About Time (13 page)

I surrender. She makes me turn on my stomach and sits astride me. “Do you want me to scribble on your back?” I feel the cold tip of the marker on my neck.

“But if you do it there I’ll never be able to read what you write!”

“That’s the best part of it!” she replies, moving her marker without my being able to see anything.

“That’s enough now,” I say, leaping up suddenly, and again I rugby-tackle her, simulating the noises of a maddened animal. I hold her tight, while she struggles, still laughing. We end up making love once again. It’s better every time. We settle into it, and it’s so simple, the way we move, the way we give each other pleasure. Finally, sated and satisfied, we lie in each other’s arms, two twins in their mother’s womb, and stay like that, suspended, for all the time we need.

In the middle of this tranquil oblivion, all at once she breaks the silence: “I have to call Giulia’s father, I’m an awful mother.”

“You’re wonderful,” I reassure her. And I really do think that as she talks on the telephone to her little girl, whispering tender promises to her.

“I have to pick her up tomorrow morning at eight,” she says after hanging up. “Do you realize how much time we’ve spent here? It’s Sunday.” 

The first reference to time since we sank onto this bed. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t even know what time it is, which month we’re in, and I don’t even care.

“I’m hungry, and we’ve emptied the fridge.”

“Do you want to go out?”

“No…” she moans, stretching. “I’d be fine with a pizza.”

“There’s a place just near here, I can go down and get something. Will you wait for me here?”

I grab a tracksuit from the wardrobe. I feel completely devoid of strength, I’d never go out if it wasn’t a matter of life and death.

She laughs and sticks her head under the pillow. “Let’s enjoy this last night,” she says, her voice muffled. I leave the room, thinking I don’t like the word
last
.

As I go down in the lift, then walk along the street, then go into the restaurant and order the pizzas, then sit at a table waiting for them, all I keep doing is smelling my hands, lingering over her perfume to convince myself she exists. She’s waiting for me in my apartment, I tell myself.

When I get back, noisily closing the door behind me, the first thing that surprises me is the unnatural silence of the apartment, then the distinct thought that I’ll go into the bedroom and realize she isn’t there, that she’s melted like a vision.

What I can’t imagine is that, beyond that door, something even worse is waiting for me.

The shelf under the bedside table has been raised. I suddenly realize that I never got rid of that bag of cocaine. Isabelle has it in her hands now. She’s standing there, completely naked, but she looks distracted, as if her mind is suddenly miles away.

“I can explain—”

Her eyes stop me dead. She drops the cocaine on the ground. I do the same with the pizzas.

“You’re an addict,” she says, looking at me in dismay.

“It isn’t mine.”

“You’re an addict,” she repeats. “No, you’re more than that… Nobody keeps a quantity like that in their home if they’re not…”

“Are you joking? Don’t even think it.”

“What is it, then?”

“I told you, it isn’t mine.”

She looks me straight in the eyes. She’s weighing up my lie, and she’s doing it with a surgical coldness.

Then she looks away and starts searching for her clothes. “I have a little child,” she says as she puts her skirt on. “As long as she’s with me she’ll never know that stuff like this even exists.”

I stand there without saying a word, crushed by the weight of my own weakness, gathered there in that plastic bag.

I know that something irreparable has just happened. Isabelle is walking out of my life and I don’t open my mouth, I don’t lift a finger to stop her. When she finishes dressing, she picks up her handbag and walks past me without even looking me in the face. At the noise of the door closing, I feel anxiety growing inside me.

I know, You’ve started racing again.

I clench my fists in order not to scream, I restrain myself from destroying everything within reach. What I do attack is that plastic bag, that insignificant relic of a distant life. I never had the courage to show myself to Isabelle for what I am: another relic, like everything around me.

The powder flies up when I hit the bag. I blow it, angrily. The world can’t go any faster than this. The only thing worse than this is death. 

