Mini Prose: The Datebook

I was wandering around the narrow streets of the Corso when I noticed an elegant shop, slightly set back between two brick houses.
I had a little time before meeting Carella and looked at the window display. An arrangement of notebooks and pens lay on red velvet. I would soon need a new daily planner. How about getting it here, as a souvenir of my vacation? The bell jangled as I came in. A thin man, who was wearing an elegant suit, arrived from a room at the back of the store.

“Si, signore? Sir?”
“Voglio guardare un po, per favore.”
“Si, si, signore! Vorrei qualcosa precisa?”
“Voglio un agenda.”

I had practiced the Italian language with tenacity before leaving. Despite that, my interlocutor assumed I was French. Therefore, I was eligible for considerations regarding the country, its gastronomy, and Parisian fashion. I did not comment and gazed at the shopkeeper, who might have been sixty years old. He was hunchbacked; his black, straight hair formed a shining helmet over his ears.

I noticed an elegant shop, slightly set back between two brick houses.

He carried on after this introduction and said that he possessed a vast collection of datebooks. I expected to find a full shelf of faded planners, a few years outdated, in keeping with the stationery shop's outmoded atmosphere. Why did I end up thinking that way? As a matter of fact, I was used to king-sized stores, lit like hospital rooms. I started looking at the datebooks.

After a few moments, the man came toward me and asked this question:

“Would you like one day per day?”

Blaming his poor French, I translated to myself: “one page per day.” I write down a lot of things, and I'm always carrying a pad from which pages fall, along with bills half covered by my writing. One page per day—why not? Why not two pages per day?

“Two days per day, signore, it is even better.”
The merchant leaned his head and smiled connivingly.
“Two days per day ... The gentleman is a connoisseur. It costs more.”
“It's okay, I don't mind.”

I arrived a little late for my appointment, supplied with a magnificent leather planner, grained with minuscule bumps.

Later, as we were visiting another city, and as I was getting used to the country and its currency, I realized that I had paid a prodigious amount for the piece. Europe had not switched to the single currency yet, and I had not calculated how much it was. A single drink was already worth around four thousand liras, so I was not paying attention to zeroes more or less.

When I returned from my trip, I put away the planner in one of my office drawers and forgot about it. I almost even bought another one at the beginning of December. The new year was coming closer; I dug out my acquisition and wrote down my schedule and meetings on the appropriate pages. I decided that, since I had two pages per day, I would use the one on the right for the day's events and the one on the left for my personal thoughts.

January 1 fell on a Sunday. I had refrained from partying, settling for my favorite movie and a delicious meal. On Monday I walked to work, in order to savor the new year's mysterious atmosphere. The streets were unusually quiet. Perhaps I should have opened at noon. I unlocked the store's door, turned on the lights, and put on a Leo Reisman record.

My employees were not showing up. Upset, I called one of them. A sleepy voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Clement? It's Bruno, your boss. You're supposed to be working today!”
“What? Come on, Bruno, it is January first! It's a vacation!”
“January first was yesterday. Today is Monday, January second.”
“Listen, Bruno, I don't know what’s got in to you, but I am not coming to work today. I went to bed three hours ago, after celebrating New Year’s at the same time as half the planet. Now I'm wishing you a beautiful year, and I'm telling you: see you tomorrow.”
And he hung up.

I wasn't too sure anymore. Rather than waking up another one of my colleagues, I called the shopping mall's security services. After many rings, someone confirmed that we were on January 1. So much for living the life of a recluse! I had lost count of the days during my vacation. I closed the store and decided to buy myself a cappuccino in order to cheer me up. But, of course, I couldn't find anything open along the way and ended up going straight home.

Perhaps I should have opened at noon.

The following day, I repeated what I had done the day before, and this time my employees were present. I laughed about it with Clement; after all, I owed him for waking them up, him and his spouse. We mostly had elderly customers, because we offered them a discount on Mondays.

I was not the only one who had blurred the passage to the new year, because on Tuesday, several clients asked for their markdown. One of them got angry, and I gave him the rebate, suspecting him to be confused. However, when my sales assistant offered the discount in turn, I stepped in.
“Hey there, François! Today is Tuesday.”

He looked at me, puzzled. He concluded the transaction and told me that I was one day in advance. I checked the cash receipts. Indeed, they indicated Monday, January 2. What was going on? Was I overburdened? Anxiety was crawling inside me, but I did not reveal it. In the evening, I sipped a few drinks and fell asleep on the sofa, wondering if I was becoming psychotic, since I hallucinated events up to their tiniest details.

The day after, we all agreed that we were on Tuesday, January 3. Relieved, I treated the team to chocolate.

The fourth, I was expecting Alison, since Clement was off on Wednesdays. Nevertheless, when he turned up I did not panic. Alison had probably extended her vacation, and my autonomous and methodical assistants had dealt with it on their own. It still deserved an observation.
“You know that I trust you, Clement, but I would like to be informed of schedule switches.”

He made a condescending face, which I found particularly unpleasant, and assured me that we were not on Wednesday, but Tuesday. Conscious that my sanity was drifting away, I said:
“Right. I have a splitting headache; I'd rather go. Will you be okay?”
“Of course”, said Clement.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Don't worry, Bruno.”
Without further ado, I unhooked my coat and walked out. The fresh air invigorated me, and I considered seeing a psychiatrist or a neurologist. At home, I prepared a cup of coffee and started searching for a therapist. Perhaps they would recommend a brain scan.

The voice on the line was pleasant and peaceful. I had opted for a woman, expecting, perhaps with sexism, that she'd be more open to alternative diagnoses to dementia. She had an opening the same day at three thirty. I wrote down the address in my datebook on the left page of the current date.
That's when it hit me. The raven-haired man at the Italian stationery shop. Two days per day. I remembered the astronomical amount paid for the planner. I would not go to the therapist.
I quickly understood that only the second day mattered, while the first one was some sort of a draft. I could do anything every other day, without any consequences, as long as I counted properly.

Of course, I bought a lottery ticket. After winning, I submitted a request for an unpaid leave to the shop owners. I flew to Italy and returned to the little town of Cosenza, in Calabria. I passed by the cathedral and walked around the Corso, recalling that day's itinerary when I had met with Carella. I inquired with the locals and searched for several days; I never located the stationery shop.

On the other hand, it turned out to be a fabulous year.