About Time

by Simona Sparaco

  I’ve always had the feeling that when somebody’s worried about you, it’s more a matter of form, or even of self-interest, than because they really care. That’s definitely the case with Barbara. The health of one of the company’s executives is certainly not high on her list of priorities, especially when the executive in question is a cynical, selfish bachelor, and not exactly a friend of hers.

  “I’m just tired. It happens to all of us sometimes, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course it happens,” she says in a reassuring voice, but with a hypocritical gleam in her eyes. Then she smiles, and advises me to look after myself. “And don’t get too thin. You know, don’t you, that eighty per cent of the women in this office think you’re some kind of Greek god?”

  “And are you in that eighty per cent?”

  She smiles again. “No, I’m in the hundred per cent that basically hates you.”

  Beaming with amusement, she walks away along the corridor. A moment later, Elena joins me.

  “I just can’t keep up with you today,” she says, and I assume that having constantly to follow me around is starting to get on her nerves. “You were supposed to be having lunch with the director and Deputy Incerti.”

  “Yes, I know. Why? What time is it?”

  “2.30,” she says, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. “I got back from my lunch hour and came to find you. You left your mobile in your office.”

  Barbara again appears in the corridor. “You haven’t eaten either,” I say to her, trying to conceal my dismay, but she smiles, taking my statement as a joke.

  “Actually, I had a big plate of noodles. What about you? Didn’t you go with the director? I told you only an hour ago, make sure you don’t get too thin.”

  7

  I NEVER KNEW this condition existed, I never knew there was a mental disorder that could catapult a person into a reality like this. Somehow I’ve managed to get through a month of this, and I’m still alive. And I still don’t consider myself completely mad, schizophrenic or a would-be suicide.

  In these thirty long and very short days, I’ve avoided any kind of serious conversation, I haven’t been to the gym or gone out in the evening. At weekends I’ve shut myself up in my apartment to recover all the hours of sleep I’d lost during the week, though I have the feeling that doing nothing only makes time go even faster. I ignore the phone calls from friends. The only stable relationship I have is with the message service of my mobile phone. I’ve never talked so much to anyone in all my life, although all I do is record trivial things to remind myself that I have to remember them. I’m struggling to keep my head above water, to save face and my career, but today I really think I touched bottom, and if I don’t make an effort to come back up I’ll soon be forced to ask for help.

  It was about lunchtime and I was in my office, I felt as if I was suffocating, the air was becoming unbreathable. After a while, I started to lose concentration, my eyes were smarting with tiredness. Elena kept throwing me sympathetic glances, as if to say, “Go home, please, I can’t bear to see you in this state.” Over the past month, everybody at work has started looking at me the same way. And the director is unrecognizable, he’s like someone in mourning: from a work point of view, I’m the equivalent of a son to him.

  I decided to follow Elena’s tacit advice, I said goodbye to those I needed to say goodbye to and left, switching off my mobile. I asked Antonio to take me to the gym. He seemed happy to know that at least for one evening he’d get back home and see his wife earlier than he’d thought.

  I wasn’t in the mood to start lifting weights, all I wanted was a massage from Donatella, my favourite therapist, and a quick sauna.

  “Where have you been keeping yourself, Svevo?” she asked, greeting me with one of her big smiles.

  “I’ve been working too hard, I need one of your massages to feel human again.”

  She kept smiling at me all the way to her room. Once inside, I tried to undress as quickly as possible, she switched off the light slightly impatiently and then whispered excitedly in my ear, “At last, Svevo. I was afraid you wouldn’t come any more.”

  I touched her lips with my finger and begged her to give me the kind of massage that makes you lose all sense of time.

  She nodded, and started with my feet, as sensually as ever. Little undulating circles, which in less than no time reached my buttocks, where she lingered only for a few seconds, before climbing gently, but quickly, to my shoulders.

  I’d hoped, in closing my eyes, that at least this massage would last long enough to relax me, but after not even twenty minutes—of my time—Donatella had already finished.

  “How about a nice Turkish bath?” she whispered in her friendliest Roman accent.

  She’s beautiful, Mediterranean, sensuality personified. A pity about her heavy make-up, which makes her look vulgar, and about that black ponytail that’s pulled back so tightly it makes her look as if she’s had a facelift. I’ve only slept with her a couple of times, and in normal circumstances would gladly have repeated the experience now.

  She kissed me on the lips. “If I could, I’d keep you company,” she said, putting her ointments away.

  With an instinctive gesture I grabbed her by the ponytail and kissed her roughly. She pulled back. “I can’t, I’m at work. Why don’t you invite me over for a little supper sometime? I’ve almost forgotten where you live.”

  I noticed I was getting an erection. It was a relief to know I still could.

  “What do you say, Svevo? How about the day after tomorrow?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “Don’t stand me up…”

  “I’m not that mad.”

  Then she walked me to the Turkish bath, arranged the towels next to the washbasin and said goodbye. “You know what you have to do. Ten minutes, then take a cold shower, and if you want to, repeat three or four times. See you the day after tomorrow, darling!”

