The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (21 page)

    
Let's
hope he didn't recognise me. What a shitty day.

    'When
a day starts like shit, it always ends like shit,' he says aloud, while he
checks to see if the cops are leaving.

    She
stares at the white ceiling. Last night she dreamed of red, everything was red.
Like blood.

    The
first time she dreamed of red, the most blood she had seen up till then was
when she scraped her knee outside her house. She fell as she got off her bicycle,
because it was a bit too big for her. But she liked that because it made her
feel more grown-up. She can't even remember how old she was.

    It
stung but she didn't cry. She just stared at it.

    She
looked at the grazed skin. She looked at the gravel that had gone into her
knee, and that her mother then tried to extract with tweezers.

    There
was very little blood. But it was red: a colour that had somehow excited her.

    Afterwards,
she was left trembling slightly. Her mother thought it was because her daughter
had had a scare, and made her a camomile tea with lots of honey.

    She
dreamed that very same night.

    A
road. And a pool of blood. She can see it there, in front of her, even now.

    It
wasn't red like the blood on her knee; it was more like a dense brown.

    She
woke up, crying out with fear.

    For a
long time her mother had stroked her forehead, which was damp with sweat, to
make her go back to sleep. She sang softly, quietly - a story about a little
girl who was too tiny to live in the world of adults, and who was always in
danger of being trodden on.

    'Poor
baby, so tiny,' sang her mother, till in the end deep breathing took the place
of her daughter's shallow and troubled gasps.

    The day
after that, they found the neighbour's dog.

    Tom.
He always ran free and played with all the children in the neighbourhood.

    She
had been holding on to her mother's leg and they were just going out; her
mother was taking her to school. Then her mother yelled out her father's name,
and at the same time pushed her daughter firmly back into the house.

    From
inside she could hear the neighbours shouting. At some point she ran outside.

    What
was left of Tom was a cascade of entrails falling from his ripped-open stomach,
and soaked in his own blood.

    For
days she kept seeing that image. The real one, not the one from her dream. She
couldn't understand it.

    She
just knew that it was the
same
image - and that it terrified her.

    She
stares at the whiteness of the ceiling. Last night she dreamed of red.

    Blood.
Blood everywhere. Staining everything. Light.

    And
roses. Roses dipping their delicate petals in that sacred liquid.

    It
seemed to her that she could even smell it.

    The
sweetness of the blooming flowers. The sweetness of blood.

    Together,
in a macabre dance.

    She
hears a voice in her head calling her. All the time.

    I
can't bear it. Enough. A bit of peace. Please. Inside me.

    She
holds the packet of white powder between her fingers. It feels dangerous, as it
always does when she holds it.

    She
has seen what you do in films. She must have seen it a thousand times.

    In
the end, it would be the only sure way of making everything disappear, that
white powder.

    It
can't be difficult.

    She
pulls herself upright and stops staring at the ceiling above her. She moves her
gaze from the white of the walls to the white of the packet. She puts it
between her teeth and tears it open. She sniffs it. It stings her nostrils a
bit and makes her eyes water for a moment.

    On
the coffee table in front of her is a straw that she has cut already.

    She
tips out a small pyramid of the powder. She makes a line. A snow-coloured snake
slithering across the glass table-top.

    
I
ought to think about this. But I need to feel silence inside me. And I think it
might help me. Then I'll burn it, the packet. I want to make it disappear
.

    She
looks into the eyes of the snake. She moves the straw towards it, to tame it.

    She
sniffs hard.

    'Hi Patrick.
How are you?' 'Not great, Eva. Sorry.'

    'What's
wrong?'

    'I
know. To be polite I should say I'm fine, but the fact is I'm not fine,' the
boy answers dismally, and lowers his gaze to his skinny knees.

    'But
what's happened?' repeats Eva.

    'The
usual. Nothing new.'

    'For
me, it's insane at work. I'm the newest person there and everyone pulls my
leg.'

    'Really?'

    'Yes,
really. And, trust me, it does get to me. Some days I'd happily stay in bed.'

    'It's
the same for me at school… but there's one guy in particular.'

    'There's
always someone in particular who ruins your life. It's true for everyone.'

    'No,
I don't believe it happens to everyone.'

    'Well,
it's true for people like us, quiet people who don't want to bother anyone, who
just mind their own business.'

    'Yes,
it is like that. So why doesn't everyone else just live their own lives?'

    'Because
sometimes it's better to live other people's. It's easier.'

    'Let's
start now. No more chatting.'

    A bit
of running round the room. Jumping on the spot. Stretching.

