by Javier Calvo
“Fuck,” he says in a low voice. “Now I remember where I've seen you.”
In the cloud of smoke semi-dispersed by the wind, Eric Yanel's race car helmet rolls in the grass. Aníbal Manta lifts his iron bar above his head in a threatening gesture. Kneeling on the grass, Yanel nods emphatically and then shakes his head emphatically and brings his hands together in front of his chest as if he were praying. With his features twisted into a grimace of terror. Aníbal Manta makes threatening, rhythmic little taps into his open palm with his iron bar. Mr. Bocanegra grabs Yanel by one ear and twists it with an expression that accentuates the intrinsically cruel elements of his physiognomy.
The guy with the long silvery hair squints his eyes in an attempt to make out the trio of vaguely visible figures through the diffuse cloud of carbonic smoke.
The scream that comes out of Eric Yanel's red, tearstained face as a response to the cruel twisting of his ear can be clearly heard at the containing fence. The guy with the long silvery hair looks at Iris Gonzalvo in alarm.
“I'm going to call the police,” he says.
And he pulls a cell phone out of his leather jacket. Iris Gonzalvo takes it out of his hand before he has a chance to open it and she throws it far and high, over the containing fence.
“My boyfriend is talking to those guys,” says Iris. And she points with her head to the place where Eric Yanel is now twisting in pain while Aníbal Manta's Italian loafer steps on his face, hard, burying it in the grass. “Can't you see that?”
Several figures in parkas and urban gear wipe the doughnut crumbs from their mouths and set off running toward the containing fence.
Wonderful World
CHAPTER 7
Unnumbered Birthday
The subject of the Mexican corrido being sung by a mariachi with some sort of oversized twelve-string guitar seems to be Emiliano Zapata's death. Or, more specifically, the elements of injustice and emotional pain surrounding Zapata's death. Standing beside the stage, and wearing one of the intercom headsets that have been distributed among the organizational team, Lucas Giraut moves his foot distractedly to the rhythm of the Tex-Mex music that comes out of the impressive speaker system. The place is the pool deck of Barcelona's Gran Hotel La Florida. The occasion is the 2006 Unnumbered Birthday of Estefanía “Fanny” Giraut. In addition to the mariachi who plays the twelve-string guitar, the band hired for the event is made up of a lead singer equipped with an accordion, a guitar player–backup singer with a standard-sized guitar with the standard number of strings and an appropriately smaller guy that plays some kind of smaller-than-standard guitar.
“Son,” says the voice of Fonseca from behind Lucas Giraut.
The pool deck of Barcelona's Gran Hotel La Florida is filled with two hundred political, institutional and business figures for the occasion of Fanny Giraut's Unnumbered Birthday. The air of the surrounding hills lends a very slight scent of pine trees that mixes with the smell of cigarettes and pool chlorine. The guests gravitate in a complex system of meta-adjacent groups around the hostess with the surgically taut face. Due to the unnumbered nature of Fanny Giraut's birthdays, her Corporate Chief of Public Relations established the tradition five years ago of distinguishing the successive birthdays by preceding the word “Birthday” with the number of the year in progress.
“Son,” repeats Fonseca in the exact moment that Lucas Giraut turns to see him appear by his side with two clinking glasses.
The veins in his temples are swollen in a way that seems to indicate a medium-to-high degree of emotional stress and nervous agitation.
Fonseca puts a clinking glass filled with the evening's special cocktail into Giraut's hand. All the glasses used to serve the cocktail are inscribed with “FANNY GIRAUT: 2006 BIRTHDAY.” The suit Lucas Giraut is wearing is a pearl gray Lino Rossi suit. The design of the cocktail and the glasses and the other elements of corporate imagery exclusive to the party are the responsibility of Fanny Giraut's Personal Public Relations Office.
“Son, what sort of joke is this?” Fonseca points with his drink to the four musicians wearing fancy dress Tex-Mex suits who are playing the corrido with the Zapatista subject matter. “Who is the imbecile who hired these guys? It hasn't even been three months since we buried your father.”
Lucas Giraut nods as he takes a sip of cocktail with his gaze fixed on the Tex-Mex musical quartet. The musicians in the quartet smile with toothy expressions of professional optimism that are somehow particularly Mexican. The lead singer with the accordion is alluding to the fact that Emiliano Zapata's death constitutes an unforgettable event due to its negative historical repercussions for Mexican peasantry.
