly cut. Or maybe I’ve simply gone mad. Maybe that’s the way it happens, suddenly, without anybody being able to do anything about it.
Absorbed by my paranoia, I still don’t see You for what You are: not an abstract entity, but a living being, who has me by the balls. I’m champing at the bit, but You won’t let go. Maybe You’re trying to teach me a lesson and You won’t stop until You’ve brought me to my knees.
“I’m fine, I don’t want any more.” I refuse to order a sweet. I pass, as if I’m playing poker, even though my stomach is twisted with cramp and I don’t have an iota of energy left in my body.
“Shall we go?”
Gaëlle says this to Federico, not me. I guess she’s alienated by the way I’m behaving and is intent on making me pay for it. And Federico plays along with her. If he wasn’t my best friend, I’d have already given him a kick up the backside.
In the car I sit in the back, in order not to hinder their brilliant conversation. God, how I wish I was in Rome right now, independent, driving my baby, on my way home to do my own thing. But Gaëlle drives quickly, she’s in a hurry to get to her party, she’s hungry for adulation, she wants everyone clinging to her like insects to flypaper.
Forced smiles, laughing, overexcited faces. I can’t stand anybody tonight. Their snobbish, cursory nodding, their longing to be admired. There they are, those four famous faces that come to life only under the spotlights, their thoughts on the people who’ll be reading the gossip columns tomorrow, lingering over the most trivial details. The place is chaotic, people are pushing and shoving to get in through the doors. Reluctantly, they move aside to let us pass. On other occasions this triumphal entry would have amused me, especially on an evening when the flashbulbs are going off like crazy, but not tonight, I’m anxious and silent, I look like someone who’s just survived a plane crash.
At a certain point I look at Gaëlle, who’s going to want to sleep with me tonight, and panic takes hold of me again. I try to convince myself that my night with her won’t just flash by, but will actually help me to find myself again.
“You look rough,” she says, just inside the door. She’s deliberately harsh, she wants to hurt me. She thinks she looks better than me, but I’m sober enough to notice her reddened nostrils, her slightly blackened teeth, her wild eyes circled in red. I don’t have time to answer her, though, before she’s already away, somewhere in the club, where all that matters is the music which everyone except me thinks is so infectious.
A friend of Gaëlle’s I haven’t seen in a while approaches me, says hello in an ingratiating tone, and immediately launches into a rapid monologue, the subject of which seems to be the boob job she had last week. Then she stops, presumably to give me time to say something, but I don’t know for how long, the minutes flash past.
“Tout va bien?”
Her voice is so urgent, it’s almost orgasmic.
“Quelles nouvelles?”
I’m about to make a superhuman effort to answer her, but luckily another orgasmic yelp tells me she’s just caught sight of her next victim.
“Oh, Paul! So nice to see you! Ça vaaa?”
I lean over the balcony and look down. Two white marble staircases lead to the dance floor, where everyone’s going wild to the feverish rhythm of unlistenable music. On a big block in the middle, two female dancers dressed as devils are jigging about, with pink feathers cascading down from the tops of their heads. At the far end of the room, mounted like a precious stone, is an impressive rocky fountain, on which a fire-eater is blowing flames over the heads of the crowd like an angry dragon. A club worthy of this city, and at any other time I might even have reflected on how thin and insubstantial the nightlife of Rome seems in comparison.
When I turn to say goodbye to Gaëlle’s friend and leave her in the company of her new interlocutor, I realize that not only has she already sneaked away, but she’s got as far as the fountain and is dancing next to the fire-eater.
I don’t know if she told Paul about her boob job, but she must at least have said a few words to him, then gone down to the lower floor, made her way through the crowd to the fountain, jumped on one of the rocks and started to dance, all in what I perceived as a fraction of a minute at the most. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have superpowers.
I lean on the rail, I must look unsteady on my feet, I keep feeling I’m about to drown. I’m sweating, and my smell makes me feel nauseous, but so does everyone’s smell. A fetid mixture of alcohol, smoke, heavy food and chewing gum. I have to get out of here.
I see Gaëlle dancing with Federico at the far end of the dance floor, next to the private area. Now she’s getting up on the table they’ve reserved for us in the front row. Federico gives her a hand because she’s had too much vodka and she could easily lose her balance. With her arse out and her head back, she’s more provocative than usual. She needs to attract attention and she can do that better on a table. From up here they all seem so tiny, a colony of frenzied ants, and in the middle of them, there she is, Gaëlle, the queen. So proud of her little throne, a glass table, fragile and transparent.
I need to rinse my face with cold water. The toilets are behind me. Outside the Ladies, there’s an interminable queue of miniskirts and high heels.
Once in the toilet, I wipe my face with a handkerchief, then lean on the wall with a sigh. I start to feel a little bit better.
When I look up and peer into the semi-darkness of the washroom, I make out the figure of a man who’s just pinned a woman against the wall.
He’s holding her wrists above her head to keep her still. She isn’t putting up much of a struggle, her tapering fingers just seem a little slack. She’s wearing a flashy-looking ring, like the one I gave Gaëlle last year. My Gaëlle.
