The Girl with the Crystal Eyes

by Barbara Baraldi

  'Don't start on immigrants again,' Tommasi blurts out. He is originally from Naples, and remembers when he was little and he was the foreigner. At school the other boys said his father had come to steal work from Italians, as if Naples was another country.

  'I can't afford to be a liberal,' says the barista, as he puts the two steaming cups in front of them and goes back to drying the tall glasses, the ones used for prosecco.

  'What were you saying before, Inspector?' Tommasi is annoyed. His eyebrows seem like they meet in the middle even more than normally.

  'This is confidential information. So I'm warning you - not a word to anyone.'

  Tommasi leans forward, ready to digest this tasty bit of information.

  'So, both men were hard before they died.'

  'Which means that the stiletto print could be…?'

  'Yes, that footprint could belong to the murderer. And it also means that the first statement we got from the woman at the service station could contain an element of truth. The blonde, sexy woman - perhaps she wasn't a real babe, like the woman described her, but everything else could fit.'

  'The lollipop next to the second victim made me think of a woman straight away. I couldn't see the victim himself eating a lollipop. Not someone like him, I mean.'

  'Picture the scene,' says Marconi, changing tack. 'In the first murder, he pushes her into the bathroom. He wants to fuck her, he's looking forward to it, and she doesn't allow him time to realise anything's wrong before she cuts his throat.

  Then the second murder. It's late at night and she lets herself be followed to that garbage dump. His intentions are definitely not honourable, but he's not worried. He knows he's stronger than her. There's no contest: it's as good as done. But she hits him with a heavy object - a club or perhaps an iron bar. She smashed his head open with two blows and it was all over quickly. I've looked at the photos again.'

  'And?'

  'And they've both got the same expression. The expression of someone who's just landed in the shit.'

  'I could be wrong, but the last one, Mario Rossi…'

  'Yes, like in those adverts: "There's always a Mario Rossi.'"

  'He used to beat his wife.'

  'That's right. The man was violent: We've got two complaints on file from his first wife. But now he was with a Romanian. They were living together in a block of flats in Via Casini.'

  They get up and go over to pay.

  'It's on me.' The barista turns towards them. 'Let's see if it wakes you lot up a bit,' he adds under his breath. 'What?'

  'Have a good day,' he says, shrugging his shoulders.

  'Morning. Police.'

  Silence.

  'You heard me. Open the door.' Marconi doesn't bother trying to sound polite. 'Open the door. We don't have all day.'

  Silence.

  'Open the door. We only want to ask you a few questions. Or, if you prefer, we can come back later and do a search, and then you'll be screwed.'

  The door opens as if by magic.

  The girl turns her back on them and goes back into the living room, or rather a minute kitchen that's also used as a living room. It contains an enormous television set, switched on but with the sound turned off.

  There's a strong smell of fried food.

  She sits down. It looks like she's only just out of her teens. A washed-out blonde wearing a pair of tight jeans and a synthetic red jersey top.

  'What do you want?'

  'Tell me about Mario.'

  'I didn't know him very well.'

  'But you live in his flat?'

  'I've been here for two months. I do the cleaning and in return he let me stay here.'

  'The cleaning?' echoes Tommasi.

  'His ex-wife informed us you were living here. Yet you haven't even bothered to get in touch with us. You do know that he's dead, don't you?'

  'She's mad, that woman. Yes, I know, I know. I saw it on TV but I don't know anything, and anyway, what am I supposed to do. I only do his cleaning. I don't know anything.'

  'You already said you don't know anything.'

  Marconi leans against the table and crosses his legs.

  'Sit down. Would you like a drink?' she says, clearly used to making men feel at ease.

  'No,' Marconi replies with an air of incorruptibility.

  He nearly loses his balance and plants both feet back flat on the ground.

  'He used to go out every night and come back late. I don't really know anything else.'

  'Did he drink? Do drugs? Anyone threaten him? What was his relationship like with his ex-wife?'

  'She's mad. Once she kept ringing the bell and shouting "You tart, open the door. You're not taking all my maintenance money." She's mad.' 'And then?'

  'And then I don't know anything. I've already told you,' she pouts. He could tell how she usually got whatever she wanted with that pout.

  But it doesn't work with me, Marconi thinks. 'Talk, or there'll be trouble.' Spoken as if he were in a film. 'The murderer's a woman, about your height. So it'll be better for you if you co-operate, or you'll end up on our list of suspects.'

  'I'm hardly the only woman one metre sixty tall.' She smiles. 'Do what you want. I don't know anything. And this isn't my flat - I'm just a cleaner. I've already told you everything I know.'

  She's really not bad, not beautiful but put her in a miniskirt…

  'OK, but we may need to talk to you again,' adds Tommasi, before the inspector can let slip something else about the case.

  'Hello?'

  'They've been here… I didn't say anything. I'll see you tonight at the usual place.'

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  'Are you going out again tonight?'

  'Yes, I told you. Do you think I work just to keep you comfortable? I need to have a bit of fun as well, don't I?'

