The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (5 page)

    Miew
jumps up on the bed.

    The
small black cat starts to rub herself against the girl's hair, her purring so
low that it's almost imperceptible. Perhaps Miew wishes she could turn into
that same winged horse, the horse in the biscuit ad, and carry Eva far away.

    The
telephone rings.

    Miew
miaows more loudly. She touches Eva's arm with her paw. Little prods, just to
rouse her, to get her attention.

    Eva
gets up slowly. She drags herself into the kitchen and automatically pours the
cat food into the bowl with stars on it.

    MIEW
is written on the bowl. It's a present she gave her cat to celebrate their
first year together.

    The
little cat rubs herself backwards and forwards against Eva's legs. Every now
and then she stops and looks up, searching for Eva's gaze.

    She
doesn't find it. Her mistress's eyes are empty; there's no light in them any
more. Just shadow.

    They're
different. Perhaps they'll never be the same again.

    The
sun is high in the sky. It must be about midday.

    It
doesn't feel hot, but the unforgiving sun smothers everything with a bright,
yellow light. Her shadow follows a step behind her as she walks, alone, in the
sunlight. Cars rush by next to her. She can feel their speed as vicious
splinters of air that stab at her legs and make her begin to lose her balance.

    She
starts to run. She's afraid. She runs, and every so often she looks back to
check on her shadow. It's still there, following her, black and straight. Her
shadow.

    She
reaches a wide open space, an expanse of grey cement stretching into the
distance. Silence, nothing but a deafening silence. And a door. Closed. In
front of her.

    She
stands still and stares at it, then starts to feel anxious. No, it can't have
happened again. She turns suddenly to look at the shadow. Her shadow.

    It
has vanished.

    She
looks up at the sky. The sun is still there, shining down on that flat surface,
a sea of tarmac.

    All
that's left now is that closed door. The end of the world. A closed door.

    She
stretches out her hand, but she doesn't open the door straight away. First, she
turns round one last time. Her shadow isn't there; it has been swallowed up by
all that grey, the grey expanse that now appears to be overheating under the
pitiless sun.

    She
hurries to open the door.

    Everything
starts to spin fast. And then faster.

    Blood
everywhere, and those eyes. Wide-open eyes that stare at her, out of the blood.

    She
screams and finds herself back in her crumpled bed, dripping with sweat and
clutching the edge of the blanket. Her teddy bear is on the floor; he looks at
her with fear in his eyes. The sun caresses her through the sheer white
curtains.

    Her
visions have started again. Oppressive. Devastating.

    She
wipes away the sweat with the palm of her hand, while with her other arm she
reaches down and places the teddy bear back on her chest.

    The
terror she feels now blurs into the terror of her dreams.

    The
terror she felt when she saw it. Death, a cruel experience.

    She
was ten - it had been her birthday less than a week before.

    So it
was still her special week. And she had that same dream every night.

    Darkness;
a wet street.

    The
black car that sped over the tarmac.

    A
brightly coloured parcel on the back seat that slid from right to left as the
car went round the corners.

    The
sound of brakes. A red river.

    She's
shaking; she isn't able to stop herself. She couldn't stop herself then,
either.

    She
knows what it means for her to have dreams like this. The door has opened
again.

    
The
door.
That's what her psychiatrist, Anna, called it when she was a child.

    There
are lots of doors inside our minds, she said. Some stay closed forever. Others
open all of a sudden, letting us see fragments of things. Fragments of things
that are about to happen. Or images from the past.

    The
door used to open as soon as sleep rendered her unconscious, vulnerable,
fragile.

    She
used to find herself inside a crystal ball, but she wasn't able to see her
future in it. She would get on her silvery horse, a brutal stallion that
carried her to desolate lands. Ill omens. Death.

    'Don't
cry. Your dad loved you,' the man in uniform had told her.

    'Look,
he bought you this.'

    The
teddy bear. The same one she now clutches tightly.

    The
arcade.

    Eight
o'clock at night.

    Four
boys smoking on the metal steps.

    Around
them, a glimpse of the world, shadows passing by, waiters inviting people into
bars that are too brightly lit for eyes that are now accustomed to the dark
street.

    A man
approaches. He is tall, well built.

    'You're
late.'

    He
doesn't answer.

    'Have
you got it?'

    'Yes.'

    Money
is exchanged, and the small packet disappears quickly into the young man's
pocket. He is wearing a green baseball cap, back to front.

    The
man doesn't even say goodbye; he goes back where he came from.

    He
leaves the darkness of the arcade, heading for the lights of Via Indipendenza.

    Hands
in his pockets, collar turned up.

