The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (26 page)

    For a
while.

    It
gets thirsty more often now than it used to. It is like a baby who grows up but
doesn't stop craving his mother's milk. He wants it again and again. That
hurts. It hurts because he gets stronger and stronger; he attaches himself
greedily to the breast and sucks out the liquid he has become dependent on. As
soon as his mother takes him in her arms, he smells the sweet odour and he
can't resist. He starts to scream, and he screams until she attaches him to her
breast and he can start to breathe again. The little teeth that are already
pushing through the gums shred his mother's delicate skin, but she can't help
wanting to satisfy the flesh of her own flesh. It's a need that burns inside
her, sadism and masochism uniting in a dance of life. The pain hurts her flesh
but it gratifies her spirit.

    Marconi
opens his eyes. His head is still spinning but now he can focus. He's
experiencing some sort of hallucination. He remembers a dark corridor. He
remembers climbing up stairs on legs as heavy as lead. But nothing more.

    There
is a slight tingling on his lips. He opens and closes his mouth. He feels numb.

    His
eyes become accustomed to the dim, orange- coloured light. He focuses more
clearly. He sees a bed with dark, glossy sheets - a sea of unpleasant memories.
He sees a low bedside table and a lamp covered with a piece of red material
through which filters a disconcerting light.

    He
moves his head from side to side, quickly. He wants to awaken his senses, but
all he does is make himself feel dizzy. He feels like he's going to fall.
Instinctively he tries to put out his hands, but they stay where they are, as
if glued to the arms of the chair he's sitting in.

    He
looks down and understands why. He is bound to the chairs by adhesive tape
wrapped around his wrists, his skin bruised by its vice-like grip.

    He
kicks out, but his legs are held firm too. He isn't able to see them, buried as
he is amid the black leather of a comfortable and unusual prison.

    He
doesn't understand. He doesn't remember.

    Then he
hears a voice. A sing-song voice. A monstrous lullaby that makes his body
stiffen, and brings him completely and instantaneously to his senses.

    A
half-closed door opens, letting in a dazzling light. All he can see is the dark
shape of the person to whom the voice belongs.

    Then
she closes the door behind her, and finally she. appears before him.

    She
is still wearing the blonde wig, but she has even more make-up than before. She
seems to be covered in a patina of heavy make-up that flattens her features and
makes her look like an antique doll. Her appearance frightens him.

    She
looks like one of those dolls that his grandmother used to sit on her hand-made
lace bedspread. They had staring eyes, outlined in black. Rosy lips through
which you could see tiny gleaming teeth. The little neck was separated by a
deep cut from the rest of the body, so that the head seemed merely balanced on
top. It looked like it would fall off at any moment.

    They
wore ornate clothes, covered in lace and frills.

    They
used to terrify him. He would watch them secretly, checking to make sure that
they didn't blink.

    Deceitful
creatures that just pretended to be unreal, inert. Instead they chose to sit
there, motionless, but ready to come to life and attack him at the right
moment.

    Here
she is, just as he imagined. The doll has come to life. She moves, she looks at
him and laughs, showing her small gleaming teeth.

    She
comes towards him wearing nothing but a black lace slip that plays with the
orange light, revealing and then covering the bare legs that move beneath the
light fabric.

    She
has something shiny in her hand. A kitchen knife. It seems out of place.

    'You've
been naughty tonight.' She reveals the white pearls of her teeth again.
'Mummy's going to punish you.' She comes closer.

    Frenzied
shadows are projected on to the wall. It looks like a canvas that is being
covered by a painter's wild brushstrokes. She waves the knife and laughs, but
it sounds like she's crying.

    She
stops.

    She looks
grotesque, standing there in front of him with her legs apart. 'Am I
beautiful?' she asks.

    Marconi
stares at her. She is a waking nightmare. 'Yes, you're beautiful.'

    'Liar.
I know what you're thinking.'

    He's
thinking that perhaps his mind isn't working properly. Perhaps he has just said
'You're a waking nightmare' out loud.

    'Do
you like me?'

    This
time he thinks first to make sure he gives the correct answer. 'Yes, I like
you.'

    'I
drugged you. You're an idiot, policeman.'

    Marconi
shakes his head. For an instant he thinks that perhaps Tommasi spotted him
while he was following her, dragging his legs, clearly confused.

    'You're
stupid,' she says.

    'What
are you going to do?'

    'I'm
going to make you pay.'

    'What
have I done?'

    'You
made a mistake. And now I'm going to punish you.'

    Marconi
starts to tug at his arms and legs to release them, but he only manages to make
the armchair move imperceptibly forward.

    She
bends over. She is that some doll, he's sure of it, his grandmother's doll. It
has pretended to be good for all this time, and now…

    'You're
scared, aren't you?'

    'What
do you think?'

    She
moves the knife towards the sweaty face of the policeman. His sweat smells
acidic, of drugs. She caresses him with the blade, but doesn't cut him. The
sound made by his rough stubble against the metal excites her. 'You're sure of
yourself - because you're a man. But I'm in charge now.' And she holds her face
close to his, as if she wants to inhale the life out of him.

