'People who are depressed withdraw into themselves. They think they'll feel better that way, but they're wrong. Luckily for you, I'm here now, and I'll help you. Because we women have to stick together or else we'll get trampled on by men, understand?'
Giulia talks without pausing, gesticulating with her hands while she looks round. It's as if she's filling up great big bubbles of air, and the more worked-up she gets the bigger the bubbles.
'And you'll never guess what's been going on at work - it's outrageous,' she adds. 'As soon as you were off sick, Roberto took advantage of me straight away - giving me loads of scanning to do. Sonia's being hysterical and then, you know…' a pause so she doesn't die from lack of oxygen, 'I understood what it was all about. That bastard's just getting even with me because two weeks ago he asked me out and I said no. But it won't end there. Oh no, it won't end there. Now, you get back on your feet and come back to work, and then we'll show them, won't we?'
'Sorry, Giulia, but really -'
'No excuses. I know how you have to cope when things like this happen. Now I'm going to make you something to eat.'
The girl carries on talking even as she empties the sink of an accumulation of cups, barely touching them with her fingertips.
It's clear that tidying isn't something she's used to, but, it seems, the result justifies this small effort.
'So all you've been living on is coffee and tea? It's no good: how are you going to get better if you don't eat?'
There's nothing Eva can say. Giulia wants to save her - or rather, make sure she returns to work as soon as possible. But the real reason doesn't really matter, since Giulia always gets what she wants.
'Is there anything to eat? Maybe some soup?'
'Under there. In the last drawer.'
'It's the only thing I know how to make. My ex was a fan of soup. It's not rocket science. Boil the water and throw in a stock cube and a bit of pasta. Got any stock cubes?'
'In the fridge.'
'A man who'll only eat soup definitely has no balls. Soup is for spineless people, no doubt about that. A plate of pasta is for men with hair on their chests. But I don't know why, if someone's a real man, you have to say he's got hair on his chest. Personally, I can't stand hairy chests, they make me ill. I like men to wax their chests. While the soup's cooking, go and have a shower. You smell a bit, you know.
'And who's this?' She looks down at the pussy cat who has appeared in the doorway,
'My flatmate, Miew. Miew, this is Giulia.'
'Pleased to meet you, Miew.' Giulia has already stopped looking at the cat.
* * *
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Inspector Marconi, we're received the results from forensics,' announces Tommasi, still out of breath.
'Well, go on. What are you waiting for? Tell me what they say.'
'A real mess. The washroom was filthy; prints on top of prints. Seems it was only cleaned once a day, in the morning. That poor woman with her six-year-old daughter found the body at about half-past two. So you can imagine…'
'How's the little girl? Who questioned her?'
'Frolli intended to, but there was nothing doing. The girl was still in shock. Not surprising, really. She even dropped a teddy bear her mother had just bought her - straight into all that blood.'
Marconi shrugs his shoulders. As a kid, he wouldn't have liked to lose his favourite toy soldier in a pool of blood - blood that had gushed out of the slashed throat of a fat lorry driver - but perhaps it isn't the same these days, as children today aren't like they used to be. They're spoiled, too spoiled altogether.
'When the guys from forensics arrived, the body was still warm. They reckon no more than half an hour to an hour had passed before the body was found.'
'Are we sure that the mother didn't see anything? Frolli tried to reconstruct -'
'But what could they have reconstructed? The mother just wanted to take her little girl home - which I can understand. I've got her address here if you want it, but I don't think talking to her again would do much good.'
'You're right. Anything else?'
'Something odd. Next to the victim there was the print of a stiletto heel in the blood.'
'What do you mean?'
'And then the woman working in the cafe described a very beautiful woman wearing a miniskirt and holdup stockings, who the lorry driver tried to chat up at the counter before she paid up and left. But we can't pay too much attention to what she says, the poor thing. Her colleagues say she drinks a bit, has done ever since her husband left her.'
'OK, Tommasi, let me be the judge of that. Pass me her statement.'
'Here it is.' The young man read it out with the hint of a smile on his lips. '"A beautiful girl came in; she looked like one of those girls on television. A model, beautiful, classy. She was tall and thin, with a short skirt and stockings that looked like silk. She was wearing leather shoes with very high heels, even her shoes were beautiful…'" My God, listen to this bit.
'"She gave me a two-Euro tip, and asked me where the washroom was. Then she smiled at me and went out, leaving behind her the smell of an expensive perfume." Who is this, a goddess?'
'Well, if she is a goddess, she's certainly not the sort who goes round granting the wishes of us mortals. Forget about the statement, then. What else is there?'
'Here we are. The victim died instantaneously. A clean, seven-centimetre cut across the throat. No sign of a struggle.'
'It must have happened quietly,' Marconi thinks aloud.
'Luca Cagnotto, forty-five years old, always been a lorry driver - everyone knew him. He drove a blue Iveco with a semi-trailer. He liked to fuck women. He often used to have them in the cab with him. In short, he liked that sort of company, but on that particular day he was alone.'
'And how can we be sure of that?'
