The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (15 page)

    The
photograph of the teddy bear in the blood, staring out with its small glass
eyes.

    'Fuck,
why didn't I think of this before! Let's check that type of pistol. All the
pistols registered here and in the surrounding areas.'

    'What
the fuck?'

    Marconi
is already out in the corridor. 'Tommasi, you and I are going to that disco
tonight. Just wear black, otherwise they won't let us in,' he adds, before
heading out under the grey sky.

    He
rings the doorbell. No answer. He starts to worry that there's no one home, but
then he hears a noise from inside the house. He rings again. He needs to see
her.

    'Who
is it?' asks a faint voice.

    'Excuse
me, I'm Inspector Marconi. Can you open the door, please?'

    'Wait
a minute while I get dressed.'

    The
thought that she is naked on the other side of the door makes him feel hot.
Marconi leans against the door; he's slightly out of breath. To give himself
time to calm down, he has walked up the stairs, but he's not as fit as he used
to be.

    Viola
hurries; she slips on Marco's black jumper and cleans the blood off the blade
with a few sheets of loo roll that she then throws into the toilet. She
flushes. She hides the knife again in its usual drawer. She pulls off the elastic
hair band with purple plastic butterflies, and leaves her hair hanging loose as
she rushes to open the door.

    'Sorry.
I'd just come out of the shower,' she mumbles.

    He
takes a step forward. 'Can I come in?'

    'Of
course, sorry. I'm in a bit of a muddle. I was having a nap.'

    'I
thought you were having a shower.'

    'Oh,
yes. I mean before… before I had a shower.'

    In
the small living room, Marconi sits down in the armchair close to the window.

    Everything
is very simple. Light colours, white sofa, white armchair, a small glass table
and on it a photograph in a silver frame of the same girl smiling at someone
with one of her sad smiles.

    No
pictures on the walls.

    'Can
I use
tu
?'

    'Of
course.'

    'You
can call me
tu
as well, like we did the first time. I have to ask you a
few questions about your dream, the one you told me about the other week.'

    
Ten
days of wanting to call her.

    'Go
on.'

    'Can
you describe the room in more detail? The one covered in blood, I mean.'

    'Well…
I'll have to think, it was a while ago now.'

    'That's
OK.'

    Marconi
looks at his hands, one of the few things he likes about himself, his hands.
Strong hands, well kept, nice nails.

    'It
was white, narrow.'

    'Anything
else?'

    'I
don't know. I was staring at all that blood…'

    'And
the eyes?' 'Staring, frightening. It's happened, hasn't it? Something awful's
happened?'

    'Don't
worry, nothing serious.'

    
If
you can consider a pot-bellied man being butchered in the filthy toilet of a
motorway cafe as nothing serious.

    Viola
feels nervous.

    'Can
I show you a photo?'

    'Yes,'
she says, though she would rather have said no.

    He
comes closer and takes the photographs out of his jacket pocket.

    He
bends down by her feet.

    He
shows her the photograph.

    She
lets out a cry and turns her face away.

    In
that same moment there is the sound of a key turning and the door opening.

    Footsteps
echoing.

    'Who the
fuck are you?' demands the man aggressively.

    'Inspector
Marconi. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?'

    'Marco,
Viola's fiancé.'

    'Marco
what?'

    'Marco
Di Giacomo. Why are you here?'

    'Nothing
special - it's for the INPS - the registered square footage of the flat is
wrong.'

    'But
that isn't a job for the police, is it? And anyway, what the fuck does it
matter, I've got the architectural plans.'

    'All
sorted - there was just a mistake somewhere. I'll be going now.' Marconi gets
up. He shakes Marco's hand energetically, looking him in the eyes.

    He
receives an equally energetic handshake, and a fleeting look from eyes that are
too dark and that move away immediately to rest on something else.

    He's
back in the corridor. The door closes behind him. Yet again, he has no idea
what's going on.

    It's
almost dark. The inspector walks home, looking around him as he passes through
the old area where the flower sellers are, near San Petronio.

    He
likes this street because it is narrow and full of flowers. There are flowers
in pots, but he doesn't pay much attention to those: they're like domesticated
animals. And then the cut flowers arranged in large bunches, or in coloured
buckets standing on the ground.

    They
are depressing, cut flowers, because they already have death attached to them.
They can't last very long; like fish on land.

    Walking
down that street always makes him think of death, but he likes that, since it
makes him feel alive.

    He
walks along and looks at the flowers, and at the same time thinks about her,
about the woman who holds him in the palm of her hand as she talks to him
through her crimes, utterly brutal yet drenched in femininity.

    In
the end it turned out that she had left a little present the last time as well.
After a few hours, the flying squad officers had gone back to check the scene
of the crime again and found it.

