The Girl with the Crystal Eyes

by Barbara Baraldi

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Marconi opens his eyes. His head is still spinning but now he can focus. He's experiencing some sort of hallucination. He remembers a dark corridor. He remembers climbing up stairs on legs as heavy as lead. But nothing more.

  There is a slight tingling on his lips. He opens and closes his mouth. He feels numb.

  His eyes become accustomed to the dim, orange- coloured light. He focuses more clearly. He sees a bed with dark, glossy sheets - a sea of unpleasant memories. He sees a low bedside table and a lamp covered with a piece of red material through which filters a disconcerting light.

  He moves his head from side to side, quickly. He wants to awaken his senses, but all he does is make himself feel dizzy. He feels like he's going to fall. Instinctively he tries to put out his hands, but they stay where they are, as if glued to the arms of the chair he's sitting in.

  He looks down and understands why. He is bound to the chairs by adhesive tape wrapped around his wrists, his skin bruised by its vice-like grip.

  He kicks out, but his legs are held firm too. He isn't able to see them, buried as he is amid the black leather of a comfortable and unusual prison.

  He doesn't understand. He doesn't remember.

  Then he hears a voice. A sing-song voice. A monstrous lullaby that makes his body stiffen, and brings him completely and instantaneously to his senses.

  A half-closed door opens, letting in a dazzling light. All he can see is the dark shape of the person to whom the voice belongs.

  Then she closes the door behind her, and finally she. appears before him.

  She is still wearing the blonde wig, but she has even more make-up than before. She seems to be covered in a patina of heavy make-up that flattens her features and makes her look like an antique doll. Her appearance frightens him.

  She looks like one of those dolls that his grandmother used to sit on her hand-made lace bedspread. They had staring eyes, outlined in black. Rosy lips through which you could see tiny gleaming teeth. The little neck was separated by a deep cut from the rest of the body, so that the head seemed merely balanced on top. It looked like it would fall off at any moment.

  They wore ornate clothes, covered in lace and frills.

  They used to terrify him. He would watch them secretly, checking to make sure that they didn't blink.

  Deceitful creatures that just pretended to be unreal, inert. Instead they chose to sit there, motionless, but ready to come to life and attack him at the right moment.

  Here she is, just as he imagined. The doll has come to life. She moves, she looks at him and laughs, showing her small gleaming teeth.

  She comes towards him wearing nothing but a black lace slip that plays with the orange light, revealing and then covering the bare legs that move beneath the light fabric.

  She has something shiny in her hand. A kitchen knife. It seems out of place.

  'You've been naughty tonight.' She reveals the white pearls of her teeth again. 'Mummy's going to punish you.' She comes closer.

  Frenzied shadows are projected on to the wall. It looks like a canvas that is being covered by a painter's wild brushstrokes. She waves the knife and laughs, but it sounds like she's crying.

  She stops.

  She looks grotesque, standing there in front of him with her legs apart. 'Am I beautiful?' she asks.

  Marconi stares at her. She is a waking nightmare. 'Yes, you're beautiful.'

  'Liar. I know what you're thinking.'

  He's thinking that perhaps his mind isn't working properly. Perhaps he has just said 'You're a waking nightmare' out loud.

  'Do you like me?'

  This time he thinks first to make sure he gives the correct answer. 'Yes, I like you.'

  'I drugged you. You're an idiot, policeman.'

  Marconi shakes his head. For an instant he thinks that perhaps Tommasi spotted him while he was following her, dragging his legs, clearly confused.

  'You're stupid,' she says.

  'What are you going to do?'

  'I'm going to make you pay.'

  'What have I done?'

  'You made a mistake. And now I'm going to punish you.'

  Marconi starts to tug at his arms and legs to release them, but he only manages to make the armchair move imperceptibly forward.

  She bends over. She is that some doll, he's sure of it, his grandmother's doll. It has pretended to be good for all this time, and now…

  'You're scared, aren't you?'

  'What do you think?'

  She moves the knife towards the sweaty face of the policeman. His sweat smells acidic, of drugs. She caresses him with the blade, but doesn't cut him. The sound made by his rough stubble against the metal excites her. 'You're sure of yourself - because you're a man. But I'm in charge now.' And she holds her face close to his, as if she wants to inhale the life out of him.

  'I'm scared. You're in charge. That OK?'

  'Not yet.'

  She stands up again, raises one leg, then rests it on his knee. He just has time to focus on what's happening, before he feels a razor-sharp pain. She raises and lowers her leg as is she's trying to kick him away and she drives her stiletto heel first into his thigh, now into his knee cap.

  'What the fuck!'

  'It hurts, doesn't it?'

  'Stop it. You'll be in big trouble.' He tries to sound like that policeman in a film, but he can't remember which film.

  She lifts her leg. She holds it raised for an instant, then kicks hard, the kick ending at his thigh. He clenches his teeth so as not to scream.

  'I adore high heels.' And she leans over him again.

  'What do you want from me?'

  'I want you to want me as much as I want you. Do you want me?'

  'Yes. Yes…'

  'Liar. You're all the same, you men. Liars.' She is shouting now. 'Liars. Liars, phonies, bastards, pigs.'

