Wonderful World

by Javier Calvo

  “This is an outrageous scandal,” the plaintiff's lawyer is saying. The same sickly-looking redheaded lawyer. “We already warned the court that this could happen. We already offered evidence that the defendant is involved with organized crime. And things have been allowed to go this far.” He points to Carlos Chicote, head of the International Division of LORENZO GIRAUT, LTD., who is sitting in the witness area. Chicote's terrified, overwrought face is an attempt to smile sycophantically. “The witness is shaking like a leaf. I wouldn't be surprised if he was being threatened by someone in this very room. And basically trying to sabotage this trial. When we have sworn declarations implicating the accused. Your Honor, this hearing must be suspended. Investigations must be made into this.” The plaintiff's redheaded lawyer makes a gesture as if loosening his tie without actually loosening it. “I'm talking about an in-depth investigation of the defense's methods.”

  It appears that Giraut's lawyer is carrying out a series of ambiguous movements with his hand in his crotch area. Giraut doesn't see any female near the platform that could hypothetically be associated with those movements. The rings that the lawyer's wearing on his dark hairy hands somehow accentuate the overall lasciviousness of his appearance. Thick heavy gold rings. His little neat beard, like Peter Gabriel's in the eighties, also accentuates his lascivious air. Marcia Parini smiles nervously at Giraut and waves. From the witness bench. Most of the audience seems to be only partly paying attention to what is going on at the front of the courtroom.

  “Let's see.” The judge of the District Court now addresses Carlos Chicote. With a frown. The judge seems to be all brow and forehead with no chin. Creating a marked imbalance in his features. “Mr. Chicote, I will remind you that there are written statements. I will remind you that you have signed documents. And that this is a court of law. You say that you don't remember anything. But it is all very clear in here.” He lifts up a couple of files from his judge's table. “Your written declarations are key evidence in this hearing and in the entire process. It is clear that we wouldn't have gotten to this point in the proceedings without them. I quote you a few examples. To refresh your memory,” he says, opening one of the files. His thick glasses don't exactly help to mitigate his top-heavy features. “You state in your declaration: 'Mr. Giraut systematically blocks all the company's international operations. His behavior is erratic and inexplicable. He suffers fits of rage and flaunts his personal reckless spending. He goes through company offices with fewer clothes on than basic professional decorum dictates and often behaves obscenely in front of the female employees. Sometimes he locks himself in his office the whole day and comes out dressed in period clothing.' I am quoting. On page seven of your statement there is a conversation quoted in extenso with the defendant. I'll remind you of just one small part: 'Mr. Giraut called me to his office one day and showed me a series of photographs of his friend V.P. and other underage girls between six and thirteen years old. He made sexual insinuations about the girls and told me that a child's beauty was the most exquisite kind. He said it was a shame that society only accepted one kind of love and that if some of the things he had done came to light he would be sent to jail.'”

  The judge with the top-heavy face lifts his brow and forehead from the paper he is reading and looks at Chicote with his eyes slightly squinted behind his thick glasses.

  “It sounds like a story that would be hard to forget, Mr. Chicote,” he says. “It's very strange that your memory has deteriorated so much. Do you still state for the record that you don't remember anything?”

  Lucas Giraut now not only has both hands on the railing of the platform but also his head and the upper part of his torso over it. Looking toward the back of the room. Several members of the public have noticed and turned their heads to try to see what Giraut is looking at. Seeing a flash at the back of the room doesn't necessarily mean that the flash comes from a metal plate on anyone's head. Mistaken associations, after all, are normal in situations of emotional stress. The ethnically ambiguous lawyer could also be from some part of the South Pacific or even North Africa. In his repeated hand movements over his general groin area there are no indications that he is looking at Iris Gonzalvo out of the corner of his eye. Somehow, even though the temperature outside is as cold as a Barcelona winter gets, the atmosphere inside the courtroom is such that everyone has taken off all their outer garments. Many men raise one hand instinctively to the knot in their ties. Marcia Parini fans herself with a magazine she's taken out of her purse. There is no trace of Estefanía Giraut or her lawyer Fonseca in the room. Iris Gonzalvo is wearing a picture hat and dark glasses and a short dress with red tights. The man with the exceptionally large ass sitting next to her is leaning forward, taking notes or writing something in a notebook that rests on his thighs.

