The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (4 page)

    'Have
you met any trendy people yet? Do you go out a lot in the evening?' asks her
thirteen-year-old sister, apparently without needing to pause for breath.

    Eva
has learned to lie, and is very good at it, keeping her answers vague so that
there's no risk of forgetting the details.

    'Yes,
I've met lots of nice people. There's one girl I go and see a film with every
Tuesday evening. And they've finally given me more responsibility at work - I'm
helping out on an advertising campaign they're creating soon for a new shopping
centre in San Lazzaro.'

    The
television is on, providing the background noise to their chatting.

    Time
passes between the pasta (lasagne or cappelletti), the roast chicken or cold
cuts and bread, and finally the coffee. Then it's time for a quick game of
cards while they digest their meal and each of them gets a chance to show off.
They play in pairs, the two sisters against their parents. They exchange coded
looks and signals to distract their opponents and mislead them. The old trick
of looking unhappy when you have a good hand almost always works. The first to
get to seven is the winner, no objections allowed. When her father loses he
gets angry, and sometimes some colourful phrases in local dialect slip out. He
gets up and goes into his study to get himself a shot of grappa.

    'Bye.
I'll be back on Sunday evening.' Eva strokes Ken, the guard dog, or rather the
dog that used to be their guard dog. He's got seven scars - and a half - and
his ear was almost ripped off by the neighbour's cat. It was definitely the
cat, even if Paolino doesn't agree. He insists that Tibia couldn't have had
anything to do with it, that his cat is well behaved.

    Eva
knows the way home by heart: for a year and a half she's been going backwards
and forwards between Bologna and Ravenna, to spend the odd evening or a Sunday
with her parents.

    Before
she began living with Miew, she used to sleep in her old room on Saturday
nights, so she could spend the whole weekend with her family.

    By
the sea.

    It's
the sea that she misses most. The sea in winter, but in autumn as well, and in
spring.

    Not summer,
though. She doesn't miss the sea in summer, because of the tourists. She never
likes going down to the sea in the summer. It's too busy, with too many
deckchairs.

    How
many Sunday mornings has she spent walking along the shoreline, even when it's
raining or there's that wind that makes you feel restless - caressing your hair
and making it stiff because of the salt, and then you've no choice but to wash
it.

    She
used to wake up early, call her sister with the promise of a plate of fried
fish and a glass of white wine at the canal port, and then she'd head down to
the empty beach, the one between Ravenna and Punta Marina.

    She
would walk along, bending down to pick up shells. She looked particularly for
those cone-shaped shells you hardly ever find in one piece, but when you do
they bring good luck.

    The
sea makes her think about her life. But not too seriously - thoughts empty out
of her head and she doesn't look too deeply inside herself.

    Eva
just lives, nothing more. She doesn't ever ask herself whether she's actually
happy. And after all, what is happiness?

    Since
she's had Miew, everything has changed. It was inevitable that she would lose
something when such a special new friend arrived. When something really
beautiful happens, you always need to establish a new balance. The proportion
of good and bad always has to stay the same, Eva reckons. She has always
thought that.

    'God,
I need to pee. I can't wait any longer,' she says aloud, interrupting the flow of
her own thoughts. She slows down to look for a lay-by where she can stop.

    
I
don't understand why they design them like this. It's gross.

    She
switches on her indicators even though there's not a soul around. She then gets
out of the cocoon of her car.

    Brrr,
it's cold.

    The
steaming pee on the icy tarmac creates a little cloud of hissing fog. She likes
to watch herself while she pees. She smiles.

    The
headlights of a car that seems to be slowing down. Two round eyes of white
light shine on her as she hurries to shake off the last drop, so she can pull
up her trousers.
Fuck. Someone would turn up right now. So much for privacy
,
she thinks while she walks faster to get back in her car.

    The
yellow eyes go dark. Silence surrounds her. That silence that you only hear at
night.

    By
day, silence is noisier.

    She
pulls the car door open, her thoughts already elsewhere, but then something
stops her violently: a shadow by her side, a shadow that frightens her, the
shadow of a short, thin man, with a moustache. He is staring at her.

    With
a look that she's never seen before.

    Time
stops for a moment; she doesn't move - or understand. She just feels an
overwhelming terror that probes into her flesh and brings a lump to her throat.

    He
pushes her hard, making her fall back against the passenger seat, so the gear
stick presses against her spine. He doesn't give her time to get up again. In a
second he is on top of her, pinning down her hands, brushing her face with a
moustache that smells of tobacco while he tells her to stay still or he'll hurt
her.

    She
shouts, but makes no sound. She feels wetness because of the tears streaming
down her face.

    The
man slaps her, making a noise that reverberates in the silence and surprises
her.

    'Shut
up, bitch. Don't make a sound. Stop that!' he says angrily, his eyes wild, his
mouth drooling. Then he lets go of her with his left hand so he can undo his
trousers.

