The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (24 page)

    'What
do you mean? I don't do that stuff. I was just saying… Well, they don't seem
practical to me. And then, working with so many men, it could cause
embarrassment.'

    'It
wouldn't embarrass me at all - on the contrary. In fact I'd be doing a good
deed by brightening up my colleagues' workdays, wouldn't you say?'

    'Probably.'

    'Probably,
or definitely? There's a difference.'

    'Definitely,
definitely.'

    'I
could be wrong, but are you shy?'

    'Me,
shy? No, I've never been shy.'

    'Ah,
I see. You've never been shy.'

    The
gears shriek again.

    
Fuck.
What's going on? I didn't even crunch the gears like this when I was learning
to drive.

    'So,
it's not true that your girlfriend dumped you?'

    'Well,
no. I told you that just to get information.'

    'For
a cop as cute as you, I would've given you the information anyway. Or, of
course, you could've squeezed it out of me. By force.'

    Marconi
turns on the radio.

    She
switches it off. 'I prefer talking.'

    He
starts to whistle softly.

    'Left
at the traffic lights. Have you lived in Bologna long?'

    'A
few years.'

    'But
are you always so mysterious? You never give anything away.'

    'What
about you?'

    'Take
the second turning at the roundabout. It's been a few years for me here as
well. Turn right. We're here. Look for somewhere to park.' 'But you could've
told me the party was here, at Salara.'

    'What?
So you could've just said "Let's meet there"?'

    Marconi
doesn't answer. It's true: he would have said that. It would have been his
instinctive response.

    'They're
leaving. Park there.'

    A boy
in glasses - who must have got the wrong evening - is rushing away from the
space with a girl. She's wearing glasses too.

    'But
isn't this a gay club? I once arranged to meet a colleague here by mistake, and
I ended up having to explain myself to a sort of dwarf dressed… ambiguously.'

    Samantha
bursts out laughing.

    'You're
so narrow-minded! They have some great nights, so I often come here.'

    'But
does that mean you're…?'

    'I'm
me. And if you want to know if I like men as well, I can prove that to you
now.' She crosses her legs, and thus uncovers even more of her thigh.

    'Let's
go.' Marconi opens the car door.

    He's
about to cross the road when he realises that she's not behind him.

    The
girl is eyeing him with a mischievous smile through the slightly steamed-up
window. She waves at him to come and open her door.

    
Women.
So keen to take the initiative, and, yet they can't even open a car door by
themselves
.

    He
flings open the door clumsily. She holds out her hand and waits a second or two
for him to notice it and take it in his. Then she gets out of the vehicle,
leaning lightly against him.

    They
go in together. Marconi a step behind her.

    'Do
you have a pass?' demands a mannish-looking girl at the ticket desk.

    'What?'

    'You
need a pass to get in,' she says, sounding pissed off.

    'But
I won't be coming again, so why would I want a pass?'

    'You
need a pass to get in tonight. If you don't come again, that's your business. I
don't know… these straight shits who come here and think they can do whatever
they like.'

    'What?'

    Samantha
approaches the short-haired girl and gently touches her hand. She whispers
something in her ear.

    'OK,
Sam, OK. But if were you I wouldn't go round with certain people. Do me a
favour and take him away.'

    'But
what did you say to her?'

    No
answer. In the meantime, an irritated queue has been building up behind
Marconi, who - who at one metre eighty-seven tall, and distinctly uneasy - is
blocking the entrance.

    Samantha
grabs his arm. She is laughing, enjoying herself, not at all embarrassed. She
likes impetuous men. As well as lots of other types of men - and women.

    They
head down a staircase with ancient, worn stone steps.

    They
go round in a sort of spiral. She clings on to the wrought-iron handrail. There
are girls chatting on either side of the steps. They meet the first Marilyn,
who looks more like a young Sandra Milo.

    They
get to the bottom of the stone stairs. There aren't many people there yet.

    Two
very young girls - two gothic dolls in tulle tutus and with boots laced up to
the knee - are sitting on a bench talking to each other, one virtually pressing
against the mouth of the other.

    'But
they're not lesbians, are they?' 'What?'

    'Those
girls over there, dressed like princesses. They can't be lesbians, can they?'

    'Do
you ever leave your house? God, you're such a yokel!'

    'Me,
a yokel?' Now it's him repeating the last word someone's spoken, and it sounds
just as stupid as when other people do it to him.

    'Are
you going to get me a drink?'

    'Of
course.'

    As he
passes them, the policeman stares down at the two young girls.
Fuck, they
can't be more than seventeen under all that black make-up.
They are holding
hands, and teasing each other like a couple of lovers.

    The
women behind the bar all look like would-be lorry drivers. They don't look him
in the eye when he orders two neat vodkas with a splash of lemon - the drink
his companion has asked for. She, however, is already deep in conversation with
one of the club's PR people.

    Holding
the two glasses, he watches her. The woman now with her behaves like a man: she
gazes tenderly at Samantha's face, and her eyes - little bright buttons -
sparkle with desire.