  “I don't remember anything,” Chicote answers with the same terrified expression. For some reason, the way he answered seems to suggest that he isn't responding to the judge presiding over the District Court, but rather to the smiling face of Aníbal Manta, who is sitting in the first row of the audience. “I'm not saying all those things never happened.” He looks out of the corner of his eye at Aníbal Manta's face. “Of course, I'm not saying that they did either.”

  The sweat that drips onto Carlos Chicote's eyelids, forcing him to wipe his eyes every once in a while with the back of his hand, could merely be a product of the heat in the courtroom. Although there is nothing in his appearance that indicates he is in any kind of pain, certain nuances of his expression are reminiscent of the face people make when they've just hurt themselves. The judge is now extending his neck to see something in the back of the room. Many of the audience members have turned to look in the same direction. If Lucas Giraut's butt had any less contact with the chair he would be standing.

  “The session must be suspended,” says the plaintiff's lawyer. He makes the gesture again, of loosening his tie without really doing anything to it. He bites the end of his Montblanc fountain pen. “It's the only thing fitting in this situation. To avoid a scandal of unimaginable dimensions. One of those cases that cast shadows on the entire judicial system.” He gestures widely around him with the bitten end of his Montblanc. “This requires an in-depth investigation. It's obvious that witnesses have been pressured. There was also a certain incident a week ago having to do with an extortion note that needs to be looked into. We have to bring to light all of the defendant's schemes and connections to the crime world.”

  Except for when he's addressing someone or somehow moving around the complex pile of files that he has on his table, the facially top-heavy judge remains stock-still. Looking at the person or persons who are speaking. Without blinking. Without any visible alterations to his facial musculature. The man with the unbelievably big ass keeps taking notes in his notebook and nodding his head and smiling enigmatically. Like those people that attend a conference or performance and nod and smile to show that they know exactly what is happening and even what is about to happen. The person in the audience with the small white earbuds coming out of his ears isn't the only person in the room wearing earphones. Giraut doesn't see any stenographer transcribing what is going on. Nor does he see magistrates with wigs, nor that stand, which looks vaguely like a cage, that they use for people accused of violent crimes. Maybe there's a special room in the building for violent criminals, with those cagelike stands. Lucas Giraut has never before been the accused party in any judicial proceedings. Before now. Beside him, the non-European lawyer has stood up and is clearing his throat with a brown, ring-filled fist in front of his mouth.

  “With the permission of the court, Your Honor,” he says. There are no foreign inflections in his voice. “I believe there are enough indications to suspect that the witness's written statements were signed under duress.”

  The facially top-heavy judge stares at the witness from behind his glasses and asks him if he signed any statement under any sort of duress. He reminds him that he is under oath. Part of the public's attent
ion, which was diverted toward the back of the room, now returns to the front. The witness rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and smiles sycophantically and looks at Aníbal Manta. Who is sitting in the front row of the audience. With a T-shirt of the classic formation of the X-Men under his suit jacket. The witness shrugs his shoulders.

  Wonderful World

  CHAPTER 47

  The Crooked Lady Cops' Party

  There is a crooked lady cop's uniform strewn on the floor of the Private Room of the upper level of The Dark Side of the Moon, the kind that is used every year for the Crooked Lady Cops' Party. About six feet from where Aníbal Manta is having sex with the young owner of the uniform, who is currently naked. The uniform is made up of six pieces of clothing: a police hat, a short-sleeve button-down shirt, a leather miniskirt, a pair of stiletto heels and a white cotton G-string. The way Manta and the owner of the uniform are having sex on one of the sofas is as follows: Manta seated with his pants at his ankles and his arms extended along the back of the sofa, and the young woman sitting on top of him with her legs on either side of his body and her arms resting on his shoulders. The muffled but constant beat of dance music comes from the floor downstairs.

