About Time

About Time Read Free Page B

Book: About Time Read Free
Author: Simona Sparaco
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from me, I’d be very surprised if they ever talked about me.
    “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 allowsus 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

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