  'It's just that we don't spend enough time together, and I don't like that. I'm scared we'll drift apart,' says Viola, downcast.

  'You know I always want to make love to you. Do you think I'd feel like that if I was going off you?' Marco spanks her on the buttocks as she clears the table.

  'I'd like the two of us to go out together sometimes, just you and me.'

  'Listen, Viola, I've already told you, so there's no point pretending not to hear me whenever it suits you. I need my own space. I need to spend some time with my friends. I already feel tied down… And you know how I get jumpy.'

  'But are you tired of me?'

  Marco gets up from his chair.

  'You know you're my little pumpkin; I'll never get tired of you.' He hugs her and gives her a kiss on the neck.

  'But now I've got to get ready, otherwise I'll be late.'

  Viola follows him like a pet dog. She sits down on the bed and watches him.

  She thinks Marco is so good-looking. He isn't very tall, but that's OK. Swarthy, with dark eyes and a beautiful smile. It was his smile that she fell in love with. And she fell in love with the way he half-closes his eyes when he grins, and how a dimple appears on the left side of his mouth.

  Marco lost his head over her tits and arse; but he always claims he fell in love with Viola because she's as sweet as icing sugar.

  He puts on a pair of ripped jeans, a white V-neck T- shirt and white trainers. Then he goes into the bathroom to put gel in his hair.

  She follows him, lowers the toilet seat and sits down.

  'Don't wait up for me. And tomorrow I'm doing the second shift, so I'll be late.'

  'Where are you going tonight?'

  'Nowhere special, but don't wait up. I might stop at Claudio's and have a game on his PlayStation.'

  Viola sits huddled up on the toilet seat and plays with her toes, thinking how she would like to go out every now and then, too. But she doesn't want to make a fuss.

  'You're overdoing the aftershave! You're not trying to impress some girl, are you?'

  'What girl? You're the only one for me.'

  Marco leans over and kisses her on the t
op of her head. 'Night-night, pumpkin.'

  'Wait a minute.'

  But he has already closed the door behind him.

  She stays sitting on the white toilet seat. She suddenly feels heavy. Heavy inside. In her heart.

  She rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands until she sees flashes of blue light, like she used to do when she was small. She stretches herself and then goes back to playing with her toes.

  Did I do the right thing, talking to that cop? She doesn't like to call him a 'cop': it sounds rather like an insult. But that's what he is, a cop.

  She gets up and goes to stand in front of the large mirror on the wall in the corridor. She adores that mirror. There's no frame, just a reflecting surface. And it makes her look thinner, and makes her seem taller as well. She takes off her vest and lets it fall to the floor.

  Ugly thoughts. Again. They spread throughout her, running backwards and forwards along her nerves, inside her veins, under her fingernails. They drive through her like needles until they take root inside her like some sort of demonic creature, beneath her skin.

  How she would like to stop herself thinking, to stop tormenting herself.

  To fill the emptiness she feels inside, every time she is on her own.

  She can't live without a man.

  She's cold. The demonic creature is calling her by name. Viola. I know you can hear me, Viola…

  She opens the drawer of the bedside table, reaches under the notebooks and pulls out a flick knife with a six-inch, stainless-steel blade.

  She snaps it open and feels the coldness of it between her fingers.

  It's sharp as a razor, and has been scorched with a lighter.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The porcelain doll is dressed as a geisha. She looks stunning in the long silk dress, black with red flowers, long splits at both sides which give a glimpse of her perfect legs. She has put up her hair with a metal hairpin that ends in two red jewels. They're like glittering drops of blood, holding back her hair on a level with her temples.

  Her neck is immaculate, snow-white, as perfect as a work of art sculpted by skilled hands that have managed to create a harmonious balance between fragility and perfection.

  She is leaving the club where she has been dancing, lulled by the dark electro-pop music there. In the club, she looked around until she spotted a young woman. Attractive, Mediterranean-looking, long black hair and curvaceous. She slowly, imperceptibly, moved closer to her. Step by step. Then she started to move in front of her. Dancing, looking into her eyes.

  A dance of seduction.

  The girl let herself be seduced, and soon they found themselves kissing passionately on a small sofa, under the aroused gaze of the passers-by. People couldn't help but look at them, two lustful Venuses, tongues entwined, sensuously caressing each other through their clothes.

  They disappeared into the bathroom and were gone for about forty minutes. Then the white Venus fixed her lipstick and now here she is walking down the street, leaving a trail of perfume, as seductive as it is dangerous.

  Soon she realises that she's being followed. She hears footsteps echoing behind her, but she doesn't turn round. Not yet.

  She starts walking more quickly, then she starts to run, but her steps are restricted, the too-tight dress making it difficult to move freely.

  She finds herself in a dead end. A wall rising in front of her. An abandoned scooter that has lost its wheels. A cat miaowing at the invisible moon, as if upset by the light of the street lamps.

  Now she turns and looks behind her. There are two men. Dark skin and white teeth. The tall one has a knife in his hand, the other keeps opening and closing his fingers as if he's imagining touching her, holding her.