But then I’m forced to change my mind. I turn to the window and see the sun, looking as if it’s wrapped in ash-grey steam, emerging from between the buildings at breakneck speed. I collapse on the bed, devoid of strength. I think of the length of my existence, the way my heart thumps when she takes my face in her hands, our breathing, so deep that it seems to fill the entire space, then I think of the age of the sun and stars, and suddenly I see them shrink in a flash, just a fluttering of wings in the immensity of the universe, and almost involuntarily I find myself bowing my head before Your omnipotence.

I
DON’T GET OUT OF BED
for two days. She hasn’t been in touch, and when I call her she doesn’t answer the phone. The only person still looking for me is Elena, my secretary, and she’s paid to do it. On the screen of my mobile I even find a call from my father, from a few days ago. He’s left me a message saying that he’s tried to contact me several times and that we have to speak, if he could he’d even come and see me himself, but he’s been saying that more or less since he brought me into the world. Then again that silence, I can sense the pride in it, even over the phone. “End of messages,” the electronic voice informs me. I can still remember when my voicemail was overflowing with requests, appointments, greetings. You just have to remove yourself from the flow to realize you’re not indispensable, quite the contrary. I have to find my way again, think up a plan to raise myself out of this abyss.

I get up. I don’t even look at myself in the mirror. I put on a pair of trousers, a jacket, and go out. I have to find her again, and discover what the hell I can do to slow down my life.

I go back to the Campo de’ Fiori. The market seems more chaotic than when I saw it with her. I rush through it to her front door.
I press the button by the entryphone. I don’t know how long I stand there waiting for an answer, a woman’s voice saying “Come up”. But there’s nothing.

Elena keeps calling me on my mobile, the way my time is racing makes her seem even more persistent. I have to switch the phone off before the ringing perforates my brain.

It’s colder today than it was a few days ago. Clouds heavy with rain are moving quickly to obscure the last slivers of sky. They’re racing, but not a breath of wind is blowing.

Maybe Isabelle is here somewhere, hidden amid the crowd in the market. She may even have passed close to me, with Giulia in her arms, and in the speed of the moment I didn’t even notice. With every step I take to look for her, another few minutes go by, flying up like splinters out of control. The confusion sets my heart pounding. I can hear my heartbeats everywhere, in my ears, my muscles, my bones. The voices merge in my head, until they become ever more cacophonous and incomprehensible. “That street there. What size? The biggest, thanks. Was it really the day before yesterday? Ten, thanks. There aren’t any cherry tomatoes… Which pasta? No, the pizza. How many kilometres? I told him I… My father would like to see… How old? I haven’t set foot… There must be one… In what context?… To lunch. I’m not there. I wouldn’t be able… How many? That moon. A piano. A pound of bananas… Onion. There are ten… Here. Pasta. Butter. Kitchen… I’m…” Enough! I put my hands over my ears, I can’t stand it any more. I can’t stand the noise of the crowd when time is racing like this.

I’d like to get down on my knees, to surrender, to beg for mercy, to know what I’ve done to deserve all this. But I stand there, stiff-backed, my feet solidly planted on the paving stones. You’ll never destroy me. 

I don’t know what time it is, but I know it’s late, because suddenly the crowd disperses, the van doors are closed, the square empties.

The sky has grown darker. Soon, in fact very soon, it’ll start to rain. I zip up my jacket and raise the collar. It’s damp, and the cold penetrates my bones like the sharp nails of an old witch. Then the first drops of rain start to fall, heavy and fast. The black sky, shaken by constant rumbling, is stormy and fascinating. For a few minutes the rain comes down with unusual intensity. And I stand alone in the middle of the square and raise my face to the sky in an act of defiance. I want to feel the force of that rain on my face, I want to be struck and scarred by Your anger.

I can’t manage by myself. I need to see her again, I have to find a way to make it up with her. I go to a bar on the square to wait for my clothes to dry out. I must look terrible, I can see it in people’s eyes.