She bends her long leg, letting him get in where nobody can see him. They sway back and forth a bit, slowly, and I notice that the woman has a silver belt, worn low on the waist, and metal sandals with dizzyingly high heels. Just like Gaëlle. My Gaëlle.
The man’s hand moves down her bare thin arm, until it reaches her shoulder, and then again down, to her breasts. Against the blood-red wall, I now see the bouquet of feathers the woman is wearing as a hat, just like Gaëlle. My Gaëlle.
I have a better view of the man now, too. Dark jeans, white shirt, curly, unkempt hair. Just like Federico. My friend Federico.
His bum sticking out, his feet splayed, his handmade leather moccasins. Again, just like Federico. My friend Federico.
I keep telling myself it can’t be them, I saw them dancing in the private area downstairs only a moment ago. I flatten myself against the wall and creep towards the door, as if moving along a ledge. I’m dazed, I feel as if I’ve just been knocked on the head. At last I can hear what they’re saying to each other.
“Don’t be so impatient.”
It’s Gaëlle’s voice, there’s no mistaking it.
Knowing she’s in a clinch with another man wipes me out. But what’s even more disturbing is the thought that one second ago they were dancing on the other side of the club. They can’t have flown here.
“Please, Federico, not now. Not with Svevo around.”
“I beg you, I’m going crazy. Can’t you see what you’ve done to me?”
Gaëlle smiles. A man who wants her, who’d do anything to have her, even betray his best friend: it’s music to her ears.
“Just calm down now,” she insists, affectionately, reassuringly. “I want you as much as you want me, but here and now it’s crazy… You should have come without him, I told you. You knew this was going to happen…”
However unacceptable all this might be, I have no intention of walking away, or of intervening. I need to know.
“What would I have told Svevo? That I was going to Paris without him? To do what?”
“To be with me, if that isn’t too ridiculous.”
“Do you think I wouldn’t like that, don’t be absurd, it’s just that I’m afraid he suspects… Ever since we arrived he’s been very strange.”
“It’s impossible, trust me. Let me go, he could come in at any moment.”
“You’re killing me, don’t you realize that?”
From Gaëlle’s sighs, I deduce that they’re rubbing themselves against each other again, and that Federico is at the stage when you start to lose control. Anger now gives way to pain.
“You’re going to sleep with me tonight. That’s not up for discussion.” There’s an authority in his voice I hardly recognize.
“I’ll make up an excuse… Tell me your room number, and I’ll come to you.”
Now he’s the one who’s smiling. Just the thought of it makes him as excited as a little boy. There’s no woman as good at exciting men as Gaëlle.
“I’m in Room 510, don’t forget it. Five, like the happiest months of my life, the months I’ve known you. One, because I want to be the only man for you, and zero, because that’s the number of seconds I’m prepared to wait.”
Gaëlle laughs, and the sound echoes in my head like the laughter of witches in fairy stories when you’re a child. I’d like to warn Federico, I’d like to tell him just how pathetic she is, and then kick him in the balls, so I leap forward and grab the doorpost with all the strength left in me, but when I thrust myself outside the toilet, there’s nobody in the washroom. Gaëlle and Federico have vanished.
Again that feeling that my chest is in a vice, the ever more alarming sensation that I can’t control what’s happening. Time is crushing me like an insect. Maybe I’m the only ant in this crowd, the only one who doesn’t know where he’s going.
The entrance, where people were crowding in earlier, has suddenly emptied. The lights come on again, the music is over. Once again I refuse to look at my watch.
“Svevo!”
Gaëlle’s voice surprises me. She’s behind me.
“Where have you been?” Federico asks me as he helps her on with her coat. “We’ve been looking for you all evening. We thought you’d left.”
How different it all seems now, the way they talk to me and look at each other.
“Where did you get to? Do you think it’s right to behave the way you have?”
Gaëlle is in an argumentative mood, she’s even more aggressive now than she was at dinner. She takes me aside. “Answer me, don’t stand there like an idiot! Do you know it was Federico who paid the bill? I hope you’ll pay him back. I don’t understand you, you’re a different person tonight. You should take a look in the mirror, you’re behaving like a moron. Not to mention the way you made me look at dinner… I really don’t know what’s going through your head.”
Her tone is unpleasant, to say the least. I look at her, and for the first time I’m indifferent to her beauty. I’ve never seen her looking so drawn, she doesn’t even seem like the same person any more. She’s a talking, moving shadow, a nasty thought that’s best forgotten. Like the fear of time, of death, and of this night that’s so fast and yet never seems to end.
I want to go back to the hotel, I don’t care if she sleeps in the room next to mine or goes to bed with my best friend. I only want to get out of this hell.
Before getting in the car, I look Federico straight in the eyes. How dare he smile at me? But when I hear him ask me yet again, in that apprehensive, suspicious tone of his, if I’m sure I’m feeling all right, I realize I’m completely indifferent. Let him fuck her, I don’t care. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if something was really wrong?” He comes even closer, as if he’s about to rugby-tackle me, I think he’s asking me to confirm his suspicions.