'He had a radio, CB, on which he used to call himself "your father". That day he was alone - it's been confirmed by "Eagle", a friend of his, a lorry driver like him. He heard him on the GB half an hour before.'
'I don't know why they choose such stupid names.'
'Divorced - and the motorway police gave him some points on his licence a year ago for speeding. No criminal record.'
'But, after it was reported, didn't they think to block the motorway at the major exits.'
'They said it was already too late. No one made a decision.'
'Fuck!' 'Inspector.' Morini comes into the office without knocking, and visibly blushing.
'What is it? Now is not a good time.'
'There's a girl who says she has to talk to you. She's been waiting over an hour. She says it's important.'
'I've not got time now. Get her to tell you what it's about.'
'I've already told her that you're very busy, but she's adamant she wants to speak to you in person. She says she'll wait as long as she has to, but -'
'But everyone here needs something. Let her wait. I've got other things to do right now.' And he dives back into the file.
'It seems highly unlikely to me that a woman wearing high heels could have killed a tall, bulky man in a service station loo, all on her own. Just one push and you'd knock her over - a woman in stilettos.'
'Stilettos?' says Tommasi.
'You heard me. What can you tell me about the murder weapon?'
'There was an old-fashioned razor lying by the body. Some sort of antique, sharpened with real skill. But, Inspector!' Tommasi's face lights up. 'Perhaps the girl was there with the killer. Perhaps she's a witness.'
'No, the washroom's too small to fit a large man, the girl and the killer in, so either the girl came in when he was already dead - maybe she got frightened and ran away - or else she killed him herself. Any CCTV?'
'Nope, they've not been working for months. It's an old place. Just a small bar, the loos with a single entrance for both men and women, and two petrol pumps outside.'
'Call the motorway people and get them to give you the licence plates from that stretch of road. From
the week before to the day after. Perhaps we'll find something interesting.'
Tommasi is about to leave, but the inspector calls him back. 'Actually, get the registration numbers for up to a month before. This murder must have been planned. A service station without CCTV and with virtually unisex loos? A highly sharpened pre-war piece as a murder weapon?'
'So who's going to look at all those licence plates? And what are we actually looking for?'
'Give them to Morini - he still owes us a favour. Tell him to examine them carefully: you have to use your own instinct with such things. We're looking for the same cars going past at different times of day. There are commuters, it's true, but usually they always go past at the same time. So, who knows? Just do something.'
Tommasi hesitates for a moment with the file in his hand.
'Go on, then,' says Marconi as he sits down. Then he gets up again and looks out through the doorway. 'And the girl?'
'She left a couple of minutes ago,' answers a voice from the end of the corridor.
So she waited as long as she had to, thinks Marconi. Women don't know how to wait. I've always said that.
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She has been waiting for him for hours.
She's in bed, the covers pulled up to her neck.
On the bedside table lies a magazine previewing next summer's fashions. Impractical balloon-like dresses worn with ballet flats in pastel colours. She hates flat shoes. They make you waddle. She prefers shoes with heels, even if she can't wear them because then she'd be taller than Marco - which wouldn't be good.
A man has to be taller than his girlfriend: it's an unwritten rule, but it's true and that's that. Everyone knows it, and she knows it too.
She has just one pair of high-heeled shoes. They're beautiful - black, patent leather. She tries them on sometimes when she's alone in the house. She thinks she looks really good in them. They make her look slimmer.
But anyway, she can't wear them because of that tacit, international rule, and so she then puts them back in the box and tries not to think about them.
As it is, she is condemned to wear only 'indefinable' shoes. Shoes that don't fit into any category. Flat, with laces. Sad shoes. Shoes that have always existed, but have never been in fashion.
She remembers that she removed her bitten nail varnish that afternoon, but then she forgot to repaint them.
It seems like a good way of passing the time, so, while she's still in bed, with the covers pulled up, she does her nails.
The polish is transparent - you can just about see it shining when her nails catch the light - but she can't go without nail varnish. A protective film. Her nails aren't then exposed; they're safe underneath, behind the shiny veil that smells so nice as you brush it on. Like the smell of petrol. Intoxicating.
But, like most of her other security blankets, it gives only the appearance of protection. Her nails aren't really safe.
She is the problem.
Or rather, she's the problem whenever she has one of her moments. Those moments.
Then she devours her nails as if they're sweets. She picks them clean with her teeth, like you do to the flesh of a crab inside its hard shell.
She does it as if she's in a trance, methodically, her eyes staring vacantly. In those moments she works fast, almost as if she has to finish before the rational part of her brain realises what she's doing. At the end she just feels an immense burning sensation, and her hands are no longer presentable - with those short nails that look as if they've been hammered into her flayed red flesh.
She paints the varnish on with the brush, carefully and slowly. She stops and looks at the nails that she has now made more beautiful, wiggling her fingers.
She smiles.
She thinks about the fact that she's now got just the little fingers left to do, and then time, in its erratic way, will drag by slowly again.
Too slowly. Like at school, when the bell never rang. When the teacher never stopped talking and her bottom would be numb from sitting on that uncomfortable chair.
At least she's comfortable now, here in bed, but time drags by just the same. Some things in life never change. And time is one of them - it passes by at whatever speed it wants, flying by when you're enjoying yourself, and counting out every breath when you're bored.