I keep phoning her, but she never answers. In the end I decide to call Luca, our only mutual acquaintance, the only bridge still standing between us.

He answers.

He sounds a bit wary, although he doesn’t seem to know what’s been going on. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,” he says. “I’ve been very busy.”

What he means is that he didn’t like the idea of helping me with Isabelle, but now doesn’t seem the time to point that out, it would be a waste of breath. Besides, I need to be friends with him again, I need to gain his trust and get him to arrange a dinner, an excursion, anything. “It’s been a difficult time,” I say. “Getting out of the scene… You know what I mean, I can talk
to you because I know you understand. How about meeting for a coffee, or maybe we can have dinner one of these evenings…”

Immediately his attitude changes. “I can tell from your voice that you’re not well,” he says sadly. “We could have met tonight, but it’s Giorgio’s birthday and we’re going to the Prime.” He pauses for a moment, and when he starts speaking again I get the feeling he’s smiling. “I’d ask you to join us, but the last time you weren’t very friendly to him.”

I smile, too. As far as I’m concerned, the fact that it’s Giorgio’s birthday this evening and that he may also have invited Isabelle suits me down to the ground. “The Prime? I didn’t think you still liked places like that.”

“Just because I left that whole scene doesn’t mean I only go to out-of-town restaurants,” he replies, amused, but he’s in a hurry to say goodbye. God alone knows how many precious minutes I’ve made him waste.

When I hang up, Elena calls me again. I have no time for the hassles of work, outside it’s already dark. I manage to get in a taxi and rush to the restaurant. If all goes well, I might get there by the time they’re having dessert.

The last time I set foot in this place, Gaëlle was in Rome. She and I and Federico had booked a table at the back, the most isolated. Thinking back on that evening now, I can imagine the two of them seeking out each other’s hands when I wasn’t looking.

The people here are the ones I’ve known for years, have spent endless evenings with. They say hello, a little surprised, some ask what’s become of me, others ask me, “Everything all right?” My clothes are still wet, and I probably look a bit suspicious.

There’s also the risk I might run into Federico. Wednesday’s a busy night, they might have booked a table in one of these rooms. I realize it doesn’t bother me. This evening I’m here for her. I want to look her in the eye and take her away with me.

Obviously I’m not really ready to see her again. When her beautiful freckled face appears in my field of vision, I immediately freeze.

That Giorgio is talking into her ear. I doubt it’s anything amusing, but she’s smiling. Not very naturally, of course, but she is smiling. Then he pours a little wine in her glass and Isabelle pretends to be flattered, which doesn’t suit her at all. When she turns in my direction, maybe responding to the appeal in my eyes, she abruptly changes expression.

I’d like to get into her head, now that I’m doing the round of the tables, greeting people without taking my eyes off her, not even for a moment, I’d like to be able to feel what she’s feeling, know if she too, like me, is trembling inside.

Luca is surprised, but greets me in a friendly manner. We exchange knowing glances, he must have assumed I’d put in an appearance, deep down I’m still the same Svevo, the one who never gives up.

Isabelle gets to her feet, saying she has to go to the toilet, and I immediately follow her.

She realizes I’m behind her and she keeps moving quickly along the corridor. A waitress in a kimono gets in my way. “Isabelle, please,” I cry, but she doesn’t slow down.

When she gets to the door she turns, and her eyes tell me to leave her alone. But I don’t give up. I follow her into the Ladies.

A couple of girls are fixing their make-up in front of the mirror. Seeing me, they turn as pale as the powder puffs in their hands.

“Can I talk to you?”

“To say what?”

“Not here.”

She’s agitated, she begs me to leave.

“So that you can go back to the table with that man?”

Our two spectators have got their colour back and walk out without saying anything, leaving us alone.

“His name is Giorgio, he’s a good man.”

“Please, listen to me. Let me at least explain.”

“Explain then, but hurry up about it.”

