3
Spring rapidly turned to summer, but the days
still ran by all exactly the same.
The nights too were all the same. Dark.
Until one morning in June.
I was in the lift, just back from the law courts
and on my way up to my office on the eighth floor when suddenly,
and for no reason, I was seized by panic.
Once out of the lift I stood on the landing for God
knows how long, panting, in a cold sweat, feeling sick, eyes
riveted on a fire extinguisher. And full of terror.
“Are you all right, Avvocato?” The voice of Signor
Strisciuglio, a former clerk in the Inland Revenue and tenant of
the other apartment on my floor, was a little puzzled, a little
worried.
“I’m all right, thank you. I’m completely out of my
mind, but I don’t think this is a problem. And how are you?”
That’s a lie. I said I’d had a slight dizzy spell
but that now everything was fine, thank you, good day.
Naturally, everything was not fine, as I would come
to realize all too well in the days and months that followed.
In the first place, not knowing what had happened
to me that morning in the lift, I began to be obsessed with the
idea that it might happen again.
So I stopped using the lift. It was a stupid
decision that only made matters worse.
A few days later, instead of recovering, I began to
fear that I might be seized by panic anywhere, at any time.
When I had worried myself enough, I managed to
bring on another attack, this time in the street. It was less
violent than the first but the after-effects were even more
devastating.
For at least a month I lived in constant terror of
a fresh panic attack. It’s laughable, looking back on it now. I
lived in terror of being assailed by terror.
I thought that when it happened again, I might go
mad and perhaps even die. Die mad.
This led me, with superstitious dismay, to remember
an occurrence of many years before.
I was at university and had received a letter,
written on squared paper in a loopy, almost childish hand.
Dear Friend
When you have read this letter make ten copies
in your own handwriting and send them to ten friends. This is the
original Chain Letter: if you keep it going, your life will be
blessed with good luck, money, love, peace and joy, but if you
break it, the most terrible misfortunes may befall you. A young
married woman who had for two years longed for a child without
managing to become pregnant copied the letter and sent it to ten
friends. Three days later she learned that she was expecting. A
humble post-office clerk copied the letter, sent it to ten friends
and relations, and a week later won masses of money on the
lottery.
On the other hand, a high-school teacher
received this letter, laughed and tore it up. A few days later he
had an accident, broke a leg and was also evicted from his
home.
One housewife got the letter and decided not to
break the chain. But unfortunately she lost the letter and, as a
result, did break the chain. A few days later she contracted
meningitis, and though she survived she remained an invalid for the
rest of her life.
A certain doctor, on receipt of the letter, tore
it up, exclaiming
in contemptuous tones that one shouldn’t believe in such
superstitions. In the course of the next few months he was sacked
from the clinic where he worked, his wife left him, he fell ill,
and in the end he died mad.
Don’t break the chain!
I read the letter to my friends, who found it
highly diverting. When they had got over laughing they asked me if
I intended to tear it up and die mad. Or else sit down and
diligently make ten copies in elegant handwriting, something that
they would not fail to keep reminding me of – rather rudely, I
presume – for at least the next ten years.
This got on my nerves. I thought they wouldn’t have
been such Children of the Enlightenment if they had received the
letter themselves, but told them that of course I’d tear it up.
They insisted that I do it in front of them. They insinuated that I
might have had second thoughts and, once safe from prying eyes,
might make the famous ten copies etc.
In short, I was forced to tear it up, and when I’d
done so the biggest joker of the three of them said that, whatever
happened, I needn’t worry: when the time came, they would see to it
that I was admitted to a comfortable loony-bin.
Some eighteen years later I found myself thinking –
seriously – that the prophecy was coming true.
In any case, the fear of having another panic
attack and going mad was not my only problem.
I began to suffer from insomnia. I lay awake almost
all night every night, falling asleep only just before dawn.
Rarely did I get to sleep at a more normal time,
but even then I unfailingly woke two hours later and was unable to
stay in bed. If I tried to, I was assailed by
the saddest, most unbearable thoughts. About how I had wasted my
life, about my childhood. And about Sara.
So I was forced to get up and wander about the
apartment. I smoked, drank, watched television, turned on my mobile
in the absurd hope that someone might call me in the middle of the
night.
I began to be worried that people might notice the
condition I was in.
Above all, I began to worry that I might totally
lose control of my actions, and in such a state I spent the entire
summer.
When August came, I didn’t find anyone to go on
holiday with – to tell the truth, I didn’t try to – and I wasn’t
brave enough to go off alone. So I mooned about, parking myself in
the holiday homes and the trulli of friends, either at the
sea or in the country. I’m sure I didn’t make myself very popular
during these peregrinations.
People would ask me if I was a bit under the
weather, and I would say, yes, a little, and as a rule we didn’t
pursue the matter. After a very few days I’d realize it was time to
pack my bags and find another bolt hole, trying as far as possible
to put off going back to town.
In September, as things got no better, and
especially as I couldn’t bear the sleepless nights, I went to my
doctor, who was also a friend of mine. I wanted something to help
me sleep.
He examined me, asked me to describe my symptoms,
took my blood pressure, shone a torch in my eyes, made me do
slightly demented exercises to test my balance, and at the end said
that I’d do well to see a specialist.
“Eh? What do you mean? What kind of
specialist?”
“Well ... a specialist in these problems.”
“What problems? Give me something to make me
sleep and let’s have done with it.”
“Listen, Guido, the situation is a bit more
complicated than that. You have a very strained look. I don’t like
the way you keep glancing around. I don’t like the way you move. I
don’t like the way you’re breathing. I have to tell you, you are
not a well man. You must consult a specialist.”
“You mean a ...” My mouth was dry. A thousand
incoherent thoughts went through my head. Perhaps he means I should
go and see a consultant. Or a homeopath. Or a masseur. Even an
Ayurvedic practitioner.
Oh, that’s fine if I have to go to a consultant,
masseur, Ayurvedic practitioner, homeopath. To hell with it, that’s
no problem, I’ll go. I’m not one to shirk treatment, not I.
I’m not a bit scared because ... a
psychiatrist? Did you say a PSYCHIATRIST?
I wanted to cry. I’d gone mad and now even a doctor
said so. The prophecy was coming true.
I said, all right, all right, and now could he give
me that damned sleeping pill, and I’d think about it. Yes, all
right, I had no intention of underestimating the problem, see you
soon, no no, there’s no need to give me the name of a – mouth very
dry indeed – of one of those. I’ll call you and you can tell me
then.
And I ran for it, steering clear of the lift.