Wonderful World

by Javier Calvo

  “Everything I told you about was before I became a cop.” Saudade shrugs his shoulders. “Really I was still chasing the same scumbags. What do you think of that, little Mr. Fancy Pants? Three years on the force. You think you coulda done all I did in my life?” he asks rhetorically. With his eyes almost closed to keep the sand out. “People like you make me wanna puke. You think I don't know what you think about us? With your fancy houses and your fancy women and wherever it is you go on those trips.” His hands pat the long bulge of the baseball bat through the dirty powder blue and white fabric. He looks Giraut in the eye. “It's about time you started showing a little respect.”

  Lucas Giraut studies the beach, searching for some tranquil element. Some of those proverbially tranquil elements that people go to the beach to find. In the distance, on the wind-rippled water, some sort of merchant ship with an entirely rust-colored hull seems to be simply floating immobile near the docks. The mountain of Montjuïc in the background is like one of those cliffs covered in mist that you find in old gothic novels set on the coast of Cornwall. The sea is the color of lead. The sky is the color of lead. The sand on the beach is a pale, dirty shade of gray that's not quite the color of lead. Juan de la Cruz Saudade seems to have switched gears, fondling the bat through the fabric of his sweatshirt and muttering under his breath while staring at his feet. Seagulls fly threateningly in circles over the only two people on the beach and the more aggressive ones are already landing near them, with their beaks open and their wings extended. Giraut walks over to where the waves reach the sand and sits down on the ground, at least three feet from the stripe of sand darkened by the strongest waves. A zigzagging line of dried seaweed and sundry litter marks the farthest limits of the waves' reach. Like a scientific diagram. Like the zigzagging lines of a seismic diagram or an electrocardiogram.

  Lucas Giraut sighs. He takes off his shoes and places them beside his attaché case, in which he carries a couple of magazines about antiques, as well as a book-restoring kit and a copy of the book Learn to Restore Books in Just 100 Days, from the “Learn in Just 100 Days” series. Saudade watches Giraut and kneels down to take off his shoes, too. He pulls a can of beer out of his sweatshirt and opens it, spilling some sort of giant foam phlegm ball onto his front.

  “You think you know what you're playing at but you don't,” he says to Giraut. “This isn't a game for faggy little rich kids like you. You could get hurt. You think you know Bocanegra because he was your daddy's little friend and all that, but the truth is you don't know shit.” He takes a sip of beer. Foam now also slips down his chin. “You don't have a fucking clue as to what Bocanegra would do to you if he found out you're fucking with Mr. Pirate Patch. He'd chop you up so small you'd fit through a tennis racket. And about what you asked me before.” He kneels to pick up a long, smooth stone from the zigzagging line of seaweed and litter that marks the reach of the waves and tosses it into the sea at that horizontal angle people use to make stones bounce along the water's surface. The stone just sinks among the waves. “I want fifty grand now and fifty grand at the end of the month. Then we'll talk some more. That old crap you got in your store must be worth a lot of money. I bet you don't even notice when you sell a coupla pieces.”

  Lucas Giraut runs a hand through his long straight hair, still damp from his morning shower. Deep down he is aware that his pale eyebrows and round, mostly hairless face and his slightly droopy eyes give him a namby-pamby look that makes a lot of people not give him the due respect conferred by his age and position. Or at least the conventional respect between adults in society. One of the reasons why he can't find any conventionally tranquil elements on the beach is that Giraut has no conventional experience of beaches. He never went to the beach as a child, except maybe to the breakwater by the house in the Ampurdan. There was no one to take him. Giraut imagines that the conventionally tranquil aspects of beaches are one more of the elements that distinguish him from the rest of the population. Now, sitting in front of an irregular line of shells and dried seaweed and litter, he realizes that he doesn't need to turn around or look over his shoulder to know that Saudade is no longer with him.