    He
starts drinking through one of the straws.

    A
group of fake blondes fills the space with vague chatter and garish colours. He
watches them from behind. Carnival wigs, the plastic hair parted on one side
and half covering their foreheads. Perhaps they bought them in bulk during a
sale at some toy shop.

    He
gets the wrong straw this time and drinks from the second glass. The ice is
starting to melt.

    Samantha
glances over at him while she flirts with her friend. Then she gives her a kiss
on the mouth and comes over to Marconi.

    'Here
I am. Miss me?' She holds out her hand to take her drink. 'But they're both
half empty.'

    He
blushes. She grins.

    'So,
what's the plan?' asks Marconi. 'I've come alone. Like you asked me to.'

    'Oh,
you sound like you're in some film, so I suppose I should, too. Let's see now.
Stay close to me. When I spot the suspect, I'll try not to attract her
attention. But you mustn't lose sight of your one and only witness.'

    'But
you're not really a -'

    'Of
course I am. A witness in danger. That's exciting, so don't say it's not true.
Let me have some fun.' And she moves closer to him with an eager expression.

    .
'Have your fun, then.
What can I tell you
?' It's a phrase he has adopted
from Tommasi's repertoire.

    And,
speaking of Tommasi, he is still looking for a place to park in front of the
club while two other policemen are waiting in a vehicle somewhere on the main
road, expecting instructions.

    It
doesn't take long for the platinum wigs to take over the whole room. They're
everywhere. Clones who are by degree more or less grotesque, more or less
hairy.

    There's
even a Marilyn with a black moustache. 'God, he's repulsive,' the inspector
grunts.

    Samantha
laughs. She really does find him entertaining.

    'The
music's starting. Let's have a wander round.'

    A
sort of turret erected inside the club lends it a certain atmosphere. Black
curtains hang from the walls. Large oil paintings of naked girls, inside kitsch
frames. A stall with two smiling youngsters - a boy and a girl not in fancy
dress - has a folder full of badges on display.

    Marconi
moves closer to get a better look. The glittering badges include some with pictures
from the cartoons he used to watch as a child. He starts to name them, out
loud, pointing at each one in turn.

    'Kotetsu
Jeeg, the steel robot - I really liked him. Captain Harlock - that's amazing!
And there's Sampei. Did you used to watch Sampei? How did the theme tune go?'
And he starts to sing it. 'No, it's Tigerman! How much are they?'

    'One
Euro each,' the boy answers.

    'Wow,
that's cheap… Where do you find them? No, look! There's Carletto, Prince of
Monsters… and Gigi la Trottola. I used to think it was so funny the way he went
around stealing knickers…'

    'Can
you get out of the way? Other people would like to have a look.'

    
Another
frustrated lorry driver. This is too much
.

    'Just
wait your turn, like everyone else.' He has regressed to his childhood.

    The
girl pushes in and stands next to him. She hardly has time to point out Lady
Oscar, a real lesbian icon, to her friend, before Marconi regains his spot.

    'So,
if I buy a few, will you give me a discount?'

    'OK,'
the girl says without hesitating. 'Five Euros for six.'

    'Ah,
but six won't be enough. There're loads of them I like… No! Films, too, I don't
believe it!
Reservoir Dogs
- God, what a film! Igor from
Young
Frankenstein.
I can't believe it…'

    'You're
not going to start listing all of them, are you? You're not the only one here.
If you like, I can show that I recognise them all too - if you'll only let me.'

    'Oh,
why don't you go have a wander round while I'm looking through these. Leave me
in peace while I choose what I want. So… I absolutely must have Gigi, Carletto,
the robot Daitarn 3… No! It's Lupin!'

    'Why
don't you buy Fujiko for me? Don't you think I look like her?'

    Marconi
finally remembers that he's not come here on his own. 'Of course. Choose
another one as well, if you like.'

    'Look,
it's Creamy and Bia. Did you used to watch Bia?' Samantha starts to sing the
theme song, her wig swaying from side to side.

    'Are
you two ever going to get out of the way?'

    'Just
a minute.' Being a good policeman, Marconi is trying to keep things calm. 'One
at a time. Take it easy.'

    'Fuck
taking it easy. You're the one's who's standing in the way.'

    'That's
because I was here first.'

    The
two people behind the stall look at each other, bewildered by what's now going
on, and they smile as the boy tries to find Fujiko in a small, overflowing bag
of badges.

    'Bia
as well. I have to have that one.'

    'How
many is that now?' Marconi asks.

    'With
Bia, it's six.'

    'Let's
get to ten at least.'

    He
bends over the stall, looking like a child confronting a jar of Nutella.

    'It's
her. God, it's her!'

    'Her?'

    'What
do you mean "her"? I just saw her walking past us, the murderer.'

    'Don't
say "murderer". Are you mad?' Marconi covers her mouth with his hand.
'Put them on one side for me, and I'll come back and get them later,' he shouts
as Samantha drags him away.