Free About Time by Simona Sparaco Page A

was all… Let’s just forget it, I’m sorry.”
    He doesn’t know what to say. He goes to the car and takes a closer look at her. “Do you want me to keep her covered with a sheet?”
    She’s perfect. He walks round her twice, then stops.
    “What exactly did you see?”
    “I must have made a mistake.”
    “Can I go now?” he asks, discomfort in his eyes.
    “Yes, go. And again, I’m sorry.”
    The situation is getting worse.
    The shock has drained me of all energy. I open the car door and collapse into the perfectly intact seat. I hunch over the wheel, my hands sweating. I caress it as I used to do, almost as if saying hello to it. I let out a first, impatient sob. There’s no point holding it back, because others will come, they’re lining up in my throat, ready to come out, one by one, without my being able to do anything to stop them.
    When I look up, between my tears I see a figure watching me from a distance. I try to bring it into focus.
    The figure sways towards me, until I recognize the curly beard. 
    “Signor Romano? Are you all right?” It’s the voice of Antonio, my driver.
    I feel as if he’s just caught me stealing or doing something unmistakably obscene. I quickly wipe my tears and try to regain my composure. “Yes, I’m fine.”
    “Are you sure?”
    Now I feel like laughing. “No, I’m not,” I say with a bitter sneer. “But who can say they’re really fine?”
    “Do you want me to call a doctor?”
    “There’s no point.”
    “Do you want to talk to someone?”
    “The two of us have never before said anything except good morning, the name of a street and goodbye,” I say, curling my lips in regret.
    Antonio listens tome without understanding. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks, a tad embarrassed.
    “There’s no one who can really help me. Just tell me what time it is.”
    “It’s lunchtime,” he tells me, handing me my mobile phone. “Your secretary called several times. I didn’t want to disturb you, so I took the liberty of answering. She seemed very agitated. Apparently you had an appointment with somebody called Righini? What should I do? Take you back to the office?”
    It’s the end. What a stupid fucking end.

8
    T HE DIRECTOR comes into my office, so furious that Elena sneaks away in fright. He slams the door behind him, then turns to look at me, and for a few moments he stands there, completely silent.
    Then he explodes.
    “Have you gone completely mad?”
    “I’m really sorry,” I stammer, “there was an accident.”
    “Is missing two appointments in a row with the major shareholder of Benefil what you call an accident? Unless you ended up in the morgue, I don’t accept any excuses.”
    His eyes are overflowing with contempt.
    “It’ll never happen again,” I promise. No sooner are the words out than I regret them.
    “You’re making me lose patience, Romano! You have no idea of the embarrassment you caused us this morning. Do you know what Righini said before he left, after waiting three quarters of an hour?”
    I keep quiet.
    “Of course you don’t, because while Righini was slamming the door in our faces you were fast asleep! And you didn’t even deign to answer your mobile!” 
    He manages to make me feel really inept.
    “You’re completely unreliable,” he continues, his tone calmer now, almost detached. “Look at yourself, your shirt’s always creased, your tie’s twisted, you haven’t shaved. Not so long ago, you were famous for your sharp, intelligent answers, now you never seem to know what to say. Those rambling speeches and long pauses are becoming unbearable. You aren’t even the shadow of the young man I knew a few years ago.”
    Those rambling speeches and long pauses. So that’s how I seem to people: slow, lost, adrift.
    The director begins silently pacing the room, casting a clinical eye on even the most insignificant of details. My desk has never been so untidy, I have no idea how many files and magazines