  So I made my way through the steam and lay down on one of the marble steps. As soon as the heat enveloped me, I started to feel pleasantly relaxed.

  Immediately afterwards I lost consciousness.

  When I came to, three or four pairs of eyes were looking anxiously at me. My legs were being lifted in the air by the secretary, Donatella was pressing a cold cloth on my forehead and the bodybuilding instructor was ordering a young boy to bring some water and sugar.

  “How do you feel? Donatella asked, anxiously.

  “Fine, what happened?”

  “You collapsed,” the instructor said, with a frown. “It’s lucky we noticed in time. You spent fifty minutes inside a Turkish bath… It could have killed you.”

  Fifty minutes. My heart started pounding. I had to get dressed and go home.

  Fifty minutes. I kept thinking about the tragedy I’d narrowly avoided, at the same time as insisting that I wanted to go and assuring everybody that I felt better. “Are you sure you feel all right?” Donatella asked, still pestering me with her cold cloth.

  “Perfectly all right.” A few minutes more and I’d have died in the corner of a Turkish bath. And all because fifty minutes for my body no longer correspond to fifty minutes in my mind. What a stupid end.

  I got home at ten, but for once You weren’t what was uppermost in my thoughts. I have the impression I’m doomed to remain motionless, like a disenchanted spectator, while my life is going downhill and no one can do anything to stop it. When the spotlights are turned off, darkness will invade everything. The mere thought of the negation of ourselves is chilling.

  First, an infinity of emotions, life in all its overwhelming intensity, then suddenly nothingness. A body huddled in a corner, hidden by the steam of a Turkish bath, and someone picking it up, almost with horror, and stuffing it in a big plastic bag like any other piece of rubbish. The end of everything. And not even knowing how the people who gather for your funeral will behave. The fear that nobody might be experiencing genuine grief, nobody will have the feeling as they make their way h
ome that part of them has died along with you, that nobody will think you’re irreplaceable. And it can happen just like that, in an instant. You look around and thirty years are nothing but a handful of memories, and the other thirty to come, even assuming there are thirty, look set to go by even faster. Tomorrow, I could wake up already old. I wonder if my last thought will be of You. Deep down there’s only oblivion, and it’s never before seemed so overwhelming tome. It’s poked its head out, and however absurd it may seem, nobody can hope to escape it.

  Drring, drring.

  It’s the penetrating ring of my new alarm clock, the one I bought when I realized I couldn’t keep letting the doorman wake me.

  It’s 6.30, and my race is about to start.

  My meeting with Righini, who’s just got back from Hong Kong, has been fixed for midday, so I can at least find a few seconds to devote to the mirror.

  It turns out not to be such a good idea. I look like a mess, my face is pale and emaciated. I must have lost a few kilos, which doesn’t cheer me up at all.

  As I comb my hair, I think again about my Aston Martin, I haven’t seen her since before Paris and I’m starting to miss her. She represents everything my life was until not so long ago: an unconscious race. Always a few friends or a pretty woman on board, me throwing the keys to a valet outside some exclusive club or other, a crowd of people stopping to watch us. It’s in homage to these memories that I decide I’ll steal a few seconds today to drop by the garage and say hello to my baby.

  The garage is dark, especially early in the morning when the shutters haven’t been completely raised and the light gives out before it gets to the far end. I step carefully, searching for her among the many parked cars, and my mounting sense of expectation makes me want to take her away, to go for a ride in her.

  There she is, a black shadow calling to me through the air damp with the smell of tyres and fuel. I keep walking, admiring her from a distance, but then stop abruptly when I realize that where my baby should be there’s nothing but a heap of dusty scrap metal.

  There must be some mistake.

  No mistake, that’s my number plate.

  What the hell kind of joke is this? I feel faint. I take a step forward, then another one, five very slow steps that take me into her decaying presence.

  Not even a fire or an act of vandalism could have reduced her to that state. She seems to have aged a thousand years, as if she’d been abandoned in some remote part of the world. She’s in pieces, completely covered in dust, her wheels askew, her bodywork dented, her leather interior torn to shreds: who could have done something like this?

  “Stefano!”

  The garage owner comes out of his lodge, almost scared. “Signor Romano, what is it?”

  “My Aston Martin! What the hell happened to her?”

  Stefano turns pale. “Nothing, Signor Romano, absolutely nothing.”

  Like hell, nothing. “Come and see!”

  We hurry through the garage, me in a panic and Stefano worried about an incident he can’t even explain.

  “Who touched her?” I scream at him. “Who the hell touched her? She’s a collector’s item, don’t you realize that?”

  “Signor Romano, please, let me just see…I don’t understand.”

  There she is. There at the far end. Her silhouette stands out against the white wall, in the almost luminescent darkness. She looks newer than ever. Not a scratch, not even a speck of dust.

  I’m as embarrassed as he is, although he heaves a sigh of relief and looks at me in a daze.

  “I’m really sorry,” I stammer. “It’s just that… I don’t know… I can’t have looked properly. It was all… Let’s just forget it, I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t know what to say. He goes to the car and takes a closer look at her. “Do you want me to keep her covered with a sheet?”

