The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (25 page)

    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 man, 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.

    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.

    '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 directly.
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.

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

    It
won't torture her any more.