  “Mr. Manta?” says a woman's voice from the other side of the locked door of the Private Room of The Dark Side of the Moon. There is a hint in her voice that could convey some sort of fear or perhaps general awkwardness. “Sorry to bother you. But we may have a problem downstairs.”

  The signs of physical fatigue in the young woman having sex with Aníbal Manta are starting to show. Manta doesn't understand why it is practically impossible for him to get good erections even when his sexual partners are attractive young women from Eastern Europe like the dancers at The Dark Side of the Moon. Even when he doesn't have other men in front of him whose sexual vigor and genital size give him that familiar sensation of emotional stress. Manta turns his head to one side and checks his watch. It's obvious that what he's feeling during sex isn't what he should be feeling. The mere fact that the young dancer is trying with all her might to make him climax annoys him and makes him feel uncomfortable. Even though she's an exceptionally attractive nineteen-year-old. Even though he can't deny she's skilled and has considerable sexual stamina. In that sense, Mr. Bocanegra has always been in favor of paying more money for better dancers. It's as if the dancer's stamina and effort give Manta a feeling of psychological pressure and emotional tension that paradoxically keep him from achieving that level of satisfaction that his sexual partner expects of him.

  “Mr. Manta?” repeats the voice from the other side of the locked door. “We have a guard down. I think his nose is broken. It's hard to tell with so much blood.”

  The dancer's movements on top of Aníbal Manta have become slower and less frequent throughout the almost forty minutes they have been having intercourse. Now Manta slaps her on the ass and grabs her with his enormous hands and picks her up off his lap like a little child. The dancer collapses onto the sofa with trembling legs. Manta lights a cigarette and expels a mouthful of smoke with his gaze fixed on the door. It is true that acts of violence are much more satisfying to him, in every sense, than sex. Which is something that his psychologist seems to not only find interesting in and of itself, but also indicative of many other things that Manta doesn't like to think about. In general, Manta finds it tedious and a bit annoying when his psychologist starts going on at length about the issue. The person on the other side of the locked door knocks hesitantly on it.

  “Here you go, sweetheart.” He tosses a wad of rolled bills at the trembling dancer. “Remind me to buy you a drink later downstairs. Or two.”

  The dancer drags herself over to one of the small glass tables and sniffs a line of coke. She lifts her nose and inhales sharply and stretches her neck in every direction like people do when they have a stiff neck. Manta keeps smoking with his pants at his ankles. All signs of any kind of erection he may have had in the last forty minutes are now gone. The dancer picks up her G-string from the carpet and puts it on one leg at a time and goes to open the door. Manta walks to the door of the Private Room with those short strides people take when they have their pants down at their ankles. Those penguin steps. In general, he doesn't understand why the hell people knock on the door and bug him when he has made it very clear that no one should come knocking on the goddamn door.

  “I hope you have a good explanation,” says Manta to the waitress on the other side of the door to the Private Room. The waitress isn't wearing a corrupt policewoman uniform. The waitress is wearing white minishorts and is chewing gum and has her hands on her hips. “I'm waiting.”

  The waitress makes a gesture with her hands that could convey something like impotence.

  “It's Saudade. He climbed up one of the towers,” says the waitress. “With a bat. We don't know how to get him down. One of the guards is down for the count. The other took a few hits, but looks like he'll recover. The girls are putting ice on him. And I think one of the male dancers has a broken arm. I think we have a problem. There are a couple of tables broken, and some chairs and the glass on the bar,” she says. She stops to watch as the dancer finishes picking up her uniform from the floor and leaves. “Our problem showed up pretty wasted about an hour ago and kept drinking. Then he grabbed one of the girls by the hair and dragged her and tried to stick the…” She shrugs her shoulders. “Well, it doesn't matter. That's when the male dancer tried to stop him and got his arm broken.” She furrows her brow. “No, wait. That was later, when he threw the chair over the bar.”

