Tomorrow is her birthday and Giulia has asked what she'd like for it. Nothing. She doesn't want anything. But that's not really true: she would like the only present she can never have. To forget.
'Come on, open mine first,' says Elisa, 'I can't wait for you to see what it is. Hurry up.'
The small rectangular parcel from her sister has a pink flower on it; her mother's is larger and conceals something soft, probably a hand-knitted jumper, her usual present. Occasionally she rings the changes with a scarf, always painstakingly knitted by hand.
It's her bad luck to have her birthday in the winter and to have a mother obsessed with making things…
Then there's an envelope from her father. Every year he prefers to give her money, adding, without fail, 'So you can buy something you'd like'.
'Hurry up. Open mine.'
'OK.' Eva tears off the paper. A silver-coloured box. 'Red Passion' in embossed letters.
'But it's a lipstick. I don't wear lipstick.'
'Exactly. You're twenty-four and it's time you started to, otherwise you'll never find a boyfriend,' Elisa says, beaming.
Her sister loves lipsticks, make-up, face creams and everything else that's supposed to make a woman beautiful. Their mother used to tell her off when she was small, because she would steal her lipstick. Her mother she never used it herself, anyway, except on special occasions. When Elisa did put on lipstick, she always ended up with it everywhere: on her lips, rubbed on her cheeks, and even on her eyelids instead of eye shadow. Then, still vividly coloured, she would deny having any make-up on.
'It's a good brand. I spent all my savings. The sales girl recommended it; red is the colour that suits blondes best, she told me; and it's one of those that moisturises as well.'
'Are you going into advertising as well, when you grow up, Eli?' asks Eva, amused.
'No, I'm going to be a model!' her little sister replies, without any trace of doubt. 'Try it on!' she says, jumping up and down.
Elisa is beautiful. She has very long hair, blonde with copper-coloured highlights. Her eyes are green, almond-shaped, with extremely long lashes. Her lips are thin, unlike the fleshy lips of her sister.
And she has a small, cute, turned-up nose. Eva smiles, remembering that, when they were little, she used to pretend to steal it, showing Elisa the tip of her thumb between her index and middle fingers, just like the nuns at nursery had taught her to do.
'No, give it back,' her baby sister would then cry. 'You're horrible! Give it back!'
Now, she still jumps up and down like she used to. 'Go on, try it!'
Eva stands in front of the large mirror that greets guests coming into the hall.
The lipstick, she slides it over her lips. She gives them colour. She stands still, looking at her reflection.
'You're so beautiful!' Elisa exclaims.
Eva opens her eyes wide and immediately wipes off the lipstick with one hand.
'Why did you do that? You've ruined it. It looks like blood on you now.'
Eva moves away from the mirror. She can't look at herself any more.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The area is always the same. Marconi uses a felt- tip pen to write on a torn map. On it are marked the places where the Black Widow has struck.
'The only thing that the dead men have in common is the fact that they're - how shall I put it? - rather violent. She's like a spider: she weaves her web, she prepares everything carefully, then she lets herself be followed. She knows how to make a man follow her, and make him fall into her trap. She doesn't attack; with her it's always defence, but premeditated.'
'How can you know that?' asks Frolli, from behind him. 'I think this is all bloody stupid, and the questore will require something more than just guesswork. I've covered your arse this time, but next time you go yourself and explain what we've got after more than three months of investigations. Fuck all, that's what we've got.'
'The second victim had a record of domestic violence; but the first time the complaint was withdrawn. And then the last two we've known for some time. They used to sell drugs in the area behind Palestro - in the clubs as well.'
'So what? What does it prove? Nothing. It proves nothing.'
'Well, I've thought about it over and over. About that lollipop still being in its wrapper. She wanted to say that she hadn't let him have it. Understand?'
'What the fuck are you talking about? So I'll tell the questore: "She hadn't let him have it." Thank you. I feel much happier now. We've kept the press quiet. No statement. Cases not linked. But the odd bit of information has leaked out - I don't know how - and now they want a press conference. Do you understand, or do I have to spell it out for you? So you'd better prepare something to say.'
'I'll explain more clearly. She didn't let him "unwrap" her - to have her, in other words. Next to the dead man was the untouched lollipop. He wanted to have her and she didn't let him. It doesn't seem that difficult to me. Pop psychology. The lorry driver had undone the last button on his trousers. Same thing: he followed her into the bathroom and perhaps even tried to assault her, but she killed him. And the same with these two.'
'But how can you be so sure? At scenes of attempted sexual assault there are signs of a struggle… but what am I doing talking to you? Look, I'm washing my hands of this. You can handle the questore.'
'Yes, but this isn't our usual attempted sexual assault. It's the woman who provokes the men, to make them follow her. She makes them think that everything's fine, that they're the hunters, but in fact she's the one who's planning everything. And then she kills them, by surprise. It was like that this time as well. They were two pushers. One had already been inside for a month, for sexual assault on a minor in the car park of a disco last summer. What do you think they wanted from her?'