    Obscene
words are muttered through clenched teeth while he fondles her breasts, hurting
her.

    'No!'

    'Shut
up, bitch. I know you want it. You're all the same - you play hard to get but
really you like it. Come on, take me in your mouth! Do it! Do what I tell you!'

    He
holds her down. He's astride her and he tries to put himself in her mouth,
while she turns her face from side to side, one arm held down above her head.

    He
lets go of her again. Another slap. Nastier, harder, this time.

    A
moment's pause.

    To
die.

    Or to
live.

    She's
like a wounded deer. She reaches for the rock she keeps in the tray at the
bottom of the gear stick. It's blue, smooth and shiny, in the shape of an egg.
It is her good luck charm, a souvenir from a trip to Sardinia with her family.

    She
clutches it tight. It's like an artificial hand, an extension made of hard
stone. She lifts it up, strikes him.

    Just
one blow, and he falls backwards. He slumps against the car door, his mouth
hanging half open.

    His
prick, still hard, looks up at her, surprised.

    His
body slides down into a puddle.

    Eva
watches him fall and doesn't move.

    The
good luck charm is in her hand. It's still her hand, but now it's covered in
blood.

    'Why
don't you open it.'

    'What
is it?'

    'Just
open it!'

    'But
why are you giving me a present? Is there something you've done that I have to
forgive you for?'

    'You
complain that I don't pay you enough attention, and then when I buy you a
present it's because I've got something to hide. You're never happy, Viola.
What am I to do with you?' And he turns away from her.

    She
gets up. She's now wearing an apricot-coloured jersey dress.

    'I'm
sorry, sweetie.' She takes his hand. 'I'll open it straight away.'

    She
tries untying the shiny bow, but can't undo it. She pulls at it some more. The
skin on her fingers turns white, as if the blood has stopped flowing.

    'Use
the scissors,' Marco has already run out of patience.

    'They're
somewhere in the kitchen, and I want to open it straight away.'

    He
takes the present, ripping off the bow, and lets it fall to the floor.

    She
claps her hands and jumps about in her seat.

    'That's
it - tear it off. It'll bring me good luck!'

    A
white box. She opens it.

    A
black, see-through slip.

    Marco
buys her very few presents. But when he does, it's always lingerie.

    'Try
it on for me.'

    'Now?'

    'Yes,
do it for your lover.' His eyes shine with desire.

    'OK.'

    Viola
puts the white box on the table and holds up the slip.

    'It's
beautiful.'

    She
turns to go into the bedroom, to put it on.

    'No,
here. In front of me.'

    'I don't
like changing here. I'll go into the bedroom and I'll be back straight away.'

    'Come
on, what are you embarrassed about? What's the difference? I know what you look
like.'

    'No,
I'd be embarrassed. I'd feel strange.'

    He
grabs her wrist. 'For me,' he says to her, with a smile on her lips.

    Viola
has always had a boyfriend. Ever since she was thirteen, perhaps to fill the
gap left by her father. Perhaps because she really isn't someone who can live
on her own.

    And
she's never able to say no.

    'OK.'

    She
takes off the dress. It keeps the shape of her body as it lies on the sofa.

    She's
wearing a white vest, which matches her panties. Her bra is black, though, one
of those minimiser bras.

    He's
sitting on the chair opposite her.

    Viola
hesitates for a moment.

    He
signals to her with a nod, barely raising his head. Like a silent command. A
command she can't question.

    She
slides down one strap, then the other. The vest falls to the ground.

    'Everything,'
he says.

    The
panties… and the bra last. She takes it off slowly.

    Her
breasts are soft but firm.

    She
immediately covers herself with her arm.

    As
she puts on the slip, he stands up.

    Miew
looks at her from the threadbare armchair in the corner of the room.

    She
looks like she's dead, covered completely by the yellow bedspread that crushes
her like a heavy gravestone.

    Eva
isn't dead. But she wishes she were.

    She
wishes she could press the off switch of her life; then peace and silence.

    Cancel
everything. Delete the images that appear in front of her eyes and never go
away.

    But
there is no peace. There is no forgetting.

    She
is curled up amid that dull pain, the pain of someone who has lost everything
in an instant.

    Faith.
Losing one's faith means being dead. Dead inside.

    The
sun flows in through the cracks in the darkness, creating thin lines of light.

    The
phone rings insistently. At the other end is Sonia, who doesn't understand why
Eva's late, and is worrying about the package of images waiting to be scanned
that's leaning against her empty desk.

    There's
a wilting flower on that desk as well.

    Eva,
lost in a bed that smells of tears, thinks about an advert she really liked
when she was a girl. An advert for those biscuits with a hole in the middle of
them. It featured a sad little girl, who was alone. Then she slipped a biscuit
on her finger, as if it were a ring, and, as if by magic, everything became
beautiful. A happy jingle started playing, and a white unicorn appeared. She
climbed on to its back and together they flew away.