The Girl with the Crystal Eyes

by Barbara Baraldi

  Samantha grabs his arm. She is laughing, enjoying herself, not at all embarrassed. She likes impetuous men. As well as lots of other types of men - and women.

  They head down a staircase with ancient, worn stone steps.

  They go round in a sort of spiral. She clings on to the wrought-iron handrail. There are girls chatting on either side of the steps. They meet the first Marilyn, who looks more like a young Sandra Milo.

  They get to the bottom of the stone stairs. There aren't many people there yet.

  Two very young girls - two gothic dolls in tulle tutus and with boots laced up to the knee - are sitting on a bench talking to each other, one virtually pressing against the mouth of the other.

  'But they're not lesbians, are they?' 'What?'

  'Those girls over there, dressed like princesses. They can't be lesbians, can they?'

  'Do you ever leave your house? God, you're such a yokel!'

  'Me, a yokel?' Now it's him repeating the last word someone's spoken, and it sounds just as stupid as when other people do it to him.

  'Are you going to get me a drink?'

  'Of course.'

  As he passes them, the policeman stares down at the two young girls. Fuck, they can't be more than seventeen under all that black make-up. They are holding hands, and teasing each other like a couple of lovers.

  The women behind the bar all look like would-be lorry drivers. They don't look him in the eye when he orders two neat vodkas with a splash of lemon - the drink his companion has asked for. She, however, is already deep in conversation with one of the club's PR people.

  Holding the two glasses, he watches her. The woman now with her behaves like a man: she gazes tenderly at Samantha's face, and her eyes - little bright buttons - sparkle with desire.

  He starts drinking through one of the straws.

  A group of fake blondes fills the space with vague chatter and garish colours. He watches them from behind. Carnival wigs, the plastic hair parted on one side and half covering their foreheads. Perhaps they bought them in bulk during a sale at some toy shop.

  He gets the wrong straw this time and drinks from the second glass. The ice is starting to melt.

  Samantha glances over at him while she flirts with her friend. Then she gives her a kiss on the mouth and comes over to Marconi.

  'Here I am. Miss me?' She holds out her hand to take her drink. 'But they're both half empty.'

  He blushes. She grins.

  'So, what's the plan?' asks Marconi. 'I've come alone. Like you asked me to.'

  'Oh, you sound like you're in some film, so I suppose I should, too. Let's see now. Stay close to me. When I spot the suspect, I'll try not to attract her attention. But you mustn't lose sight of your one and only witness.'

  'But you're not really a -'

  'Of course I am. A witness in danger. That's exciting, so don't say it's not true. Let me have some fun.' And she moves closer to him with an eager expression.

  . 'Have your fun, then. What can I tell you?' It's a phrase he has adopted from Tommasi's repertoire.

  And, speaking of Tommasi, he is still looking for a place to park in front of the club while two other policemen are waiting in a vehicle somewhere on the main road, expecting instructions.

  It doesn't take long for the platinum wigs to take over the whole room. They're everywhere. Clones who are by degree more or less grotesque, more or less hairy.

  There's even a Marilyn with a black moustache. 'God, he's repulsive,' the inspector grunts.

  Samantha laughs. She really does find him entertaining.

  'The music's starting. Let's have a wander round.'

  A sort of turret erected inside the club lends it a certain atmosphere. Black curtains hang from the walls. Large oil paintings of naked girls, inside kitsch frames. A stall with two smiling youngsters - a boy and a girl not in fancy dress - has a folder full of badges on display.

  Marconi moves closer to get a better look. The glittering badges include some with pictures from the cartoons he used to watch as a child. He starts to name them, out loud, pointing at each one in turn.

  'Kotetsu Jeeg, the steel robot - I really liked him. Captain Harlock - that's amazing! And there's Sampei. Did you used to watch Sampei? How did the theme tune go?' And he starts to sing it. 'No, it's Tigerman! How much are they?'

  'One Euro each,' the boy answers.

  'Wow, that's cheap… Where do you find them? No, look! There's Carletto, Prince of Monsters… and Gigi la Trottola. I used to think it was so funny the way he went around stealing knickers…'

  'Can you get out of the way? Other people would like to have a look.'