  Marconi really is scared. He is utterly alert, as if eager to enjoy this macabre spectacle in which he is the protagonist, defenceless, with his hands tied.

  She raises the knife and brings it down level, with his stomach.

  He closes his eyes, tightly. He doesn't want to see, just like when he was small and for a moment he was sure that the horrendous doll had moved, and when he preferred to close himself inside the darkness that he could create whenever he wanted. Perhaps, that way, the doll might have believed that her secret was safe and she would have spared him. At least for a while.

  She is slashing his trousers. The fabric hisses under the blade, as it is guided by hysterical hands.

  'You're all pigs. You make me mad. What should I do with you?' She seems to be raving now.

  She carries on slicing, and screaming filth. He feels shaken. The doll, with her eyes circled in black, is on her knees at his feet. And he has an erection.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  'Congratulations on that work you did for the shopping centre. I like it. It's snappy, lively, really dynamic advertising. Great, really great. But I… Eva, are you listening to me?' Mariangela asks.

  'Yes, sorry. I'm not feeling too well today. I've got an awful headache.'

  'Are you coming for a drink with us after work?'

  'I can't. I've always got loads of things to do on Wednesdays.'

  'OK, I won't try to persuade you. But go and get yourself a coffee - you need one. And ask Bruno to come to my office as you go out.'

  Bruno is new. He has replaced Roberto - and not just at his desk.

  'Giuli, do you want to come? Time for a coffee break.'

  'I can't, any more. Always the same stuff - I'm sick of that scanner. I even dream about it at night!'

  'Come on. Tomorrow's your birthday! You should be happy. And what about your father? Did you follow my advice?'

  'Yes. I'm meeting him today, like you suggested. Away from home and also away from where he works, so he doesn't get any distractions. We're meeting at his club, nice and relaxing, and -'


  'And he'll say yes. I'm certain.'

  'Let's hope so! At any rate, you're craftier than I thought.'

  'Thank you. It's nice of you to say so, but I'm not sure I should take it as a compliment. Anyway, this evening I'm expecting you at mine. Miew and I have prepared a little supper for you, to thank you for everything you've done for us recently. And then you'll be able to tell me if you've persuaded him to buy you your new car.'

  Giulia seems embarrassed, which is rare for her. 'I wasn't expecting you to do anything,' she says. 'And I thought I was being a bit annoying - about the car I mean.'

  'Of course not, why should it annoy me? So I'll see you this evening. It'll be an unforgettable evening, I promise.'

  Eva goes back to her desk. She is preparing a publicity campaign for a new type of urban vehicle. Ideas whirr around in her head. She thinks about the size of the car - easy to park, even in the smallest spaces. She wants to get across the idea of it making the most of every possibility, of grabbing every opportunity as it occurs, of a philosophy you can apply to every aspect of your life and to all of the decisions you make every day. 'The person who can make the most of every second chooses a car that doesn't loose a single moment,' she says out loud. Her gaze rests on the one red rose that stands out from the desk strewn with paperwork.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  The sun is high in the sky. The staring eyes are still searching upwards for something they can't see. It will never again be dawn, never sunset. The body was found an hour before. He seems astonished to be there, with all those people now buzzing around him. Around him, who has only ever had a small group of friends. His street friends will never again watch him doing his double jump on his skateboard. 'Where's Inspector Marconi?' 'He hasn't been answering his mobile since last night. I'm really worried. We were following…'

  'Some women. So what's there to worry about?' Frolli sniggers.

  There's another corpse, lying motionless, his eyes fixed on some undefined object.

  Marconi has just woken up on the bed with black sheets, in a sea of unpleasant memories. He stares at something but he can't focus on it. He hurts all over. But he's alive.

  He is naked. His face is contorted.

  She opens eyes smudged with mascara. The smeared make-up makes it look like she is grieving. She looks like the sinner in some dreary painting, crying and pleading for forgiveness, overwhelmed and petrified by a dull pain, petrified.

  Her lipstick has rubbed off. Her black hair hangs down limply on to breasts hidden by this funereal shroud.

  Her wig lies on the floor, along with her slip.

  She looks at him and smiles for a second.

  He gets up without saying anything. He remembers he hasn't got any clothes on. Shreds of fabric he's abandoned, by the leather armchair, like strange confetti at the end of some grotesque carnival.

  'I don't suppose you've got anything in my size.'

  'I have. I've still got some of my ex's clothes, if that's OK. He was just a bit shorter than you.'

  She gets up. In daylight she isn't frightening. Her voice has a vague, indefinable inflection; it's not a hellish singsong any more. She is a real woman, now. And she's got a great arse.

  She opens a drawer and, leaning over it, rummages through a muddle of clothes, leather collars, and studded objects. Marconi spots a purple dildo and is grateful that she didn't use it on him last night.

  'You're sick,' he says quietly.

  'I know,' And without looking at him she throws him something black. A T-shirt with a skull, and HATE written in gothic letters. Then she hands him a pair of leather trousers.

  'Underwear?'

  'He never wore any.' Her voice hides a trace of sadness.

