The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (12 page)

    How
she would like to stop herself thinking, to stop tormenting herself.

    To
fill the emptiness she feels inside, every time she is on her own.

    She
can't live without a man.

    She's
cold. The demonic creature is calling her by name.
Viola. I know you can
hear me, Viola…

    She
opens the drawer of the bedside table, reaches under the notebooks and pulls
out a flick knife with a six-inch, stainless-steel blade.

    She
snaps it open and feels the coldness of it between her fingers.

    It's
sharp as a razor, and has been scorched with a lighter.

    The
porcelain doll is dressed as a geisha. She looks stunning in the long silk
dress, black with red flowers, long splits at both sides which give a glimpse of
her perfect legs. She has put up her hair with a metal hairpin that ends in two
red jewels. They're like glittering drops of blood, holding back her hair on a
level with her temples.

    Her
neck is immaculate, snow-white, as perfect as a work of art sculpted by skilled
hands that have managed to create a harmonious balance between fragility and
perfection.

    She
is leaving the club where she has been dancing, lulled by the dark electro-pop
music there. In the club, she looked around until she spotted a young woman.
Attractive, Mediterranean-looking, long black hair and curvaceous. She slowly,
imperceptibly, moved closer to her. Step by step. Then she started to move in
front of her. Dancing, looking into her eyes.

    A
dance of seduction.

    The
girl let herself be seduced, and soon they found themselves kissing
passionately on a small sofa, under the aroused gaze of the passers-by. People
couldn't help but look at them, two lustful Venuses, tongues entwined,
sensuously caressing each other through their clothes.

    They
disappeared into the bathroom and were gone for about forty minutes. Then the
white Venus fixed her lipstick and now here she is walking down the street,
leaving a trail of perfume, as seductive as it is dangerous.

    Soon
she realises that she's being followed. She hears footsteps echoing behind her,
but she doesn't turn round. Not yet.

    She
starts walking more quickly, then she starts to run, but her steps are
restricted, the too-tight dress making it difficult to move freely.

    She
finds herself in a dead end. A wall rising in front of her. An abandoned
scooter that has lost its wheels. A cat miaowing at the invisible moon, as if
upset by the light of the street lamps.

    Now
she turns and looks behind her. There are two men. Dark skin and white teeth.
The tall one has a knife in his hand, the other keeps opening and closing his
fingers as if he's imagining touching her, holding her.

    With
a very thick accent, the one with the knife tells her not to shout for help.
She doesn't shout, but she moves back. She opens her small sequined clutch bag.

    'We
don't want your money, love. Not yet,' says the taller man. He has a few days'
growth of beard and eyes so narrow they look like they're closed.

    They
start laughing.

    Crack.

    Crack.

    Two
pistol shots.

    Two
bodies lying on their backs. The blood of one merges with the blood of the
other in a macabre dance of bodily fluids.

    One
is still alive. He moans and starts to drag himself towards the pavement.

    High heels
echo behind him. Now she is beside him.

    He
turns to mumble something; she doesn't let him get a look at her.

    She
takes the hairpin from her hair and drives it into his eye, punching through to
his brain.

    She
cleans the blood off the red jewel onto the man's trousers, and puts the
hairpin back in her hair. She takes one last look at the scene.

    A
beautiful still life.

    'Come
on, that's it. Push those legs. Put your back into it. That's better.'

    The
coach watches her, satisfied. His star pupil, Eva, has only been coming to his
classes for a couple of months but she's really taken to it. A little lioness.
But he never pays her compliments; he's afraid that she'll stop putting so much
effort into it, that she'll become big-headed.

    He
really likes this girl. She's different from all the others. She's plucky, she
doesn't like to show off, she's modest and shy; and, on top of all that, she's
the only one who's willing to exercise with Patrick, the thin boy with ears
that stick out, who is truly hopeless. Instead of hitting the glove when they
all do exercises in pairs, he often hits his partner in the face. He lacks
co-ordination, he's a disaster, but she hasn't let him give up. She says to
him: 'You can do it. You just need a bit more patience, and the day you do it
right, you'll feel great.'

    Patrick
listens to her with his mouth half open and his eyes wide, as if he is trying
to focus on her every single word. And he doesn't give up. He doesn't want to
give up because he wants to change his life.

    He
hates Stefano, the boy in the fifth form who's a thug and beats up everyone
else at school. He hates him because Stefano often steals his packed lunch, he
is always shoving him, and more than once he has pushed him over. He once made
him miss the bus home, holding him back by his jacket. He makes him salute when
he goes past. He threw his exercise book down the toilet.

    Above
all, he hates him because he insults his mother.

    He
says she's a slut. It upsets Patrick just to think about it, that word, used in
connection with his mother.

    Stefano
says that the slut must have fucked a sick mouse to have produced such an ugly
son.