“Son,” says Fanny Giraut's lawyer and right-hand man. “You still haven't signed the agreements for the restructuring plan. Your mother is starting to worry. She's just been made a widow, for the love of God.” He shakes his head. “She needs a son's support now more than ever.”
Lucas Giraut nods again and stretches out his neck to get a look at his mother, who is perfectly positioned in the center of the system of meta-adjacent groups and totally absorbed in an animated conversation with two senior officials of the Upper Franconian Ministry of Culture. As a result of her face's lack of mobility, Fanny Giraut's smile consists primarily of retracting her lips to reveal horrifically white gums. A bit farther on, at the edge of the meta-adjacent groups closest to the six-story birthday cake, the Director of the International Division of LORENZO GIRAUT, LTD., Carlos Chicote, is passing his fingertip surreptitiously over the surface of the cake. Lucas Giraut raises a hand to the earpiece of his headset and frowns with an attentive look.
“Security problem in the North Access,” he says in a tone of professional efficiency. And he puts a hand on Fonseca's shoulder. “I have to go.”
The members of the band are singing about the fact that Emiliano Zapata was a man with exceptional moral qualities. A man that committed himself selflessly to the cause of liberating the poor. Which is why the Indians from every town and of every stripe went to fight by his side. Lucas Giraut makes his way over to the spot where the Director of the International Division is furtively licking his fingertip and places a paternal hand on his shoulder. Chicote looks at him, his fingertip still in his mouth and an expression of primal terror in his eyes. The suitological analysis that Giraut carries out on his black Armani suit with silk tie and sixteen-karat cuff links indicates a lack of corporate self-confidence and a sycophant's anxiety to create a public image of aggressiveness and success based on self-confidence.
“Don't pay any mind to what you've heard,” he says to him. “About your salary getting frozen and you being fired for poor performance. I am the president of this company. My mother and Fonseca work for me. That's how my father put it in his will, even though everyone thinks he went crazy.”
Chicote tries to mitigate his expression of terror with an anguished smile. His alopecia follows that irregular and frightening asymmetrical pattern of nervous alopecia.
“I've decided to raise your salary.” Giraut lowers his voice to a tone appropriate to corporate secrets. “Perhaps we could add a bonus stock option package. And maybe you could also have a yacht share.” He frowns. “I don't remember exactly. Send me a report of your activities when you get a chance. To my secretary.”
Chicote begins a labored string of sycophantic thank-yous, vows of corporate loyalty and manifestations of respect on a personal level. Giraut nods with a distracted look while he waits for him to finish. Then his eye is drawn to something located at the other end of the party.
“Security problem in the North Access,” he says. He downs the contents of his glass and leaves it on a small table. “I have to go.”
Lucas Giraut makes his way through the party guests. Several institutional figures drink and converse amicably in meta-adjacent groups while moving rhythmically to the music. The entire city extends with a servile air at the feet of the sumptuous pool deck. The mayor of Barcelona is doing what appears to be some sort
of festive Brazilian dance to the delight of the other members of his group.
Lucas Giraut gets to the sofa where Valentina Parini is seated with a glass of Coca-Cola and he sits down beside her.
“You're not on the guest list,” he says. “I know because I made the guest list.”
Valentina Parini takes a sip of Coca-Cola and shrugs her shoulders. One of the lenses of her green plastic glasses is covered with a patch.
“It's because of my new punishment.” Valentina rolls her eyes but you can only see one of her eyes rolling because of the patch. “My mother won't let me stay home alone. Two days ago I set the kitchen on fire. Accidentally,” she adds quickly, very serious. “It wasn't an attack strategy. I just forgot the burner was on.” She shrugs her shoulders. “The good thing is that there won't be any crêpes for a while. When my mother gets mad at me she stops making me crêpes.”
Lucas Giraut nods and points at her eyeglasses.
“It looks good on you,” he says. “The patch.”
“I look retarded,” says the girl. Then she points with her head toward the people standing in the party. “There's a lot of people and all that. But I know why they came. They're afraid of your mother.”
