The Girl with the Crystal Eyes

by Barbara Baraldi

  Before it happened.

  Eva doesn't want to now divide her life into 'before it happened' and 'after it happened'.

  It isn't fair if it becomes the most important thing in my life. In my calendar.

  BI and AI.

  Before it. After it.

  But it did change everything.

  The potatoes are good. As they always are. At least they haven't changed.

  Miew stares out of the window. The light outside is still bright; meaning it will be hours until her only friend will return. That's how the cat measures time. For her, time is measured by Eva's absence.

  When Eva goes out in the morning, Miew's life is put on hold. It only starts again in the evening when Eva opens the door.

  Gradually, the daylight changes in its intensity. The light is like the ticking of a clock.

  It's strange how humdrum life can be as it flows past.

  Sometimes it's as if you're going through life without really realising it's you that's living it, but then, in an instant, all of a sudden, everything changes.

  Everything is now bathed in a blue light. Eva is walking quickly under the arches of the arcades. The arches steal your memories, they transform them, they stretch them in the same way they have stretched a straight line to make it into a dome. The domes of the arcades look skywards 'with their noses turned up': that's what her grandfather had said when she was little and they had taken a trip to Bologna.

  She starts walking again, with her head down, hands in the pockets of her black fleece. She has her hood up too, but it lets her rebellious blonde curls escape.

  She looks at the boots she always wears. They're a sort of heavy talisman, keeping her feet firmly on the ground, attached to the floor. Without them she would daydream far too much. She isn't a practical person. The teachers always told her that at school.

  She feels better. She feels reborn.

  The baby girl of a sad woman who passed on her unhappiness even as she gave birth, and because of that Eva finds it difficult to smile. But now she's aware of something new deep in her heart. It's as if she's entering the world afresh, conscious of being able to do anything, of having risked everything and started again.

  She can now see her block of flats in the distance. As she runs across the road, she spots a group of children who are laughing and shouting. And then she realises she's afraid.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Has the pathologist been yet?'

  'Yes, Inspector. He says the man died between four and five,' answers Tommasi, clearly shaken by the early-morning sight of a corpse with its head smashed in, the body then abandoned among the rubbish in the University district.

  'Cause of death?'

  'His skull was split open. He was hit with force, with a stick perhaps. No trace of the weapon.'

  Inspector Marconi paces irritably backwards and forwards. He is thinking, hard.

  He approaches the body and lifts the white sheet for a moment. He studies the corpse.

  He always looks at the expressions on the faces of the dead. You can understand so much by looking at them. He's sure of that.

  'Move the body, if they've finished taking the photos. Fuck, this place is full of students. Who got here first?'

  'Two men from the flying squad. One of them is that short guy leaning on the railing.'

  The inspector walks towards Officer Gutuso - 'the Moor', as his colleagues call him - who is still staring at the white sheet covering the body. Muddy, brown loafers stick out from under the sheet.

  He's staring because he's never seen a real dead body before, and now he can't take his eyes off it.

  'Did you notice anything strange this morning, when you arrived?' Marconi tries to make eye contact with the officer, who is still looking unflinchingly at the dead man's shoes.

  Gutuso is wishing that he hadn't been on duty earlier that morning. He'd rather have been in bed, especially now that he's finally found himself a girlfriend. And he wishes he hadn't seen him, the dead man. He thinks perhaps he'll see that same image in his dreams now, every night.

  Then he frowns and nods. 'To tell the truth, yes. Something strange by the side of the body - a lollipop.'

  'A lollipop?' Marconi repeats, astonished.

  'Yes, strawberry,' adds the policeman. 'Still new - in its wrapper, I mean. It was propped up by the body, and he seemed to be looking at it… I mean, obviously he couldn't really have been looking at it, since he was dead.'

  'Obviously,' Marconi interrupts, slightly irritated. 'But how come no one saw or heard anything?' he adds, raising his voice. 'Who called you, anyway?'

  'An anonymous phone call. A man. Could've been a traveller. Sometimes they sleep here. This is where they hang out,' said the other man from the flying squad.

  'Tommasi, go and get all the info you can. Ring doorbells; ask everyone who lives around here if they heard anything. See if you can find one of these travellers. Promise them a beer, if you have to. Go on now. I'll expect you in my office in an hour.'

  Tommasi's a good officer, the inspector thinks to himself. He does what he's told without asking too many questions, he's bright and he doesn't say much. Marconi likes people who don't say much.

  He goes into a nearby cafe. It's a small room with just enough space to stand at the counter, and with one small table with two chairs by the window.

  'An espresso.' He orders in a tone that's rather too authoritative, causing the waiter give him a surly look. As he drinks it, he thinks about the strawberry lollipop. It's months now since he last had a good fuck; he can barely remember what a woman looks like.

  Last time was with that Sabrina, one of his sister's friends - the one who's a bit of a slag and who had always wanted him. That evening he had met her in front of the gym when he'd come off duty and was heading home and he had given her a lift. She hadn't stopped looking at him while he was driving, and every now and then he had glanced briefly at her shapely thighs, squeezed into those ugly American, tan tights that made her look like a peasant. Or, rather, like someone's aunt.

