We’ve arrived.
Again that thump in the chest. The journey only lasted a few minutes. I don’t dare look at my watch, it was seven o’clock a moment ago, I have no desire to discover that it’s already nine.
I give five little knocks on the door, lick my lips five times, count five steps and start again.
One, two, three, four, five.
One, two, three, four, five.
A way for me to catch my breath.
Federico and the others don’t seem to be paying any attention to my difficulties, maybe they think I’m still trying to work off my fear of flying. He knows I don’t like talking about my phobias, he’d never guess I’d actually like to be up there still, on that plane. Still, because it’s not normal that we’re already at the hotel.
With every step I take, I feel myself getting out of breath. I’d like to scream to everyone to stop. Slow down, why are you rushing like that? When did the porter take our luggage? And now where’s he going so quickly? The concierge didn’t even welcome us, he’s like a broker spewing out numbers in the middle of the afternoon. The lift zooms up to the top floor, the doors open wide, am I the only one who feels as if they’re throwing us out into the corridor? Before I set off towards my room I throw a last glance at Federico, my friend Federico, hoping he can see the panic in my eyes and decipher the messages I’m sending him. Try to help me, Fede, if you can.
“Go ahead, we’ll catch you up,” Federico says to the others, then takes me by the arm and draws me aside into a little sitting area off the corridor.
“Svevo, what’s happening to you?”
I open my mouth to reply, but he interrupts me as if he’s been waiting too long.
“Are you going to tell me what’s happening? Don’t you feel well? Is there anything we can do?”
I try to think up some explanation, but he’s impatient. “If this is some kind of panic attack, I have tranquillizers.”
“It’s all right.” I give up and let him walk me to the door of my room, letting him believe that the thought that I could take a tranquillizer if I wanted one has managed to relax me.
The room is as I expected to find it, which ought to reassure me: the blue carpet, an infinity of mirrors, everything perfect down to the smallest detail. Gaëlle and I will have a good time here tonight. I try to abandon myself to thoughts of that. The bed looks incredibly comfortable. I love pillows and there are as many as I want. It’s still too early to get ready, so I can just collapse in the middle of these pillows and wait for everything to return to normal. Everything’s under control, I keep telling myself, I’m just a bit tired.
There’s a knock at the door. The porter must have forgotten an item of luggage.
I go to open it, and there’s Federico, already dressed for the evening, staring at me with a puzzled look on his face.
“Haven’t you changed yet? It’s nearly ten. Gaëlle will be here any minute now. She said not to keep her waiting.”
Again that thump in the chest. I run my hand through my hair.
“Are you tired? Did you fall asleep?”
How can I tell him I thought I’d only come into this room a few minutes ago? How can I explain that I wanted to take a bath more than anything else in the world and thought I had at least two hours to spare? There’s no way, I can’t even explain it to myself.
“Well, you might as well go like that. You don’t look too bad, though you could comb your hair a bit… Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
Oh, yes, I’m all right. Yes, I’m perfectly all right. Apart from the fact that I have the impression I’m about to die at any moment. And apart from the fact that ever since I got on that damned plane my perception of time has turned upside down, I feel dirty and sweaty, and I have a premonition that I won’t even have time to wash my hands. Maybe it’s the drugs, Fede, we’ve taken too many of them over the past few years, there’s no getting away from that, and now I’m paying for it, I’m paying the full price. Or maybe this is the end, maybe I’m dying and before you die time goes faster to tell you that if there’s anything you wanted to do in your life you’d better hurry up about it. But how can I tell you all this, my friend? Stop, at least give me time to try.
All at once I find myself in the car with Gaëlle, without having been able to do anything to prevent it. She’s quite excited, happy to see me, and a wave of nausea takes me by the throat.
“Well, guys, how was the flight?” she asks, as she puts her foot down on the accelerator of her brand-new Mercedes.
I’d like to scream at her to let me out, but my mouth stays tightly shut.
“Everything was fine,” Federico replies.
Gaëlle lightly touches my knee with one hand and looks at me hesitantly. “And you, darling? You look so pale.”
All I can do is downplay the whole thing. “Everything’s fine,” I assure her.
She’s wearing a draped black dress with a silver belt worn low on the waist, she looks like a Greek heroine, or rather a goddess, with her feet well planted on the ground in a pair of sandals with dizzyingly high heels. She’s also wearing a weird little hat: a bouquet of feathers, like a coloured breath that has come to rest on her black hair, held in one of her most sophisticated hairdos. At any other time, I’d just have to look at her to regain my balance. Help me, Gaëlle, if your beauty can’t do it, I really don’t see what else can get me out of this nightmare.
“Everyone’s there tonight, Svevo. You can’t imagine the people who phoned me to ask for an invitation!”
I nod, feigning enthusiasm, and now we’re already slowing down to look for a parking space.
The restaurant is packed, as usual. Everybody who matters in Paris is here, and many of them are desperate to say hello to us. And yet I feel like a goldfish in a bowl, with these people gawping at me through the glass like wide-eyed children. The world is all distorted, but I can’t let this madness get the better of me, I can’t allow it.
“Alors, ça va, Svevo?” It’s Matthieu, a crazy painter in a gaudy striped jacket who probably thinks he’s original. He calls himself the last of the abstract painters, he’s actually just as much of an idiot as anyone else.
“You’re here, too… C’est magnifique!”
And here’s his muse, Charlotte, five foot three of femininity. On any other occasion I would have rattled off one of my usual compliments, but not tonight, tonight I don’t feel like talking. Wherever I turn there’s someone smiling, expecting something, a greeting, a joke. There are quite a few people here who might be useful to me in my business, but I can’t say anything, I seem to have left all my enthusiasm on that plane.
I feel embalmed, the city is moving around me unaware of my anguish. Meanwhile, Matthieu is deafening me with his observations, which don’t seem to follow any logical thread. Gaëlle has ordered for the two of us, and a second later she tells me my filet has already—already—arrived.
From the little I’m able to understand, I get the impression they’re all talking rubbish. I must have involuntarily raised my eyes to heaven, because Gaëlle throws me a reproving look, she can’t stand my impatience, tonight of all nights she really wants everything to be perfect.
As I eat I have the feeling my perception of time is going back to normal, but it’s a false feeling, because when I look up from my plate, I realize that everybody has already finished, whereas I’ve barely touched my filet. To reassure everyone, Federico makes an ironic comment on how slow I am.
“Svevo, what’s happening to you? Do you need someone to feed you?”
The table explodes in one of those laughs that echo, and I make an effort to smile, though what I’d really like to do is kill the lot of them.