  Another frustrated lorry driver. This is too much.

  'Just wait your turn, like everyone else.' He has regressed to his childhood.

  The girl pushes in and stands next to him. She hardly has time to point out Lady Oscar, a real lesbian icon, to her friend, before Marconi regains his spot.

  'So, if I buy a few, will you give me a discount?'

  'OK,' the girl says without hesitating. 'Five Euros for six.'

  'Ah, but six won't be enough. There're loads of them I like… No! Films, too, I don't believe it! Reservoir Dogs - God, what a film! Igor from Young Frankenstein. I can't believe it…'

  'You're not going to start listing all of them, are you? You're not the only one here. If you like, I can show that I recognise them all too - if you'll only let me.'

  'Oh, why don't you go have a wander round while I'm looking through these. Leave me in peace while I choose what I want. So… I absolutely must have Gigi, Carletto, the robot Daitarn 3… No! It's Lupin!'

  'Why don't you buy Fujiko for me? Don't you think I look like her?'

  Marconi finally remembers that he's not come here on his own. 'Of course. Choose another one as well, if you like.'

  'Look, it's Creamy and Bia. Did you used to watch Bia?' Samantha starts to sing the theme song, her wig swaying from side to side.

  'Are you two ever going to get out of the way?'

  'Just a minute.' Being a good policeman, Marconi is trying to keep things calm. 'One at a time. Take it easy.'

  'Fuck taking it easy. You're the one's who's standing in the way.'

  'That's because I was here first.'

  The two people behind the stall look at each other, bewildered by what's now going on, and they smile as the boy tries to find Fujiko in a small, overflowing bag of badges.

  'Bia as well. I have to have that one.'

  'How many is that now?' Marconi asks.

  'With Bia, it's six.'

  'Let's get to ten at least.'

  He bends over the stall, looking like a child confronting a jar of Nutella.

  'It's her. God, it's her!'

  'Her?'

  'What do you mean "her"? I just saw her walking past us, the murderer.'

  'Don't say "murderer". Are you mad?' Marconi covers her mouth with his hand. 'Put them on one side for me, and I'll come back and get them later,' he shouts as Samantha drags him away.

  Behind them, a chorus exclaims in unison: 'At last!'

  'Where? Where?'

  'She was there.' Samantha indicates a vague area in the dark.

  'Fuck, let's hope she's still there. It's chaos. Are you sure?'

  'I told you, it was her.'

  They walk round, trying to squeeze their way through the Marilyns - both male and female - and all the other people dressed in black.

  'I can't see her any more.'

  Fuck. I've missed out on those badges for nothing.

  Marconi signals imperceptibly to Tommasi, who is standing to one side, leaning against a pillar.

  'It's far too crowded, but at least we know she's here.'

  'We need to be careful.'

  'Let's have a look outside. Perhaps she's in the toilets - they have some chemical loos out front.'

  'OK, it's worth a shot.'

  They make for the exit.

  'Come on, whip me!'

  A middle-aged m
an, wearing make-up like a woman, a miniskirt hardly covering his arse and high- heeled shoes, hands a leather whip to a boy who is looking a bit scared. He doesn't know what to do with it. He holds it up, but only because it happens to be in his hand.

  'You don't know how to do anything!' exclaims the man, grabbing the whip from the boy's hand. And, as if by magic, it ends up in Marconi's grasp. As usual, here I am in the wrong place at the wrong time, he thinks, finding himself with something in his hands that he has no intention of using on those flabby buttocks.

  Samantha takes it away from him. She takes the whip quickly, as if they're playing that children's game where you pass the bomb and the child who has it when time's up incurs a forfeit. She, however, holds on to it tightly and starts to lash the older man.

  'What the fuck are you doing?'

  She doesn't answer but whips the man even harder. His skirt soon rides up and passers-by grimace with disgust. Marconi notices that one of his balls has just escaped from his too-tight thong and now hangs happily exposed, enjoying its newfound freedom.