    'I'm
scared. You're in charge. That OK?'

    'Not
yet.'

    She
stands up again, raises one leg, then rests it on his knee. He just has time to
focus on what's happening, before he feels a razor-sharp pain. She raises and
lowers her leg as is she's trying to kick him away and she drives her stiletto
heel first into his thigh, now into his knee cap.

    'What
the fuck!'

    'It
hurts, doesn't it?'

    'Stop
it. You'll be in big trouble.' He tries to sound like that policeman in a film,
but he can't remember which film.

    She
lifts her leg. She holds it raised for an instant, then kicks hard, the kick
ending at his thigh. He clenches his teeth so as not to scream.

    'I
adore high heels.' And she leans over him again.

    'What
do you want from me?'

    'I
want you to want me as much as I want you. Do you want me?'

    'Yes.
Yes…'

    'Liar.
You're all the same, you men. Liars.' She is shouting now. 'Liars. Liars,
phonies, bastards, pigs.'

    Marconi
really is scared. He is utterly alert, as if eager to enjoy this macabre
spectacle in which he is the protagonist, defenceless, with his hands tied.

    She
raises the knife and brings it down level, with his stomach.

    He
closes his eyes, tightly. He doesn't want to see, just like when he was small
and for a moment he was sure that the horrendous doll had moved, and when he
preferred to close himself inside the darkness that he could create whenever he
wanted. Perhaps, that way, the doll might have believed that her secret was
safe and she would have spared him. At least for a while.

    She
is slashing his trousers. The fabric hisses under the blade, as it is guided by
hysterical hands.

    'You're
all pigs. You make me mad. What should I do with you?' She seems to be raving
now.

    She
carries on slicing, and screaming filth. He feels shaken. The doll, with her
eyes circled in black, is on her knees at his feet. And he has an erection.

    'Congratulations
on that work you did for the shopping centre. I like it. It's snappy, lively,
really dynamic advertising. Great, really great. But I… Eva, are you listening
to me?' Mariangela asks.

    'Yes,
sorry. I'm not feeling too well today. I've got an awful headache.'

    'Are
you coming for a drink with us after work?'

    'I
can't. I've always got loads of things to do on Wednesdays.'

    'OK,
I won't try to persuade you. But go and get yourself a coffee - you need one.
And ask Bruno to come to my office as you go out.'

    Bruno
is new. He has replaced Roberto - and not just at his desk.

    'Giuli,
do you want to come? Time for a coffee break.'

    'I
can't, any more. Always the same stuff - I'm sick of that scanner. I even dream
about it at night!'

    'Come
on. Tomorrow's your birthday! You should be happy. And what about your father?
Did you follow my advice?'

    'Yes.
I'm meeting him today, like you suggested. Away from home and also away from
where he works, so he doesn't get any distractions. We're meeting at his club,
nice and relaxing, and -'

    'And
he'll say yes. I'm certain.'

    'Let's
hope so! At any rate, you're craftier than I thought.'

    'Thank
you. It's nice of you to say so, but I'm not sure I should take it as a
compliment. Anyway, this evening I'm expecting you at mine. Miew and I have
prepared a little supper for you, to thank you for everything you've done for
us recently. And then you'll be able to tell me if you've persuaded him to buy
you your new car.'

    Giulia
seems embarrassed, which is rare for her. 'I wasn't expecting you to do
anything,' she says. 'And I thought I was being a bit annoying - about the car
I mean.'

    'Of
course not, why should it annoy me? So I'll see you this evening. It'll be an
unforgettable evening, I promise.'

    Eva
goes back to her desk. She is preparing a publicity campaign for a new type of
urban vehicle. Ideas whirr around in her head. She thinks about the size of the
car - easy to park, even in the smallest spaces. She wants to get across the
idea of it making the most of every possibility, of grabbing every opportunity
as it occurs, of a philosophy you can apply to every aspect of your life and to
all of the decisions you make every day. 'The person who can make the most of
every second chooses a car that doesn't loose a single moment,' she says out
loud. Her gaze rests on the one red rose that stands out from the desk strewn
with paperwork.

    The
sun is high in the sky. The staring eyes are still searching upwards for
something they can't see. It will never again be dawn, never sunset. The body
was found an hour before. He seems astonished to be there, with all those
people now buzzing around him. Around him, who has only ever had a small group
of friends. His street friends will never again watch him doing his double jump
on his skateboard. 'Where's Inspector Marconi?' 'He hasn't been answering his
mobile since last night. I'm really worried. We were following…'

    'Some
women. So what's there to worry about?' Frolli sniggers.

      There's
another corpse, lying motionless, his eyes fixed on some undefined object.

    Marconi
has just woken up on the bed with black sheets, in a sea of unpleasant
memories. He stares at something but he can't focus on it. He hurts all over.
But he's alive.

    He is
naked. His face is contorted.

    She
opens eyes smudged with mascara. The smeared make-up makes it look like she is
grieving. She looks like the sinner in some dreary painting, crying and
pleading for forgiveness, overwhelmed and petrified by a dull pain, petrified.