He is studying a stall that belongs to an Indian, where there are ebony hairpins decorated with perfect, tiny inlaid animals.
'Do you have any metal ones?'
'No, they look much nicer in wood, and they're more valuable.' The young man with hair so black and glossy it looks blue tries to persuade him to buy something.
'Do you know if anyone here sells metal hairpins?'
Just as he's asking the question, a girl shouts 'My bag!', and a gust of wind rushes past him like in a Roadrunner cartoon.
Marconi doesn't think; he just starts running, and slams into a short woman with curly hair who is admiring the faded top she has just bought. He roughly pushes her to one side. 'Sorry,' he shouts, and carries on racing after the thief who has now got further ahead of him.
Fifth year, the end-of-year sports day and by now struggling for breath. Antonio, repeating a year, and therefore two years older than him, was alone in front and sure of victory. Marconi had started to think that if he lost now, he would always lose in life, so he sped up, moving so fast that he caught and then overtook Antonio a few paces from the finishing line.
Keep trying. You can do it. And he thinks that it will be a bad omen - really bad - if he isn't able to catch the shit now running in front of him.
So he speeds up, trying not to lose sight of the orange fleece up ahead, trying to anticipate the movements of the people in his way so he can avoid them.
His spleen hurts. He pays no attention. He takes deeper breaths and carries on running. He runs and thinks that it will be a bad omen if he fails, and that he'll catch up like he did that time in the fifth year.
The boy turns a corner. Marconi speeds up. He can do this.
He skids round the corner, grabbing on to the wall for balance. The boy is nowhere to be seen. Marconi, all on his own, has just conjured up a mountain of bad omens for himself.
He stops. He struggles to breathe. His liver seems to have exploded inside him and his leg hurts.
Fuck me and my stupid superstitious games.
He notices that it is already starting to get dark, and there's still no sign of jewelled hairpins.
'Hi. What are you doing here?'
He straightens up and sees her. Boots up to her thighs, low-cut top and leather miniskirt, big earrings and eyes like a cat.
The girl from the club.
'Hi,' he manages to gasp, with difficulty.
'But what have you been up to?' she says. Her friends are watching him and burst out laughing.
'My dog,' he says, still panting.
'Your dog?'
Marconi hates it when someone repeats what he has just said, as if suggesting the most idiotic nonsense has just come out of his mouth.
'Yes.' He is still trying to get his breath back.
'So, are you going to tell me what happened to your dog, or do I have to worm it out of you?' Her friends all laugh again.
'I had him on his lead… he pulled on it… he ran off… I ran after him but… too fast.'
'You're worrying me gasping like that. Get your breath back!'
But can't those idiots do anything but laugh? And he gives them a severe look to make them be quiet.
Samantha is a step in front of them. She's the leader of the group, and it's clear that they all think she's the most beautiful.
'You don't know my good news. I've been really lucky… try and guess.' She pauses, then adds in a triumphant tone of voice: 'I found it!'
'What did you find?'
'What do you mean, what? A hairpin, just like your ex-girlfriend's - or at least I assume you've broken up with her by now.'
'Of course I have. But where? How did you find it?'
'There, right opposite. In a line of stalls parallel with Via Indipendenza there's Deco Mela, the craft market. A really sweet boy makes them. Look.'
She opens a yellow bag made of recycled paper and pulls out two hairpins, each one surmounted by two small glass spheres.
Marconi decides that women must possess a real skill, in being able to find what they're looking for among the chaos of all these stalls. Perhaps the bag snatcher wasn't such a bad omen after all.
'Can I?' he asks, holding out his hand.
'Take it,' she replies, suggestively.
It is about fifteen centimetres long, three millimetres in diameter, metal, therefore easy to sharpen. A little knife for the hair, in fact.
'It's lovely. It'll look really nice on you.' Marconi always feels slightly embarrassed around women.
She takes it from him, brushing her fingers against his hands, then asks him to wait a second before handing him a card on which she has already written 'Samantha' and a mobile phone number, with a little heart drawn after the last digit.
She kisses him on the cheek and starts to head off. 'Call me this evening and I'll let you know if I've found a poor old dog wandering all by himself round the city streets. You know, animals really like me. He'd happily follow me home.'
Shit, thinks Marconi as he goes to find his colleague. But at least I know where to find the hairpins.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
If he asks her anything, she'll deny it. But it's not as if he won't ask her anything, anyway. She is sure of that. She has put the shirt back in the wardrobe, but first she left it hanging on the door for a couple of hours and smelled it, occasionally.
She didn't think it still smelled of her, but Marco has an acute sense of smell, so she squirted some of his aftershave on it. Now it's in the wardrobe, exactly as before.
She has moved the packet it contained several times. First she hid it in the new box of crackers. She made a small hole and pushed it in. Then she thought that Marco is often hungry when he gets home late at night, and he wouldn't bother finishing the old box of crackers before starting a new one. So she moved the packet to her wardrobe, stowing it in her underwear drawer. Under the white knickers, the ones she never wears, as she prefers black.
