“Oh, I forgot,” she says as she’s about to leave the room. “Your father phoned, it sounded important.”
That’s the last thing I need right now. “If he calls again, tell him I don’t have time.”
When I sit down at the desk, the running starts again. The desk is overflowing with sheets, documents, deadlines, I have to check my calls, the appointments I’ve missed, and as if that wasn’t enough my mobile phone doesn’t stop ringing. I need to exploit every minute, even invent others if necessary, but I have to get back on the rails as soon as possible.
If there’s one thing I’m not good at, it’s apologizing. Especially when I’ve kept Engineer Baldi, a well-known entrepreneur, waiting for twenty minutes in the café of a hotel. It’s hardly surprising that he goes off the deep end when I phone him. As he’s giving me a dressing down, I check my e-mails. If I don’t want to be overtaken by events, I have to learn to do two or three things at the same time.
We fix another appointment for tomorrow morning at nine. “Don’t mess me about,” Baldi says threateningly before hanging up. And as if that wasn’t enough, almost simultaneously, a text message comes from Federico: What are we doing tonight?
I don’t have time for his bullshit, not even to tell him to fuck off, which is what I ought to do. I’m in a car that’s travelling at three hundred kilometres an hour, I can’t allow myself any distraction, if I even just touch the wheel distractedly the race will be over. It’s pointless to mull over the past, or the feeling of disappointment it’s left me with, the bitter taste that’s gradually fading. Right now I have more important things to think about.
“Signor Romano, Righini on the phone.”
It’s Elena on speakerphone.
“You were quick.”
“I’m really sorry I was late, but it isn’t easy to eat in less than half an hour.”
My God, I’d meant it as a joke, and it wasn’t.
“Put him through, thanks. Righini, hello.”
“Hello, Romano, you pulled a nasty stunt on me this morning.”
“I tried to call you earlier to apologize. I’m really, really sorry.”
“I know, your secretary updated me. Unfortunately I don’t have much time now, I’m in the middle of a working lunch. I just called to tell you I’m leaving for Hong Kong on Thursday and I’ll be there for about three weeks, I think I told you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, of course… But weren’t you supposed to leave about the end of the month?”
“I had to bring it forward.”
“So I suppose fixing another meeting in three days’ time is out of the question?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I couldn’t tell your director about it this morning, because I only heard about it at midday myself. As soon as I get back I’ll be sure to phone you.”
“In that case, all I can do is wish you a safe journey.”
“Thank you, we’ll speak when I get back.”
I shouldn’t have missed that appointment this morning, it’s obvious Righini is only trying to gain time, maybe he’s rethinking the conditions of the sale, maybe he’s under pressure from another buyer. The deal might go belly up, and all because of what? Because one morning I opened my eyes and before I could even get out of bed an hour had already passed. Now the problem will be to tell the director. Shit, shit, shit.
“Try to find out what’s going on,” the director tells me. “Do some research, talk to people, and pray to the Lord that Righini doesn’t have second thoughts.”
His message is unambiguous: the consequences of this mess are all on my shoulders.
“Signor Romano?”
Elena has put her head in through the door.
“Yes?”
“Is it all right if I go?”
“Where?”
“What do you mean, where?” Her eyes open wide in surprise. “It’s nearly eight, we always go home now. Usually even earlier when you go to the gym. Not going today? Tired after your weekend?”
I’m more scared than I was this morning. You don’t get used to a thing like this.
No gym, no lunch, no phone calls or any of the many other things I should have done. I have to go home and get something in my belly as soon as possible.
I’ve never before skipped gym on a Monday, or got back earlier than nine. Antonio hasn’t asked any questions, but I know he doesn’t like sudden changes in the programme, and we’re going to end up paying him a fortune in overtime. I only hope this condition isn’t degenerative and that tomorrow won’t be worse than today.
I get back very late. I drop my things on the sofa and glance at the dinner my housekeeper always leaves me on the kitchen table. Usually it’s warm, tonight it’s cold.
I stick it in the microwave and set the timer for one minute, keeping my eyes fixed on the control panel.
There it is, that minute, one second after the other. This way it won’t escape me. The trick is not to be distracted, you just have to turn your head for a moment and the clock runs ahead. That means I have to live without ever taking my eyes off a watch or clock of some kind. It doesn’t strike me as a very reasonable solution.
Instead of relaxing on the sofa, as I would have done any other evening I spent at home, I try to get ahead of myself, organizing my diary, setting the alarm on my mobile phone for my nine o’clock appointment with Baldi — making sure I increase the volume so that I don’t miss its ringing — preparing my papers, getting my clothes ready for tomorrow. Finally, I collapse onto the bed without even looking at my watch. There’s no point knowing how much time I have left to sleep, I just have to sleep and that’s it.
6
AN INTERMITTENT WHISTLING SOUND. Five seconds, then silence for another ten, and so on, three or four times in succession. In my sleep, it becomes the whistle of a train about to depart.
In my dream I’m standing on a platform. The station is ultra-modern, but the train in front of me is a nineteenth-century one, impatiently belching steam. I’m waiting for Gaëlle, she’s supposed to be bringing me my luggage, but she’s taking too long and the ticket inspector is gesturing to me to hurry up.
The loudspeaker announces the departure, and people rush past me, anxious to get seats. I stand there motionless, waiting for her, but inside I can feel myself exploding with anger.
All at once, I see her emerge from among the crowd and run towards me. She’s wearing a tight-fitting bright-red tracksuit, like the ones those devils wore in the club in Paris. Her hair blows in the wind, and she’s more beautiful than ever, but there’s no sign of my case. She looks at me with her usual wicked smile, then slows down, and when we’re just a short distance from each other she says, “Svevo, you don’t have anything to take with you and you can’t leave like this. Stay with me, when it comes down to it you’re not capable of going anywhere.”
“What are you saying, Gaëlle? The train’s about to leave.”
“I see that. But without you.”
“Give me my case.”
“That’s not the problem.”
Another whistle.
“Give me my case!”
“There is no case, Svevo. There was nothing in your case.”
Yet another whistle, this time more insistent.
“Stop it, Gaëlle! Bring me my case!” I continue to shout until, groping between the sheets, I realize the whistle is the buzzing of the entryphone, the doorman must be pressing the button again and again.
I drag myself to the door, my eyes still gummy with sleep. “Who is it?”
“Antonio’s here, waiting for you, Signor Romano. Is everything all right? Do you need any help?”
Apparently I didn’t hear the alarm clock today either.