On the stage, pushing and pulling various levers and buttons on his accordion, the lead singer of the band hired by Lucas Giraut is requesting in song that the little sparrows sing out that General Zapata was shot down in a conspicuously treacherous way. The three accompanying musicians accompany his request with professionally optimistic smiles.
“I've been testing the Low-Flying Airplanes Attack,” says Lucas Giraut to Valentina Parini, who continues to sip on her glass of Coca-Cola while watching the meta-adjacent groups of party guests with her one eye. “Here, at the party. It works pretty well. I guess that's because we're so high up on a hill. Gives it that dramatic touch.”
Valentina Parini stares at him and a gloomy look comes over her face.
“Everything is going wrong,” she says in a tone that transmits the weary ennui of an adult more than teenage irritation. “Worse than wrong. My homeroom teacher sent another report to the principal saying that my attitude is antisocial and aggressive. And the principal called the school psychologist again. And this time the school psychologist said I have a borderline personality. I looked it up on the Internet.” She makes a derisive face. “It's nothing like my personality. The thing is, my homeroom teacher called my mother again.” She looks up from her Coca-Cola and at Lucas Giraut with her only visible eye. “Because now they're friends, you know. I think they go out at night looking for husbands together.”
Lucas Giraut takes his headset off and puts it in the pocket of his suit jacket.
“My mother has a borderline personality,” he says, lowering his voice a bit. “And you're nothing like her.”
It looks like he is about to say something else when he's interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. He turns and stares into Fonseca's face, who in turn is looking at him with that virile severe expression of male stars from Hollywood's Golden Age. The networks of veins on his temples are belligerently swollen.
“I just spoke with the hotel manager,” says Fonseca. Staring at Giraut. “He assures me there is no security problem in the North Access. In fact, there is no North Access. And I hope this doesn't have anything to do with those documents you have to sign.”
Valentina Parini is staring at her nearly empty glass of Coca-Cola with an expression of concentration. Lucas Giraut takes out his silver cigarette case embossed with his initials and offers Fonseca a cigarette.
Wonderful World
CHAPTER 8
Ummagumma 2
The plaque on the gate of the house in Pedralbes with the electrified perimeter in front of which Pavel is digging into his backpack is gilded and impeccably polished in that way that suggests the existence of someone whose specific job it is to maintain all of the gilded surfaces in the house impeccably polished. The impeccably polished gold plaque reads “UMMAGUMMA 2.” Pavel takes a small aluminum hammer out of his backpack and wraps it in a rag and gives the security camera right above the plaque a couple of whacks. Several pieces of the security camera fall to the ground at his feet. The gate with the gold plaque is in the middle of a brick wall topped with an electric fence. On the brick wall to the right of the house's mailbox and right beside a sign that reads “POST NO BILLS,” someone has posted a promotional poster that reads “ONLY EIGHTEEN DAYS UNTIL THE WORLD RELEASE OF STEPHEN KING'S NEW NOVEL.”
The street in the neighborhood of Pedralbes where Pavel now kneels to put the hammer back in his backpack is one of those tiny Pedralbes streets where you can show up at any hour of the night and do something like break a security camera with a hammer without having to worry about anyone seeing you. The night is an improbably cold mid-December night. Pavel, however, doesn't seem to register the improbable cold. Some noteworthy elements of his appearance, besides his wearing a flannel shirt open on top of a Bob Marley and The Wailers T-shirt in spite of the cold, are the fact that he is exaggeratedly tall and exaggeratedly pale and wears his hair in dreadlocks. Not those acceptably long dreadlocks that fall in a cascade. Pavel's dreadlocks are those pointy ones still in the growing phase that someone seeing them from a distance could confuse with an Afro.
Pavel puts the aluminum hammer back in the backpack and takes out a black plastic case filled with tools and electronic equipment. A cloud of white steam materializes in front of his face each time he breathes. He uses a screwdriver from the case to unscrew the number panel whose combination opens the lock and then uses some wire cutters to cut the cord that joins the numerical lock with the house's alarm. Finally he connects an electronic device to the wire-filled inside of the lock and pushes a couple of buttons that set off a series of electronic beeps that sound like the screech of a modem. The lock on the barred door opens with a metallic click. The only sign that Pavel is feeling the effects of the cold is the fact that now and then he rubs the palms of his gloveless hands together.
