“I’m not asking you to come to the graduation.”
“I have a lot of things to do.”
“I know you’ve bought a new house… A villa in Cortona, isn’t it?”
I don’t think he’s trying to invite himself. I think he wants a loan, he’s probably got a few creditors after him.
“I’m renovating it. I don’t know when it’ll be ready. Look, I really have to dash.”
“OK. Bye then.”
“Bye.”
The call leaves me with a sense of unfinished business, which I try to shake off by calling Elena on the intercom and asking her to take care of the bank transfer. She doesn’t demur when she hears the figure, though she must think it’s a serious matter this time. I only hope she hurries up about it.
I go back to my diary to catch my breath. One page follows another in a regular, unceasing rhythm. There’s something corresponding to every hour: an appointment, a lunch, a meeting. I’m sure You’ve looked at me sometimes: hard at work, convinced that being productive means knowing how to structure time, making sure that every action is channelled into a pre-arranged schedule, delegating effectively, making full use of the waiting periods by avoiding pointless meetings that are of no professional benefit. I’m sure You’ve also noticed my obsequious attitude to the director as we walk together to the conference room, with his hand on my shoulder and my head tilted, listening with great interest to his admonitions and suggestions.
“Please, Romano, I’m counting on you to see this business through,” he whispers in my ear in that slightly paternal tone of his. “Righini is in your hands, it’s an important acquisition.”
The director walks beside me, and I nod and look at him with eyes full of gratitude. Why are You surprised? He was the one who introduced me to the people who matter in this city. And what about the expression on my face when I sit down at the table to negotiate? That gleam in my eyes is pure competitiveness, our daily bread. My rapid way of speaking, my thoughts constantly pursuing new strategies, and at the end of the meeting the mobile phone that starts ringing again, bringing more appointments I can’t be late for. Distances have been wiped out, dear Father Time, and You can’t do anything about it. Technology allows us to do everything in an instant, we’re always ready to receive information from anywhere in the world.
“Mazzoli, calling from New York.”
Elena on speakerphone.
“Thanks,” I reply, and lift the receiver. “Hi, how are things? Yes, go on… Absolutely not. It’s already been sent and should be there by now… Of course… And don’t forget Wednesday evening. Everything’s all set up… We’ll talk about it… Yes, of course… See you soon.”
When I put the phone down, I notice my mother staring at me from the photo frame on the bookshelf. I can’t remember her, it’s pointless for me even to try. My memories of her are fading year by year, just like that photograph, which shows her in her wedding dress, mouth open in a smile of delight. I think it was that smile that bewitched my father. And I think it’s because of that smile that he’s never got over her death.
My diary reminds me that this evening I have to go and collect Gaëlle, who’s flying in from Paris. I pick up the phone and call her. I’ll come for her at nine and take her to dinner with some friends at a restaurant that was only opened last month, and to round out the evening I’ve booked a table in one of the best clubs in town. It’s only what she’d expect.
I imagine her nodding at her mobile phone with that aristocratic pout of hers, crossing her legs in a way that’s as arousing as it’s artificial. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the embodiment of beauty and sensuality. Feminine, self-composed, able to stay in control even after an evening fuelled by coke and alcohol.
We met in London, when I was there on a business trip. I spotted her in a club in the West End, under the coloured glare of spotlights. A tight-fitting black sweatshirt, hair gathered in a glossy ponytail. Not a single imperfection, skin like a little girl’s, full lips curled in a cute grin. She came to our table to greet an actor who was with us, and as soon as she saw me she started staring at me quite openly. When I stood up to go to the toilet, I felt a hand pulling me by my belt. She smiled at me and told me to take her away. Gaëlle never asks, she smiles. And her smile is the sweetest invitation to go crazy that you could ever hope to receive.
“Remember to wash the car, Stefano, I need it for tonight,” I say to the garage owner over the phone before I get back to work.
At the end of the day, usually between seven and eight, I go to the gym, it’s become a habit and I never skip a session if I can help it. The gym is the one place where I keep to all my good resolutions. I go there and lift weights, surrounded by mirrors, which appeals to my vanity. I push my muscles to the limit, making sure I reach the targets I’ve set myself. For the biceps, four sets of twenty, ten kilos each. My mind empties. I start another set of twenty, I feel pleased with myself, my thoughts are weightless, I’m regenerated.
Before dinner, I finally meet my baby. She’s waiting for me at the back of the garage. Washed and polished for the occasion, even more gorgeous than the last time I saw her. She has a perfection that no woman, not even Gaëlle, could ever aspire to.
And it’s in my baby that I pull up outside the hotel. Gaëlle emerges through the main door, looking every inch a diva, and the roar of the 460-horsepower engine is joined by the echo of her heels on the paving stones. She comes to me, lightly touches my face with her fingertips, and with an air of intrigue whispers, “Merci, mon cher.” Then she gets in the car, leaving me with an idiotic smile on my face.
I’ve always let Gaëlle treat me like shit. The truth of the matter is, she drives me wild and she knows it. Self-controlled, aloof, sometimes almost mechanical, just like my Aston Martin, she knows exactly what gets me. The more elusive she is, the more I want her. She says she’ll call me back, then disappears for weeks without a trace. She’s the only woman who’s able to keep my interest alive, one of those women who have the spirit of conquest in their blood. And on that basis, we’ve struck the right balance, we’ve learnt how to get along.
At the restaurant, I can’t take my eyes off her, and I don’t think I’m the only one. A stunning face, with the kind of casual, involuntary beauty that verges on perfection, two icy blue eyes you just can’t escape if they glance in your direction. She’s wearing bright lipstick and has a simple but classy hairdo. She jokes with my friends, letting her head fall back when she laughs, her eyes lighting up with mischief. There isn’t the slightest suspicion of a line around her eyes. She likes to joke with her girlfriends about the preventive effects of Botox: she makes it seem like an innocent game.
“What kind of dessert do you suggest, Svevo?” she asks me in her captivating French accent.
“Yes, go on, Svevo, recommend a little dessert!”
Federico is teasing me, but his presence makes everything more familiar. We understand each other perfectly, sometimes all we need is a smile. We’re on the same wavelength. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am right now: that it would take an artist to paint the group at this table. Two blonde models who seem to have come straight from a painting by Degas, elegant, ageless ballerinas, and the two of us, young and attractive, smiling brazenly like sheikhs. With a bit of coke circulating in our veins we feel indestructible.
The restaurant is luxurious and a bit unusual. At the back of the room, behind a large pane of glass, there’s a wall of rock with little circles of stones embedded in it according to some geometrical pattern, it must be some kind of Zen idea — you find those stones everywhere these days. Attractive waitresses parade nonchalantly between the tables in their gorgeous blue-green kimonos, with their hair gathered in buns, smiling at whoever’s turn it is, in this case Federico, who tells me with his eyes that he’s crazy about this place. I care a lot about the mood of the people around me.