The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (28 page)

    Marconi
never usually goes home at lunchtime, but today isn't a usual day.

    First,
he absolutely must change his clothes.

    Second,
he feels dirty. Perhaps he really does smell, like that bastard Frolli
suggested, given that he'd been sweating so much because of the drugs that
crazy woman put in his drink. And perhaps also because of the fear he had felt.

    More
than anything he feels dirty, as if he has been violated deep inside. He thinks
that perhaps he can now understand how women feel after they have been the
victims of sexual violence. He tries to drive the idea from his head, as it
hurts too much to think about it now. A nice shower is what he needs. But first
an aspirin. He hates pills, but this time he really needs to take something,
because every part of him hurts.

    Both
his body and his head.

    He
lets the steaming hot water flow over him. He scrubs with the soap where large
purple bruises have appeared. On his wrists, his ankles, then the bite marks on
his chest and neck, and the fingernail scratches on his back. He can't reach
the scratches but he can feel them sting under the hot water.

    While
the water courses over his skin, scarlet images appear before his eyes, like the
frames of a film. Of last night, of that narrow room, the claustrophobic space
where he was imprisoned and where he had been thinking:
This is how it feels
before you die.

    And,
instead of him, other people had died, carried away by that unknown assassin on
her black horse of death.

    She
has killed an old man and a boy, like in that song he used to sing when he was
small.

    He
turns off the tap with a flick of his wrist and just stands there dripping and
staring at the bright blue tiles. Then he reaches outside the white shower
curtain, grabs the bathrobe that's always there - one fixed point in his too
erratic life - and puts it on.

    He
drags himself to the armchair and sits down, his back to the room and his face
turned towards the sun streaming through the blinds, puncturing the darkness of
the room with tiny golden spirals.

    He
has too much to think about. So he tries not to think about anything.

    He
picks up his mobile to check the calls he missed during last night's bad dream.

    He's
never had so many phone calls. Thirty calls he hasn't answered.

    Five
from Tommasi, two from the police station, two from the
questore
(which
doesn't bode well), three from Frolli, three numbers he doesn't recognise and
five calls from Viola. He gives a start: he doesn't know why, but he's afraid
for her. He is about to click on her name, but the phone starts ringing. The
call is from an unknown number.

    The
city is hidden under a blue veil. The sun has already set and darkness is
resuming its territory.

    He
can't believe it. Everything is happening at once. One phone call after
another.

    As if
everyone's conscience has been awakened at the same time. As if fear has opened
a Pandora's box of secrets. Two telephone calls. Two women. Two truths that lay
hidden but are now exposed to the light of day.

    Eva
sings happy birthday to Giulia, as she lights the candles.

    The
small, square table is set for two, with a checked green linen tablecloth.

    Eva sings
and watches her friend, who seems genuinely happy for once.

    The
tray that held the appetisers is empty. The last one is lying in Miew's bowl,
the cat studying it, trying to work out how to eat it. In the meantime, the
cake lends colour to the table and lights up the girls' greedy eyes.

    'Thank
you. Truly. No one has ever made a birthday tea for me like this. I mean… just
for me, from the heart. And not just because it's expected.'

    'Don't
mention it. You've done so much for me over the last year, and I don't think
I've ever thanked you properly.'

    'Rubbish!
I've not done anything, and that's the truth.'

    'It's
not
true, Giulia. You've done so much for me.' And she clasps her friend's
hand.

    'You
know, you're making me feel like a hypocrite…'

    'Oh,
stop it. Come on, you have to cut the cake.'

    'Just
a minute. Let me finish…'

    'If
that's what you want.'

    'I've
never done anything for anybody. I pretend to, perhaps, but really I only help other
people if there's something in it for me. I'm not a nice person. But it's not
my fault. I'm just like that. I've been like that for as long as I remember.'

    'But
you really have helped me a lot.'

    'But
only because I needed you. The truth is I'm lonely; I've got no one. Everything
around me is all fake. You're the only real thing that's happened to me… and
now I'm so embarrassed.' She looks down at the floor. Perhaps she's about to
cry.

    'Giulia,
you saved my life, believe me,' and Eva squeezes her hand even tighter.

    'You're
so good to me, even about the car…'.

    'You
shouldn't be embarrassed - quite the opposite. Tell me how it went.'

    'He
said yes, he's going to buy me it. He was as meek as a lamb. He must have been
thinking about something else. I can't wait, I wanted it so much. Thanks for
your advice - your idea was great.'

    'I'm
happy for you.'

    'Really?'

    'Yes,
I told you.'

    'Look
what I stole for us from the club.' Giulia gets up and opens her orange Prada
bag. 'Voila, champagne for the girls!' 'Wow. I've never had champagne. Let's
get rid of this cheap stuff first. There!' Eva throws back her head, and the
contents of her glass disappear.

    Giulia
does the same. She grins. 'Cake first, or champagne?'