  Then she had invited him in, and he'd followed her without really wanting to, almost without thinking.

  She was there in front of him, getting undressed, while she told him that she had always liked him, and that thinking about him going round with a gun had always excited her.

  He had done his duty as a man, but it was a by-the- numbers performance, the sort you try to forget as soon as possible.

  The coffee is extremely bitter - the barista getting his revenge? Now he's drying up cups and humming along to a song by Lucio Dalla that's playing on the radio.

  'Excuse me, when did you close yesterday evening?' Marconi puts a Euro down on the wooden counter.

  'What's it to you?'

  'It's because of the dead man,' says Marconi and indicates a vague point somewhere outside the door, where the dead man lies, covered by the white sheet.

  'Ah, you're a cop, that's it.'

  That's it. What does 'that's it' mean?

  'Ten o'clock, as always. And I didn't see or hear anything.' He goes back to the cups, and to the song.

  Marconi decides to walk back to the police station. He enjoys walking: it helps him to think as well as relaxing him. It's a way of taking a moment just for himself, without having to explain to anyone what he's doing. He'd never be able to think things through at his desk, because it would feel like he was wasting time. Inactivity drives him mad; he has to be moving all the time.

  A half-open door attracts his attention. He stops for an instant and can just make out, in an ivy frame, a statue of a naked girl covering herself with a hand resting lightly on her breast. She gazes out into the silence that surrounds her.

  Someone has imprisoned her beauty within the marble, as an image of eternal youth. Her features will never change; she will never fall in love with another man; she will never run off to lead her own life; she will stay there.

  Forever.

  * * *
/>   CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Viola lets the water run over her. She plays with the scalding hot jet of the shower.

  The rivulets of water follow the soft curves of her body.

  She has taken the shower head from the wall, and now directs the jet of water to massage her body. The soles of her feet, then her hips, between her legs. Her delicate skin looks red. She likes it like that. She likes things that hurt a bit.

  The same goes for when she makes love with Marco.

  He is an animal. Not much foreplay - often he enters her straight away. He doesn't wait for her to get aroused.

  And it hurts.

  It hurts a bit - the way she likes it.

  They argued again today. He went out and said he wouldn't be back for dinner and that she shouldn't waif up for him.

  She cried first, and now she's burning herself with a scalding shower.

  She wishes she didn't have to depart the white cloud of steam that surrounds her and protects her.

  She decides to try out her water mantra.

  Water - wash everything away. Wash it away and don't let me think. Make me new, without any worries, so I can be born again and be a princess.

  It used to work when she was a girl, her magic water spell, but not now. Water never washes the hurt away. The hurt is too dark and too intense.

  The dream has stopped persecuting her.

  But this is when she feels even more frightened.

  She steps out of the crystal box of the shower, resting her dripping foot on a pink slipper. She grabs the towel and then goes back inside. It's too cold out there.

  She dries herself carefully. Then she opens the door of the shower, feels instantly the difference in temperature and gets used to it slowly, letting the warm air and the cold air mix. The heat and the cold dance around each other, and entwine until they become one.

  She stands on her slippers and, without putting them on properly, slides over to the mirror.

  She has to go; she knows that.

  She dresses in black. Her hair is wet but she doesn't feel like drying it. She opens the draw with Marco's work clothes and takes out his woollen beret. The one she knitted for him, the one with the pompom on top that looks like a panda's tail. It was a Christmas present.

  She puts it on. Before going out, she decides to hide the gleam in her eyes behind a black line. She puts make-up on above and below her eyelids, with a quick flick of her wrist.

  Now her eyes seem less scared; they have gained a more definite outline. Even her eyes wear their own form of protection - like her body in jumpers that are too large for her, or her nails under their layer of transparent polish.

  But it's superficial: only a semblance of protection. She is aware of that.

  She fetches her house keys and then a packet of tissues. She pulls out two and puts them in her pocket.

  She never allows herself to cry more than two tissues' worth at a time.

  She goes out of the house: a small, short building behind the engineering faculty.

  A few steps and she's at the bus stop.

  She sits down and waits. She can't put it off any longer.

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  So, one blow to the head which splattered his brains out. No sign of a struggle. No one heard anything. So there wasn't a fight or an argument. Nothing.'

  'Just like before, the victim didn't expect it,' says Marconi.

  'What do you mean, like before?' Frolli is always suspicious. Someone who always asks What am I missing?

  'Two murders in two weeks. In both cases one blow, a dead man, no struggle. In both cases a memento beside the body. The first time the carefully placed razor, wiped clean and closed. The second time the lollipop.'

  'Do you mean it's the same murderer??

  'In my opinion, yes. Same height according to forensics, one metre sixty or sixty-five, same force used to strike the fatal blow. A right-handed blow. The print of a stiletto heel, so I'd say we're talking about a woman.'

  'A woman!' Frolli bursts out laughing.

