The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (13 page)

    Viola
would like to get married. In a white dress.

    She
can picture a white dress, tight at the waist. She imagines herself with her
hair up and little roses in it.

    She
wears nice make-up, like the models in her magazines.

    He is
waiting for her at the altar. There are flowers everywhere, and lots of smiling
people.

    She
realises that she is crying.

    It
won't happen.

    It
will never happen, and that hurts her. Inside.

    If
only she had a dog. Or at least a canary.

    ''This
evening you're having dinner at my house.

    I've
already organised everything, and I've told them we're going to the pictures.
But, instead, I'm seeing Luca.'

    'I
can't, Giulia. I'd love to but -'

    'Miew's
invited too. I've got fish specially for her.'

    
I
don't believe it, even dinner for Miew? And only because last time I said no,
because otherwise Miew would be left at home on her own.

    'I'll
expect you at eight, on the dot,' she adds bossily.

    Eva
doesn't like going out in the evening. She's scared of the dark, of what might
be hiding under its dark-blue mantle.

    'OK.'

    Marconi
looks out at the rain from his armchair.

    The
chair has its back turned to the kitchen and the front door.

    It
doesn't give a damn, his armchair, it leaves everything behind.

    He
looks out.

    He
thinks about the girl with red hair.

    He
thinks about her sad eyes, so blue. So light that they hurt.

    His
mobile phone is resting on his right leg.

    His
left leg, stretched out unnaturally, rests on the radiator.

    It's
too high there to be comfortable, but he likes sitting like this.

    He
would like to pick up the phone, dial ten numbers, just ten, and then he could
hear her voice. But he can't do that.

    He
wouldn't have anything to say, and then… He can't do it, that's all there is to
it.

    But
he would like to.

    He
likes women.

    Mysterious
creatures. Fragrant.

    He
likes women's eyes.

    He
feels that hidden in the depths of a woman's eyes is a whole other world.

    Perhaps
a world inhabited by everything they've seen with those eyes.

    His
mother had lifeless, tired eyes.

    She
had seen too much shit during her life, and in the end that was all she had
left to fill the emptiness of her dark eyes.

    He
was a child, and a child can't fill that emptiness.

    A
child can only see what's right in front of his nose.

    A
child only sees as far as the things he needs.

    This
child had seen her for the last time as she sat on the bench in front of their
house on that sweltering Wednesday. The same sweltering Wednesday that
sometimes comes back to haunt him in those nights when it rains or it's too
dark. Just like this one. She had her apron tied around her waist and that same
look in her eyes. He didn't understand what those eyes were trying to say. When
he did understand, it was too late.

    He
has never understood women.

    He
thinks about the murderer.

    A woman.
Definitely fragrant.

    Beautiful.
In fact, stunning.

    He
thinks about what they must have thought, the men who saw her standing there in
front of them a moment before they died.

    It
started raining again a while ago. Yet more rain.

    Like tears.

    The
telephone rings.

    
I'll
be there straight away
.

    Giulia
lives in a huge house in the Saragozza area of the city.

    As
she rings the doorbell, Eva - the cat box in her hand - watches the glittering
snake of lights leading towards San Luca. The light radiates up into the sky. It's
a reassuring sight. Miew lets out a miaow; she's uncomfortable and she's
grumbling.

    The
lock on the side gate clicks open. The gate is wrought iron, painted black, and
matches the other, much larger, automatic gates and the railings that look like
long eyelashes silhouetted against eyes lit up by a yellow light.

    Her
slight, dark shadow crosses the well tended garden. The shapes of trees appear
out of the darkness, their branches curving so that they look like trees in an
oriental painting.

    'Daddy,
this is my friend Eva,' Giulia says, sounding rather like a pimp.

    Her
father,. about sixty, hair thinning but well groomed, and dressed in grey
Armani, has a hint of a smile that looks more like a grimace, lighting up his
face with an ambiguous light.

    'Eva,
this is my mother. Isn't she beautiful?'

    'Yes,'
lies Eva, and can't help noticing that the woman has had plastic surgery to her
nose, mouth and presumably her breasts, and thinking that soon the same thing will
be done to the daughter.

    The
dinner begins. A fish starter: a risotto with seafood comprising lots of
strangely named sea creatures liberally doused in white wine.

    Miew
is being treated like a VIP, on the floor, next to the table. She is eating
salmon from a gilded saucer but, judging from her expression, she would much
prefer her usual toxic croquettes.

    'Usually
we don't allow animals in the dining room, but Giulia insisted. It has been
vaccinated, your cat, hasn't it?' asks Giulia's mother.

    'Of
course. And she's clean - she sleeps with me,' says Eva, wishing that she could
say
No, she's got scabies,
just to see how she would react.

    Dotted
around the room are valuable rugs, porcelain and glittering silverware,
enormous still-life paintings. This room wouldn't look out of place in a
castle.

