About Time (8 page)

I shrug. “I don’t know, I have no idea.”

He does the textbook thing and advises rest. 

“I can go to my GP to have the tests done,” I tell him as I get dressed. “Just tell me where I have to sign to get out of here.”

“Are you in a hurry to get home?”

“Believe me, you would be, too, if you were in my position.”

“And what is your position?”

“I told you, I’m someone who doesn’t have any more time.” I doubt I’ll ever see him again. I don’t want ever to come back here. It’s a purgatory, with a smell of medicine impregnating your clothes and a line of white coats parading back and forth along antiseptic corridors. They look like angels, but they’re cold, distant, always ready to announce some dreadful news.

Through my exhausted body, time is merely a rapid,
meaningless
ticking. The end is knocking at the door, I haven’t been able to handle it, it’s brought me to my knees. Like a deadly cancer, You’ve taken possession of every cell of my existence. All I can do is surrender. And yet I feel an odd kind of strength growing inside me. The strength to say I’ve had enough, I need to get away from the office for a while. I have to take charge of what remains of my life.

O
N THE FIRST DAY
of my forced holiday, I thought I could do at least a few of the things I’d been putting off for more than a month. I wanted to go to the barber and then do a bit of shopping, but in the end I couldn’t help putting everything off again. I need another coffee, it’s my fourth today, I never even used to like it, but in the end I put that off, too, I’m just too exhausted and spend all day sprawled on the sofa, wearing only my pants.

Six hours fly by even more quickly when you just sit there in front of the television, not even managing to follow the plot of the film you’re watching. The end credits arrive and I can’t even remember the name of the main character. I have no idea when I’ll get back to the office, the director asked Elena to persuade me to extend my leave indefinitely. I’m not bothered, the thing uppermost in my thoughts is the hallucinations. That old lady who looked like my secretary, my car in ruins: they were both so real.

I’ve made an appointment with De Santis, my GP. He’s
expecting
me tomorrow morning, he told me over the phone that he’d like to do an EEG, possibly a scan. He wouldn’t commit himself to a premature diagnosis, though he did say it might be a brain 
problem, perhaps a lesion. I assume my dissolute style of life has something to do with it, I shouldn’t have overindulged in alcohol and drugs the way I have. I’m starting to see a lot of things in a new light. This apartment, for example, my beautiful penthouse of which I’ve always been so proud, courtesy of a top designer: I used to be crazy about all these weird things I spent a fortune on, but now these paintings and sculptures with their twisted shapes disturb me. They all seem like the decor for a nightmare.

At the end of the day, habit gets the better of me and I switch my mobile phone on again.

Predictably, it immediately starts ringing.

It’s a withheld number. If I knew who was calling, I might not reply.

“Yes?”

“Svevo, it’s Federico.”

A brief silence follows. “Why are you withholding your number?”

“At least you replied. What’s going on with you? You don’t pick up your phone, you don’t answer my messages. You’ve dropped out of sight. You don’t even go to the gym any more. They told me you almost died in the Turkish bath. Should I be worried?”

“Goodbye, Federico.”

“What are you doing? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, for a start, how are you?”

It’s incredible how many
how are yous
I’ve heard over the past month, all uttered in the same indifferent tone. But Federico’s
how are you
is by far the most irritating.

“I’ve had a lot of work to do, we’re about to finalize an
important
contract.” 

“Gaëlle has been trying to call you, too, she says you never answer, not even at work.”

What do they still want from me? Are they hoping I’ll give them my blessing? Or now that I’m out of the running, is everything too open and above board and therefore less exciting?

“Why, has she phoned you?”

Federico is good at evading the question. “She’s coming to Italy next weekend. She called me to find out if I’d heard from you. We want to organize something, Claude Reinardt is DJ’ing at the Premium on Friday. How about dinner? Matteo and the others want to see you, too.”

I feel like telling him to go to hell, but I hold back, I have to conserve my energy for more important battles. “I doubt I can make it, I’m otherwise engaged. A work commitment.”

“Aren’t you getting too stressed out with your work? What should I tell Gaëlle if she calls me? Maybe we can go and then you can join us later, if that’s OK with you…”

If we were actors, this dialogue alone would deserve an Oscar nomination. “OK with me? Why shouldn’t it be? Yes, I’ll join you later if I can.”

Someone has knocked at my door, what impeccable timing.

“I really have to go now.”

