About Time Read Online Free PDF Page A

women over thirty with lines around their eyes, or even the faded colour of the sweater she’s wearing. I’m the kind of person who cares about such things. And anyway, I have a plane to catch, and my fear to keep under control.
    “Your attention, please. Alitalia flight Z245 to Paris is now boarding. I repeat: Alitalia flight Z245 to Paris is now boarding.”
    The hostess’s words are delivered in such a husky, sensual voice that I’m actually distracted for a while. The girl is quite a looker, too: if she went into the pilot’s cabin, she’d probably cause the instrument panel to seize up. I’m just getting to my feet when the woman with the little girl in her arms once again appears ahead of me. She’s moving quite slowly, and I suspect she’s afraid of waking the girl. I offer to help her with her luggage but she thanks me and says she’s fine, she doesn’t need any help. As a courtesy, I pretend to be touched by the sleeping child, give her a very forced smile, and wish her a pleasant journey. And now suddenly everything slows down, and my attention is caught by an apparently insignificant detail: the little girl rubbing her angelic face against the woman’s neck, as if looking for a shelter in which to sleep more soundly. I’m troubled, almost annoyed, so I grab my bag and push forward as much as I can. 
    A moment later, it all passes. I’m swallowed up by the flow of the queue at the boarding gate, and the woman disappears among the other passengers.
    Once on the plane, a bigger problem awaits me: confronting my anxiety, which is starting to increase at an unacceptable speed. My first instinct is to get off, I’m sure we’re heading for a disaster, we’re going to crash, I can’t breathe. I imagine tomorrow’s headlines: Sixty Passengers and No Way Out . There’s my name in capital letters, with the word Dead next to it. Svevo Romano is dead. The plane crashed in the Alps, they found my body still sitting in its seat with the belt fastened. Some are starting to speculate about the circumstances of the accident, my lovers mourn, remembering our nights of sex, my mood swings, how much of a bastard I could be. Some even say: When you come down to it, dying was the only thing he still had left to do.
    I feel as if I’m going mad, and yet on the surface everything’s fine. I’d like to beg the hostess to let me off, but I don’t have the guts. All I can do is resort to one of the things I always use to ward off bad luck.
    I’m obsessed with the number five, although obsession isn’t quite the right word. I call it my joker, the thing I use to overcome small glitches on a journey, when a valve cracks and the whole mechanism seizes up. It doesn’t happen often but it happens, and five is a ritual that comes to my aid, like a prayer. Before sitting down in my seat I count to five. Once seated, trying not to attract attention, I tap the little table in front of me five times, and then, almost childishly, repeat the number five, five times, as I force myself to fasten my seat belt.
    I clear my head and try to think rationally. The flight is only one hour and fifty-five minutes, I keep telling myself. I’ve planned every second and now I’m ready to close my eyes and take off. 
    One hour and fifty-five minutes.
    “We would like to show you some of the safety features of this plane.”
    One hour and fifty-five minutes.
    “An oxygen mask will automatically fall from the compartment above your heads.”
    One hour and fifty-five minutes.
    “Cabin crew, prepare for take-off.”
    One hour and fifty-five minutes.
    We’re in the air.
    Now at last the warning light goes out, which means I can loosen my belt. I even start to feel a bit more relaxed. I gradually ease my grip on the arms of my seat. We’ve pierced the sky at high speed and now, as we gain height, the plane even seems to have slowed down.
    Outside the window, the sky is so dark, it’s swallowed up all the stars. I have to ignore the aisle