With the passing of time some places in the city – the pine grove is one of them – remind me ever more intensely of feelings and fantasies from the distant past. A time of awe. That’s it: some places in the city make me nostalgic for that feeling of awe. That feeling of being stunned by the force of something. I’d like so much for it to happen again. Maybe awe – if I was capable of learning it – could actually be the antidote to the way time accelerates so unbearably. Time is much more extensive for the young because they’re constantly experiencing new things. Their life is full of first times, of sudden realizations. Time runs faster as you grow older because things usually get repeated. The possibilities of choice are reduced, the ways that are barred increase, until everything appears to be limited to one single narrow path. You don’t want to think about where that path leads, and this produces an anaesthesia in your consciousness. It helps to alleviate the fear of death, but makes the colours fade.

Some young boys were playing football in the pine grove. There was one who was younger than the others and looked like a real talent. He moved naturally, almost lazily, and nobody could stop him: the ball seemed glued to his feet. Like in that old song by Francesco De Gregori. I calculated that the twelve-year-old protagonist of the song – if he had ever existed – would now be pushing fifty.

At this point, I decided this might be long enough.

I returned home, walking fast, and greeted Mr Punchbag. He grasped that something wasn’t right and didn’t say anything. I put on my trunks, bandaged my hands, put on the gloves and started to box. Ten rounds, maybe. Maybe more. I only stopped when I was completely exhausted. My legs and arms were shaking, my heart was beating wildly, and my face was as red as if I was sunburned.271

Think what a pathetic end that’d be if they find you here on the floor, struck down by a heart attack because you’ve been too stupid not to realize that some things are not done. They’re never done, let alone at your age.

The call from the clerk of the court came when I’d just got out of the shower and was about to have something to eat.

“Avvocato Guerrieri?”

“Yes?”

“Moretti here. The judge says they’ll be ready in three quarters of an hour.”

“Thank you.”

It was ten past five. They had been out for six hours.

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28

I phoned Annapaola and told her that I was on my way to court and that the verdict would be announced soon. I asked her to inform the others, including the defendant’s mother, and to please make sure my robe was brought to me.