I thought it would be easier, that the magic of what we’ve been through together would soften her. But time is still racing, it won’t slow down, and Isabelle is just as impatient with me as everyone else is. She doesn’t give me time to speak.

“They warned me about you,” she says, turning her back on me. “I don’t want to fall for it, I can’t afford to. We’re too different. Please go away.”

I go to her and grab her by the elbow. At last I smell her perfume, hear her breathing. I’d like to be able to kiss her once again. “You can’t believe what people say. That’s not like you.”

Isabelle is upset, impatient. “I believe what I saw,” she says, walking away. “And it’s not for me. Leave me alone, please.”

“I can’t. You’re in my blood.”

The door of one of the cubicles opens, and who should come out but Gaëlle, her sinuous body held tightly in a black sheath dress. “Svevo,” she calls to me. She looks surprised and annoyed.

Isabelle takes the opportunity to leave.

I don’t have time to stop her, because Gaëlle has already come and stood in front of me. “Have you been reduced to following women into the ladies’ toilet?” she says in that haughty tone of hers.

“The kind of place you shouldn’t even set foot in,” I say, taking out all my anger on her as I try to leave.

But she grabs me again. “Are you trying to tell me I’m not a lady?”

“A lady doesn’t use the toilet to do what you do.” I don’t have time to try and disguise my disgust.

Gaëlle grabs me by the wrist. “Wait.”

“What do you want? You should be in Paris.”

“Who is that woman?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I need to talk to you,” she insists.

“We have nothing else to say to each other.”

“Do you know why I’m still in Rome?”

Her eyes are soft, yielding, a long way from her usual
demeanour
. She’s beautiful, but decadent, like one of those expensive designer objects that go out of fashion after a while and end up forgotten in some old warehouse. I’m not interested in what she has to tell me. I finally manage to free myself from her grasp and leave the toilet. I’m deaf to her calls. I have to find Isabelle.

As I walk back along the corridor, I see, in an adjacent room, Federico and some of my old friends having dinner, surrounded by glasses of vodka and attractive women. When they see me they fall silent. Federico is embarrassed, he stands up and comes towards me. I feel as if I’ve never really seen him before now: he’s so drunk, he can barely keep on his feet.

“Svevo, listen, I… I think we ought to talk…”

I don’t know what comes over me. My arm moves of its own accord. To everyone’s amazement, I land him a punch that sends him crashing into one of the nearby tables. A plate of steamed vegetables ends up on his head, like a hat, and the woman who was eating it finds Federico lying at her feet.

The punch has attracted attention. In an instant, we’re surrounded by curious faces. Among them I see Isabelle. She looks really dejected. Giorgio is behind her. He puts a hand on her shoulder and together they walk away and disappear from my sight.

A couple of young men intervene to hold me back, but there’s no need: I’ve already vented my anger, and Federico doesn’t seem in any fit state to retaliate.

At a certain point I realize I’m not the only one staring at him mercilessly. Gaëlle is standing beside me, and there’s something diabolical and pleased in her expression.

The manager, who knows me, asks me to leave the restaurant, and he doesn’t have to insist, because I want to get out of this place as soon as possible. Maybe Luca was right, Isabelle deserves better.

A moment before getting in the taxi, I turn and see Gaëlle in the entrance. I knew she would follow me.

She reaches me in the twinkling of an eye and says, “Federico’s your friend. It’s all my fault.”

I don’t know what role she’s playing, or what her next move is, I only know that that punch wasn’t only for Federico. It was for all the sordid reasons that kept us together until a short time ago.

“Leave it alone, Gaëlle,” I reply, opening the door.

From the window of the moving car I see her rearranging her hair in front of the door, then, in a moment, she is again swallowed up by the fashionable riff-raff still proliferating behind me. Simultaneously, the telephone starts ringing. It’s Elena again. I have to answer.

“It’s your father.”

I don’t even have time to think of an excuse.

“I’m sorry, Signor Romano. He’s had a heart attack.”