Then it’s Elena’s turn. The same look. The same words, too, as if it’s the protocol. Apart from a few additions: “The meeting is fixed for five. I have to admit I was afraid you wouldn’t be here in time. But you’re early for once.”
“Why? What time is it?”
“Four. You’re lucky there wasn’t a lot of traffic from the airport, it’s usually chock-a-block at this time of day. Take all the time you need.”
And she leaves me alone in the room.
I should feel relieved, but I stay on my guard, I know all Your changing moods by now.
In a few hours of my time, this problem will be completely out of the way. I can’t deny that there’s a touch of bitterness in this final look around my office. After all, until not so long ago, this place was my life. A small part of my consciousness, the part which up till now has found nourishment in ambition and social recognition, continues to clamour inside me, telling me I should consider all this a defeat.
I unplug the intercom, so that Elena won’t be able to disturb me, then lower the blinds and switch off the light. I want to be in the dark, sitting in my armchair. For a few minutes I try to sink into the silence, knowing that it’s only apparent, because behind that door there’s a world that never stops, that keeps on producing, keeps on churning out money. I kept on track as long as I could, but now I’ve got off.
Suddenly the door opens and light floods the room.
Elena, with her five minutes’ head start and her head full of things to remember, stands there in the doorway. Once again, I’ve managed to surprise her. She wasn’t expecting me to be in the dark, or to look so calm, or to be smiling slightly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she says almost hesitantly, “everyone’s been looking for you, and there are appointments to fix.”
“Later, Elena,” I say, rising from the armchair to leave the room. “Later.”
I start wandering through the offices, without a specific aim, I get lots of puzzled glances, a few polite greetings, the usual predictable condolences.
Another wave of condolences awaits me in the conference room. The director utters some polite phrases, without getting up from his chair. In his eyes he still has the unease he had the last time we met, and he can’t hold back a grimace of indignation, I assume because of my totally inappropriate clothing. But because of the situation, he can’t make any comments.
Barbara is sitting to his right, which means she’ll be the one to take my place very soon. She greets me with a slight smile, then her lips narrow and her nostrils flare in that characteristic way of hers that makes her look like a reptile.
Nobody mentions my father any more, because Righini has entered the room and sat down on the other side of the table. It’s time to tackle more important matters.
“You got here early,” Righini says to me. “It’s always an unknown quantity, a meeting with you, or am I mistaken?”
The director quickly intervenes to change the subject. I’ve never seen him so obsequious and accommodating. Christ, he’s gagging for a signature. His gestures ooze impatience. I sympathize with him. I’ll soon be a mutineer, but he’s the ship’s master, the commander, the responsibility is his, if anything goes wrong he’ll be the last one to abandon ship.
I used to accept all his decisions without batting an eyelid. I was like the others, I had the same smile Barbara has now when she pretends to have caught one of his jokes, and I carried out orders, trying, whenever possible, to anticipate his desires. I was part of the court, driven by the need for a secular faith, perhaps, for someone to believe in blindly. And my happiness, our happiness, depended on the director.
After this rapid and occasionally incomprehensible meeting, we find ourselves alone, the director and I, in his office. This time I’m ready: without even giving him time to open his mouth I tell him I’m resigning.
At first he seems incredulous, perhaps even a little relieved. He tries placing responsibility for what’s happening on my father’s death, he tells me that things will settle down, that I’ll get back on track, but they are empty words and we both know it. I’m not ready to retrace my steps, and the firm can’t afford to wait for me.
Then, for the first time since I’ve known him, the director lowers his eyes as a sign of surrender.
“I did all I could for you,” he says. “I taught you the business, the way I would have done for my son. I was sure we’d do great things together. I thought of you as my winning card, and for a while you were, Romano. We’ve had our successes…”
I’m sorry to see that he’s still keeping his distance from me — and even sorrier that the fact that he’s just concluded such an important deal is helping to cushion the blow for him. There’s no sadness in his eyes, just a programme he knows he has to keep to. He’s probably planned on giving me another five minutes, ten at the most, then he’ll dismiss me, putting off other matters for another time.
I never thought it would be so informal and hurried. In any case, I can’t wait to leave this place. There are games you feel liberated in losing.
A few moments later I find myself back in my car. I don’t want to know what time it is, or how much time I have left before it gets dark. I just want to get to the sea.
Antonio raises no objections, he smiles and starts the car. “Is the beach at Fregene OK?”
I nod, with a sigh. A few hours ago I saw it from the window of the plane. There it was below me, flat, shining in the sunlight, so infinite as to make me feel dizzy, and it seemed like an invitation to hope.
During the ride, Antonio and I chat a bit more. Before getting out, I tell him that I’ll miss his company and that we should have talked more.
“We can still remedy that,” he says.
“Not so easy,” I object. “In a few days we’ll be saying goodbye for good. I’m leaving the company, let’s hope they give you somebody who’s less of a bastard.” Then, as he watches incredulously, I get out and walk down to the beach.
The first thing I do is take off my shoes and socks. My feet sink into the sand, anxious to let every single grain run through them. A breeze smelling of fish and salt tickles my face, this sea reminds me of my childhood. Now, as then, the sky is slowly turning pink, and here I am, waiting for the sunset. Something tells me that this time it won’t be too fast, and that it’ll be quite moving, as it was on those long August days.
The wind becomes more intense, the waves swell before breaking on the shore. I remember my father’s words, written in pen, on the back of that photograph: “You can’t beat the wave. Salvation is inside you.”
That wave is like time. And we are on a journey, cargo ships sailing to an unknown destination, entirely at the mercy of the crew. The parts of the ship communicate through the manifestation of symptoms. Sometimes reactions can be externally stimulated: you just need to use a certain kind of substance to transform your perception of time and space, and prepare to veer abruptly in another direction. At other times, the stimulus comes from inside: the burden of a choice — how best to get through those waves, how to prepare to face the storm — can create a great upheaval on the bridge, the fear of shipwreck. And the restlessness and instability on that bridge — our mind — soon manifests itself. That’s where I started to imagine You as an old man determined to destroy me, when in fact You were inviting me to dig beneath the surface of things, moving back and forth between moral and material, between concrete and imaginary, between long-lasting and ephemeral. And everything started when You stopped with her. De Santis was right, the mind can do incredible things.
I lie down on the sand and close my eyes. I feel as if I’m exhausted after a long run, and I can almost see him, my father, as I’ve never seen him before. He’s waiting for me at the finishing line, with a smile. He wants me to stop, he wants me to realize I’ve left the most important things behind. I feel my little days going back light years beyond the horizon, and I see myself, tiny, at grips with urgent, predictable banalities, in search of a non-existent perfection, in a ridiculous enterprise, devoid of foundation, constantly turned to a pre-programmed future, a path strewn with objectives. And suddenly I feel as if I’ve finally managed to throw off the weight of all this. It wasn’t time that was running fast, but my life. And it wasn’t time that stopped, but my eyes, that day at the airport, when they came to rest on her face, which told me something I didn’t yet know about myself, or that I had only forgotten.