  This really is too much. Marconi heads for the toilets alone.

  The men's loos are empty, but outside the ladies, there's a long queue.

  A very pretty girl, natural blonde hair, red lips clasped round a cigarette, is trying to find her lighter inside her tiny bag.

  He would like to be able to light the cigarette for her, but he doesn't smoke. So he turns to a stocky girl wearing make-up that makes her look like one of the living dead: 'Excuse me,' and uses his thumb and index finger to mime what he wants.

  'Here you are.' She politely holds out her lighter.

  Marconi runs back to the blonde and gives her a light without comment.

  'Thanks. I couldn't find mine. My bag's too small… and too full.'

  'No problem.'

  'What a nice accent you have. You're not from around here.'

  'Originally I'm from Modena. But I lived in France for a year, so that could be why. Do you have a pseudonym?' he adds.

  What a fucking stupid question.

  She looks at him, puzzled.

  'I mean… it's just that everyone here seems to use made-up names. Shit, don't worry about it.'

  'Oh, I didn't know what you meant. Yes, of course I have another name. You can express yourself better if you choose your own name, don't you think? I don't like those names that other people have given you. I'm Cassandra.' 'That's a really nice name.'

  I'm such a piece of shit.

  'And you? You don't have a name you use here, do you?'

  ,'Of course I do! I'm… Renegade.'

  'Renegade?!' Not again! She has done exactly what he himself did earlier: Marconi knows for certain that he's said something stupid, because she has repeated, as a question, what he has just said.

  'Yes. Not great, is it?'

  She can't hold back her giggling.

  'Sorry.' The stocky girl is signaling that she wants her lighter back, mimicking the same gesture he used a second ago.

  'That's mine,' she reminds him.

  'Oh, sorry.' He roots around in his pocket and gives the lighter back to its owner, then turns his attention back to Cassandra.

  She's beautiful when she laughs.

  She covers her mouth with a slender hand. Red nail varnish, as red as her lipstick.

  'The queue's too long here. If you want, I can keep a look-out and you can use the gents.'

  'I don't know…'

  'You're perfectly safe. I'm a…'

  Shit. I almost told her. What a cretin! 'I'm a nice boy.'

  'OK, then. I'll be quick. But, please, don't let anyone in.'

  'OK. I'll go in with you and wait in the corridor.'

  She locks herself in the cubicle. He hears a copious rush of urine.

  She's now finished. The door opens and the girl pauses on the threshold, for a moment. She seems to be smiling. Blonde, beautiful. For an instant Marconi thinks about how the lorry driver must have felt in that motorway toilet, just before he was died.

  'Thanks.'

  He goes out first and holds out his hand to help her down the three steps, which are almost too steep for the high heels she's wearing.

  Samantha is watching them from a distance. 'Thank God, you were so shy with me, you bastard,' and she turns on her heels.

  'Is that your girlfriend?'

  He looks at her, speechless, then manages to mumble, 'I'm sorry', before running off in the same direction as Samantha's fleeing shadow.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Life. It's strange, is life.

  You can feel it throbbing inside you - it's yours - but anyone, or anything, at any moment, or any illness, can appear and take it away from you, just like that. Steal it from you.

  Sometimes you live and nothing more; sometimes you think and live; sometimes you let life happen to you, and you waste it. Life.

  The boy's face is contorted in a grimace of pain. Lying down. Or perhaps he's sitting. Sitting but looking like he's lying down, because he seems to have slid forward under the weight of his body that he can't support any more.

  Life has flown out of him. Forever. It won't be coming back.

  At this time of day, he should be in the square, showing off the double jump he has learned to do on his skateboard. But he can't do that any more. He has a wound, long and dark. The crack through which his life flew out of him.

  He looks but he can't see. He is there, sitting, but looking like he's lying down. He seems to be waiting in the shade of a leafless tree, a tree lost in the darkness of a night that has witnessed so many things but can't tell a soul.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  'Hey, beautiful. Let me buy you a drink.'

  'No.'

  'You should loose that attitude. It's doesn't suit you, you know.'