And what if Marco has brings a present - a new pair of panties - and he goes to hide it with the others? So she moved the incriminating object again.
She fetched a chair and, standing on tiptoe, hid it on the top of the shelving unit in the living room. No, Marco once used to keep films up there, the banned ones, and she had discovered them. Why didn't I remember that before?
She put the chair back underneath, and she is standing there with the packet still in her hand. The door opens. She moves her hands as quickly as if what she's holding is red hot. She instinctively pulls at the waist of her trousers and slips it into her knickers.
'What are you doing, standing there in the middle of the room?'
'I was waiting for you.'
'Aren't you going to give me a kiss, then?'
Viola walks towards him. She can feel the packet between her legs.
'Is that all?'
'I've got a headache.'
'A headache. A woman's favourite excuse. What did you get up to today?'
'The usual.' She moves away from him.
'Good, good. Let's go and have a shower together.'
'I've just had one and, anyway, I told you I've got a headache. You go and have one.'
He comes closer. 'You know you're even more sexy when you have a headache?'
'I'll go and make dinner.'
Viola feels hounded. She hurries into the kitchen. After a minute he's there behind her. Her hands shake.
Marco turns her round and leans her back against the cold steel surface of the hob.
'No… really. I don't feel well.'
He starts to kiss her neck while she tries to wriggle free.
'No, not now. Leave me be.'
He pins down her hands so she can't move, and seeks out her mouth. Then he starts to caress her breasts. She is wearing a cotton T-shirt with long sleeves.
She is warm because of rushing around, while playing her game of pass the parcel. But now the game seems to have become a treasure hunt.
The packet. The fuc
king packet.
'Marco, no. I said no.'
He moves away for a second, then smiles. He is visibly aroused.
Why should something from that silly magazine prove to be true now? 'Say no and he'll take the first step.' Damn her pig-headed hope that some piece of their advice would turn out to be true. It serves her right.
He is pressing against her now, trying to pull her trousers down. He slides a hand between her warm thighs and keeps on kissing her face and throat.
'No.' She tries to get free of his grasp.
He turns her round as if she were an object. He pushes himself against her, her stomach pressing against the steel surface, which doesn't feel cold any more, and starts to move his fingers between her legs. 'Tell me you like it.'
He has never done this before. A hot, wet sensation, as if a piece of ice were suddenly melting. Her trousers and knickers have slid to her feet while his hand moves faster.
'No, stop it. Please.'
She doesn't have time to sense it coming. A strong, spontaneous orgasm that makes her shout out and arch her body backwards. She feels her legs give way. She falls to the floor, as he drops down on her so as to take his own share of pleasure.
Viola thinks about the packet that she just had time to slip into the coffee percolator. Then she reflects that orgasms really do exist. Those magazines aren't so silly after all.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
How lovely. I've never seen such a beautifully laid table,' Eva says, enchanted. 'And the napkins! They're wonderful; they look like swans.'
'The maid does all this. My father only employs highly qualified staff.' Giulia assumes a superior tone of voice whenever she mentions their servants.
'But she's marvellous. What's her name?'
'Who?'
'The maid.' Eva strokes the swan-shaped napkin with the tip of her finger.
'How should I know? I just call her Giovanna. She's got one of those oriental names that you can't pronounce. We're in Italy so I call her an Italian name,' Giulia replies sharply.
'But are you celebrating something?' All this luxury has aroused Eva's curiosity.
'No, it's just a dinner for my father's business associates. Nothing out of the ordinary. I can't imagine what you'd say if you saw the table laid out for our New Year's Eve dinner! Last year there were Swarovski crystal snowmen to hold the place cards. Come on, I'll get changed then we'll go to the gym. And then I'm seeing Andrea, so I'll have to take along something sexy to change into.'
Giulia starts to undress. She lets her clothes fall on the floor without taking her eyes from her reflection in the mirror. In bra and pants, she pirouettes on tiptoe while continuing to gaze at herself with a critical expression.
'I'll just be a minute, Giulia. I left my gym bag in the dining room,' Eva says, feeling bemused.
'Off you go, but be quick. We're already late, and you've still got to help me decide which outfit to take.'
Eva follows the long corridor which has its walls covered with paintings. There's one that always makes her feel uneasy: the portrait of a woman wearing a sullen look. The brush strokes convey a sadness that reaches out to the viewer, and Eva wishes she was able to speak to the woman in the painting.
'Why are you sad?' she asks, without waiting for a reply, as she then skips down the stairs, taking two at a time.
She goes into the dining room. The maid is arranging a centrepiece of flowers and exotic fruit.
'Sorry, it's only me.' Eva smiles. 'You're really clever, you know? Where did you learn to fold the napkins like that?'
'My mother taught me when I was a girl. It's a tradition in my country.'
'You really are good. I'm hopeless at doing things with my hands…'
She is a very young girl, not very tall, almond- shaped eyes and long, fine black hair bound in a plait.
'Thank you, miss.'
