'What is it?'
'Just open it!'
'But why are you giving me a present? Is there something you've done that I have to forgive you for?'
'You complain that I don't pay you enough attention, and then when I buy you a present it's because I've got something to hide. You're never happy, Viola. What am I to do with you?' And he turns away from her.
She gets up. She's now wearing an apricot-coloured jersey dress.
'I'm sorry, sweetie.' She takes his hand. 'I'll open it straight away.'
She tries untying the shiny bow, but can't undo it. She pulls at it some more. The skin on her fingers turns white, as if the blood has stopped flowing.
'Use the scissors,' Marco has already run out of patience.
'They're somewhere in the kitchen, and I want to open it straight away.'
He takes the present, ripping off the bow, and lets it fall to the floor.
She claps her hands and jumps about in her seat.
'That's it - tear it off. It'll bring me good luck!'
A white box. She opens it.
A black, see-through slip.
Marco buys her very few presents. But when he does, it's always lingerie.
'Try it on for me.'
'Now?'
'Yes, do it for your lover.' His eyes shine with desire.
'OK.'
Viola puts the white box on the table and holds up the slip.
'It's beautiful.'
She turns to go into the bedroom, to put it on.
'No, here. In front of me.'
'I don't like changing here. I'll go into the bedroom and I'll be back straight away.'
'Come on, what are you embarrassed about? What's the difference? I know what you look like.'
'No, I'd be embarrassed. I'd feel strange.'
He grabs her wrist. 'For me,' he says to her, with a smile on her lips.
Viola has always had a boyfriend. Ever since she was thirteen, perhaps to fill the gap left by her father. Perhaps because she really isn't someone who can live on her own.
And she's never able to say no.
'OK.'
She takes off the dress. It keeps the shape of her body as it lies on the sofa.
She's wearing a white vest, which matches her panties. Her bra is black, though, one of those minimiser bras.
He's sitting on the chair opposite her.
Viola hesitates for a moment.
He signals to her with a nod, barely raising his head. Like a silent command. A command she can't question.
She slides down one strap, then the other. The vest falls to the ground.
'Everything,' he says.
The panties… and the bra last. She takes it off slowly.
Her breasts are soft but firm.
She immediately covers herself with her arm.
As she puts on the slip, he stands up.
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
Miew looks at her from the threadbare armchair in the corner of the room.
She looks like she's dead, covered completely by the yellow bedspread that crushes her like a heavy gravestone.
Eva isn't dead. But she wishes she were.
She wishes she could press the off switch of her life; then peace and silence.
Cancel everything. Delete the images that appear in front of her eyes and never go away.
But there is no peace. There is no forgetting.
She is curled up amid that dull pain, the pain of someone who has lost everything in an instant.
Faith. Losing one's faith means being dead. Dead inside.
The sun flows in through the cracks in the darkness, creating thin lines of light.
The phone rings insistently. At the other end is Sonia, who doesn't understand why Eva's late, and is worrying about the package of images waiting to be scanned that's leaning against her empty desk.
There's a wilting flower on that desk as well.
Eva, lost in a bed that smells of tears, thinks about an advert she really liked when she was a girl. An advert for those biscuits with a hole in the middle of them. It featured a sad little girl, who was alone. Then she slipped a biscuit on her finger, as if it were a ring, and, as if by magic, everything became beautiful. A happy jingle started playing, and a white unicorn appeared. She climbed on to its back and together they flew away.
Miew jumps up on the bed.
The small black cat starts to rub herself against the girl's hair, her purring so low that it's almost imperceptible. Perhaps Miew wishes she could turn into that same winged horse, the horse in the biscuit ad, and carry Eva far away.
The telephone rings.
Miew miaows more loudly. She touches Eva's arm with her paw. Little prods, just to rouse her, to get her attention.
Eva gets up slowly. She drags herself into the kitchen and automatically pours the cat food into the bowl with stars on it.
MIEW is written on the bowl. It's a present she gave her cat to celebrate their first year together.
The little cat rubs herself backwards and forwards against Eva's legs. Every now and then she stops and looks up, searching for Eva's gaze.
She doesn't find it. Her mistress's eyes are empty; there's no light in them any more. Just shadow.
They're different. Perhaps they'll never be the same again.
* * *
CHAPTER TEN
The sun is high in the sky. It must be about midday.
It doesn't feel hot, but the unforgiving sun smothers everything with a bright, yellow light. Her shadow follows a step behind her as she walks, alone, in the sunlight. Cars rush by next to her. She can feel their speed as vicious splinters of air that stab at her legs and make her begin to lose her balance.
She starts to run. She's afraid. She runs, and every so often she looks back to check on her shadow. It's still there, following her, black and straight. Her shadow.
She reaches a wide open space, an expanse of grey cement stretching into the distance. Silence, nothing but a deafening silence. And a door. Closed. In front of her.