  She’s perfect. He walks round her twice, then stops.

  “What exactly did you see?”

  “I must have made a mistake.”

  “Can I go now?” he asks, discomfort in his eyes.

  “Yes, go. And again, I’m sorry.”

  The situation is getting worse.

  The shock has drained me of all energy. I open the car door and collapse into the perfectly intact seat. I hunch over the wheel, my hands sweating. I caress it as I used to do, almost as if saying hello to it. I let out a first, impatient sob. There’s no point holding it back, because others will come, they’re lining up in my throat, ready to come out, one by one, without my being able to do anything to stop them.

  When I look up, between my tears I see a figure watching me from a distance. I try to bring it into focus.

  The figure sways towards me, until I recognize the curly beard.

  “Signor Romano? Are you all right?” It’s the voice of Antonio, my driver.

  I feel as if he’s just caught me stealing or doing something unmistakably obscene. I quickly wipe my tears and try to regain my composure. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Now I feel like laughing. “No, I’m not,” I say with a bitter sneer. “But who can say they’re really fine?”

  “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

  “There’s no point.”

  “Do you want to talk to someone?”

  “The two of us have never before said anything except good morning, the name of a street and goodbye,” I say, curling my lips in regret.

  Antonio listens tome without understanding. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks, a tad embarrassed.

  “There’s no one who can really help me. Just tell me what time it is.”

  “It’s lunchtime,” he tells me, handing me my mobile phone. “Your secretary called several times. I didn’t want to disturb you, so I took the liberty of answering. She seemed very agitated. Apparently you had an appointment with somebody called Righini? What should I do? Take you back to the office?”

  It’s the end. What a stupid fucking end.

  8

  THE DIRECTOR comes into my office, so furious that Elena sneaks away in fright. He slams the door behind him, then turns to look at me, and for a few moments he stands there, completely silent.

  Then he explodes.

  “Have you gone completely mad?”

  “I’m really sorry,” I stammer, “there was an accident.”

  “Is missing two appointments in a row with the major shareholder of Benefil what you call an accident? Unless you ended up in the morgue, I don’t accept any excuses.”

  His eyes are overflowing with contempt.

  “It’ll never happen again,” I promise. No sooner are the words out than I regret them.

  “You’re making me lose patience, Romano! You have no idea of the embarrassment you caused us this morning. Do you know what Righini said before he left, after waiting three quarters of an hour?”

  I keep quiet.

  “Of course you don’t, because while Righini was slamming the door in our faces you were fast asleep! And you didn’t even deign to answer your mobile!”

  He manages to make me feel really inept.

  “You’re completely unreliable,” he continues, his tone calmer now, almost detached. “Look at yourself, your shirt’s always creased, your tie’s twisted, you haven’t shaved. Not so long ago, you were famous for your sharp, intelligent answers, now you never seem to know what to say. Those rambling speeches and long pauses are becoming unbearable. You aren’t even the shadow of the young man I knew a few years ago.”

  Those rambling speeches and long pauses. So that’s how I seem to people: slow, lost, adrift.

  The director begins silently pacing the room, casting a clinical eye on even the most insignificant of details. My desk has never been so untidy, I have no idea how many files and magazines have piled up over the past few days, my coat hangs indolently over the armchair, and my briefcase is open, its contents spilling onto the floor.

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” he asks me. “At least tell
me if something serious has happened to you.” It’s paradoxical that the only thing that could make him feel less anxious would be if I was sick.

  I don’t know what to say. For the first time in his presence, I want to bow my head, like a pupil who hasn’t done his homework confronted by an impatient teacher.

  “You don’t have a family,” he continues, “a wife, children. I can only assume it’s a health problem. Is someone not well? Give me an acceptable explanation, Svevo, you owe it to me, I wouldn’t like to be forced to take action.”

  I still don’t have any answer for him. He’s very insistent, and I don’t have enough time. In the end I decide to take the easy way out. “I’m fine,” I assure him. “I’m just going through a difficult time. I can’t really talk about it, just give me the chance to put things right.”

  “You’re mixing your private and professional lives, Romano,” he says, a hint of impatience in his voice. “And now you want to put things right. For more than a month you’ve been haunting this office like a ghost. Always late, tired, distracted, negligent. You’re gradually losing the respect and trust of the people who work with you.”

  I imagine Barbara, with her thin lips and pinched nostrils, saying to him, “He doesn’t fit in with our plans, sir. Get rid of him.”

  “There are some things that can’t be put right,” he goes on. “That’s the way the world is, take it or leave it. You’re young, you’re good, you still have time to change your ways.”

  The director picks up my coat disdainfully with his fingertips and hangs it on the rack. I’m transfixed, watching him as he rubs his hand with the usual disinfectant wipe. Then he lights a cigar, sits down in the armchair, and, with his mouth full of smoke, orders me to take a holiday.

  I try to reply, but he doesn’t give me time.

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, it wasn’t advice. I don’t want to see you in this office for at least a week. You put me in a difficult position with Righini this morning. I can’t let you cause me any more problems.”