“Of course I’d tell you, I’m much better now. What about you, though?” I give him a sidelong glance. “What’s the matter? You look tired. I imagine you can’t wait to get back to the hotel, can you?”
He can’t sustain my gaze any more, he doesn’t have the balls. But I don’t say anything more.
Gaëlle is more irritable than ever. “Well? Are we going?”
In this final lightning ride, all I have time to do is ruin the rest of the night for her. “Gaëlle, I’m tired. I hope you don’t mind if we see you home, then take the car.”
“Svevo, what’s got into you tonight?”
I know her, she’s on the verge of a scene.
“I’m sorry, I have a bad headache.”
This certainly wasn’t how she’d imagined our farewell. She was expecting to complain of a headache when we got to the door of my room, and to say something like, “Don’t worry, it’s all right, I’ll call a taxi.” Instead of which, I’m saying loud and clear that I don’t want her tonight. She wasn’t expecting anything as outrageous as that.
“Svevo, I swear I don’t understand you! Do you want to take me home? Do you want my car? What is it you want?”
She’s making an effort to keep calm.
“I’ve just explained, I’m very tired and I’d like to sleep alone. Let’s not make a big song and dance about it, we’ll see you home and for the sake of convenience we’ll keep the car. Tomorrow morning I’ll come and pick you up as soon as I’m awake.”
She doesn’t reply. I know her, she’s angry and she feels humiliated by the thoughtless way I’m treating her. Even supposing she did decide to come back to our hotel, I think I’ve taken away any desire she may have had to sleep with another man. What was that ridiculous business with the room numbers? I’d like to see you knock at his door now, Gaëlle, in the mood you’re in. When a woman like her is rejected, she can’t just shrug it off straight away. I’m not exactly consoled by this, but it was all I could do. When we pull up outside her building, her dismayed expression as she watches us drive away and the image of Federico angrily pressing his foot on the accelerator have a liberating effect on me, and for a moment all my anguish seems to fade.
Once I’m alone in my room, though, it comes back, more insistent than ever, and won’t leave me in peace. I take off my shirt and shoes, then collapse on the bed still wearing my jeans. I try to let my head sink into the pillow, but now that there are no more voices and noises around me, the thoughts come rushing into my mind. All I can do is start counting again: those five words I still have a little trust in.
One, two—
I’m interrupted by a loud knock at the door that makes me jump. Then another one, and yet another, like a violent hammering on my temples.
“Svevo, it’s Federico!”
What does he want at this hour of the night? I don’t have time for belated confessions or requests for forgiveness, I only want to try and relax.
“What’s the matter, Federico?”
The door is flung open and daylight floods the room.
Federico is standing there in front of me, washed and dressed and rested. Once again he stares at me, he wasn’t expecting to find me like this, a soaking wet rag drenched in tiredness.
“I’ve been knocking at your door for ages,” he says. “I was about to call the bellboy. I came to tell you we’re ready to go to lunch.”
It’s day. The light proves it.
I’m mad. The light proves it.
5
TWO NIGHT
MARISH DAYS have passed. Paris, my Paris, the most beautiful city in the world, with all its elegant buildings, suffocated me. All I ever did there was run. Run to dinner, run for coffee, run to talk to people and pretend to be cheerful and relaxed, even when I was making an effort to look at Gaëlle and Federico as if they were still my friends.
Maybe I’m at the peak of a particularly stressful period. Whatever it is, my life just isn’t the same any more, I’ve been flung into a new dimension, a reality where there only seem to be half the number of hours in the day as there were before, where, if I’m lucky, I have to be content with sleeping two or three hours a night, and my appointments and deadlines are so close together I can’t handle them.
It should be seven o’clock on Monday morning, and I’m in bed, clinging to the last moments of sleep, knowing the alarm clock will go off very soon.
Instead of which, it’s the entryphone that buzzes, insistently, as if saying, “Hurry up, Svevo, hurry up!”
I leap out of bed and stagger to the door, my eyes still half-closed. I’d turned off the heating before leaving for Paris, and this morning it’s freezing cold, the parquet floor seems like a sheet of ice, and with every step I take a shiver runs down my spine.
“Who is it?”
“It’s the doorman, Signor Romano. The driver’s here asking if you need him.”
“Of course I need him. What the hell is the time?”
“It’s ten past nine. We were wondering if everything was all right.”
I’m almost used by now to the pain I feel in my chest every time I’m told the time.
I’ve started to imagine You. I’ve given You human form, because I need a face to direct my anger at. I think of You as busy keeping things moving, making sure nothing ever stops. Father Time and his everlasting work. You’ve decided to make me skip a few stages, You’ve suddenly gone all frantic, full of fits and starts. What are You trying to do? Declare war on me? I have to tell You, I’m not someone who gives up easily. I won’t submit to this madness, I won’t screw up the things I’ve built up with so much effort over the past few years, even if I have to do without sleep, food or sex. I have no intention of throwing in the towel.
About Time Page 4