Tradotto dall’autore – Copyright: ©Paolo Giovannetti, 2024
Lo jogging quotidiano di una persona ossessionata dal tempo viene interrotto bruscamente…
(Il racconto originale in italiano è stato pubblicato nella raccolta: “Il Pioppo Bianco”, Arduino Sacco editore, 2016.)
On a clear and bright morning, a crisp air accompanied a perfectly timed and constant running pace like a clock ticking. Wrapped in his super-insulating and breathable technical fabric, equipped with an automatic heart rate counter, blinks, lung autonomy meter, neuronal agitation, with sole consumption detector and, of course, fitted with a reproducer of instrumental music suitable for the landscape, type of path, season and perceived temperature, he observed in front of him the shadow that surpassed him mockingly.
Before starting his daily run he had obviously calculated the loss of calories he would produce and also what and how many foods he would have to take to keep his weight in shape. But all this was not enough, everything he did calculated the time it would take. A temporal idiosyncrasy haunted him. He always thought that it had to be always and in any case exploited to the fullest: they had not given it to us, it was only loaned to us, the time. And we should have put it in our heads: every second wasted was a crime. All this continued to be repeated as he passed growling dogs, thorny bushes and Nordic-walking couples along the winding path of the park. In every place he lived, he put into practice his creed: optimize, do more things at the same time, calculate energies, minutes, and seconds, and eliminate dead times. Every moment had its own reason for being according to what was taking place at that moment. It had to be consciously directed towards a goal, in the short or medium term but still used to the maximum.
His “single-seater” house was perfectly designed to reduce time wastage: every corner of the room equipped to be reached with a few steps. The PC table was easily accessible while the pot boiled on the gas, the bookcase near the dining table to consult a manual between one bite and another. And then technology and computer science: he had learned from this discipline the ability to use temporal “slots” more and more efficiently. “Multitasking” was the keystone, writing a text while printing another, downloading the latest horror film while browsing in search of the best offer for that trip to exotic places. All with his ear busy listening to new age background music, his favorite. Of course, his “physiological” stops were also marked by maximum efficiency. From the consumption of toilet paper (the brand chosen with care to eliminate irregular tears) to the mini-bookshop strategically located next to the toilet with only maximum booklets and aphorisms. The bedroom was also well equipped: TV and radio with on and off timed on its sleep-wake rhythm by a radio-controlled clock from atomic time. He was anxiously waiting for the new technology to bring into production that new portable mercury-ion watch: the ultimate precision on Earth.
On the job his meticulous punctuality was proverbial: if they entrusted him with a practice he always asked in what time he had to deliver it. The head of the office looked at him with a resigned look and invented a time there and there. He delivered everything always and in any case with a standard advance of five minutes. Sometimes exaggerating he sent an email warning that the work had finished much earlier than expected even though he knew that there was no one to receive it in the office. He had once given a toast, on the occasion of a promotion, inviting colleagues and the boss and advising that the meeting would last for an hour and a half. At the end of the exact time he had put everything back in order, including drinks and food. The boss had arrived a minute later and hadn’t toasted. Time control had the psychological effect of producing a state of fulfilling serenity. The interruption of this precarious equilibrium would have led to a serious anxious syndrome with unforeseeable consequences.
Meeting an unexpected harshness he thought about how much energy he had to recover to resume the rhythm and get to the end of the route with the exact number of steps he had set at the start and the time dedicated to motor activity: twenty-five minutes. He’d lost about five seconds jumping that little bump.
The sun had risen a little and the moving shadow had disappeared to give way to another, still. Sitting on a a little torn bench was a gentleman: dark dress and hat wide stretched over a head bent forward and supported by a wrinkled hand, leaning against the forehead. Next to it was an elongated walking stick on the pedestrian path. The sudden impact of the foot cadenced with the obstacle, then the flight and a ruinous fall on the edge of the sidewalk. He made no sign of getting up.
From a compromised temporal equilibrium, a new equilibrium had manifested itself, forerunner of a timeless serenity.
Le Mie Storie 