  Wonderful World

  CHAPTER 45

  The Third Golden Rule

  Pavel thoughtfully observes his reflection in the glass display case of the jewelry store he's about to rob. In violation of most of the basic rules on how to rob a jewelry store. For example, every occasional jewelry store robber knows that the first golden rule of said activity is that more than one person is needed. Not just because there always has to be someone watching outside or at the door. There is also the danger of being outnumbered by the store staff, or even the difficulty of gauging the relative value of the pieces stolen and therefore the paradoxical danger of being ripped off by the victims. Of course, Pavel knows all of this in theory. But Pavel has a dream. A pressing dream, which has to do with palm trees and ubiquitous black women with ample asses. In normal circumstances, he himself would laugh at the idiot looking at himself in the display case. But Pavel doesn't even remember the last time he was in normal circumstances.

  Standing in front of the jewelry shop's reflective display case, Pavel adjusts his starter pistol inside his sweatpants and checks his dreadlocks. The way he is looking at himself is the way people look at themselves in reflecting surfaces when checking their hair. Sucking in their cheeks or maybe even biting the inside of their cheeks and lifting their eyebrows high and moving their head slightly from one side to the other. His dreads are fine. According to all the relevant parameters. Their length is approaching the desired length. The reason why he's carrying a starter pistol is because it's much cheaper than a real one. Besides the less catastrophic repercussions in the case of a trial for illegal possession of weapons.

  The time for his scheduled entrance into the jewelry store is about to appear on the screen of his cell phone. Pavel isn't carrying his usual khaki canvas backpack from the army surplus store. He's carrying one of those black bags with very long handles that doctors used to carry back in the olden days. When they made house calls in the middle of the night. Those bags that make you think of shiny instruments with serrated blades and syringes the size of travel-size deodorant sprays. The wide section of the inside of the jewelry store that can be seen through the display window is dimly lit compared to the street. Pavel rummages around in his bag more appropriate to a doctor from the olden days and takes out a series of objects that include sunglasses and a gray wool hat. There seems to be someone inside the store. Behind the counter. Sitting in a chair behind the counter under a large horizontal painting. A girl who seems to be fingering something small with both hands. The way Pavel puts on the gray wool hat is: carefully making sure all of his dreadlocks are inside. On the door there's a sign that says “OPEN” and a sticker on the upper part with a schematic drawing of a camera that warns that the store is connected to the police station through closed-circuit television. Pavel puts on his sunglasses and pushes the door open.

  The inside of the jewelry store is much darker than the street. Pavel blinks. His sunglass-covered eyes try to adjust to the level of light. On the door there are other stickers that depict the different credit cards one can use in the jewelry store and its membership in various professional business associations. Pavel turns the “OPEN” sign so that the side that says “OPEN” now faces inside the store.

  The door closing activates an automatic sound similar to a bell ringing. Pavel scrutinizes the area where the wall meets the ceiling, looking for security cameras. The sunglasses aren't exactly helping him to make out the details inside the jewelry store. The salesgirl looks up from the small object in her hands that, judging from the high-pitched electronic noises it's making, seems to be some sort of portable game device. Pavel is standing in the middle of the jewelry store with his sunglasses and gray wool hat and his black leather bag hung over his shoulder. Staring at the large horizontal painting on the wall behind the counter. Right above the salesgirl. The painti
ng depicts a fortified rectangular structure with defensive turrets and some sort of taller inner building. Pavel points to the painting.

  “That the Temple of Jerusalem?” he asks. He takes off his sunglasses to get a better look. “The Temple of Solomon? The original?”

  The salesgirl pushes a couple of buttons that interrupt the flow of electronic noises coming from her portable device. Then she turns her neck to look over her shoulder.

  “I don't know,” she says finally. “But I guess so. If that's what it says, then that's what it is.”

  Pavel approaches the counter. He rests his palms on it and extends his neck to look more closely at the pictorial representation of the Temple of Jerusalem, his eyes squinted. He can't say he knows much about the Temple of Jerusalem or its history, but he knows enough about the Rastafarian movement and Bob Marley's music to understand that the temple occupies a central place in his philosophy and is prominently featured in many of his song lyrics. What is most disconcerting to Pavel about the painting is how underwhelming the temple is, in every sense. Considering the whole people of Zion and the history of Babylonia and the lion that breaks his chains and all that stuff.