    Miew
seems more restless than usual. She jumps on to the sofa and miaows to attract
attention.

    'What's
wrong with your cat today? She's insufferable.'

    'Perhaps
it's the moon.'

    'What
do you mean, "the moon"?' Giulia doesn't understand.

    'Champagne?'

    'OK,
you ready?' And she shakes the bottle.

    'We'll
be soaked if you do that.'

    
Pop.

    The
champagne explodes in a roar of bubbles. The cat dives under the sofa.

    The
intercom buzzes.

    Silence.

    'Are
you expecting someone?' Giulia asks, amazed.

    'No.
Perhaps they've pressed the wrong button. It happens all the time. They ring
any bell to get someone to open the door. A real Casanova lives above me.'

    'Just
when we were about to have our toast.'

    Eva
pushes the button to open the door, and comes back to her chair.

    'But
what if it was for you?'

    'It's
never for me. I keep telling you, nobody ever wants me.'

    Giulia
stands still, with the two overflowing glasses in her hands. She looks uncertain.
She stares at the bubbles that swim to the surface and explode as they make
contact with the air. She hands one glass to Eva. 'To us, and to friendship.'
She raises her glass.

    They
can hear footsteps running up the stairs. The girls remain silent, as if
there's an unspoken agreement between them to wait for something that's about
to happen. Giulia clinks her glass against her friend's, a way of carrying on
with her birthday. Her lips reach out to the golden liquid in a kiss that isn't
consummated.

    Someone
bangs violently on the door, sounding like they might want to break it down. A
voice shouts: 'Police! Open the door. We've got a search warrant.'

    Eva
jumps up, then freezes to the spot, while Giulia, panicking, starts to scream.

    Seconds
pass that seem to last for hours.

    'Open
up!'

    The
girl goes towards the door, one step at a time. She stops in front of the one
defence she has left, before sliding back the bolt. Then she lowers the handle
of the reinforced door. Stuck on the back of the door is a picture of her
sister, aged five, wearing the salopettes from Candy Candy she used to own.

    She
steps back. Three men burst into the room.

    One
shows her his badge. 'Inspector Marconi,' he says, gazing into the girl's
ice-cold eyes, She stares at him but doesn't say a word.

    The
other policemen are both holding guns. They look at the two girls. Marconi
stares at Eva. He's sure he recognises her, and she too loses herself in his
stare, silently, as she clenches her fists.

    The
light from the candles dance over the whipped cream, like restless ghosts on a
windy night.

    Marconi
takes another step forward. He grabs Eva's arm and moves her out of the way.

    'Giulia
Montanarini, I'm arresting you for murder. For the murder of Enzo Montanarini,
and others.'

    'My
father… dead? No… no!' cries Giulia, stepping backwards, her eyes full of
tears. 'I haven't killed anyone!' she shouts hysterically. 'Help me, Eva. Help
me! I haven't killed anyone.'

    Eva
flattens herself against the wall, to allow the other policemen past her. They
move towards Giulia, who is now standing with her back to the window.

    'No!
Daddy! No!' And she lets herself fall to the floor.

    The
policemen lift her up bodily, the handcuffs close round her slender wrists. The
wax from the candles on the cake drip like tears on to the blood- red
strawberries.

    'Congratulations,
Inspector. You've solved the case less than six hours after the murder. And who
would have thought it - Giulia? I've known her since she was just a child.' The
questore
shakes his hand. 'But tell me, Inspector, how did you do it?'

    'I
didn't do anything.' Marconi doesn't say it out of modesty, because he really
hasn't done anything. 'I've got to go now,' he adds. 'My shift isn't over yet.'

    The doorbell
rings, and yet again he's about to become the bearer of bad news.

    Another
closed door that's about to open. The pallid girl flings it open without even
looking at him. She has been waiting for him, wide awake, for twenty-four hours
- but the man who enters the semi- darkness of the too empty, too cold house
isn't who she was expecting.

    'Oh,
it's you.'

    'Viola,
I have to talk to you.'

    'I
can't now. My boyfriend's due back and I don't want him to find you here.'

    'Viola,
sit down. I have to tell you something important.'

    'Not
now… please.' It seems to be a struggle for her to talk. She hides herself
among the cushions on the sofa.

    'It's
about Marco.'

    'What
do you have to tell me about Marco? Something's happened to him, hasn't it?'
She gets up and almost instantaneously is standing opposite him, her eyes
shining, already moistening with tears.

    'Take
it easy, Viola. Come and sit down.' He likes to use her name. Viola. It sounds
nice - delicate, soft.

    'I
don't want to sit down. I want to know what you came here to tell me, and then
you must go.'

    'I
don't know how to tell you.'

    She
hangs on his every word, waiting, voraciously, leaning towards him.

    She
thinks about the roses in the blood. Yet that dream no longer interrupts her
sleep. No longer calls to her. But that dream used to accompany the angel of
death; she's certain of that.