  Marconi looks at him sullenly. 'In your opinion, is it easier for a man to stay calm, not at all worried, and let himself be caught unawares by another man, possibly big and tall, or by a woman, possibly attractive, and possibly - apparently - defenceless? To explain more clearly: he isn't worried; he believes he's not in any danger.'

  'Perhaps the murderer knew the victim,' interrupts Tommasi, speaking for the first time.

  'Or perhaps she should have been the victim.' Marconi is thinking out loud again.

  Morini comes in, out of breath, knocking first this time. He doesn't like Frolli, so he's always careful what he says when he's around.

  'Excuse me, Inspector.' And he signals for Marconi to come closer.

  He sees that Morini's eyes are like golf balls, and he leans forward in a rather theatrical manner.

  'That girl - the one from the other day - needs to talk to you urgently,' he says quietly.

  This time Marconi doesn't make him repeat it. That conversation could go on for ever, and he's sincerely fed up with meaningless talk that doesn't seem to go anywhere. And, anyway, he likes to think for himself.

  A girl? Perhaps even pretty?

  'They're waiting for me in my office.' He leaves without saying anything else.

  Tommasi mumbles something as well, and follows in the inspector's shadow, leaving Frolli's office with a document in his hand that he's fished out at random from the pile on the desk.

  'Hmm,' mutters Frolli, now left alone in the room.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  'It's good, this pizza, really light,' says Giulia, reflecting that it's so easily digestible she won't put on an ounce.

  'Yes.'

  Eva always says very little. She doesn't know what to say when she's with people whose heads are too light.

  'Light heads' is a phrase she made up herself. She is convinced that your brain unconsciously picks up the intellectual faculties of the person nearest you, and that whenever you're close to a person with a limited intellect, waves of 'non-thought' invade your space and you end up unable to say anything.

  'You know, we joined a gym today.'

  Giulia says this in a challenging way. She likes to be in control and Eva's docility always makes her feel good.

  She started trying to assert her authority over other people very early on. When she was still a young child, she was already using little tricks to get what she wanted. She told lies. Many were the times she would resort to blackmail to obtain something special, or something beyond her grasp. In fact, the further from her grasp the thing she wanted, the greater the challenge, and therefore the more it was Worth trying to get it. By doing this she was able to prove to herself that she was capable, that she was equal to the situation. The goal itself wasn't as important as the means, the strategy that she employed to reach her goal.

  As Eastern philosophers say, the destination isn't as Important as the journey you undertake to get there. Apart from this shared belief, Giulia and Eastern philosophers have very little in common.

  She had been especially proud of herself that time when her father refused to buy her a scooter for her to ride to school, given that her school was only five hundred metres from home.

  She had cried, stamped her feet and run to her mother, begging her to intercede on her behalf - but nothing doing.

  After having expended so much energy and not having had the desired effect, she understood that she had to forget about traditional methods. She had therefore started to watch her father, to stay as close to him as possible, to spy on him in the moments he spent alone in his study, fondling his mahogany furniture and smoking cigars.

  A week later she had gone into his office and had declared, after rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, that she had overheard a telephone call by accident. At that point she burst into tears, pretending that she couldn't go on. He had got up then. 'What is it, sweetie?

  Tell daddy.'
She didn't have to be asked twice. She had overheard a phone call: he was calling some woman 'pussy cat', and was setting up a date at his club. Perhaps he wanted to leave her and her mother.

  Her father made sure she found a scooter outside the house the following morning; she had never mentioned the phone call again.

  If her mother refused to buy her a new dress because her wardrobe was already stuffed full, or simply because she had bought her something just the week before, without fail she turned on the tears - crocodile tears, switched on as if by remote control. She would claim that she thought herself ugly, that she had no self-confidence, and that this would deter her from eating, so that she could try to look more attractive, because everyone on television says how you have to be thin to be beautiful.

  Her desire for posessions grew over the years, and the things she desired became ever more costly: after dolls she moved on to jewels and designer clothes, while the Monopoly money she had loved to keep in her little coral bag with its bright pink plastic handle, when she was nine, was replaced by real banknotes stuffed into her purse together with credit cards borrowed from her parents.

  With Eva everything is much simpler. The excuse of the depression from which Giulia is heroically trying to save her troubled friend gives her the right to organise her life, and therefore organise her lunch hour.

  Eva goes along with it because she thinks it's better that Giulia thinks she's depressed. That way she doesn't ask any questions and, after all, having her around keeps her distracted.

  'Tomorrow we'll start at the gym. I thought that, since my dad is a member - one who never ever goes to the gym, obviously, but still a member… Well, it's nearly Christmas, so I've given you his membership as a present. You can do whatever you want. There are aerobics classes, modern dance, even that thing where you kick and punch. You're free to choose what you like. I'll come along with you, and then we'll meet up again after we both finish. I've met this boy who does the massage - Andrea - so I'll be spending my time there, and I'll have a go on the sunbed as well. He's really nice, you know. I think he likes me too, but as I'm going out with Thomas at the moment, the PR person at Ruvido, who's really jealous, I told him that I'll be going to the gym with you, to help you with your depression, so he's OK about it. And, anyway, I'm giving you a great present, aren't I?'