The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (10 page)

    'I
don't want you to laugh at me - it isn't a joke. I'm saying this now, before I
tell you anything, because I know how these things work. I've been through this
before.'

    
I
love red hair and hers is naturally red. You can tell by the little freckles on
her nose.

    'I
don't know where to start. I've had a dream, a dream that haunts me,' she
explains and waits for the policeman to interrupt her,
And you're here
wasting our time because you had a dream
? If he did say that, it would be
even more difficult for her to talk.

    He
doesn't say anything; he just looks at her. Then the girl lowers her gaze and
continues with her story.

    'I've
had these sorts of dreams since I was a child. They're only dreams, but then…
then they come true.' She looks up to assess the policeman's reaction. His
expression is still hard to read, curious but at the same time lost in who
knows what other thoughts.

    
She
isn't wearing any make-up. I don't like girls wearing too much make-up. It's as
if they have a veil in front of them. She's beautiful like that, with no make-up
- just a very light touch above her eyes. How blue they are. I've never seen
such clear blue eyes.

    'It
feels strange having someone listen to me, like this. Without being interrupted
by stupid questions, or by people laughing.'

    'Carry
on, please.' Now Marconi is now eyeing her breasts; they are hidden under a
large black sweater, but you can still see them.

    'I
feel frightened. Once the dream stops usually…'

    Her
voice trembles. He would so like to not have to talk.

    'Tell
me about the dream. Let's start at the beginning.'

    'I'm
walking. The sun is shining - and it's very bright. Too bright.

    'Cars
are speeding by me, very fast. I'm aware of being afraid and I start walking
quicker.

    'Then,
all of a sudden, I find myself in an open grey space and I realise. I realise I
don't have a shadow any more. But a moment before it was there; it was
following me. 'It's disappeared.

    'There's
a closed door in front of me. It appears suddenly, and I have to open it -
because I'm afraid. My shadow has gone and I'm afraid. There's an uneasiness
growing inside me.'

    Marconi
now stops studying the young woman in front of him; he stops tracing her silhouette
with his eyes. He just listens to that impassioned, frightened voice. He
doesn't yet know exactly what this is about, but a slight shiver runs through
him, starting at his feet and spreading upwards until it chokes in his throat.
As if he were suddenly standing on ice, with bare feet. Red-hot ice.

    'In
the end, I open it, that door, and I see it. Blood - blood everywhere. On the
walls, on the ground. Everything is stained with blood. And the eyes. Those
staring eyes that watch me, looking like they're made out of the blood.'

    The
girl runs her hands over her legs. Like she's trying to warm up. She is
shaking.

    Marconi
approaches her chair, leans towards her, adopts a softer tone of voice to
comfort her, to encourage her. 'How long have you been having these dreams?' he
asks her.

    'For
about a month. But now they've stopped, and that's the problem.' 'The problem?'
he repeats.

    Yes.
When the dreams stop it means that it's happened. I'm never wrong. That's how
it works. It's not like any normal dream. I don't know how to explain, but it's
different.' She looks up, her eyes full of hope, and again she lights up the
room for a moment.

    The
identification photographs on the walls.

    The
mountains of papers dumped on the desk.

    The shabby
fake-leather sofa with the faint impression of someone's tired back, like a
faded memory.

    'It's
as if it's
real.
I feel everything - the warmth of the sun, and the
cars, I feel the movement of the air as the cars speed by. But, more than
anything else, I feel a hell inside me.

    'It's
like I'm dying. And then I shake, and sweat, and… I recognise the feeling,
because I've had it before. I'd like to be able to pretend these dreams don't
mean anything, but I know that's not true. When I have dreams like this, I can
see through a door.'

    'Don't
worry.' Without being aware of it, Marconi starts behaving as if she's a
friend.

    He
would like to touch her. But he doesn't.

    'You
were right to come here. Leave me your telephone number, then, if I need to ask
anything else, I can call you. Everything will be fine, you'll see. Nothing
bad's going to happen.'

    Marconi
hasn't really understood, but he doesn't think that matters. At least he'll
have her number.

    'But
someone's going to die,' she says, raising her voice.

    'Lots
of people die.' Now he's just a policeman, and he has ruined everything.

    Lunch
hour at the gym.
Just like the trendy people - I'll be able to tell my
sister.
Eva puts on her trainers under her wide black trousers.

    She looks
around. She would never have thought it would be so busy at this time of day.
The changing room is really noisy, with everyone talking loudly, using their
microphones. This is another of her inventions, since she imagines that anyone
who talks too loudly has a large, invisible microphone, an accessory they
always carry with them to whip out whenever they need it.

    'Have
you seen my new outfit?' Giulia stands on tiptoe and swivels to look at her own
arse. Pink, microfibre jogging pants and a matching top.

    The
girl next to her has a similar outfit in light blue and is pushing up her
breasts with her hands inside her bra and pulling down the neckline of her top
in order to show off her cleavage. She glances at the pink version of her
outfit with a wry smirk.

    'You're.
really sure? The aerobics teacher is great, and you don't know what you're
missing.' Giulia looks at her friend, waiting for an answer - for a change.

    'Yes,
I'm sure.'