    A red
rose, leaning up against an old scooter without any wheels.

    Perhaps
she had thought the scene of the crime wasn't complete, and so she went back to
add the finishing touch.

    
A woman.

    And
like all women, she thinks details are important. Details, things that make a
difference, and that men often undervalue.

    He pictures
her like that: a red rose with a cut stem. The queen of flowers; a determined
woman looking for revenge.

    It
has just stopped raining. The smells are stronger. The stone of the city gives
off a pungent fragrance. The perfume of the past, of ancient, timeless stories
- the story of a victim and a murderer. But who is the real victim?

    The
fridge is empty, as always.

    He
runs down the stairs and orders the usual Chinese takeaway from the place
downstairs: Cantonese rice and spicy prawns.

    He pays
five hundred Euros a month in rent for a shoebox that constantly stinks of
grease and yet he still eats it, that fried food.

    Supper
by the light of the street lamps, sitting in the armchair by the window. He likes
to eat in the semi- darkness, without laying the table, while sipping a beer.
There's always beer in the house.

    Then
he has a steaming hot shower. It's one of the few pleasures he allows himself
every day.

    He
hasn't shaved for a week. His beard is now tough. He always means to wait for
the shaving foam to soften it so as not to risk cutting himself, but he never
does. Just takes time to rinse his hands, then shave and, every time, he cuts
himself. As he does now.

    Hanging
on the wall is an old theatre bill. He found it once in an attic when he was
carrying out a search, and he took it away with him. It was left there, covered
in dust, dating from 1976, with yellowing marks from the Sellotape and one
corner almost torn off.
Brutal Justice.
What a film.

    
What
a film, fuck, and then the ending - it was wild!

    He
remembers when he saw it the first time. He was just a boy. Sitting on the
sofa, his feet didn't touch the ground. He was being good, sitting quietly and
watching the television. It was Sunday afternoon and he had been swallowed up
by the television screen as he watched a car chase. But what a car chase!
Filmed with that workman like, high-speed shooting that cut across curves like
the sharp scalpel of a surgeon.

    He
had leant to the right or the left, according to the bends, almost as if he
himself were part of the chase.

    He
was on the side of the police. He was a cool guy, that Merli, with icy,
fearless eyes; rough methods. One of those who see that justice is truly done.

    And
then the grand finale, when everyone might lose everything. Just one mistake,
and it would all be over.

    He
has often watched that film again, but whenever he thinks about it, he only
remembers that first time, on that Sunday afternoon when he decided that he
would be like that, like the blond policeman with the moustache, without fear
and without pity.

    He
does feel fear, however. He tried to grow a moustache but it didn't really suit
his face, and as for pity… he doesn't exactly know what it is, pity.
Occasionally he feels a tightening in his chest, but he doesn't know if you can
call that pity. The only thing he is sure of is that when he sees certain
things he feels an anger growing inside him, and if he got hold of…

    The
intercom sounds. It's Tommasi; he is waiting for him downstairs. Marconi dries
his face and splashes on aftershave. It stings, making him wince.

    'Inspector,
you're bleeding - just under your ear.'

    'I
know, Tommasi, I know. I'll fit in better that way this evening. Don't they all
think they're vampires in the club we're going to?'

    Jokes
have never been his strong point, and he knows it.

    Viola
stands naked in front of the mirror. She scrutinises herself, something she
hasn't done for ages.

    She
wants to prove to herself that she isn't hideous. She has hidden the jumper at
the back of the wardrobe. She knows she is weak, having not thrown it away,
which is what she would have liked to do in a rare burst of confidence. In
moments of despair, she might need it again.

    Yes,
much better not to throw it away. And, anyway, she's hidden it so well that she
can't see it. It's as if it never existed, she tells herself.

    She
stands on tiptoe on the tracksuit trousers she let fall to the ground a second
ago.

    She
touches her thighs, almost as if she wants to view herself through touch as
well. She slides her cold hands over her hips and up to her soft, firm, full
breasts.

    Her
breasts. They seem so unashamed. If only she were a bit more like them. She wishes
she were erect like her nipples, taking on the world without fear. But she
isn't a bit like her breasts, and so, to punish them and make them at least a
bit like herself, she confines them in minimiser bras, trying to squash them,
to flatten them.

    Today,
however, she wants to be more like them.

    On a
chair next to her is everything she needs. The black lace slip that usually she
feels embarrassed about wearing. She puts it on, and the shiny material bunches
up around her breasts, struggling to get past them but then sliding down and
barely concealing her behind a veil of seduction.

    It's
as if she is dressed in a sensual spider's web, and for an instant she thinks
she looks beautiful. She considers that she ought to put on a bra, but then
dismisses that idea, remembering those words of his that hurt her so much.