  She doesn't answer. Instead, she crosses her legs and flicks her hair to one side. 'Hey, I'm talking to you. Didn't you hear me?' The girl gets up and heads towards the exit.

  Shit, where has she gone. 'Get out of my way!'

  What a cock-up, damn! And now what the fuck am I going to do?

  The club is now full: zombie girls dressed in sequins and voile, unnaturally white skin and red lips. Platinum-blonde wigs that flutter round the room. It's like a nightmare. But he's awake.

  This isn't his sort of place. The music is-so loud that it makes him lose all sense of direction. Too much perfume, too much darkness, then sudden light as bright as flashbulbs, making him even more lost in a world that isn't his, a world in which he doesn't know how to navigate. He needs to see the reality of things. He moves perfectly easily on the streets, in real life. There he can understand things, smell the stench of crime, see the colours in people's stares, hear the noise of danger. But not here.

  Here everything is false, filtered. Fakery upon fakery, perfume on top of perfume; mixed up with the acidic smell of drugs. Drugs that alter your mind, transform things, distort your perspective.

  It's as if he is being shunted along by the arms of the people he bumps into. His vision is blurred. A hunted animal.

  He keeps returning to the same spot. He can't spot the exit. He keeps finding himself here, in front of the same painting: the naked girl with a mermaid's tail. Her eyes make her look ill, and she points with her finger. 'Look' she seems to be saying to him out of the frenzy of flashing lights, but he doesn't see anything.

  He has never liked discos. He didn't ever go to them, even when he felt he might have done. Now he's too old. He's out of breath, and his head… what the fuck is happening to his head?

  He bangs into another moving obstacle.

  He feels like a skittle in a bowling alley, where huge bowling balls in platinum wigs are trying to knock him over. It's not even as if he's worth many points, but that counts for nothing in the middle of all this chaos.

  He leans against a pillar.

  Opposite him, the girl with the mermaid's tail now seems to be pointing at him direc
tly. She looks at him without pity; she judges him with those implacable eyes - cruel, ringed with black. Marconi lowers his gaze but his head feels like it's gripped in a spiral that is spinning him round.

  Everything is turning, like a whirlpool. He thinks he's going to lose his balance. He looks up again. He doesn't know how he got there, but he's almost in the middle of the room now. The moving objects start to bump into him again. They move him whenever, and wherever, they want.

  He feels like a puppet… No, he's a skittle, and you still don't get many points if you knock him over. Here's another ball in a wig about to run him down. But he senses someone holding on to him - a gentle touch, vaguely familiar, friendly, cool.

  A girl has grabbed him by the wrist. She gently leads him away. She seems to know where to take him. She seems to know the way. She has a nice smell, a real smell, the perfume of delicate flowers. He can only see the back of her neck, pale, with curls resting on it like caresses.

  He follows her without breathing. They seem to fly past the deformed monsters; they can't touch either of them now. He sees the exit.

  He finds himself in the open air, staring at the sky. He can breathe again.

  He is alone. He looks round but there is no one near him. Just a cloud of that indefinable perfume that lingers even here, under the vastness of the black, welcoming sky. He leans back against the wall behind him while he wipes away the sweat with his hand. He breathes in.

  He doesn't remember anything after that. He thinks he sees Samantha, at a distance.

  'Let's go. I'll drive,' is the last phrase he hears.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The bloody blade has ceased calling her. It has had its fill, for now.

  It won't torture her any more.

  For a while.

  It gets thirsty more often now than it used to. It is like a baby who grows up but doesn't stop craving his mother's milk. He wants it again and again. That hurts. It hurts because he gets stronger and stronger; he attaches himself greedily to the breast and sucks out the liquid he has become dependent on. As soon as his mother takes him in her arms, he smells the sweet odour and he can't resist. He starts to scream, and he screams until she attaches him to her breast and he can start to breathe again. The little teeth that are already pushing through the gums shred his mother's delicate skin, but she can't help wanting to satisfy the flesh of her own flesh. It's a need that burns inside her, sadism and masochism uniting in a dance of life. The pain hurts her flesh but it gratifies her spirit.