The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (16 page)

    No,
she isn't like that jumper.

    She
picks up the stockings. They're new. She went to the supermarket and found a
nice black pair. She didn't even know that they sold them in the supermarket,
stockings like this. She runs into the bathroom and puts her old clothes into
the washing basket, then fetches her mascara and pink eyeshadow. She lengthens
her eyelashes and makes them thicker and sexier, then colours her eyelids with
a subtle touch of powder.

    She
holds her face further away from the mirror. There's something missing. Lip
gloss. She has to sparkle.

    She
goes back to the large mirror and is admiring her reflection when the door
opens. She jumps. She would have liked to study herself for another few
minutes. Instead, she dashes to the sofa and reclines on it like a diva.

    She
is a diva, not a shapeless jumper.

    There's
a door policy. The bouncer looks them up and down for a second and then lets
them in, even if they don't really fit in with the kids with extended fangs or
the girl with white contact lenses in the queue alongside them.

    Marconi
stared at him with a face that meant trouble, and the bouncer recognised the
look. A cop.

    'Don't
pull out your badge unless you need to. We're just here to have a look round.
She was probably here last week and I don't think she would have gone
unnoticed, so keep your eyes open and try to question the right people,' the
inspector says to Tommasi, who is already eyeing up the arse of a girl in a
miniskirt so short he can see her knickers.

    Marconi
looks round. It's early; the dance floor is as empty as a church on Saturday
afternoon.

    He
tries to spot the locals, the regulars.

    He
decides to visit the washroom.

    There's
a large, fat guy with an earful of earrings. A silver-coloured chain links the
last of them to a large ring inserted in his bottom lip. He's peeing, leaning
against the urinal.

    Marconi
moves closer, undoes his fly and tries to pee.

    'Hey,
man, do you come here often?' Out of habit he looks at the man's hands,
noticing a large tattoo that goes from his index finger right up to his elbow.

    The
man shakes off the last drops with two sharp movements, does up his fly and
crosses his arms in front of his chest.

    'Go
and talk to someone else, you piece of shit. You're lucky you're peeing and I
don't want to get my boots dirty. But get in my face again and you're fucked,'
and he swipes his hand across the front of his throat in an unambiguous
gesture.

    Marconi,
visibly uneasy, creeps out of the bathroom and goes to sit down on a sofa.

    There's
a girl sitting opposite him.

    
Ugly,
really ugly
.

    Aquiline
nose, thin lips. Too thin. Wearing a black outfit with bits of material hanging
off it, looking like something that has come back from the dead.

    He
smiles at her. She lowers her eyes.

    No
one pays any attention to her. This is my chance,
he thinks, still with a
healthy dose of optimism.

    'What's
your name?' And he smiles at her.

    'Shadow.'
She holds out her hand. She has enclosed her fingers in gloves made out of
fishnet stockings. They stretch above her elbows.

    'Shadow?'
he repeats.

    She
opens her eyes wide.

    She's
definitely asking herself what planet I'm from.

    'Are
you enjoying yourself?'

    'I
never enjoy myself.' 'Oh.'

    An
embarrassing silence.

    'Nice
outfit, with all those… bandages.'

    'Are
you taking the mickey?'

    She
gets up and goes.

    
Ugly
and a yob.
Marconi adjusts his black shirt - like the one he wore to his
uncle Luigino's funeral. His mother had bought it specially for the occasion.

    That
was a memorable day, the first time he had seen a dead person.

    Everyone
said: 'How beautiful and serene he looks, like he's sleeping.' But he himself
hadn't been able to look at uncle Luigino for more than ten seconds, it upset
him so much.

    He
used to see him every Christmas, at lunch with his relatives. A stout man,
always cheerful. Not that shrunken thing that looked like the mummy he had seen
in a history book.

    'Look
at him, son,' Aunt Santina had said to him. 'We all end up like that.'

    When
he swallowed, his saliva felt like a piece of cement. It had made a noise going
down.

    
People
are ugly when they die
,
he had thought.

    Marconi
goes over to the bar. He decides to have a drink and try to loosen up a bit.

    He
looks around again. The dance floor is still half empty. No one attracts his
attention: just people in their weird outfits, and the large man from the
washroom who is pointing at him as he talks to his friends.

    Fuck.

    He
hurriedly turns round.

    He
orders a Southern Comfort and leaves a tip for the barman, ring in his nose and
a black satin shirt artfully left open to show off his nipple piercing.

    'So,
your job must be hard… always being polite, serving people all night. And then,
younger people are always the worst, always more bad-mannered, don't you
think?' Marconi knows how much survivors of the Eighties enjoy running down the
younger generation.

    'Tell
me about it! But every now and then you meet nice people,' and the barman
smiles at Marconi.

    'What
are people like here?'

    'Always
the same faces. The goths act a bit superior and don't try to make friends.
You're new here, aren't you?'

    'Yes,
but then you must know everyone!'