She stands still and stares at it, then starts to feel anxious. No, it can't have happened again. She turns suddenly to look at the shadow. Her shadow.
It has vanished.
She looks up at the sky. The sun is still there, shining down on that flat surface, a sea of tarmac.
All that's left now is that closed door. The end of the world. A closed door.
She stretches out her hand, but she doesn't open the door straight away. First, she turns round one last time. Her shadow isn't there; it has been swallowed up by all that grey, the grey expanse that now appears to be overheating under the pitiless sun.
She hurries to open the door.
Everything starts to spin fast. And then faster.
Blood everywhere, and those eyes. Wide-open eyes that stare at her, out of the blood.
She screams and finds herself back in her crumpled bed, dripping with sweat and clutching the edge of the blanket. Her teddy bear is on the floor; he looks at her with fear in his eyes. The sun caresses her through the sheer white curtains.
Her visions have started again. Oppressive. Devastating.
She wipes away the sweat with the palm of her hand, while with her other arm she reaches down and places the teddy bear back on her chest.
The terror she feels now blurs into the terror of her dreams.
The terror she felt when she saw it. Death, a cruel experience.
She was ten - it had been her birthday less than a week before.
So it was still her special week. And she had that same dream every night.
Darkness; a wet street.
The black car that sped over the tarmac.
A brightly coloured parcel on the back seat that slid from right to left as the car went round the corners.
The sound of brakes. A red river.
She's shaking; she isn't able to stop herself. She couldn't stop herself then, either.
She knows what it means f
or her to have dreams like this. The door has opened again.
The door. That's what her psychiatrist, Anna, called it when she was a child.
There are lots of doors inside our minds, she said. Some stay closed forever. Others open all of a sudden, letting us see fragments of things. Fragments of things that are about to happen. Or images from the past.
The door used to open as soon as sleep rendered her unconscious, vulnerable, fragile.
She used to find herself inside a crystal ball, but she wasn't able to see her future in it. She would get on her silvery horse, a brutal stallion that carried her to desolate lands. Ill omens. Death.
'Don't cry. Your dad loved you,' the man in uniform had told her.
'Look, he bought you this.'
The teddy bear. The same one she now clutches tightly.
* * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The arcade.
Eight o'clock at night.
Four boys smoking on the metal steps.
Around them, a glimpse of the world, shadows passing by, waiters inviting people into bars that are too brightly lit for eyes that are now accustomed to the dark street.
A man approaches. He is tall, well built.
'You're late.'
He doesn't answer.
'Have you got it?'
'Yes.'
Money is exchanged, and the small packet disappears quickly into the young man's pocket. He is wearing a green baseball cap, back to front.
The man doesn't even say goodbye; he goes back where he came from.
He leaves the darkness of the arcade, heading for the lights of Via Indipendenza.
Hands in his pockets, collar turned up.
He walks quickly, following the street ahead. If anyone comes towards him, they have to get out of his way. He doesn't move aside for anyone. He carries on in a straight line.
Every now and then he passes a girl in a short skirt, and slows down.
A whistle. A compliment of sorts that escapes through clenched teeth.
He stops in front of the window of a shop selling underwear. There are girls intent on choosing something to transform themselves for their Friday- night lovers. Because on Friday night all women become single. They tart themselves up, get their hair done, and go out with their friends. All of them smelling of perfume and dressed up in their finery. A glimpse of underwear and a fixed smile - just as he likes them.
He goes inside to get a better look at the merchandise. He wants to be a part of this celebration of vanity.
A young girl gazes entranced at a see-through thong.
'It'd look good on you,' he says. The girl looks at him out of the corner of her eye, and the watchful sales assistant comes towards him.
'Can I help you?' she asks.
'I was looking for something sexy for my girlfriend,' as he looks at the arse of a middle-aged woman, wearing a miniskirt and a short fur coat. Not bad for her age, I'd give her one, and meanwhile he lets the gauze of a pair of panties slide through his fingers.
* * *
CHAPTER TWELVE
The red convertible speeds along the motorway, caressed by the sun.
The golden curls, tousled by the air rushing past, get entangled as they play with the wind.
The porcelain doll, her crystal eyes protected by big black sunglasses, like a diva from the 1930s, accelerates impetuously.
She's wearing leather gloves.
She loves the feel of leather against the steering wheel. She's sure it improves her grip, making her at one with the car, an Amazon in a black miniskirt and stockings.
A few drivers sound their horns as she passes; one sticks out his tongue and shouts words that would be bleeped on TV.
She doesn't hear them, doesn't see them.
She overtakes a fat man driving an electric blue lorry covered in lights. In the cab there's a sign that says I'm your father in English. Either side of this sign are two pin-ups with their tits out.
She speeds past him and then turns right, attracted by the sign of a motorway cafe.
'A coffee,' she orders as she sits down at the bar.
She drinks her coffee - boiling hot, no sugar - and she plays with her curls, wind-swept from the speed of the car.