“OK, bye. Hope to see you Friday.”

What I hope is never to have anything to do with him again. I quickly slip on a dressing gown and go to open the door. I
recognize
her from her ponytail. She’s put dark lipstick on and is wearing a pair of white patent-leather boots that make me think of a Japanese manga character, one of those porno nurses ready to take off their clothes at the drop of a hat. It’s Donatella, my masseuse.

“Oh my God, am I disturbing you? Don’t you remember? We were supposed to be having dinner together tonight.” 

With everything that’s happened, I’d completely forgotten. “Of course,” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment. “But… didn’t we say nine o’clock?”

“I know, you’re right, I’m a little bit late. But to say sorry I’ve brought a bottle of wine, it’s the kind you really like.”

I have nothing to eat in the apartment and it’s already 9.30. I should never have invited her to dinner. It was my cock speaking.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit unprepared… You know, I haven’t been well. I fell asleep a few hours ago and there’s nothing ready. Shall we go to a restaurant?”

“No, what’s the big deal, I’ll make us a little something, you know I like cooking.”

“Are you sure?”

Her smile tells me that for her, the question of food is of secondary importance tonight.

“You know what we’ll do, then? I’ll go and take a shower and leave you completely free in the kitchen, what do you think?”

“I don’t think I can wait to have you taste a little delicacy of mine.”

I’m still in the shower when Donatella comes and knocks at the door of the bathroom. “Everything OK, Svevo?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’ll be right there.”

“All I found in the cupboard was a tin of tomatoes,” she tells me through the door. “I’ve made you some spaghetti.”

“Good for you.”

I haven’t even managed to wash the shampoo out of my hair.

We finish eating, me as quickly as I can, and I barely have time to put my fork down on the plate when I find myself swept up by her enthusiasm. She’s even more exciting naked than clothed. 
Soft and scented, she’s dying to have me inside her. It strikes me that a bit of healthy sex might help to distract me.

We collapse onto the sofa. She loosens her hair, laughing as happily as a child, but when she sits astride me she reminds me of one of those calendar pin-ups and I get very hard. I enter her with the haste of an animal, I move back and forth in a wild, primitive rhythm, desperate to come as quickly as possible, to empty myself of my anxieties, but I can’t do it, because she gets tired almost immediately, she becomes passive and yielding, and makes me feel like a rapist. “No, no more,” she begs me, wriggling out of my arms. “Are you on something tonight?”

Her reaction embarrasses me, though I’m still aroused. She’s red in the face, she can hardly breathe. “You’re incredible,” she says, rearranging her hair, “but I can’t take it any more… I have to get up early tomorrow morning, I really should go.”

According to the clock behind her, nearly two hours have gone by since we finished eating. God Almighty, in real time two hours have already passed, which hasn’t done me any favours. “I’m not feeling well,” I say. “Yes, I think it’s best if you go.”

“Oh, my God. You aren’t well. I’m sorry, where are my manners?”

“It isn’t your fault, really.”

“Look, if you like, I’ll stay a while longer, we could even carry on, I don’t mind…”

I gently put a hand on her lips to silence her. I’m still aroused by her perfume and I’m sorry to have to deprive myself of her wonderful body so soon, but I don’t have any intention of torturing anybody. I stroke her face and reassure her that she’s behaved perfectly. “I’m really not feeling well, Donatella. But we can meet another time, if you want. It was a very pleasant evening, the spaghetti was delicious.” 

Donatella returns my smile. I help her to get dressed, walk her to the door, and say goodbye.

It isn’t easy to describe what I’m living through, to go into details with sufficient clarity. De Santis, my doctor, has a lot of
questions
, he even asks me to tell him everything a second time. The story I’ve just told is grotesque, and the fact that I’m in his clinic certainly doesn’t make things any easier. I hate doctors’ clinics, I don’t find anything reassuring about them. All those drawings of the human body, those indecipherable charts, as if there was a logical explanation for everything, while I feel like a blind man groping in a room he doesn’t know.

I also tell him about You, about the fact that in my life I’ve never believed in anything that wasn’t tangible or couldn’t at least be experienced physically, and yet I’m convinced that Father Time exists somewhere, maybe in a parallel universe, and is constantly controlling its flow.

“Father Time, you said?”

He looks puzzled, but is more serious than I thought he would be.

I nod. “That’s right, Father Time.”

