“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.”