I watch you

By Sibyl Von Der Schulenburg

What is the relationship between the shadow that secretly watches Valentina roll out sugar paste and Sofia, the student of the cake designer?
The answer isn’t simple, and it involves the changes that have devastated Sofia’s life, cracking her fragile mental balance. Suddenly the student’s love for the beautiful cake designer fades, giving way to contempt. Silent admiration explodes in acts of stalking, and Valentina feels alone, exposed to a faceless enemy.
The various identities that characterize the life of Sofia are finally reduced to only one, the oneappreciated by Dr. Zuccala, the psychologist who said he cares for her. No ... he said he loved her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Il Prato
• Release date: Nov 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9788863362596

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The little girl climbed the stairs just like the grownups do. The marble-top steps were very tall and she struggled to take one step at a time, pulling herself up by holding on to the rusty railing. The old government-subsidized building in this poor Milanese neighborhood had no elevator, and even if there had been one, the little girl wouldn’t have been able to reach high enough to press the button for the seventh floor. Not even on her tippy-toes.

Once she got to the top, she poked her head through the bars of the railing and looked down the stairwell. Her mother had said she wasn’t allowed to do that, but who knew where she was. Perhaps she was coming back soon, maybe even coming up the stairs now, maybe …

The little girl quickly pulled her head back through the railing and sat on the last step. She arranged her skirt into a circle on the cold marble and meticulously inspected her white shoes; she wet her index finger with the tip of her tongue and rubbed off a splash of mud.

In the silence of the perilous staircase, the little girl smoothed her blonde locks, wrapped in a pink ribbon falling down her neck, and coughed.

The door behind her opened: Are you still being a menace?! a man dressed in a wife-beater shirt and underwear yelled at her.

The little girl jumped in fright and turned toward her father as he grabbed her shoulders: I went down … and up …

Are you fucking with me? The man burped and took a step toward the landing. Go back down. I haven’t finished yet.

Leave her alone. She’s only four years old … a shrill voice said inside the apartment. It isn’t her fault if you take so long.

Shut up, whore!

The little girl’s face went pale; she stood up and started toward the next step down, her hand clutching the railing. All right, the little girl muttered with her head down. Look, Daddy, I’m going right now.

And take off that little bitch dress or you’ll turn out to be a whore just like your mother.

A woman in a dressing gown appeared behind the red-faced man. She really cares about her clothes. You know that.

That bitch should have taken her away, not stuck her with me.

Come on, how much of a bother can she be? The woman let her robe fall open, revealing her flabby nakedness. When you need to fuck, she leaves, and when she’s in the house, you don’t even hear her.

She reminds me of her mother.

All little girls look like their mother.

Exactly … The man wiped his nose with the back of his calloused hand. Hey! he called out to his daughter, who had reached the third step by now. Come here.

The little girl obediently turned around and climbed the steps to get back up to the seventh floor.

Take your clothes off, said her father.

The little girl didn’t understand. She raised her dark eyes toward the burly man who reeked of alcohol and sweat. She stared at him with her mouth open.

Take that shitty skirt and blouse off. Do it!

The woman closed her bathrobe over her breasts. You wouldn’t …

The little girl stood in front of the man, her head tilted back, trying to catch the gaze of her father as he growled: Take that girly stuff off.

His daughter stroked the print on the sequin blouse. But Mommy …

The dry sound of a slap echoed through the stairwell. The little girl fell against the skirting of chipped wood.

Don’t ever speak of her again, the man yelled, or I’ll throw you down the stairs.

The little girl placed her hand over her cheek and looked at her father through her tears. Silent sobs shook her little body.

Calm down, the woman intervened. She went up to the little girl, picked her up, and gracefully set her back on her feet. Here we go, come on … let’s take those clothes off.

The door of the apartment in front of them opened and an old lady poked her head out.

The man shifted his weight forward. Get out of here, old woman. Mind your own business.

The door quickly closed again.

Kneeling down in front of the little girl, the woman took off her blouse and skirt.

Better … much better, little bitch. The man chuckled as he stroked his prominent belly. Now go down to the bottom and come back up slowly.

The girl lowered her head and shamefully looked at her naked belly, white panties, bare legs and the tip of her shoes. She sniffled and let the tears run down her full cheeks. She grabbed the first pole of the railing and looked down.

Her father’s kick reached her when her right foot was on the lower step and the hand on the rusty railing had already loosened its grip. The small body arced toward the ramp to the sixth floor and fell on the middle landing without a cry. The only sound was the slap of the little girl’s belly on the dirty marble.

In the silence that followed, the man, standing stiff at the top of the stairs, looked down at his motionless daughter. The woman behind him put her hand over her mouth and stifled a scream. No one moved.

In the time span of three long breaths the child opened her eyes. She sat up and looked at the two adults at the top of the stairs. She felt a warm fluid drip from her temple. When she saw the blood on her fingers, she screamed with all the might of her little years, and deep sobs shook her half-naked little body. Mom-my.

The man sighed and ran his open hand over his thin hair. Shit … it’s just a scratch. Now go, or I’ll make you fly all the way down. He turned around, shoved the woman inside the apartment, and slammed the door behind him.

The little girl stood up, trying to hold back her sobs. The red spots on her panties terrified her. Her bloodstained hands squeezed the railing. For a few minutes she didn’t move. She sniffled and wiped blood, mucus, and tears on her arm.

The little girl looked up and didn’t see anyone. There wasn’t anyone downstairs either. Mommy, she muttered as she went down to the lower floors, one step after another, awkwardly and wobbly.