A minute later Pavel crosses the yard of the three-story house with his shoulders hunched and a tranquilizer dart gun in his hand. A big dog with short hair and erect ears cuts him off. Pavel stops and stares at the dog. The dog stares at Pavel, wagging his tail amicably. With an expression of peaceful curiosity in his canine eyes. Pavel shoots him with a tranquilizer dart anyway.
Strictly speaking, one can't say that Pavel likes his line of work. Or the people he has to work with. Or much less the people that fate has chosen to be the victims of his line of work. Or the city of Barcelona. Although it's true that he didn't like Moscow, either, before he moved to Barcelona. In fact, there aren't many things that he really likes. He himself has never really understood why. As a boy, the only moments in which he can remember having experienced anything close to true satisfaction were the times he filled the old, enormous bathtub of his old, enormous post-Soviet apartment and immersed himself for hours imagining that he was a shark. Until his father or some other adult in the old collective apartment kicked the door open and forced him out of the collective bathtub by beating him with a hanger. Theoretically speaking, Pavel is a firm believer in the teachings of the Rastafarian philosophy. In the idea that the Rastafari have to work spiritually for the redemption of humanity. And yet, he almost never finds practical occasions in which to apply said theoretical concepts.
Pavel goes around the three-story house with his backpack on his shoulder until he finds what he is looking for. French windows that open onto some sort of interior sunroom on the lower floor with a glass door beside them. Pavel cuts the glass around the lock and pushes the door, which opens docilely. A pleasant wave of dry heat from the central heating system welcomes him into the house.
Pavel is exaggeratedly tall in that way in which certain people are so exaggeratedly tall and thin that they almost never manage to stand up completely straight. An essentially gawky way of being exaggeratedly tall. When indoors, Pavel is one of those people that usually have no p
roblem touching the ceiling with an outstretched arm. Now Pavel takes a black ski mask out of his backpack with his exaggeratedly long arms and puts it on his head. He moves his neck from one side to the other to adjust the ski mask so that his mouth and eyes coincide with the openings in the mask. Then he takes an automatic pistol out of his backpack. He puts a silencer on it and checks the chamber before cocking it. He leaves his backpack on the floor and heads up the stairs. With the ski mask on and the gun held high.
Pavel now moves stealthily under the pale, vaguely orangish light that enters through the windows of the three-story house, which smells clean and like something else that it takes Pavel a moment to identify. Marijuana. The herbal and slightly acrid smell of marijuana. Pavel stops suddenly on the second-floor landing. With his heart beating in that controlled, accelerated way that hearts beat in the middle of a job in Pavel's line of work. There is a line of white light beneath a door located on one side of the landing. Only about six feet away from the place where Pavel remains stock-still. Pavel's heartbeat speeds up a bit, while remaining controlled. It doesn't seem possible that anyone has heard him from the other side of the door. Pavel crosses the landing stealthily and puts a hand on the doorknob and raises the pistol with his other hand and opens the door abruptly.
The room on the other side of the door turns out to be a very large bathroom with sky blue wall-to-wall carpeting and tiles. Pavel isn't sure if he's ever seen a sky blue carpet before. On one of the bathroom walls there is a framed poster that reads “PINK FLOYD: THE FINAL CUT.” Pavel looks to one side. Seated on the toilet, looking at him with a stunned face, is a young woman. Of course, Bocanegra, that idiot, hadn't told him there was going to be a woman in the house. He hadn't even mentioned the possibility of there being a woman in the house. The young woman has an elastic band tied around the upper part of her elbow and a hypodermic needle stuck in the inner part of her elbow and is sitting next to a sink with a teaspoon and a lighter and a square of aluminum foil with traces of heroin on it. The only clothes she has on are a promotional T-shirt for the Costa Dorada Biosphere Park theme park and lace panties around her ankles. The young woman lifts up her arms slowly. With a shocked expression. The needle falls to the floor. Pavel immediately identifies the young woman as being of the painfully attractive type. One of those young women with painful sex appeal. Pavel puts his finger in front of the part of the ski mask where his lips are and makes the sign for “silence” in international sign language. Then he grabs her brusquely by an arm and forces her to get up off the toilet. The young woman's pubis is completely shaved except for a tiny unshaved area in the shape of a heart.