Just at that moment, the fat lorry driver comes in. He sits down next to her.
'What's a beautiful girl like you doing all alone? Don't you want some company? Well, here's your daddy.'
She doesn't answer. Instead, she throws down a coin on the sea-green counter, and asks the pale girl behind it where the toilet is.
'Outside, at the back. But I wouldn't, if I was you. You know how it is… the customers here. Well, it's not very clean,' she adds, slightly embarrassed.
'That's OK.' She turns without waiting for her change.
She walks away. The lorry driver swears, then reveals his opinion of her in a drawl.
She goes into the washroom and admires herself in the mirror. She's beautiful, and she knows it. Then she turns her back on her reflection and pauses in front of the thin wooden door, marked with the silhouette of a figure in a skirt.
She goes in and shuts the door; then, without taking off her gloves, she lets her black lace panties slide down, careful not to let them touch the floor. She takes them off and holds them in her teeth, between red lips, while she balances on the toilet seat. And then she hears him come in.
'I smell a stuck-up little cunt,' the fat man says, sniffing.
She gets off the loo, puts her panties back on and straightens her miniskirt. Then she turns the key and opens the door.
He's standing in front of her. Looming.
He tells her he's not going to let her out, takes one step towards her, then another.
The doll moves backwards. Now he's inside the cubicle with her, and he closes the door behind him.
She smiles and lifts up her skirt. He smiles, too.
She removes her magic wand from the top of her hold-up stockings and caresses his throat.
He hasn't time to scream.
The artery in his neck has been sliced open with a small bronze razor that looks like a prop from some old film.
The blood sprays everywhere, staining the filthy walls.
It covers her.
It colours her.
His body collapses on to the ground and the blood keeps pumping out.
Beauty and the Beast, that's what you could call the scene. With everything a single colour: scarlet.
She goes back to the mirror and looks at herself to see if she has changed.
Yes, she's more beautiful when splashed with blood, but she washes away the scarlet marks on her face, dries herself with a paper towel, and leaves the washroom.
'Mummy, I want that teddy bear, I want it!'
'Stop it, Sofia. I told you: just a coffee for daddy - he's tired - then we're going.'
'No, I want the teddy. I want it, I want it!' 'Quiet. Look, it's such an ugly teddy - who knows how long it's been there, gathering dust.'
'But I want it!'
'OK, but stop that now. You go and get it, and then let's go to the toilet.' And she drags the child along by the arm, now doing what her mother tells her to without complaint.
'Don't sit down when you wee. And wash your hands straight after, Sofia.'
The child opens the door.
Her scream pierces through the blood-stained cubicle walls.
The teddy bear falls into the thick, brown puddle.
Its glassy eyes stare up at her, spattered with blood.
The short life of a tantrum.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The doorbell rings but there's no sound from the flat beyond. The forgotten kingdom of a sleeping princess.
Bzzz.
I know you're there. Open the door.
Bzzz.
The princess gets out of bed. It's not the kiss of a prince that wakes her but the strident ringing, which is still calling her.
She can't even remember how long
she's been hiding under the covers, trying to forget. Perhaps a hundred years have passed. Just like in the fairytale.
Bzzz.
'Who is it?'
'It's Giulia. I wanted to see how you are,' says the voice on the other side of the door.
'Not very well, Giulia.'
'But aren't you even going to let me in? After I've climbed those stairs. At least for a glass of water…'
Eva unlocks the door; she doesn't say anything more.
'Hi. I didn't want to disturb you. It's just that you've been off work for days, so I got them to give me your address, because I thought I'd come and see you,' says Giulia, still out of breath. 'Isn't there a lift here?'
'It's fake.'
'What do you mean, it's fake?'
'The shaft's there, but the door's always been closed. There isn't a lift inside, or at least I don't think there is. They always say they'll sort it out sometime.'
Normally Eva would be overjoyed to have a visitor, but not now. She wants to be left on her own, here in the dark. She's forced herself to phone work and say that she has a really serious virus, in a voice sounding from beyond the grave. She did the same with her parents, adding that it was highly contagious so there would be no risk of them paying her a visit. She thought that that might allow her a few days of emptiness - of not existing.
'But how are you? You look awful.'
'I'm ill. I told you - I've got the flu.'
Giulia stands and stares at her, noticing how her colleague's eyes are puffy, with dark rings around them.
'Listen, you might be able to fool the others, but not me. I know what's wrong with you.'
Eva holds her breath for a moment.
'It's depression. It happened to me when my first boyfriend left me for some bitch on his course. You have to do something, Eva. I spent months and months going to a psychiatrist to try to accept what had happened, but in the end I realised that I had to rebel, get back on my own two feet. So I joined a gym,
I changed my hair -1 changed my whole look - and I shopped more. It makes you feel better, you know?'
Eva is taken aback. She can't think of anything to say.
The Girl with the Crystal Eyes Page 3