Before she reached the last ramp she stopped, wrapped her arms around her body, and looked toward the glass door to see if anyone was coming in. She could hear the squeals of kids playing in the street, but she couldn’t see them. The lobby was deserted; during the month of August the building would empty out. She cautiously descended the last few steps, straining to hear anyone coming in the door. Then she quickly turned to the right, brushed against the bicycles against the wall, and slipped into the closet under the stairs.

The little girl crouched in a corner filled with brooms, buckets, and rags, and finally felt sheltered. She was tired, cold, and nauseous, but no more tears fell. She touched her painful temple and it was so wet. She took a rag from the bucket and placed it over her ear, just like Mommy had done when she hit her head against the corner of the table. She sighed. She heard someone enter the main entrance and held her breath until she heard the door close on the first floor.

The door was ajar, and a beam of light lit up her white shoes, which were now splashed with red. The little girl once again burst into tears. Mom-my, come … take me …away, she sobbed softly as she feverishly rubbed her shoes with the rag. The white of her shoes disappeared under a layer of blood and dirt. She hugged her knees, leaned her head against them, and muttered through her tears: Dirty …

In the little broom closet, the beam of light drew back slowly, the shoes were left in shadow, and the little girl clutched herself, shutting the world out of her thoughts. Her eyelids drooped as she remembered happy moments: her birthday cake … her mother’s finger covered in cream coming her way.

The little girl from the seventh floor didn’t hear the rattle of the bicycles against each other or the steps in the hall or even the clang of garbage pails as they were dragged outside.

Time passed through the old walls, the sun moving from east to west. The hours crept up on the little girl curled up in the broom closet and kept safe her dreams.

What are you doing here? I don’t want you playing in here. The angry voice of the doorman snatched the child from the world of her dreams.

The little girl got up. She saw that the day had passed, and now there was a light on in the hallway. She stretched her arms and her soiled, bloody hands toward the woman standing in the doorway.

The woman turned up her nose. Take those dirty hands away! And tell that drunkard to put some clothes on you.

Slowly the little girl lowered her arms, passed the woman with her head lowered, walked over to the stairway, and looked up the stairwell. She took a deep breath and faced the first step and then the second, without ever alternating feet on the steps. At the landing she stopped, and when the staircase went dark, she turned the light back on and began her ascent slowly. Like a robot, she took one step after the other, always putting both feet on the tread of the step, and on each landing she waited for the dimming of the light next to the timer switch.

At the seventh floor, the child slipped her head between the rails and looked down again. She thought it would be nice to know how to fly. She pulled her head back and sat next to the railing. She grabbed a bar and squeezed it tightly. She waited till the lights turned off, then coughed.

The door opened, but the light didn’t go on.

Where the hell have you been up till now? the man shouted.

The little girl didn’t dare move. She stayed seated on the last step of the ramp, staring at the blood-stained landing. She heard her father go back in the apartment and come out a moment later. The light from the open door of the apartment cast a shadow on the wall of a huge staggering ogre with a knife raised.

Terrified, the girl tried to get up, but a hand held her pinned to the marble step. The man knelt behind her, grunting, and grabbed her by her long pony tail.

Daddy, I’ll be good … the little girl cried. I won’t do it again … She couldn’t hold the contents of her bladder, which emptied in the blood-stained panties and dripped on the steps below.

The smell of wine and grease enveloped the little girl, who was sobbing. She saw the shadow of the blade drop and tried to break free, but it was useless. She yelled Mommy! and squeezed her eyes shut when the man pressed the knife against the nape of her neck.

The light in the stairwell turned on. What’s going on? the woman in the robe asked.

I didn’t want a girl, the man replied, wielding his dirty knife, getting back up.

The little girl opened her eyes again. She breathed slowly and barely whimpered.

Now put these pants and T-shirt on, the man ordered. And throw those ridiculous shoes away.

The little girl got up and turned around. A bunch of blonde hair held together by a pink ribbon lay on the floor. She touched the back of her head and raised her face, streaked with tears and blood, toward the ogre.

Welcome, Alex, said her father.

1.

The wind on that first day of October blew and scattered the dead leaves across the yard of the old complex of houses around a central courtyard in Milan. An athletic figure in a leather jacket and skinny jeans came in the door that opened onto the crowded sidewalk. The intermittent noise of evening traffic and the flickering of neon lights were shut out.

Alex blinked at the sight of the small structure, open on three sides, set in the courtyard. The white of the winter garden walls cut through the darkness and glowed against the windows, which were stained inside, letting a soft light filter through. A shadowy figure moved behind the white glass windows.

The soles of the latest model of Nike shoes dug into the cobblestones and decisively headed toward one of the corners where the Palladian-style building met old masonry. Someone had tried to plant a flower bed in that cold, dark corner, but in the end the darkness had won. The only vegetation around was dry leaves blown about by the wind.

Alex pulled the black cap down low, strained to listen, and looked up at the windows of the apartments that were lit up here and there. The corner was still dark. Turning to the opaque window, looking for a specific point, a gloved hand was placed on the chipped frame and a hooked nose pressed against the glass, where the paint didn’t reach.

The dark pupils twitched violently, struck by the light in the cake design lab situated inside the small eighteenth-century building. Alex blinked a couple of times, and the bright light that flooded the small kitchen on the other side of the glass was no longer a bother. The red and green LEDs on the household appliances shone out across the furniture with colors of cream, beige, ivory, and other