  Manta continues smoking in silence. With his shrunken, slightly bruised penis visible between his enormous hairy legs. Somehow, he thinks, fate could be offering him a wonderful opportunity. Something that he's been trying to do for years and which has probably turned into what his psychologist would probably consider some sort of repressed inner torment. Brought on by something he should have done a long time ago and never did. In the end, you shouldn't underestimate the healing power of certain acts of violence. The waitress still hasn't mentioned the fact that Mr. Bocanegra is about to arrive any minute now to preside over the Crooked Lady Cops' Party. One of the most popular parties at The Dark Side of the Moon. Visitors from all over the country are expected, and others that made reservations from France and Italy. A large group of passengers from a cruise ship docked in Barcelona is expected. They set up a backdrop with a prison theme and two elevated platforms with searchlights on top, imitating the shape of prison observation towers. So the girls can dance on top of them. Bocanegra came up with the idea after seeing a performance in Amsterdam where the girls danced holding spotlights in their hands.

  “Mr. Bocanegra could arrive at any minute,” says the waitress. She blows a bubble with her gum and pops it almost immediately. “If we didn't have enough problems already.”

  Aníbal Manta sighs and pulls up his pants. Two minutes later and two floors below, the private elevator for staff and management of The Dark Side of the Moon drops Manta off inside the circular bar of the Eclipse Room. A dozen girls dressed in crooked cop uniforms are taking cover behind the bar with the waitresses and the inert body of one of the club's security guards. At hip height, the crooked lady cops wear a belt with a loop designed to carry their billy clubs. In the billy club loops, the crooked lady cops carry long latex double-sided dildos. The security guard who's down for the count has a face full of blood and a gap where his upper incisors should be. Manta picks a piece of chair up off the carpet and looks at it thoughtfully.

  “He says he's gonna burn the place down,” says the waitress to Manta. With her arms once again on her hips. The waitress seems to think that hands on hips is an appropriate stance for moments of emotional tension and conflict at work. “And he stinks to high heaven. Some of the girls are thinking that maybe we should call the police.”

  Manta stares at the dancers dressed as policewomen who are considering the option of calling the police. The dancers lower their eyes. Obviously ashamed. One of t
hem is wringing out a wet rag above the unconscious security guard's head. Manta walks up to the stage platform overshadowed by a large banner that reads “THE CROOKED LADY COPS' PARTY” and looks up.

  On top of one of the two towers with searchlights in the prison set, dressed in his Umbro sweat suit that it's hard to believe was once just powder blue and white, Juan de la Cruz Saudade waves at him with the hand that holds his baseball bat. In his other hand he has a can of gasoline.

  “Manta.” Saudade raises his voice from his position high up on the tower. “I know I wasn't invited to the party, but I decided to come anyway. I used to be a cop. Anyway, who wants to come to this hole?” He makes a wide gesture around the club with the baseball bat that says “I KILL BARÇA FANS” written on it in permanent marker. “I only had a little bit of gas left in the tank, so I decided to make good use of it.”

  Manta calculates the possibilities of climbing up the scaffolding that makes up the body of the tower and taking out Saudade without getting a potentially lethal blow to the head with the bat. The situation is definitely a picture-perfect occasion. The ideal occasion to give Saudade that thrashing that would be so positive for Manta's psychological evolution. A thrashing with broken bones and permanently altered facial features. Perhaps with spinal injuries that would leave the son of a bitch in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. This incident, after all, is worthy of such a thrashing. And leaving Saudade as a pile of broken bones on the floor would undoubtedly mean months of therapeutic progress in one fell swoop. But the question is how to go about it.