The Ball. Erik Pethersen

Attach. Sign. Attach. Sign. Check. Amend. Check. Send.

      In two years’ time, at least four companies out of six will already be gone. I should suggest to Alessandro to put in the liquidation fee too in the registration quotes, just to pre-empt the situation.

      ⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎

      I can hear a light sound of rain and a quick glance out the window validates my perception.

      Probably you will be able to see the rain now from the seventh floor too. Provided it will stay there, all day.

      Here are now the Ciapper brothers going past my office and heading off to the deed of sale room: their faces are quite gloomy. They are tagged along by Domenica who is following them; after a few minutes I can hear the door of the room close, there beyond the wall of my burial recess.

      I must file the documents, keep on filing. There are three company settings up still left. The first one I am taking care of at the moment, is a simple limit liability partnership so I should deal with that in just a few clicks.

This void, this emptiness, you can almost have it, you know; you can almost have it, you know; you don’t remember what you want1, a gloomy half neuronal processor pounds, in the meantime.

      Received. Saved.

      The one before last. This is a standard limited liability company: what a drag.

      So, with two cores, I am wondering how I ended up here: stagnant, without a real reason nor any conviction about what I really wanted. With my two cores spinning fast, what is unclear is what I want now which I realize now, I just don’t know what it is. One thing is sure: I have never dreamed of having what I have in my life now.

      I stare at the screen.

      The human brain has no cores and multitasking does not suit human beings: keeping the mouse cursor halfway through the form, I realize that my prefrontal cortex is just sending confused ideas to an unspecified part of the brain; it is overloading my work memory with unnecessary stimuli, wasting precious brain resources which could be better used in order to finish up this wearisome task.

      Probably that’s what the notary public means: I am gloomy because of my prefrontal cortex. Not just within myself. I am visibly sombre and trapped in the darkness. I am stuck in a pattern, like the grid’s answer slots of a crossword puzzle. Three across, still, motionless and sombre, six letters and it ends with N-D-O.

      I move the mouse and finish off two fields, I scroll down, skipping the optional data, and an unspecified part of my brain states that the file is ready to be forwarded to the Chamber of Commerce.

      Send. Amend. Send. Amend. Send. Screw you. Amend. Send. Filed.

      This is the last one, the front part of my brain declares, before starting again to endlessly question myself as how my life could take this unchosen direction. My right hand stops again, stopping the mouse halfway down the bottom of the form. The idea overtakes the queuing working memory, elbowing through the newly set company data, and freeze every other scheduled thought, while waiting for the requested processing.

      I stare at the monitor with my head leaning slightly forward and my eyes open wide. It’s because it was supposed to be a temporary solution, while waiting to do what I wanted. Why not taking up something else straight away, my PFC goes on undeterred, now that a preferential route has been discovered to overwhelm the other neuronal flows. Unless you have completed whatever, you can’t do anything else, so you can just do something for the time being. Just do it then and that’s it, don’t be a pain in the ass, the occipital lobe proclaimed annoyed.

      I hear the door into the deed of sale room open, I blink a couple of times and I lean back on my armchair. Domenica says goodbye to the Ciapper brothers, goes past the door of my office and disappears in her office; Alessandro exchanges a few words with the enlightened businessmen whose faces are duller than before, taking them down the corridor.

      «So we are back to the origins: Banano rental estate belongs to Ciapper again, the building company which built it. It has been owned by so many companies, poor building!» he utters.

      «Yes, sure: dreadful!. It was the beginning of the end» the elder brother, one of the company directors, replies.

      I shift the mouse, I press some buttons, I browse and attach the pdf file and I press enter: this is filed too.

      No rectification? Where is the button really? I wondering about this while I save the receipt.

      «Goodbye notary; have a nice evening, Miss» I hear in the distance.

      She is not a Miss: she is married. Even if she wasn’t, Tamara is forty. In the 1800’s people used to say Miss: come on, get the hell out of here, you too Ciapper, you and your Banano estate.

1 Afterhours (artist), Padania (album title), Padania (track title), 2012 (year)

1.3 IMPULSES

      1.3 IMPULSES - ONE

      It is 5.00 pm and it is almost completely dark.

      I stand up off my armchair and I look out the window, towards the street below. I am looking at the light off the lamppost: it looks as if it has stopped raining.

      There are only the statutory changes to cover and all should be done for today in two hours. I linger on the uselessness of this present day which, once again, did not do anything for my existential condition as compared to the previous day; dazzling blue at the beginning and gloomier and gloomier as the hours go by, using this adjective that is now stuck in my mind.

      I get back to my desk and get ready to work at the statutory changes.

      «Brando, there you are» the notary said with a lively tone, storming into my office. «What are you up to?»

      «I am just finishing off filing all the deeds related to the fifth week in 2017» I reply, turning around to the doorway.

      «Are there many left still?»

      «Only four.»

      «Good. Do you remember, right, about the issue we need to talk about?»

      «Yes, I think so. Come the evening, I must say I was starting to feel this emptiness in my day» I add a bit sarcastically. «Shall we talk about buying cars? Have you seen any interesting new models? Any restyling? Perhaps talking about that trackday I had mentioned to you?»

      The notary is looking puzzled.

      «In my opinion you should really try your red economy car on the track. If you like, I can show you the internet site, you can also book it online: €375 for the whole morning.»

      «I am glad you are talking about trackday: I can sense you are at least less gloomy» the notary said. «Anyway, no, once again the trackday. Marisa: Mrs and Mr Pardoli...»

      «That’s right: somehow it had completely slipped my mind» I am joking.

      «Yes, Brando, sure. Please come over to me as soon as you are done with the statutory changes.»

      «Alright. I am afraid it will not be that quick, notary.»

      «It doesn’t matter, omnia tempus habent: tonight there will be a Provençal Tuesday at the Bistrot and I would pretty much like to miss it, or to get there late; so I am not going before 9:00pm.»

      «How wonderful: a theme night. And French too: really awesome.»

      «That’s right, Brando, really awesome. As a matter of fact, I want to enjoy the feeling of anticipation till the last moment» the notary says, turning around and taking a few steps. «And beyond» he adds, going off.

      Changes... I am thinking, feeling a bit pissed off looking back at the screen. I type in the tax code, I retrieve the data from the Business Register, I attach the updated statute and