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?”
Here goes. “I was on a plane to Paris. I should tell you that… well, let’s just say I’m afraid of flying.”
He listens tome, nodding from time to time but never interrupting. All at once, he starts looking at his watch, I realize that his face has changed expression, he’s assumed a manner that’s definitely not very professional, I’d even say he seems disorientated, as if he was wandering in completely unexplored terrain and hasn’t the least idea what to do. If he hadn’t been recommended to me by De Santis, I’d advise him to just concentrate on looking for his pen.
By the time the session is over, I already know I’ll never see him again. It’s all too obvious that I’m in a hurry to say goodbye and go, but who cares?
Two days later it’s the turn of Federico’s former shrink: I found the number in my diary and phoned him to fix an appointment.
“Time. Ah, time…”
That’s how he begins, after listening to me for a few moments.
“Time, like space, is an element intrinsic to our universe and therefore only exists in relation to matter, in its manifestation as mass and energy. Outside matter, it could even be said that time doesn’t exist…”
He launches into an elaborate speech on the subject which, predictably, I find myself unable to follow. He moves casually from the sea of time in esoteric physics to the possibility of time travel. I fail to see what any of this has to do with my problem.
I really can’t stand it a minute longer, so as soon as he gives me a prescription for a series of homoeopathic remedies, I quickly say goodbye. If nothing else, I now have a clearer psychological picture of the man who used to be my best friend.
10
GAËLLE IS IN ROME this evening. She and Federico are having dinner somewhere in the centre of town. I imagine them together, on that brightly coloured merry-go-round their lives resemble, and I gradually realize what a profound state of solitude I’ve been living in. Not the forced solitude of these last few months, not the isolation, the abyss that has just swallowed me up, but that carousel of laughter, pleasantries, music, mood shifts and addictions. Empty, meaningless words, eyes that hide unknown abysses. I see everything with disarming clarity now. We’re like floating bubbles, incapable of communicating. We’re so afraid of bursting that we refuse all true contact with each other.
Despite everything, out of pure survival instinct, I have to regain some kind of control over my life. I want to go out, see people. Staying shut up at home doesn’t help me slow things down, and besides, any party, even the most pointless, will pass quickly anyway. So I decide to summon up courage and call Luca, an old friend who doesn’t move in the same circles any more. I ask him if he has any plans for the evening and he suggests an informal dinner at a restaurant on the outskirts of Rome, the kind of restaurant where the fettuccine tastes of fresh eggs and the only wine served is house wine.
“Isn’t Federico coming?” he asks me.
“I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“Did something happen?”
“Nothing serious,” I say quickly. “That life was starting to tire me.”
Luca uses this remark as an excuse to launch into a lecture. “I always said you were overdoing it. I don’t know how you managed to keep up the pace. I guess it was fun, but in small doses. In the end I was waking up in the morning feeling as limp as a rag. Not to mention the problems I was having at work. I was heavily in debt.”
I have no wish to go further into the matter, let alone to contradict him. “You’re right,” is all I say. “Listen, what time did you say this evening?”
“About nine. The restaurant is called Il Cacciatore. Are you coming in your car or would you like me to pick you up?”
“I feel like driving. I’ll see you there.”
There are places in the country, sometimes even quite close to a large metropolis, that smell healthy and clean and make you want to pull the window down, fill your lungs and let the wind caress your face. If only the country air could help me get back to normal.
I had to leave home quite early. My watch says 8.45, the road is clear, and there aren’t too many bends. I’m going very fast, I don’t want to get there half an hour late.
Il Cacciatore. My headlamps light up the sign, which is an old plywood board with a bearded man in a hunting cap drawn on it, hanging from two small chains that squeak as they move in the wind. It’s the kind of sign you used to see. I park my Aston Martin on the gravel in front of the steps leading up to the restaurant, jump out and quickly run to the entrance.
The place seems nice and even quite crowded. If Federico was here, at this point we’d exchange a knowing glance: a couple of overweight, badly dressed families, a table of young boys covered in tattoos, and a few whores in miniskirts.
The group who are expecting me for dinner are sitting at a table next to a stone fireplace hung round with sausages: Luca and his new friends, who all look intellectual and well-behaved.
“Ah, here’s Svevo! Do you know each other? Paolo, Marco, Ginevra and Susanna.”
“Hello, everyone.”
I sit down next to Luca. “Is anybody else coming?”
“We’re just waiting for Giorgio and Isabelle,” he replies. “They’ll be here soon.”
Isabelle. For some reason, the name brings me up short. “Who’s Isabelle?”
“A friend. Don’t give me that look, Svevo, I can tell you right now she’s not your type, even though she’s French. She must be about your age and has a one-year-old daughter. Plus, Giorgio’s fallen madly in love with her.”
A moment later, the door of the restaurant opens. I don’t know how to explain it, but suddenly everything disappears except for those eyes and that haze of red hair. She advances slowly, almost swaying, step after step, until she reaches our table and gracefully slips off her shawl.
“Svevo, do you know Isabelle?”
No, I don’t know her, but I would’ve liked to get to know her the first time I saw her, at the airport, before I got on the flight that would change my life.
She smiles at me. Luminous, transparent eyes, like freshly washed windows, small segments of sky. She says hello to the rest of the table, and with each gesture she makes, each word she utters, I can’t help looking at her. There’s something magnetic about the way she moves and speaks.