    Eva,
lost in wonder, looks at a threadbare picture in a gold frame. It depicts
peasants bending over, while sowing their crops.

    'It's
beautiful, isn't it?' says Giulia's father.

    'Yes,
very beautiful. I've never seen anything so big.'

    Everyone
laughs.

    'It
looks very old,' Eva adds, embarrassed.

    'It's
a tapestry, from 1860. It belonged to a noble

    Spanish
family that lived for a while here in Bologna. I bought it at an auction.
Giuliacci wasn't ready to let it slip through his hands, but in the end I bid
enough to leave him standing. Just think…'

    'You
shouldn't talk about money at the table, dear.'

    'You're
right, dear,' and he dabs at his mouth with his napkin, as if to wipe away the
sum of money that he was going to disclose to her.

    Miew
seems bewildered by the suffocating atmosphere and by such a vulgar show of
wealth. She jumps on to a piece of furniture, wood with an ochre grain,
endangering the safety of a cut-glass vase.

    'Oh,
please. That vase came from my mother's collection. Stop that animal now!'
cries the mother without, moving her silicon lips.

    The
cat looks at her defiantly and starts to purr, rubbing herself against the
vase.

    'It's
worth more than the two of you put together. Stop that animal!'

    'Got
her,' says Eva with the cat in her arms. 'She was just playing. She's never
broken anything at home.'

    'And
I was only joking, what I said. I can't even remember exactly what I said,' the
mother giggles nervously.

    After
dinner Giulia starts to show her round the house. It would be more appropriate
to call it a museum. Antiques, collections of everything worth collecting, and
finally her room.

    She
carries a bunch of enormous keys, like Bluebeard. And she boasts about having
made copies of even the 'forbidden' keys, because every now and then she likes
to readjust her pocket money.

    Hers
is truly a room for a princess: a four-poster bed with yards of pink taffeta
curtains, silk sheets, and ornaments everywhere. Photographs with Giulia in
close-up and full-length, her head turned to the right, then to the left; now
smiling, now serious. But always artfully posed.

    'Now,
let's go' Giulia says. 'I can't stand your cat when it miaows like that. You
wouldn't expect me to let it run around loose in here, would you? And anyway,
Luca's expecting me. Remember, if anyone asks, I've been with you all this
evening,' Giulia says.

    'No
problem. It's not as if anyone ever asks me anything anyway.'

    'Yes,
but if anyone does, I've been with you. Say you'll say so, or I'll be upset.'

    'Yes,
yes,' repeats Eva.

    'Thanks,
you're a star!' and Giulia hugs her on impulse. 'Oh, by the way, you're looking
a bit muscly, you know. Your arms - it's revolting. You shouldn't overdo the
gym, or you'll end up looking like a man.'

    'How
many times have I told you?' He glares angrily at her. 'I don't want you going
through my things. I don't want you wearing my jumpers, my socks or any other
fucking thing of mine, do you understand?'

    'It's
just that I feel comfortable in them.' Viola stretches out her arms to show how
good she looks in the jumper a couple of sizes too big for her.

    'Viola,
I've told you time and again. You need a jumper, buy yourself one. You're not
short of money. But I don't want you using my things. I just don't want you to.
It drives me mad. And I don't want you going through my wardrobe.'

    'But
I have to open the wardrobe to put your things away after I've ironed them…'

    'No
excuses. Socks the other day, today my jumper. How can I make you understand?'

    'But
what harm is there?'

    'Wash
my things and put them on the chair, like I told you. I want to put them away
where I want. If you do it I can't find anything. You know that. You've got
your own wardrobe, I've got mine. You've got your things, and I've got mine. I
don't pinch your things and put them on. And your perfume gets on everything
you use, and I smell like a whore.'

    'But
Marco, what harm is there if I use one of your jumpers. This one's old and you
never wear it, and it's black and you don't wear black…'

    He
comes closer to her as if to hit her. He raises his hand.

    'Do
you want the fucking jumper? Take the fucking thing. I hate it, I hate it, and
I hate you when you're wearing it. But never go in my wardrobe again. I won't
tell you another time.' His hand is still raised, like a threat.

    Viola
can't lift her gaze from the floor.

    He
told her he hated her. She heard him, he really said it: that he hated her like
he hates this shapeless jumper, with its pulled threads and its signs of wear
and tear.

    He
has now turned away from her. He sits down on the sofa and switches on the TV.

    Viola
can't speak.

    
As
always happens, her head is throbbing with words, but she isn't able to say
them out loud. They cry out inside her, but her mouth is sealed shut. I miss
you! That's why I go in your wardrobe and search through your T-shirts and
shirts. I'm looking to see if there's a little piece of you left behind, even
among your socks. Then I find something that seems to still have your smell,
and I put it on and it feels like you're here with me.