'But this time there's no evidence that links the two dead men to her. Just a piece of glass, and anyone could have lost that. It could easily be another drug dealer that killed them.'
'Yes, with a semi-automatic. Wait.' He opens the crime lab's report. 'It was probably a six-calibre gun, an old model that nowadays would be considered a collector's piece.'
'So, you're linking it to the razor, isn't that a bit of a stretch? Facts - just tell me what facts there are. I'm waiting.'
The photograph of the teddy bear in the blood, staring out with its small glass eyes.
'Fuck, why didn't I think of this before! Let's check that type of pistol. All the pistols registered here and in the surrounding areas.'
'What the fuck?'
Marconi is already out in the corridor. 'Tommasi, you and I are going to that disco tonight. Just wear black, otherwise they won't let us in,' he adds, before heading out under the grey sky.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
He rings the doorbell. No answer. He starts to worry that there's no one home, but then he hears a noise from inside the house. He rings again. He needs to see her.
'Who is it?' asks a faint voice.
'Excuse me, I'm Inspector Marconi. Can you open the door, please?'
'Wait a minute while I get dressed.'
The thought that she is naked on the other side of the door makes him feel hot. Marconi leans against the door; he's slightly out of breath. To give himself time to calm down, he has walked up the stairs, but he's not as fit as he used to be.
Viola hurries; she slips on Marco's black jumper and cleans the blood off the blade with a few sheets of loo roll that she then throws into the toilet. She flushes. She hides the knife again in its usual drawer. She pulls off the elastic hair band with purple plastic butterflies, and leaves her hair hanging loose as she rushes to open the door.
'Sorry. I'd just come out of the shower,' she mumbles.
He takes a step forward. 'Can I come in?'
'Of course, sorry. I'm in a bit of a muddle. I was having a nap.'
'I thought you were having a shower.'
'Oh, yes. I mean before… before I had a shower.'<
br />
In the small living room, Marconi sits down in the armchair close to the window.
Everything is very simple. Light colours, white sofa, white armchair, a small glass table and on it a photograph in a silver frame of the same girl smiling at someone with one of her sad smiles.
No pictures on the walls.
'Can I use tu?'
'Of course.'
'You can call me tu as well, like we did the first time. I have to ask you a few questions about your dream, the one you told me about the other week.'
Ten days of wanting to call her.
'Go on.'
'Can you describe the room in more detail? The one covered in blood, I mean.'
'Well… I'll have to think, it was a while ago now.'
'That's OK.'
Marconi looks at his hands, one of the few things he likes about himself, his hands. Strong hands, well kept, nice nails.
'It was white, narrow.'
'Anything else?'
'I don't know. I was staring at all that blood…'
'And the eyes?' 'Staring, frightening. It's happened, hasn't it? Something awful's happened?'
'Don't worry, nothing serious.'
If you can consider a pot-bellied man being butchered in the filthy toilet of a motorway cafe as nothing serious.
Viola feels nervous.
'Can I show you a photo?'
'Yes,' she says, though she would rather have said no.
He comes closer and takes the photographs out of his jacket pocket.
He bends down by her feet.
He shows her the photograph.
She lets out a cry and turns her face away.
In that same moment there is the sound of a key turning and the door opening.
Footsteps echoing.
'Who the fuck are you?' demands the man aggressively.
'Inspector Marconi. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?'
'Marco, Viola's fiancé.'
'Marco what?'
'Marco Di Giacomo. Why are you here?'
'Nothing special - it's for the INPS - the registered square footage of the flat is wrong.'
'But that isn't a job for the police, is it? And anyway, what the fuck does it matter, I've got the architectural plans.'
'All sorted - there was just a mistake somewhere. I'll be going now.' Marconi gets up. He shakes Marco's hand energetically, looking him in the eyes.
He receives an equally energetic handshake, and a fleeting look from eyes that are too dark and that move away immediately to rest on something else.
He's back in the corridor. The door closes behind him. Yet again, he has no idea what's going on.
It's almost dark. The inspector walks home, looking around him as he passes through the old area where the flower sellers are, near San Petronio.
He likes this street because it is narrow and full of flowers. There are flowers in pots, but he doesn't pay much attention to those: they're like domesticated animals. And then the cut flowers arranged in large bunches, or in coloured buckets standing on the ground.
They are depressing, cut flowers, because they already have death attached to them. They can't last very long; like fish on land.
Walking down that street always makes him think of death, but he likes that, since it makes him feel alive.
He walks along and looks at the flowers, and at the same time thinks about her, about the woman who holds him in the palm of her hand as she talks to him through her crimes, utterly brutal yet drenched in femininity.
In the end it turned out that she had left a little present the last time as well. After a few hours, the flying squad officers had gone back to check the scene of the crime again and found it.
A red rose, leaning up against an old scooter without any wheels.
Perhaps she had thought the scene of the crime wasn't complete, and so she went back to add the finishing touch.
A woman.
