I could never have imagined that this new accelerated perception of time might actually be a good thing. But the nightmare I’m living through seems to burn itself out quickly, and in no time at all I find myself lying on a bed in the emergency ward, while a bespectacled young doctor shines a light in my eyes and asks me to open my mouth wide.
“Can you speak?”
“I think so…” I reply, trying to move my sore tongue.
“What’s your name?”
“Svevo. Svevo Romano.”
“Good evening Svevo, I’m Dr Paoli. You were brought in because you weren’t feeling at all well. Can you describe what happened?”
“What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock in the evening. Why are you so concerned with the subject of time? When you were semi-conscious, you kept saying over and over that you didn’t have time. Are you afraid of being late for something?”
I don’t trust this fellow. He’s probably only just graduated.
“Just forget it.”
“I’d really like you to tell me,” he insists. “You’ll feel better, you’ll see.”
I give him a hesitant glance, then decide to try to trust him. “I don’t have any more time to live,” I confess. “I have the sensation that everything is going too fast. It’s time that’s going too fast. Is that possible?”
The doctor raises his eyebrows, and a disorientated expression comes into his eyes. “We’ll do a few tests, but in my opinion you had a panic attack. Brought on by stress, I’d say. What kind of work do you do?”
I shake my head, disappointed. “I’m an executive, but that’s not the point.”
“And how many hours a day do you work?”
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.
9
ON 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.