    Eva
thinks about how it is true: someone takes the trouble to force their way into
your life, and destroys it. Destroys the balance you have established.

    Everything
changes. Even the colour of your eyes. She's sure of that.

    The
colour of her own eyes has changed.

    Press-ups.

    It's
like a vase that falls and breaks. You can stick it back together, but it's
never quite the same as it was before.

    Exercises
in pairs.

    Eva
joins up with her friend.

    She
holds the cushion first. He hits it angrily.

    He
lacks co-ordination. She has to try to guess what he's going to do so she can
cover herself and not be hit. He's like a missile without a target, putting too
much force into his punches. Force without control is useless.

    'Eva,
at school, that person I was telling you about before…' And he throws a punch,
but swings his arm out too wide. Any opponent would have time to land a direct hit
and knock him flat before his hook connects. 'I don't mind when he insults me,
but he insults someone I care for very much.' 'Patrick, punch straighten'

    'I
can't stand it any more.'

    'I
know what you mean. But you have to have a bit of patience in this world…'

    'I'd
give anything to make him stop, when he starts insulting her the way he does.'

    'Try
to raise your leg a bit more when you kick.'

    'I
wish he'd never mention her again, my mother, never.' Another semicircle that
loses its momentum before he even lands the punch.

    'Change
over!'

    Patrick
takes the cushion.

    Eva
puts the gloves on.

    'You're
right, Patrick. You can't do anything about it.'

    He
looks at her, downcast. Even his only friend is saying he can't do anything.
And therefore he's not worth anything.

    As
Eva throws a right-hander, the force of the blow makes him step backwards.

    'As a
fellow student, you'd risk being expelled if you touched him, wouldn't you?'

    The
boy smiles, thinking for a second that what Eva is saying is true, that she
didn't say it just to make him feel better, to boost his morale, but because he
really could beat up Stefano if he wanted to, but he doesn't do so because he
doesn't want to cause problems for himself.

    'Listen,
Patrick, what school do you go to?'

    'That's
enough chatting. What's up with you two today?' The coach stares over at them.

    Eva
does a high kick.

    'Righi.
Why?'

    'Because…'

    'Silence,
there! Eva, right, you can train with Lara. Patrick with Luca. I'll have to
split you up, like kids. Now, when I clap my hands you do a middle kick: one,
two three. Now high kicks: one, two, three.'

    Eva
gets her anger off her chest. Every kick fills her with adrenalin, recharges
her. She feels the force of her blows against the leather cushion, which the
girl with plaits is struggling to hold on to, and tries to make them even more
powerful and precise. The part of the lesson she likes best is towards the end:
free fighting. That's when she has the opportunity to compete with a person,
flesh and blood, not a stuffed sack, so she can't make any mistakes because, if
she does, she risks being kicked or punched. And in those moments she gets the
opportunity to challenge her own fear. To let herself get hurt.

    . She
studies her opponent and doesn't ever consider that, when all's said and done,
it's just a training exercise; she thinks the person in front of her wants to
hurt her, and then her eyes change colour and she becomes a lioness.

     'Eva,
wait a minute.' The coach is looking serious.

    
Shit,
here we go. He's going to tell me off.

    'There's
no sense in you staying with this course.'

    'But…
it won't happen again.'

    'You've
improved a lot. From next Tuesday come to the advanced course. I'll see you at
eight instead of seven.'

    She
can't do it again.

    Too
little time has passed. She has to be careful. He could walk in on her at any
moment. But he won't.

    Marco
has gone out again, but there's something else… He's not his usual self. They
haven't made love for days.

    That's
never happened before. Perhaps it really is over between them. She wanders
backwards and forwards across the room, unable to settle. She throws herself on
to the sofa and tries to find a bit of warmth by hugging a cushion. She still
feels cold, and she hears the voice. The voice inside her.

    Instinctively
she brings her fingers to her mouth. She tries to find a piece of fingernail.
Biting her nails would calm her down, but there's nothing to get hold of. She
looks at her hands. Her nails no longer exist. They are just stumps that go
straight into her flesh. Her hands look horrible; she thinks they are hideous.

    No
wonder Marco won't touch me any more - I'm disgusting.

    She
studies her nails again and bursts into tears. She jumps to her feet and goes
into the bathroom.

    
She
fetches something, then comes back and sits down in the living room, this time
on the chair standing in the corner.

    She
starts brushing nail polish on to what's left of her nails with their reddish
edges. She cries as she skims the brush over them. She shouldn't bite them like
that any more. This is the last time. Now they'll grow properly and she won't
touch them again. Enough is enough. This time it's final. She won't bite them
ever again. She still cries.