  “How can be possible?” Pavel speaks without taking his eyes off of the painting. “I mean, it was someone what was there that painted it? Or they made the painting later, from memories of their mind?”

  The salesgirl looks at the painting again. There is something incongruous about her appearance. Something probably having to do with the formality of her jacket versus the winding tattoo that peeks out from the collar of her blouse and runs up one side of her neck. As if for some reason the two things couldn't possibly belong to the same person.

  “I don't know,” says the salesgirl. “You'd have to ask my uncle. I can tell you the prices of the stuff on sale. I can even sell them to you.”

  Pavel thinks for a moment. Then he takes the pistol out of his sweatpants.

  “Get on floor,” he says to the salesgirl. “Flat on floor. Like this.” Pavel puts his hands behind his head as a demonstration.

  The salesgirl with the suit jacket and the tattoo lies facedown on the floor, with her hands behind her head. With the self-confidence of someone who has seen enough movies to know perfectly how the victim of a robbery in a jewelry store should lie down. Then she looks at Pavel with a vaguely expectant expression. Like a low-level employee waiting for instructions from a supervisor. Pavel thinks he can see the salesgirl chewing gum.

  “Are you here alone? No?” Pavel waits for the salesgirl to shake her head. “Your uncle here? Your uncle the boss?” He waits for the salesgirl to nod her head. “Call this uncle now. Call him.”

  The salesgirl turns her head in the opposite direction, her hands still behind her head. The second golden rule of people whose profession requires the occasional jewelry store robbery is: whatever you do inside a jewelry store, don't do it yourself. You have to order the other people around to get them to do it. Pavel isn't sure of the origin of this second golden rule. If he wasn't in the middle of a robbery, Pavel would think that the salesgirl was deliberately careless in her posture on the floor, revealing a large section of thigh.

  “Uncle!” shouts the salesgirl. “Come quick!”

  Pavel remains standing beside the salesgirl, aiming at her with his starter pistol.

  “Ring the bell,” says the salesgirl. “Sometimes he doesn't hear so well. Ring that bell over there.”

  She takes one hand from behind her head and points to a bell located behind the counter. Next to the open door of what must be the storeroom. The bell doesn't look like an antitheft alarm or a device connected to the police station.

  Pavel catches himself looking at the painting of the Temple of Jerusalem again. He finds it hard to believe that it's the same temple that took centuries and entire armies to destroy. In Pavel's opinion, any idiot with a ladder and a bomb could blow it to bits with no problem. Although he isn't sure that they had bombs in Ancient Times. He's trying to remember examples of ancient stories that involved the use of bombs when a middle-aged man appears behind the counter and looks at the salesgirl with a frown. He is wearing one of those argyle V-neck sweaters that a lot of little kids and middle-aged men wear for some reason. With the collar of a sport shirt sticking out through the V-neck.

  “What are you doing on the floor?” asks the middle-aged man. Then he looks up at the man next to the counter with the hat and sunglasses and a pistol in his hand. Finally he nods with an expression that shows he has a general understanding of what's going on. “Uh,” he says, “we have a security camera with a line to the police.”

  There is something inexplicably sexual in the way the salesgirl is lying facedown on the floor, with the skirt of her suit slightly raised, revealing a good chunk of her thighs. In Pavel's opinion. In spite of the fact that it's absurd to have sexual thoughts in a situation like the one taking place in the jewelry store. Pavel is vaguely aware that these completely inappropriate thoughts come to one's mind in moments of professional stress or high pressure. The salesgirl remains facedown, watching out of the corner of her eye. Pavel tosses the black leather bag to the middle-aged man.

  “Put that in bag,” he says. “And that. And that over there. All that.” Pavel points to various display cases filled with items. “And faster. Fast as you can or you be out one niece. Come on.”

