The deliveryman has just brought in a package of disinfectant wipes for the director. I tell Paola to make sure it corresponds to the order. The director couldn’t live without his disinfectant wipes. He’s declared war on germs and bacteria, it’s a kind of obsession, an extreme form of hypochondria, even though he’s an intelligent, far-sighted man, a real bulldog. I’m due to speak to him later about those building permits.
Now my secretary Elena comes up to me, two dark, sympathetic eyes beneath an impeccable bob. She looks much younger than she really is, which is about thirty. “Don’t forget your appointment at ten for the Righini business,” she tells me as we enter my office.
My eye falls on her wristwatch, and I smile: she’s decided to adopt my trick of putting it forward by five minutes, just to keep us in sync. She’s already opened and closed the windows to let a bit of air into the fanatical tidiness of the office: a spacious mahogany desk, two elegant ostrich-leather armchairs. Her efficiency is a good match for my concern with perfection.
“They’ve already called more than once, the names are on your desk. Oh, and Signora Campi was looking for you a few minutes ago…”
She’s barely had time to mention her name when Barbara Campi, the marketing director, comes in.
“Don’t bother to knock,” I say, greeting her with an ironic smile, then give Elena a little nod. She leaves us alone and I sit down behind my desk.
Barbara is holding a newspaper, she looks impatient. “Have you read this?”
“Yes, if you’re referring to the article about us in the Sole. Don’t tell me you’ve come just to ask me that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Signor Romano, I thought you’d missed it,” she says, her lips curling in a grimace. “Silly of me to think a man of your calibre could miss an article at nine in the morning, wasn’t it?”
“No need to be sarcastic. Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean I’m unprepared.”
I’m teasing her as usual, I know she thinks of herself as a modern feminist and is convinced women are superior to men, and other bullshit like that.
Continuing in the same vein, I look for a compliment I could give her. “You look different,” I say. “You must have had a good weekend.”
“It’s the latest thing in cosmetics,” she says, stroking the outsides of her eyes with her fingers. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“You don’t need it. I’ve told you a thousand times I should call the World Wildlife Fund, you’re almost an extinct species.”
Actually, I doubt there’s any cream so advanced it could give her a charm she’s never possessed. It strikes me she’s been overdoing the nips and tucks lately: she’s starting to have the typical clownlike smile of women who’ve had facelifts.
“Liar,” she retorts. “It’s men like you who could convince all the women in the world to move to Mars.”
“You really know how to put the knife in. What kind of man am I?”
“You should know, Svevo. You’re a flatterer, you’re vain, and you’re completely untrustworthy as a human being.”
“In other words I’m a bastard. I can’t make up my mind if you’re trying to lose your job here or declaring your undying love for me.”
She smiles. “Luckily Mars isn’t so far these days.”
Barbara has been working in this company for much longer than I have, which has allowed her a certain familiarity from the start. She’s very good in her field and the director respects her for her commitment. Nothing seems to exist for her outside this office. And yet she’s married and has a ten-year-old son, although she’s certainly not one of those mothers you see running around in a car all day, taking their children to school or a five-a-side football game.
Before she leaves, she makes a sarcastic comment about the latest political scandal to hit the newspapers. She loves slagging off other people, especially if she thinks you’re going to do the same. She usually finds a common target to get you on her side, and the choice is never random, it’s always been carefully thought out. When she spits poison, she purses her lips and her nostrils flare: she reminds me of a python, though I assume she thinks I’m the same as her. “He’s history,” she says if it’s someone we know, especially if it’s someone we do business with who could threaten our advantage. She scrutinizes me, half closing her eyes, waiting for a sign of approval. If I feel like it, I nod.
As soon as Barbara leaves the room, Elena comes in and hands me an envelope and a still-sealed ream of paper.
I unwrap the paper first and sniff it. I like the smell of new things. The interior of a car in a showroom, cashmere wrapped in tissue paper, leather shoes that haven’t been worn yet. Everything’s so spotless at the beginning, so full of promise.
Next, I turn to the envelope. It’s from the director.
I open it.
Inside, there are some photographs. They’re from last night, and they show our friend the Deputy in poses somewhat unsuited to his position, like strutting with his trousers down around his knees, snorting cocaine. With his toothpick-thin legs, he looks more like a chicken than a peacock. And talking of chickens, the accompanying note includes one of the director’s favourite observations: “Romano, did you know that in prehistoric times it wasn’t unusual for the eohippus, the ancestor of the horse, to be the prey of the pterodactyl, the ancestor of the hen? Can you imagine a horse being eaten by a hen? We’re in constant evolution, my dear Romano, and history teaches us to be on the alert, to beat the others to the draw. Remember, a man you can blackmail is easy prey.”
As far as timing is concerned the director is second to none, and he’s never had too many qualms when it comes to obtaining what he wants from people.
I’m about to call him, but before I have time to lift the receiver the telephone rings, startling me.
“Signor Romano, your father’s on the line, should I put him through?”
“My father?” I echo, surprised.
“Yes, your father.”
He must need a loan, that’s the only explanation that comes to mind. He rarely telephones me, and when he does our conversations are usually full of long, embarrassing silences. At the end of every call, to avoid another one, which might be even more painful, I arrange for a large bank transfer, hoping that’ll keep him off my back for a while.
“Svevo? It’s me. How are you?”
The hoarse, cavernous voice echoes in my mind like a childhood song, but only for a few seconds, because the nostalgia fades immediately, leaving me irritable and anxious to hang up and get on with my work. I glance at my watch, then at my diary, and sigh.
“Fine,” I reply.
“Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”
“Is there a particular reason you’ve called? I’m a bit behind.”
“Oh, you, you’re always behind.”
Then silence again. A silence that chokes any words at birth. Even a monosyllable would feel inappropriate in comparison with this silence. And yet I can sense there’s something he wants to tell me, I can tell it from the way he’s breathing, slowly and noisily. There’s pride in that sound.
“Your cousin’s graduating,” he says at last, as if that’s any concern of mine. He’s just beating about the bush, I know he’ll get to the point sooner or later.
“Good.”
“Yes.”
I imagine dinners at my mother’s sister’s: the smell of boiled chicken that gets into your clothes, my two cousins, in their early twenties, going on about their little lives, my aunt nodding, as stiff as ever, in a permanent state of mourning. They’re all so distant from me, I’d be very surprised if they ever talked about me.