    He
walks quickly, following the street ahead. If anyone comes towards him, they
have to get out of his way. He doesn't move aside for anyone. He carries on in
a straight line.

    Every
now and then he passes a girl in a short skirt, and slows down.

    A
whistle. A compliment of sorts that escapes through clenched teeth.

    He
stops in front of the window of a shop selling underwear. There are girls
intent on choosing something to transform themselves for their Friday- night
lovers. Because on Friday night all women become single. They tart themselves
up, get their hair done, and go out with their friends. All of them smelling of
perfume and dressed up in their finery. A glimpse of underwear and a fixed
smile - just as he likes them.

    He
goes inside to get a better look at the merchandise. He wants to be a part of
this celebration of vanity.

    A
young girl gazes entranced at a see-through thong.

    'It'd
look good on you,' he says. The girl looks at him out of the corner of her eye,
and the watchful sales assistant comes towards him.

    'Can
I help you?' she asks.

    'I
was looking for something sexy for my girlfriend,' as he looks at the arse of a
middle-aged woman, wearing a miniskirt and a short fur coat.
Not bad for her
age, I'd give her one
, and meanwhile he lets the gauze of a pair of panties
slide through his fingers.

    The
red convertible speeds along the motorway, caressed by the sun.

    The
golden curls, tousled by the air rushing past, get entangled as they play with
the wind.

    The
porcelain doll, her crystal eyes protected by big black sunglasses, like a diva
from the 1930s, accelerates impetuously.

    She's
wearing leather gloves.

    She loves
the feel of leather against the steering wheel. She's sure it improves her
grip, making her at one with the car, an Amazon in a black miniskirt and
stockings.

    A few
drivers sound their horns as she passes; one sticks out his tongue and shouts
words that would be bleeped on TV.

    She
doesn't hear them, doesn't see them.

    She
overtakes a fat man driving an electric blue lorry covered in lights. In the
cab there's a sign that says
I'm your father
in English. Either side of
this sign are two pin-ups with their tits out.

    She
speeds past him and then turns right, attracted by the sign of a motorway cafe.

    'A
coffee,' she orders as she sits down at the bar.

    She
drinks her coffee - boiling hot, no sugar - and she plays with her curls, wind-swept
from the speed of the car.

    Just
at that moment, the fat lorry driver comes in. He sits down next to her.

    'What's
a beautiful girl like you doing all alone? Don't you want some company? Well,
here's your daddy.'

    She
doesn't answer. Instead, she throws down a coin on the sea-green counter, and
asks the pale girl behind it where the toilet is.

    'Outside,
at the back. But I wouldn't, if I was you. You know how it is… the customers
here. Well, it's not very clean,' she adds, slightly embarrassed.

    'That's
OK.' She turns without waiting for her change.

    She
walks away. The lorry driver swears, then reveals his opinion of her in a
drawl.

    She
goes into the washroom and admires herself in the mirror. She's beautiful, and
she knows it. Then she turns her back on her reflection and pauses in front of
the thin wooden door, marked with the silhouette of a figure in a skirt.

    She
goes in and shuts the door; then, without taking off her gloves, she lets her
black lace panties slide down, careful not to let them touch the floor. She
takes them off and holds them in her teeth, between red lips, while she
balances on the toilet seat. And then she hears him come in.

    'I
smell a stuck-up little cunt,' the fat man says, sniffing.

    She
gets off the loo, puts her panties back on and straightens her miniskirt. Then
she turns the key and opens the door.

    He's
standing in front of her. Looming.

    He
tells her he's not going to let her out, takes one step towards her, then
another.

    The
doll moves backwards. Now he's inside the cubicle with her, and he closes the
door behind him.

    She
smiles and lifts up her skirt. He smiles, too.

    She
removes her magic wand from the top of her hold-up stockings and caresses his
throat.

    He hasn't
time to scream.

    The
artery in his neck has been sliced open with a small bronze razor that looks
like a prop from some old film.

    The
blood sprays everywhere, staining the filthy walls.

    It
covers her.

    It
colours her.

    His body
collapses on to the ground and the blood keeps pumping out.

    Beauty
and the Beast, that's what you could call the scene. With everything a single
colour: scarlet.

    She
goes back to the mirror and looks at herself to see if she has changed.

    Yes,
she's more beautiful when splashed with blood, but she washes away the scarlet
marks on her face, dries herself with a paper towel, and leaves the washroom.

    'Mummy,
I want that teddy bear, I want it!'

    'Stop
it, Sofia. I told you: just a coffee for daddy - he's tired - then we're
going.'

    'No,
I want the teddy. I want it, I
want
it!' 'Quiet. Look, it's such an ugly
teddy - who knows how long it's been there, gathering dust.'