    'I've
worked here for two years. As I said, it's always the same people.'

    'A
friend told me about this place - she's new too,' hazards Marconi. 'She came
last Friday but I'm sure you won't have seen her; you can't expect to notice
everyone,' and he takes a sip of his drink.

    'Of
course, I did - the blonde, the femme fatale.'

    Marconi
plants himself down on the bar stool.

    'Very
fashionable, pale skin, red lips - a stunning girl. She isn't your girlfriend,
is she?'

    'No,
no. As if! She's just a friend,' and he immediately regrets having said 'As
if'.

    'I
wasn't the only one who noticed her. As soon as someone new arrives, they're
all like vultures.'

    'And
you?'

    'Oh,
definitely not me.'

    'So,
what makes you sit up and take notice?' Marconi is trying to be friendly, in
order to get as much information as possible out of him.

    'Eyes
turn me on. Eyes like bottomless pools, that cut you in two if you're not ready
for them. Like yours.' The barman gives him a mischievous look.

    'Thanks.
Yours aren't bad either:' He feels embarrassed, then adds, 'I imagine she was
busy trying to seduce someone.'

    'Who?'

    'My
friend, last week. I'll tease her about it when I get home.'

    'Ah,
but then it's true that she's your girlfriend,' and the bartender turns his
back on him.

    Marconi
looks round to check that there's no one nearby. The tattooed man is right
behind him.

    He
would like to be able to disappear, but he has to know more.

    'I
told you she's not my girlfriend. She's just a friend. We share a flat with two
other people. You know, it's hard to pay the rent when you're a student,'
Marconi adds, talking slightly more quietly.

    'What?
I can't hear you if you whisper.'

    'I
don't have a girlfriend.'

    The
barman turns to him, smiling.

    'Hey,
faggot, we're thirsty here.'

    
I'll
turn round suddenly, grab his head and slam it down on the bar. I'll show him
my badge, shouting: 'Police, you bastard!'

    Instead,
Marconi stays where he is, being chatted up by the camp barman.

    'Here's
your Jack Daniels, but you don't have to be so rude.' The barman puts down a
round glass strategically filled with a generous shot of golden liquid, enough
to keep the lout away from them for a while.

    'Where
were we? Don't pay any attention to him. I've known him for years, and he's
like that, but he's not dangerous.'

    'Good.
So, tell me, I'm curious, did my friend do anything she shouldn't, last
Friday?'

    'You
really are nosy, aren't you? OK, I'll satisfy your curiosity. But only if you
let me buy you a drink.'

    'OK,'
is all Marconi manages to say, swallowing the last mouthful of his Southern
Comfort. 'Well? But tell me everything, OK?'

    'OK,
I'll tell you. She danced a bit and then…'

    'And
then?'

    'What
do I get if I tell you?'

    'Tell
me first and then we'll see.'

    'You're
a tough guy, eh?'

    
Fuck.
Are you going to tell me or do I have to rip it out of you? Marconi thinks, but
all he says is 'Go on.'

    'She
danced for a bit, but from about halfway through the evening she then stopped
being competition for me.' He puts his hand over his mouth to hold back a
snigger.

    'How
do you mean?'

    'Are
you jealous?'

    'I am
not jealous,' Marconi says slowly. He's losing his patience.

    'She
picked up another girl and they put on a show on the sofa there at the back.
Those poor disappointed little boys.'

    'So
she disappointed a lot of people.'

    'Well,
yes. But now let's talk about you. You must need a licence for a mouth that
sexy…' He pours him another drink.

    Marconi
thinks about getting out of there, but just at that moment the barman points at
a girl and says: 'There, that girl over there. She's the one she was with, the
girl with long hair. Samantha, she's called. Spelled the English way, of
course. She used to go out with the DJ, then he dumped her and now she gives it
away to anyone who wants it… men, women and small animals.' He laughs.

    Marconi
picks up the whisky the barman has just put down on the counter and turns his
back on him, leaving him looking puzzled.

    'You're
so rude! Where are you going?' the barman shouts at Marconi's back, then he
turns away angrily.

    Tommasi
has disappeared.

    
It's
her. I bet it's her. I can feel it.

    The
dark-haired girl that the barman has just pointed out is sheathed in a long
dress made of some glossy fabric. She has started to dance in the middle of the
dance floor, which is now filling up, her eyes half closed and her lips soft.
She is amazingly sensual.

    Marconi,
who can't dance and feels ill at ease, moves towards her and improvises.

    'I
need to talk to you. It's important.'

    She
doesn't answer and carries on dancing.

    'They
told me that last week you were with my girlfriend. I need some sort of
explanation,' he adds seriously.

    'Who
do you think you are?' she replies sullenly.

    'Listen.
I know it's nothing to do with you, but I hope you can understand.'

    The
girl turns her back on him, and a few people at the side of the dance floor
start to stare at him rudely.