  The middle-aged man opens the glass cases with a key and is emptying them into the vaguely medical black leather bag. Another characteristic of the clothing of many little kids and middle-aged men is that their V-neck sweaters almost never match the colors of the shirts that stick out from underneath them. As if the chromatic rules of dressing didn't apply to certain phases of life. Pavel looks at the clock on the screen of his cell phone. The third golden rule of robbing jewelry stores is that the whole process, including the entrance, theft and getaway, can't take longer than three minutes. In order to avoid getting caught by the cops. Three minutes seems to be the international professional standard. In the case at hand, the deadline is fast approaching. The middle-aged uncle gives him back the black leather bag with handles. Pavel puts it over his shoulder, still aiming the starter pistol in the general direction of the salesgirl. She has two almost identical runs in the stockings of each leg. Pavel looks at the clock on his phone again.

  “Wait,” says Pavel to the overtly expectant faces of the salesgirl and the man who seems to be her uncle. Even though he says it to them, his expression and body language seem to indicate that he's really talking to himself. Like in those situations when people say “wait” when they are trying to give themselves time to think. He points with the starter pistol toward the painting. “The painting. Give me that painting. I'll take it.”

  The salesgirl looks at Pavel as if she didn't understand and then looks at the painting. Exactly three and a half minutes have passed since Pavel entered the jewelry store and took a look around. Now both he and the salesgirl watch as the middle-aged man gets up on a chair, takes the pictorial representation of the Temple of Jerusalem off the wall and offers it to Pavel. Although the idea is completely incongruous with the context and the situation, Pavel could swear there was a certain component of curiosity and amused interest in the face of the salesgirl who is now looking at him. Who is no longer lying facedown with her hands behind her head but rather lying on her side in a more comfortable position with her head resting on one arm. In a comfortable way that accentuates her sexual self-confidence. Pavel extends his hand to take the painting but stops and looks out of the corner of his eye at the camera filming him.

  “Stick it in there,” he says to the salesgirl's uncle. “Keep safe.” He waves around the pistol the way people sometimes wave whatever's in their hand when they can't find the word they're looking for. “Wrap it up. That's it. Wrap it up.”

  The salesgirl and her uncle exchange a fleeting glance. Twenty-five seconds later, Pavel exits the jewelry store onto a street flooded with the sound of police sirens. He takes off his
wool hat and throws it into a trash can. He quickly shakes out his newly unconstrained dreads.

  Two blocks from the scene of the robbery, a police car passes by him and one of the officers inside takes a quick look at him as he walks down the street with his dreads out and the wrapped painting beneath his arm. The police car keeps going. Pavel looks at the clock on his cell phone again: now he has to hurry. If he wants to catch the flight tomorrow morning, he has to sell the contents of the bag in the next few hours.

  Wonderful World

  CHAPTER 46

  Chicote's Testimony

  Toward the second half of the preliminary hearing of his trial for mental incompetence, Lucas Giraut thinks he can see something in the last rows of the public that interferes with his ability to concentrate on what's going on in the courtroom. At first it's just a flash. A flash that seems to come from a metal plate located on the head of one of the people observing the hearing. Although it is impossible to be sure from where he's sitting. The flash is in a hidden area at the back of the room. A blind spot. Blocked by various columns and architectural elements. Giraut is sitting on some sort of platform to one side of the room. With his lawyer that's either Arab or from the Asian subcontinent. The area for the public looks in many ways like the seating area in a movie theater, with its lateral aisles and wider central aisle and its double doors at the very back. And yet, the district courtroom where the hearing is going on doesn't remind him of any movie theater. It's more like the pews in a church. Probably for not entirely conscious reasons.

  Lucas Giraut leans over the railing of his platform to try to see the back of the room. From where he is sitting he can see the whole room except for some parts at the back obscured by architectural elements. Marcia Parini is among the witnesses. Iris Gonzalvo is in the audience. Seated beside a guy with the biggest ass that Giraut remembers having ever seen on a man who wasn't morbidly obese. There is someone in the audience with white earbuds coming out of their ears. Giraut rests both hands on the platform's railing and twists his head as much as he can and even leans over the railing again to try to make out the flash that he thinks he's seen a couple of times now at the back of the room.