    It's
wrong for people to speak ill of his mother, because she's not here any more.
No one should disrespect her. No one.

    In
fact, it was when Stefano insulted his mother that Patrick tried to rebel and
ended up getting a serious beating. Those other things he can put up with, but
not when it's about his mother. No one can insult her; they should let her rest
in peace.

    
One
day I'll make him pay. I'll shut his mouth and mum will be proud of me,
watching from up there
.

    Eva
also imagines looking into the eyes of one specific person: it's always him she
sees in front of her when she hits the punchbag hard. The unknown man who
wanted to hurt her, and who robbed her: the one who took away her happiness,
forever. Eva never smiles; she is stubbornly solemn. But now she knows how to
kick properly, and her right hook makes sparks fly.

    
You
can't touch me, you bastard. You can't touch me. You can't touch me. And she
throws herself back into pummelling the punchbag.

    The
car is parked in the dark. Anyone would think it was empty if it weren't for
the steamed- up windows.

    The
boy in the white T-shirt has his hand on the girl's head.

    The
hand moves backwards and forwards.

    Every
now and then he lets out a moan. The sound of an animal in heat.

    'You're
good,' he says through his teeth.

    He's
about to come. The moment before coming, he always thinks about her - at home,
waiting for him in their bed.

    He
enjoys the thought.

    'Here,
this is for you.' He holds the envelope out to the girl, who is wiping her
mouth on her arm.

    'Thanks.'
She hides the envelope between her breasts.

    'You
know that I'm always good to girls who are good to me.'

    The
car drives off.

    It
leaves an empty space. A dry space.

    Everywhere
else is wet. The rain is falling in light drops, like thoughts that come and
go.

    A
small pale rectangle is left, that gradually colours with dark spots.

    It
disappears.

    Like
youth.

    The
phone rings and breaks the silence.

    'Yes?'

    'This
is Mrs Balugani. I live in the flat below you. You might remember me.'

    'Of
course I remember you.'
What does that old woman want from me,
thinks
Viola, and smiles.

    'I
had to call you. I didn't straight away because I said to myself, they're
young, perhaps it'll only happen this once. But then it's happened too often -
you have your music on so loud, even when other people should be asleep. Don't
think this is all my own idea, calling you - the other tenants have been
complaining about it too.'

    'I'm
sorry, I didn't think that -'

    'The
music is deafening. My bedroom is right under your living room, and after lunch
I have a lie down because of my health. And then in the evening as well, at a
certain point I need to go and rest, but then you start with that noise and…'

    'I
had no idea. I'm sorry…'

    'I've
been patient so far but…'

    'As I
said, I'm really sorry.'

    'It's
not just me saying this, don't think it is… The fact is, the others talk behind
your back, but I'd rather speak to you in person. And don't think that I've got
anything against you two. I know you're just youngsters.'

    'Of
course not. It won't happen again.'

    'I
knew you were a well mannered girl who would understand, not like that woman on
the first floor. Do you know what she did?'

    'Erm…
no, I can't say I do.'

    'She
bought herself a dog without asking anyone's permission.'

    'I
don't think you have to ask permission any more to -'

    'Whether
that's true or not, it's a matter of good sense, I'd say, living in a flat.
Anyway, she left the dog outside in the communal garden, did you know that?'

    'Yes,
but it's a small dog.' Viola would like to have a dog. She would shower it with
affection. She has never owned a dog; she hasn't even had a cat. Not even a
canary.

    'Do
you know that dogs' urine is acid? The plants die. Haven't you seen the
pansies? Burnt! Dogs' urine is corrosive - it burns plants - and who's going to
pay for new ones? They were so pretty. Without getting any thanks from anyone,
I used to water them myself. What can one do, that's what I'm asking myself,
what can one do…?'

    'I'm
sorry, but I have to go now.'

    'But
what do you have to go and do? I know you don't work, and you don't have
children.' 'I have to go and… make the dinner.'

    'I'm
sorry for disturbing you, then, if you still have to make dinner. I was just
speaking on behalf of the tenants. Everyone ought to be a bit more interested
in any problems affecting us all.'

    'Bye.'

    'Goodbye.'

    Viola
is now exhausted. She throws herself onto the sofa and surrenders herself to
the embrace of the cushions. She thinks about the burnt pansies,
viole del
pensiero.
It seems like an omen. Viola in the midst of her thousand
thoughts. Burnt.

    She
thinks about how she didn't even finish school. In the third year she was kept
back and then she'd met Marco. Or perhaps she met Marco and then in the third
year she decided to stop and to just acquire a diploma as a business secretary.

    She
knows how to type OK. She doesn't ever read books, just magazines.
Glamour
is the one she likes best. She can cook, but what else? Her boyfriend goes out
every night, so she isn't even much good as a wife. If only she were a wife!
Not that he will ever marry her.