De Santis sighs. “You’re going to have a brain scan,” he says, with a somewhat paternal air. “It’ll tell us if there are any traumas or lesions that may have provoked an alteration in your sensory perceptions.”

He’s known me since I was a child, he looked after my mother before my family moved to Turin, I know he’s worried, even though he’s trying hard not to show it.

“Svevo, tell me the truth. Do you take drugs? Hallucinogens, LSD, cocaine, or even just a bit of grass every now and again?” 

“Joints make me overexcited, Francesco. I only do coke. A couple of times I’ve dropped a bit of acid, and this summer I had some hallucinogenic mushrooms.”

In other circumstances I wouldn’t have been so honest, but my health is at stake and I don’t care what he thinks of me.

“How often do you use cocaine?”

His professionalism, rather than any affection he may have for me, obliges him not to make any comments and to keep calm and reserved.

“Until a month ago, maybe two or three times a week,” I admit. “But I’ve stopped now, and just the thought of trying again wipes me out.” That’s no addict’s promise, I certainly don’t need to go any faster than I already am.

De Santis remains silent, I think he’s trying to restrain himself. In a context like this, any kind of reprimand would be completely inappropriate.

He asks me to follow him, the scanning room should be ready. He makes me sit on a long contraption that looks like a coffin, they immobilize me with a device that fits over my forehead and tell me to keep calm. There’s a microphone, so that I can communicate with them if I need to.

When the machine starts, I quickly slide inside the tube. The whole thing lasts about ten minutes, of my time of course, during which my ears are battered by sound vibrations in a stop and start rhythm. It consoles me to know that outside this room a group of doctors is closely examining every corner of my brain.

When it’s over, I get dressed again and De Santis walks me back to his office.

Now I’m waiting silently on my chair while my friend the doctor is at his desk, going through my results. 

At last he breaks the silence. “Svevo,” he says, his tone one of relief, “you don’t have what I was fearing. If you want my expert opinion, I’d say it was a freak incident, caused by stress, and perhaps also drug abuse. But you’ve been lucky, you haven’t suffered any visible damage. For now I can only advise you to make an appointment with a colleague of mine, his name is Giuliani and he’s an excellent analyst. I’m sure he can be of help to you.”

“I only want this thing to end as soon as possible.”

“It’ll end as soon as you realize that it’s your head that’s creating all this. It might be a kind of autosuggestion, and the only way to fight it is with will-power.”

“It’s no suggestion, Francesco, believe me. It’s real, at least as real as anything in my life until now.”

“You’re physically healthy, so the only thing I can prescribe is tranquillizers. But listen to me, make an appointment with Giuliani. There’s no shame in it. As I said, he may be able to help you.”

When I’m at the door, De Santis lets out a sigh, as if up to now he’s been holding back, and asks me about my father. “Have you heard from him lately?” His expression is grave. He knows my father and I have never been on especially good terms, that I don’t see him often and don’t have much respect for him, and I’m sure he disapproves. Like my relatives, he may have hoped we’d become reconciled over the years.

“Yes, I spoke to him on the phone…Don’t look at me like that.”

De Santis won’t let go. “At a time like this, his presence may be of help to you, have you thought of that? I’m sure he needs you, too. I’m saying this as a friend: now that you know how pitiless time can be, don’t leave things unresolved.”

I smile at him: let him believe I’ll follow his advice if he wants to. But my soul is divided into many compartments, and my father 
has ended up in the darkest and most cramped. The walls are long and narrow, and I’ve tried to take him out of there many times, but never succeeded.

When I get back to my car and make ready to plunge back into the unstoppable flow of the city, I find myself thinking that it’s done me good to talk to De Santis after all, even though I would have preferred a concrete answer, however tragic. An enemy I could fight, not just a suspicion of madness. I refuse to believe that my mind is doing everything by itself, that the hallucinations and the strange things that are happening to time are just inventions of my sick psyche. How can I get used to a perception of reality in which things and people suddenly get older, or to a strong relentless wind called time that sweeps everything away without distinction?

So here I am, stuck in an uncomfortable leather armchair, facing an elderly, white-haired psychiatrist with a vague air, who can’t even find his pen. He’s supposed to be someone who can deal with even the most difficult situations but he’s going crazy looking for a missing pen. Not what you might call an encouraging start. But I have to trust him, you’ve got to start somewhere.

“When and how did the first disturbances manifest themselves?”