About Time (2 page)

A
STEAMING CUP OF COFFEE
and a telephone number, written on what looks like a pair of knickers: that’s the visiting card I find next to my empty bed the following morning.

It’s seven o’clock, although my watch says 7.05. I always put it forward by five minutes to make sure I arrive on time, or even in advance. I’ve always been particular about getting ready in the morning, that’s why I wake up two hours before I start work. There are things I like to do calmly: choosing my clothes and making sure the colours match, having my breakfast, reading the newspapers.

By 8.30, according to my watch, my driver, Antonio, is
waiting
for me outside my building. My baby, a dark-grey Aston Martin Vanquish, is in the garage, I’ll be using it tonight. It’d be too restless for the morning traffic—and besides, with Antonio driving, I can get stuff done on the way to the office: organizing my day, checking my e-mails, looking through a few documents.

Our company’s head office is in a period building overlooking the Tiber. Paola, the switchboard operator, greets me at the door, a bit embarrassed as she furtively closes the fashion magazine
she’s been leafing through. I remember she was planning to start a diet, so I tell her she must have lost a few kilos because she’s looking really good. Predictably, she reacts with a big smile.

The deliveryman has just brought in a package of disinfectant wipes for the director. I tell Paola to make sure it corresponds to the order. The director couldn’t live without his disinfectant wipes. He’s declared war on germs and bacteria, it’s a kind of obsession, an extreme form of hypochondria, even though he’s an intelligent, far-sighted man, a real bulldog. I’m due to speak to him later about those building permits.

Now my secretary Elena comes up to me, two dark,
sympathetic
eyes beneath an impeccable bob. She looks much younger than she really is, which is about thirty. “Don’t forget your appointment at ten for the Righini business,” she tells me as we enter my office.

My eye falls on her wristwatch, and I smile: she’s decided to adopt my trick of putting it forward by five minutes, just to keep us in sync. She’s already opened and closed the windows to let a bit of air into the fanatical tidiness of the office: a spacious mahogany desk, two elegant ostrich-leather armchairs. Her efficiency is a good match for my concern with perfection.

“They’ve already called more than once, the names are on your desk. Oh, and Signora Campi was looking for you a few minutes ago…”

She’s barely had time to mention her name when Barbara Campi, the marketing director, comes in.

“Don’t bother to knock,” I say, greeting her with an ironic smile, then give Elena a little nod. She leaves us alone and I sit down behind my desk.

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 the 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.

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.