  With a very thick accent, the one with the knife tells her not to shout for help. She doesn't shout, but she moves back. She opens her small sequined clutch bag.

  'We don't want your money, love. Not yet,' says the taller man. He has a few days' growth of beard and eyes so narrow they look like they're closed.

  They start laughing.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Two pistol shots.

  Two bodies lying on their backs. The blood of one merges with the blood of the other in a macabre dance of bodily fluids.

  One is still alive. He moans and starts to drag himself towards the pavement.

  High heels echo behind him. Now she is beside him.

  He turns to mumble something; she doesn't let him get a look at her.

  She takes the hairpin from her hair and drives it into his eye, punching through to his brain.

  She cleans the blood off the red jewel onto the man's trousers, and puts the hairpin back in her hair. She takes one last look at the scene.

  A beautiful still life.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  'Come on, that's it. Push those legs. Put your back into it. That's better.'

  The coach watches her, satisfied. His star pupil, Eva, has only been coming to his classes for a couple of months but she's really taken to it. A little lioness. But he never pays her compliments; he's afraid that she'll stop putting so much effort into it, that she'll become big-headed.

  He really likes this girl. She's different from all the others. She's plucky, she doesn't like to show off, she's modest and shy; and, on top of all that, she's the only one who's willing to exercise with Patrick, the thin boy with ears that stick out, who is truly hopeless. Instead of hitting the glove when they all do exercises in pairs, he often hits his partner in the face. He lacks co-ordination, he's a disaster, but she hasn't let him give up. She says to him: 'You can do it. You just need a bit more patience, and the day you do it right, you'll feel great.'

  Patrick listens to her with his mouth half open and his eyes wide, as if he is trying to focus on her every single word. And he doesn't give up. He doesn't want to give up because he wants to change his life.

  He hates Stefano, the boy in the fifth form who's a thug and beats up everyone else at school. He hates him because Stefano often steals his packed lunch, he is always shoving him, and more than once he has pushed him over. He once made him miss the bus home, holding him back by his jacket. He makes him salute when he goes past. He threw his exercise book down the toilet.

  Above all, he hates him because he insults his mother.

  He says she's a slut. It upsets Patrick just to think about it, that word, used in connection with his mother.

  Stefano says that the slut must have fucked a sick mouse to have produced such an ugly son.

  It's wrong for people to speak ill of his mother, because she's not here any more. No one should disrespect her. No one.

  In fact, it was when Stefano insulted his mother that Patrick tried to rebel and ended up getting a serious beating. Those other things he can put up with, but not when it's about his mother. No one can insult her; they should let her rest in peace.

  One day I'll make him pay. I'll shut his mouth and mum will be proud of me, watching from up there.

  Eva also imagines looking into the eyes of one specific person: it's always him she sees in front of her when she hits the punchbag hard. The unknown man who wanted to hurt her, and who robbed her: the one who took away her happiness, forever. Eva never smiles; she is stubbornly solemn. But now she knows how to kick properly, and her right hook makes sparks fly.

  You can't touch me, you bastard. You can't touch me. You can't touch me. And she throws herself back into pummelling the punchbag.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The car is parked in the dark. Anyone would think it was empty if it weren't for the steamed- up windows.

  The boy in the white T-shirt has his hand on the girl's head.

  The hand moves backwards and forwards.

  Every now and then he lets out a moan. The sound of an animal in heat.

  'You're good,' he says through his teeth.

  He's about to come. The moment before comi
ng, he always thinks about her - at home, waiting for him in their bed.

  He enjoys the thought.

  'Here, this is for you.' He holds the envelope out to the girl, who is wiping her mouth on her arm.

  'Thanks.' She hides the envelope between her breasts.

  'You know that I'm always good to girls who are good to me.'

  The car drives off.

  It leaves an empty space. A dry space.

  Everywhere else is wet. The rain is falling in light drops, like thoughts that come and go.

  A small pale rectangle is left, that gradually colours with dark spots.

  It disappears.

  Like youth.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The phone rings and breaks the silence.

  'Yes?'

  'This is Mrs Balugani. I live in the flat below you. You might remember me.'

  'Of course I remember you.' What does that old woman want from me, thinks Viola, and smiles.

  'I had to call you. I didn't straight away because I said to myself, they're young, perhaps it'll only happen this once. But then it's happened too often - you have your music on so loud, even when other people should be asleep. Don't think this is all my own idea, calling you - the other tenants have been complaining about it too.'

  'I'm sorry, I didn't think that -'

  'The music is deafening. My bedroom is right under your living room, and after lunch I have a lie down because of my health. And then in the evening as well, at a certain point I need to go and rest, but then you start with that noise and…'

  'I had no idea. I'm sorry…'

  'I've been patient so far but…'

  'As I said, I'm really sorry.'

  'It's not just me saying this, don't think it is… The fact is, the others talk behind your back, but I'd rather speak to you in person. And don't think that I've got anything against you two. I know you're just youngsters.'