The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (7 page)

    'Call
the motorway people and get them to give you the licence plates from that
stretch of road. From the week before to the day after. Perhaps we'll find
something interesting.'

    Tommasi
is about to leave, but the inspector calls him back. 'Actually, get the
registration numbers for up to a month before. This murder must have been
planned. A service station without CCTV and with virtually unisex loos? A
highly sharpened pre-war piece as a murder weapon?'

    'So
who's going to look at all those licence plates? And what are we actually
looking for?'

    'Give
them to Morini - he still owes us a favour. Tell him to examine them carefully:
you have to use your own instinct with such things. We're looking for the same
cars going past at
different
times of day. There are commuters, it's
true, but usually they always go past at the same time. So, who knows? Just do
something.'

    Tommasi
hesitates for a moment with the file in his hand.

    'Go
on, then,' says Marconi as he sits down. Then he gets up again and looks out
through the doorway. 'And the girl?'

    'She
left a couple of minutes ago,' answers a voice from the end of the corridor.

    
So
she waited as long as she had to, thinks Marconi. Women don't know how to wait.
I've always said that.

    She
has been waiting for him for hours.

    She's
in bed, the covers pulled up to her neck.

    On
the bedside table lies a magazine previewing next summer's fashions.
Impractical balloon-like dresses worn with ballet flats in pastel colours. She
hates flat shoes. They make you waddle. She prefers shoes with heels, even if
she can't wear them because then she'd be taller than Marco - which wouldn't be
good.

    A man
has to be taller than his girlfriend: it's an unwritten rule, but it's true and
that's that. Everyone knows it, and she knows it too.

    She
has just one pair of high-heeled shoes. They're beautiful - black, patent
leather. She tries them on sometimes when she's alone in the house. She thinks
she looks really good in them. They make her look slimmer.

    But
anyway, she can't wear them because of that tacit, international rule, and so
she then puts them back in the box and tries not to think about them.

    As it
is, she is condemned to wear only 'indefinable' shoes. Shoes that don't fit
into any category. Flat, with laces. Sad shoes. Shoes that have always existed,
but have never been in fashion.

    She
remembers that she removed her bitten nail varnish that afternoon, but then she
forgot to repaint them.

    It
seems like a good way of passing the time, so, while she's still in bed, with
the covers pulled up, she does her nails.

    The
polish is transparent - you can just about see it shining when her nails catch
the light - but she can't go without nail varnish. A protective film. Her nails
aren't then exposed; they're safe underneath, behind the shiny veil that smells
so nice as you brush it on. Like the smell of petrol. Intoxicating.

    But,
like most of her other security blankets, it gives only the appearance of
protection. Her nails aren't really safe.

    
She
is the problem.

    Or
rather, she's the problem whenever she has one of her moments.
Those
moments.

    Then
she devours her nails as if they're sweets. She picks them clean with her
teeth, like you do to the flesh of a crab inside its hard shell.

    She
does it as if she's in a trance, methodically, her eyes staring vacantly. In
those moments she works fast, almost as if she has to finish before the
rational part of her brain realises what she's doing. At the end she just feels
an immense burning sensation, and her hands are no longer presentable - with
those short nails that look as if they've been hammered into her flayed red
flesh.

    She
paints the varnish on with the brush, carefully and slowly. She stops and looks
at the nails that she has now made more beautiful, wiggling her fingers.

    She
smiles.

    She
thinks about the fact that she's now got just the little fingers left to do,
and then time, in its erratic way, will drag by slowly again.

    Too
slowly. Like at school, when the bell never rang. When the teacher never
stopped talking and her bottom would be numb from sitting on that uncomfortable
chair.

    At
least she's comfortable now, here in bed, but time drags by just the same. Some
things in life never change. And time is one of them - it passes by at whatever
speed it wants, flying by when you're enjoying yourself, and counting out every
breath when you're bored.

    The
other changeless thing is 'indefinable' shoes. Shoes that are never fashionable
but that have always existed.

    We're
going to my beautician at lunchtime today. My treat.'

    'What?'
replies Eva while she carries on mechanically scanning images of tiles on
behalf of a ceramics company.

    'You're
falling apart. You look like an old woman. You look like my grandmother!' says
Giulia, tactlessly.

    'You've
already made me come back to work early, when I still don't feel well - so what
do you expect?'

    'I've
been to a psychiatrist. I know what you need to do in these situations.'

    If
what Giulia said was written down, the word 'I' would be regularly underlined
twice, in red. 'You can have whatever you want: massage, manicure, sunbed - and
dad's paying.'

     The
girl's hands slide over Eva's white skin. Until now, Eva has only seen massages
on television - in soaps where the current hunk takes the place of the masseuse
so he can languidly caress the beautiful heroine.

    But
in reality 'the hunk' is a short, dark Filipina. Eva reckons she's darker than
Filipinas usually are, but then, to tell the truth, she doesn't really know
many.