    'He really
is good. I've lost two kilos in a month with him,' says the girl in blue, who
doesn't miss a chance to join in the conversation. 'I'm signed up for two hours
a week of aerobics, and one of spinning,' she adds, for the record.

    'I
don't go to spinning classes any more. It gives you big calves.' Giulia eyes
the girl in blue from the knees down.

    The
girl flounces off, swaying her hips; having apparently not appreciated this
intervention from her pink-clad twin. Even Eva heads out of the changing room
feeling demoralised. She hates these surroundings. She doesn't feel at ease.

    On
the raised floor above, a group of Barbie-like girls skip in time. She strides
ahead under the gaze of the bodybuilder boys - each one thinking
Look at me.
I'm the best-looking. You want me, don't you
? - and there it is, at the end
of a maze of muscles and vanity, the kickboxing room.

    Black
leather bags hanging from the ceiling, with people kicking and punching them.
They're mainly men - just two girls: one extremely thin with a wispy ponytail,
the other glowing with health and with two long plaits down her back. All that
one needs is a horned helmet, and she could be Obelix's wife.

    Eva
immediately spots the group of new recruits. Frightened eyes and cartoon expressions.

    She's
fond of a slender young boy with flapping ears. She's sure that he gets a
beating from everyone and would like to learn to defend himself, but, looking
at him, she reckons that's going to be hard.

    They're
already starting, warming up.

    The
coach looks just like the cartoon character Tigerman, but without the mask.

    Eva
is soon sweating. She's not at all fit and she's already exhausted after a few
minutes. He shouts, to encourage them all to keep going.

    Instead
of the music now playing throughout the gym - all the rooms are tuned in to a
commercial radio station - she would like a nice piece of heavy rock as a
soundtrack, perhaps something like that track by Faith No More that she adores,
'The Gentle Art of Making Enemies'. It has always really turned her on, that
song.

    She
would like to start punching and kicking straight away, but she can't. Warm-up,
abdominals, exercises on the spot to learn the basic moves: it's not what she
wants to do.

    She
remembers that she was about average in gym classes at school. But even when
she was just about average she was fitter than she is now. Perhaps thanks to
all those times she had to run so she didn't miss the last bus. Now she's out
of breath, every muscle strains and she's thirsty, and, what's more, what is
all this effort for? Not even a kick at the bag, and the bag seems to invite
it.

    The
group of old hands nearby do exercises in pairs. They throw punches. One,
wearing boxing gloves, lets the punches fly, while as a shield the other uses a
big padded cushion, covered in leather.

    She
can hear the muffled sound, and she's distracted. For a moment she imagines
herself in a yellow tracksuit, like Bruce Lee, as the heroine in a fight scene
that ends up in a bloodbath, like in
Kill Bill.

    But
then the coach makes them lie on the floor as she starts to count out their
exercises for the lower abdominals, and Eva, as she does a scissor movement
with her legs, is plunged back into a reality of muscles that hurt, and of
sweat that runs down her spine and forms beads on her forehead. At the end of
the hour she is in pieces, and utterly disappointed.

    The
showers are all occupied. Steam and chatter that sounds like the buzz of
mosquitoes in her ears. Added to everything else, Giulia has just come in,
smiling annoyingly.

    'We
kissed.' She walks towards Eva, singing quietly.

    Eva
jumps into the first shower that becomes free. She has forgotten her shampoo,
as well.

    Tommasi
is driving. He always puts the seat too far forward when he drives. Although
his legs aren't all that long, they form a ridiculous triangle, with his knees
almost touching his elbows. His arms, too, are bent unnaturally and seem
exceptionally long. He is wearing sunglasses, a pair of fake Ray-Bans.

    He is
chatting to Marconi, who is gazing out of the window and, because he has pushed
his seat back, looks like he is lounging in an armchair at home. Marconi
stretches out his legs as far as he can, and with one hand he holds the
seatbelt slightly away from his body, as he usually does, because otherwise
it's too tight and he feels like he can't breathe properly.

    'I
don't go out much in the evening. I don't have all that many friends in
Bologna,' confesses Tommasi, driving down Viale Masini. 'Work's pretty
stressful, and then, what with everything we see every day, you don't much feel
like going out, isn't that true?'

    'Yes,
yes.'

    'So, the
forensics people have said that it's definitely a woman.'

    'Yes.'

    A
dark-haired boy at the traffic lights at Via Mascarella tries to clean the
windscreen.
There's no respect any more for the police.
Marconi waves
him away with a gesture of irritation.

    'A
woman… I don't understand how she did it. It's a real mystery, this case.'

    
Bologna
has changed.

    
Bologna.
The city seems tired, greyer, not as lively.

    'Now
we know the two murders are linked, your idea's starting to make sense. What
was it you called her? The murderer who should've been the victim - something
like that?'

    'That
was it.'

    'In
fact, that would explain why the two men didn't put up a fight, why there was
no sign of a struggle. Yes… it could've happened like you said.'

    'It's
not just because the victims didn't seem to suspect anything before they were
attacked, and therefore didn't try to defend themselves. The most disturbing
thing is that the autopsy showed… Keep this quiet, OK? It mustn't go any
further.'