And like all women, she thinks details are important. Details, things that make a difference, and that men often undervalue.
He pictures her like that: a red rose with a cut stem. The queen of flowers; a determined woman looking for revenge.
It has just stopped raining. The smells are stronger. The stone of the city gives off a pungent fragrance. The perfume of the past, of ancient, timeless stories - the story of a victim and a murderer. But who is the real victim?
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The fridge is empty, as always.
He runs down the stairs and orders the usual Chinese takeaway from the place downstairs: Cantonese rice and spicy prawns.
He pays five hundred Euros a month in rent for a shoebox that constantly stinks of grease and yet he still eats it, that fried food.
Supper by the light of the street lamps, sitting in the armchair by the window. He likes to eat in the semi- darkness, without laying the table, while sipping a beer. There's always beer in the house.
Then he has a steaming hot shower. It's one of the few pleasures he allows himself every day.
He hasn't shaved for a week. His beard is now tough. He always means to wait for the shaving foam to soften it so as not to risk cutting himself, but he never does. Just takes time to rinse his hands, then shave and, every time, he cuts himself. As he does now.
Hanging on the wall is an old theatre bill. He found it once in an attic when he was carrying out a search, and he took it away with him. It was left there, covered in dust, dating from 1976, with yellowing marks from the Sellotape and one corner almost torn off. Brutal Justice. What a film.
What a film, fuck, and then the ending - it was wild!
He remembers when he saw it the first time. He was just a boy. Sitting on the sofa, his feet didn't touch the ground. He was being good, sitting quietly and watching the television. It was Sunday afternoon and he had been swallowed up by the television screen as he watched a car chase. But what a car chase! Filmed with that workman like, high-speed shooting that cut across curves like the sharp scalpel of a surgeon.
He had leant to the right or the left, according to the bends, almost as if he himself were part of the chase.
He was on the side of the police. He was a cool guy, that Merli, with icy, fearless eyes; rough methods. One of those who see that justice is truly done.
And then the grand finale, when everyone might lose everything. Just one mistake, and it would all be over.
He has often watched that film again, but whenever he thinks about it, he only remembers that first time, on that Sunday afternoon when he decided that he would be like that, like the blond policeman with the moustache, without fear and without pity.
He does feel fear, however. He tried to grow a moustache but it didn't really suit his face, and as for pity… he doesn't exactly know what it is, pity. Occasionally he feels a tightening in his chest, but he doesn't know if you can call that pity. The only thing he is sure of is that when he sees certain things he feels an anger growing inside him, and if he got hold of…
The intercom sounds. It's Tommasi; he is waiting for him downstairs. Marconi dries his face and splashes on aftershave. It stings, making him wince.
'Inspector, you're bleeding - just under your ear.'
'I know, Tommasi, I know. I'll fit in better that way this evening. Don't they all think they're vampires in the club we're going to?'
Jokes have never been his strong point, and he knows it.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Viola stands naked in front of the mirror. She scrutinises herself, something she hasn't done for ages.
She wants to prove to herself that she isn't hideous. She has hidden the jumper at the back of the wardrobe. She knows she is weak, having not thrown it away, which is what she would have liked to do in a rare burst of confidence. In moments of despair, she might need it again.
Yes, much better not to throw it away. And, anyway, she's hidden it so well that she can't see it. It's as if it never existed,
she tells herself.
She stands on tiptoe on the tracksuit trousers she let fall to the ground a second ago.
She touches her thighs, almost as if she wants to view herself through touch as well. She slides her cold hands over her hips and up to her soft, firm, full breasts.
Her breasts. They seem so unashamed. If only she were a bit more like them. She wishes she were erect like her nipples, taking on the world without fear. But she isn't a bit like her breasts, and so, to punish them and make them at least a bit like herself, she confines them in minimiser bras, trying to squash them, to flatten them.
Today, however, she wants to be more like them.
On a chair next to her is everything she needs. The black lace slip that usually she feels embarrassed about wearing. She puts it on, and the shiny material bunches up around her breasts, struggling to get past them but then sliding down and barely concealing her behind a veil of seduction.
It's as if she is dressed in a sensual spider's web, and for an instant she thinks she looks beautiful. She considers that she ought to put on a bra, but then dismisses that idea, remembering those words of his that hurt her so much.
No, she isn't like that jumper.
She picks up the stockings. They're new. She went to the supermarket and found a nice black pair. She didn't even know that they sold them in the supermarket, stockings like this. She runs into the bathroom and puts her old clothes into the washing basket, then fetches her mascara and pink eyeshadow. She lengthens her eyelashes and makes them thicker and sexier, then colours her eyelids with a subtle touch of powder.
She holds her face further away from the mirror. There's something missing. Lip gloss. She has to sparkle.
She goes back to the large mirror and is admiring her reflection when the door opens. She jumps. She would have liked to study herself for another few minutes. Instead, she dashes to the sofa and reclines on it like a diva.
The Girl with the Crystal Eyes Page 9