'Pleased to meet you. I'm Eva.'
'I'm Jin Holin,' and she bows. Eva does the same, before adding, 'I can't stay. If I don't go, Giulia -'
'Where have you been hiding. Come on, I'm ready.' Giulia mood has already altered. All it takes is for her to lose control over the people around her for a second and she becomes irritable.
'Sorry, I got lost.'
'Do you like my new tracksuit? I'm wearing something for my jazz class underneath - short and sexy. The tracksuit is just for getting to the gym.'
'It's lovely. Red suits you.'
'Of course. Everyone knows that blondes look good in red.'
'And the barman? Aren't you going to that bar near the Two Towers any more?'
'Oh, he's old news.' Giulia answers, clearly annoyed because he didn't pay her as much attention as she would have liked. 'I think he's gay,' she adds, to reassure her ego.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
What a shitty day.
A really shitty day.
But if he thinks he's going to cheat me out of my patch he's making a big mistake, that bastard.
He brought them up himself, those idiots: the first joints shared on the steps, the first highs. He had known them when they still had milk round their mouths and didn't even know how to roll a joint. He had had to roll the first one for them.
Who is it who puts himself out there to fix things for the clients? No one - except me. But why the fuck should I send them? It's not just that I've built up a personal relationship - which helps keep the clients grateful - but, as soon as they can, they'll try to fuck me over.
And then, when you think about when they started on the hard stuff - the phone calls at all hours, which was never enough… Always him to wipe their arses.
And now that shit, Fabietto, so sure of himself as leader of the gang that he's going to buy stuff direct from the Albanians and sell it back to the group. The shit they've got, those Albanians. But they're used to eating shit, those idiots. They wouldn't even recognise the good stuff from drugs that are cut again and again, they've been stoned for so long.
But if he thinks he's going to steal my business he's wrong.
I'll see to it that he never even thinks about that again.
He walks quickly while he talks to himself, with his mouth closed. The words are sitting on the tip of his tongue but all that escapes is an angry hiss from between clenched teeth.
He knows where to find Fabietto. He's moving quickly. He's almost there.
And then that fucking cop with the story about the INPS. But what do they think, that I'm stupid?
That I haven't worked out that something's going on? First at that whore's house and now at my own. They're even coming to my home. The cops don't know how to do their job any more. They come to your home. Perhaps they even expect you to make them a cup of tea.
He has arrived in Piazza Otto Agosto. He waits for a moment, with clenched fists, outside the arcade.
He goes in and sees him straight away. He has a plastic pistol in his hand and is shooting, leaning from side to side to dodge invisible bullets, and he's swearing.
He is almost on top of him. It's managed without any effort… Fuck, the bastard sees him, and doesn't even allow him time to realise that the boy has stopped shooting before he is already swerving round the other lads dressed in short bomber jackets with baseball caps on back to front.
He is leaving by the other door, his skateboard tightly in his hand. The doors are next to each other. Marco retraces his steps to try to cut him off.
'Out of my way, jerk!' A thin boy with teeth missing holds up his arms as if to apologise.
Fuck!
He's already in the square and pushing himself off on his skateboard.
'Stop!'
Marco starts to run. It's Thursday morning and, in the square next to the entrance to the car park, there's a small group of stalls selling knick-knacks. Collectors and people clearing out their basements.
He slams his side into the corner of a wooden table.
'You little scoundrel!' An old man with a white
beard shouts at him in dialect, before he bends over to pick up the military ribbons and medals of Mussolini that have been knocked to the ground.
The boy enters Via Maroncelli. Marco is gaining ground. Then he dives into Via Alessandrini, and in a second he's back in Via Irnerio. Marco's breath seems like smoke coming out of his mouth, because of the cold. He looks like a dragon. Perhaps he could finish him off with a burst of flame.
He's getting closer. He thinks he can smell the sour odour of sweat mixed with fear. The boy's heading towards a woman with a large basket full of cheap goods purchased from the discount shop at the end of the street. She's appeared from nowhere, and now she's in his way.
It's just like a videogame. People materialise - zombies with staring eyes - and he has to avoid them. But it's as if he's reached an advanced level, where everything happens twice as fast. He instinctively swerves to the right, missing the woman but hurtling into a parked car.
The boy looks round and sees Marco just behind him. Marco is the monster at the end of the game, the boss that's hardest to kill. He turns his skateboard and hurls himself into the middle of the road. A car brakes and the driver swears.
Fabietto has passed to the next level. The monster is left standing with his mouth open, in front of the police car now stationary in the middle of the road.
Next to the driver, who is still cursing, the man from the INPS is staring straight at Marco through the lowered window.
Fuck!
Marco turns and starts to walk towards the portico.
Let's hope he didn't recognise me. What a shitty day.
'When a day starts like shit, it always ends like shit,' he says aloud, while he checks to see if the cops are leaving.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
She stares at the white ceiling. Last night she dreamed of red, everything was red. Like blood.
The Girl with the Crystal Eyes Page 12