The other changeless thing is 'indefinable' shoes. Shoes that are never fashionable but that have always existed.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We're going to my beautician at lunchtime today. My treat.'
'What?' replies Eva while she carries on mechanically scanning images of tiles on behalf of a ceramics company.
'You're falling apart. You look like an old woman. You look like my grandmother!' says Giulia, tactlessly.
'You've already made me come back to work early, when I still don't feel well - so what do you expect?'
'I've been to a psychiatrist. I know what you need to do in these situations.'
If what Giulia said was written down, the word 'I' would be regularly underlined twice, in red. 'You can have whatever you want: massage, manicure, sunbed - and dad's paying.'
The girl's hands slide over Eva's white skin. Until now, Eva has only seen massages on television - in soaps where the current hunk takes the place of the masseuse so he can languidly caress the beautiful heroine.
But in reality 'the hunk' is a short, dark Filipina. Eva reckons she's darker than Filipinas usually are, but then, to tell the truth, she doesn't really know many.
In fact, she doesn't know any, so who knows why she expected the masseuse to have a lighter skin. Like Indian women? No, perhaps Indian women are dark, too. People from the Far East surely have lighter-coloured skin. But which countries make up the Far East?
The woman's small hands are extremely strong. She alternates delicate movements with energetic pummelling, using an oil that smells of flowers and mingles with the perfume of the patchouli-scented candles beside the bed.
The room is bare, dimly lit by the candles, and the faint background music provides a gentle accompaniment to the sound of dripping wax. The melting wax forms itself into shapes - first a female figure, then a flower - then it loses its shape and becomes just drops of wax again.
Eva isn't sure if she is enjoying the massage or not. She feels strange, almost defiled..
Her body doesn't want to unwind under the touch of those expert hands; her muscles - protecting her secret - fight against it and hurt.
Soon she feels an overwhelming desire to cry; she holds it back, but with difficulty.
'Don't be so tense, relax. Your spine's all seized up,' says the girl in perfect Italian. Her accent sounds like she is from Bologna.
Eva blushes. She has read that massage can sometimes release traumas. She imagines them like pats of butter, and she sees them gradually melt away. Under the surface lies her secret.
What if the girl's busy fingers can see into her soul?
And what if there's a link between the masseuse's fingers, Eva's brain and her spine? No, I can't let this happen. And she tightens up even more.
'When you start to relax it'll feel nice,' continues the girl in a soothing voice, like the gentle, ethereal notes of the music fading into the air.
Eva doesn't want to relax. She hopes that this torture, which is supposed to be pleasant, will end soon. She's totally on edge.
She breathes a sigh of relief only when she finds herself back in the white corridor; heading towards the exit.
Giulia is there waiting for her. She seems pretty revved up.
'Eva, that was great! I've had a French manicure. And she holds up her hands. 'Look.'
Her nails are covered with clear polish, with just a thin strip at the tip of each painted white.
'Oh, that's a French manicure?'
'Yes, it's so elegant, isn't it?' She doesn't even give Eva time to answer. 'I had a go on the sunbed as well. It's a new type, low pressure, background music, mosaic tiles, woo
d trim. Fabulous.'
It's already dark outside, and it's cold.
They're in a street that runs parallel to Via Irnerio, where you feel like you're not in the city centre any more. Grey, anonymous buildings. Dark windows, lowered shutters. A faded peace flag hangs from the window of an upper storey.
They arrive at the tiny Indian takeaway at the corner of Via Mascarella.
I'm hungry.
It seems like her soul is speaking to her.
Hungry. Hungry for love. Hungry for attention. A chemical hunger. A desire to fill the emptiness.
The emptiness in my soul.
Giulia goes up the steps, and they're inside. 'I'm not eating,' says Eva, then adds hurriedly, 'I'll just keep you company.'
It's like a little cubbyhole, a mouse's nest. A counter just a metre long. A miniature fridge full of non-alcoholic beers and cans of iced tea. On the walls, posters of enormous platefuls of Indian food, each with a caption to explain what it is. Two tables arranged in an L shape with stools and a rubbish bin. Everything close together.
Then there's the television set. A television suspended in the air, as if it's meditating.
The screen projects fast-moving images from some subspecies of Indian MTV. A girl in a sari is singing, dancing, and winking. This girl and a guy, with what he hopes is a smouldering gaze, jump around in a music video, playing out a love story. Naturally it's a tale of unrequited love, and, just as naturally, it has a happy ending.
Another video starts.
'I don't believe it! Look,' says Eva. 'It's an Indian Take That!' And she laughs, the first time she has laughed for ages.
There are four men behind the counter. Four little mice in their nest full of provisions.
Isn't four too many? thinks Eva. Then she orders potatoes with paneer and spices. They're the best, their potatoes, and they only cost three Euros fifty. A proper meal, anyway.
Giulia studies her nails.
They don't chat; they have little to say to each other unless Giulia's doing the talking. They've been working in the same office for two years now, but they've never before been out together.
The Girl with the Crystal Eyes Page 4