  'Lovely. I hope at least you washed these occasionally.'

  She comes towards him.

  'Stay away from me.'

  'Does that mean you didn't enjoy it?'

  'Where's my mobile? My car keys?'

  'Everything's in the car. Your keys are in the kitchen, on the table.'

  The skin round his wrists and ankles stings a bit, and looks bruised. He had never done it before, while tied up.

  'Oh well…' It's the last thing he says as he leaves the flat. Before he closes the door behind him, he sees a stuffed owl staring down at him from a shelf, with large, round glass eyes.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Sitting on the floor, red hair covering her face, hands shaking. She would like to escape from her body, but her body ensnares her, weighs her down, doesn't let her stop existing. She is trembling.

  She's in a prison constructed of images she wishes she could forget. Of words she wishes she had never heard.

  Dreams and reality have become a single entity. She is tired of breathing. Tired of the screaming of her soul. She is silent. She would like to shout but instead she cries. It's the only thing she knows how to do.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Where the fuck is my phone? And just at that moment it starts ringing.

  Perfect timing.

  Marconi answers. He feels that the day hasn't started as badly as it could have done. He's alive, the sun is shining, and no one has broken into the car to steal his mobile.

  'Where the fuck have you been?'

  'I had a few problems.'

  'While you were out enjoying yourself at your fancy-dress night, and roping in - without permission - a police car and a plain-clothes detective, a minor's had his throat cut in the Montagnola park.'

  'What?'

  'Don't worry. They made me come back on duty this morning, after they found him. Since you weren't around…'

  'I'll be there straight away.'

  'Get a move on… you jerk,' yells Frolli. 'This isn't the end of it - the questore is furious. A friend of his, at the Roses Club -'

  'But didn't you say it was a boy?'

  'Keep up. No one gives a fuck about the boy. I'll see you at the club. They've killed someone important this time. Move your arse.' He slams down the receiver.

  The traffic in Via Stalingrado is bumper to bumper. Marconi doesn't have time for this delay. He spots the pavement on his left and reverses the car, ending up with his bonnet sticking out into the oncoming traffic, causing a bedlam of near misses and dented bumbers, amid a deluge of blaring horns that precipitates all around him.

  He joins in the chorus and starts to lean on his own horn. He holds up his arms, but the drivers in the other lane won't let him in and the queue of cars behind him is getting longer. He reaches down to find the siren. Fuck, he hid it in the boot the night before.

  As he tries to move forward, a Mercedes barely avoids crashing into his bonnet.

  The man behind him gets out of his car. He's a large and imposing man - not a very reassuring sight.

  Marconi takes advantage of a red Fiat Uno with a woman driver, and he cuts straight across her path. Now the horns sound like they're screaming in unison at the cretin left standing in the middle of the road.

  Marconi summons the nerve to shout 'Dickhead!' as he drives away, mentally working out an alternative route to the club.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  The smell of blood poisons the air before he even crosses the threshold. It permeates the walls, it insinuating itself into everything. It's like a punch to the stomach.

  Marconi shows his badge to the security guard in the corridor, who's keeping onlookers and photographers at a distance while looking rather puzzled.

  Tommasi notices Marconi and hastens towards him. 'Where have you been? It's been just one thing after another…' He looks Marconi up and down, bemused.

  'I'll explain later. The questore?'

  'He's just gone. He wanted to be the one to break the news to the victim's wife and daughter. He's furious, too. He's threatening to put us all back on the beat if we don't find the killer straight away.'

  'Let's see.'

  'In here. It's a mess, a
fucking mess.'

  Tommasi shows him the way. The sun filtering through the large window and shines like a spotlight on the corpse on the floor. He is lying on his back, legs wide open and at an angle, making him look like he's swimming in a sea of blood. The dead man is wearing an elegant grey Armani suit, and an expression of terror.

  His eyes are wide open, and his torso and hands have been slashed repeatedly with a sharp weapon. An extremely deep wound to his throat, black as night, completes the macabre image.

  Marconi momentarily feels that he is being swallowed up in a spiral of darkness. He sees himself tied to that armchair. He can picture the red light of the room, and the mad doll who played with him for what seemed like an eternity. He has fooled himself that the sun will have cancelled out everything. Like waking up from a nightmare. But it isn't like that. The vision of death follows him. It won't leave him in peace.

  Tommasi interrupts the unnatural silence hovering in the room. 'A waiter found him about an hour ago. I've already taken his statement. The victim's Montanarini, the entrepreneur. That collector - the one same who had his antique pistol stolen.'

  'Oh fuck.'

  'I don't think everyone heard that.' The voice of Frolli behind him.

  Marconi doesn't even turn round.

  'An honorary member of the club, and one of its main backers,' Tommasi continues. 'He used to come here three times a week to play squash, have a sauna, business meetings - among other things. The waiter told me that this private room - there's a very long corridor from the main part of the building, so it's nice and remote - is often used by club members for trysts… if you know what I mean. The victim had told the waiters that he didn't want to be disturbed. They left a chilled bottle of champagne and two glasses, as they always do. By the way, the bottle's disappeared. Perhaps the killer wanted to celebrate.'