    
In
fact, she doesn't know any, so who knows why she expected the masseuse to have
a lighter skin. Like Indian women? No, perhaps Indian women are dark, too.
People from the Far East surely have lighter-coloured skin. But which countries
make up the Far East?

    The
woman's small hands are extremely strong. She alternates delicate movements
with energetic pummelling, using an oil that smells of flowers and mingles with
the perfume of the patchouli-scented candles beside the bed.

    The
room is bare, dimly lit by the candles, and the faint background music provides
a gentle accompaniment to the sound of dripping wax. The melting wax forms
itself into shapes - first a female figure, then a flower - then it loses its
shape and becomes just drops of wax again.

    Eva
isn't sure if she is enjoying the massage or not. She feels strange, almost
defiled..

    Her
body doesn't want to unwind under the touch of those expert hands; her muscles
- protecting her secret - fight against it and hurt.

    Soon
she feels an overwhelming desire to cry; she holds it back, but with
difficulty.

    'Don't
be so tense, relax. Your spine's all seized up,' says the girl in perfect
Italian. Her accent sounds like she is from Bologna.

    Eva
blushes. She has read that massage can sometimes release traumas. She imagines
them like pats of butter, and she sees them gradually melt away. Under the
surface lies her secret.

    What
if the girl's busy fingers can see into her soul?

    And
what if there's a link between the masseuse's fingers, Eva's brain and her
spine?
No, I can't let this happen.
And she tightens up even more.

    'When
you start to relax it'll feel nice,' continues the girl in a soothing voice,
like the gentle, ethereal notes of the music fading into the air.

    Eva
doesn't want to relax. She hopes that this torture, which is supposed to be
pleasant, will end soon. She's totally on edge.

    She
breathes a sigh of relief only when she finds herself back in the white
corridor; heading towards the exit.

    Giulia
is there waiting for her. She seems pretty revved up.

    'Eva,
that was great! I've had a French manicure. And she holds up her hands. 'Look.'

    Her
nails are covered with clear polish, with just a thin strip at the tip of each
painted white.

    'Oh,
that's a French manicure?'

    'Yes,
it's so elegant, isn't it?' She doesn't even give Eva time to answer. 'I had a
go on the sunbed as well. It's a new type, low pressure, background music,
mosaic tiles, wood trim. Fabulous.'

    It's
already dark outside, and it's cold.

    They're
in a street that runs parallel to Via Irnerio, where you feel like you're not
in the city centre any more. Grey, anonymous buildings. Dark windows, lowered
shutters. A faded peace flag hangs from the window of an upper storey.

    They
arrive at the tiny Indian takeaway at the corner of Via Mascarella.

    
I'm
hungry.

    It
seems like her soul is speaking to her.

    
Hungry.
Hungry for love. Hungry for attention. A chemical hunger. A desire to fill the
emptiness
.

    
The
emptiness in my soul
.

    Giulia
goes up the steps, and they're inside. 'I'm not eating,' says Eva, then adds
hurriedly, 'I'll just keep you company.'

    It's
like a little cubbyhole, a mouse's nest. A counter just a metre long. A
miniature fridge full of non-alcoholic beers and cans of iced tea. On the
walls, posters of enormous platefuls of Indian food, each with a caption to
explain what it is. Two tables arranged in an L shape with stools and a rubbish
bin. Everything close together.

    Then
there's the television set. A television suspended in the air, as if it's
meditating.

    The
screen projects fast-moving images from some subspecies of Indian MTV. A girl
in a sari is singing, dancing, and winking. This girl and a guy, with what he
hopes is a smouldering gaze, jump around in a music video, playing out a love
story. Naturally it's a tale of unrequited love, and, just as naturally, it has
a happy ending.

    Another
video starts.

    'I
don't believe it! Look,' says Eva. 'It's an Indian Take That!' And she laughs,
the first time she has laughed for ages.

    There
are four men behind the counter. Four little mice in their nest full of
provisions.

    
Isn't
four too many?
thinks Eva. Then she orders potatoes with paneer and spices.
They're the best, their potatoes, and they only cost three Euros fifty. A
proper meal, anyway.

    Giulia
studies her nails.

    They
don't chat; they have little to say to each other unless Giulia's doing the
talking. They've been working in the same office for two years now, but they've
never before been out together.

    Before
it happened.

    Eva
doesn't want to now divide her life into 'before it happened' and 'after it
happened'.

    
It
isn't fair if it becomes the most important thing in my life. In my calendar.

    
BI
and AI.

    
Before
it. After it.

    
But
it did change everything.

    
The
potatoes are good. As they always are. At least they haven't changed.

     Miew
stares out of the window. The light outside is still bright; meaning it will be
hours until her only friend will return. That's how the cat measures time. For
her, time is measured by Eva's absence.

    When
Eva goes out in the morning, Miew's life is put on hold. It only starts again
in the evening when Eva opens the door.