by Javier Calvo
“Shoot 'im,” shouts someone from inside the circular bar. “Aim at his leg.”
Manta rubs his chin with a thoughtful face. Aníbal Manta's chin is much larger and wider and harder than the usual human chin. Shooting Saudade is definitely a viable option. And he'd probably break a bone or two in the fall. But it's not really the same as being able to grab him with his hands and feel his bones and facial features crack under the weight of his fists. He wonders if maybe there's some way he could get some kind of helmet and climb up the tower safe from Saudade's bat. But he can't quite see it. The dance music continues rhythmically hammering on the club's deafening sound system. Standing in front of the tower scaffolding, Manta feels like a not very diligent student faced with a complex logic problem.
“Hey, Manta.” Saudade's voice sounds slightly singsong from the tower. “Did you tell 'em that your wife screws all your neighbors? The whole building. Except Manta, of course. I'm not surprised.” There is a pause mixed with the sound of a cough coming from the top of the tower. Or maybe heaving. A few drops of something viscous fall on Manta from above. Then he hears Saudade's rich, mellow voice again. “Oh yeah. Smart girl, your wife.”
Manta grabs the scaffolding with his giant hands. His face a grimace of emotional stress. The way he grabs the steel bars of the scaffolding is powerfully reminiscent of the way certain very furious large apes grab the bars of their cages at the zoo. Looking through the bars with a murderous expression. And that's when Manta notices something strange behind his back. Not exactly silence, because the music continues blaring. But the screams and threats of the waitresses and the dancers taking cover behind the bar have suddenly stopped. Indicating that something has just happened in the Eclipse Room. Manta turns slowly to look over his shoulder. Without letting go of the bars of the tower.
Mr. Bocanegra, Showbiz Impresario and owner of The Dark Side of the Moon, is standing at the door of the Eclipse Room. Flanked by statues. Imposing in his clearly feminine mink or sable coat. Planted in the doorway with his hands on his hips and a frown on his enormous, shiny head.
“What the hell is going on here?” Bocanegra looks at the remains of chairs, tables, bottles, trays and other objects that are strewn over the dark carpet. “What is all this stuff doing on the floor?”
The music plays at full blast for a long moment of no one answering. Someone makes a sign with his hand above the bar filled with broken glass. Bocanegra walks over to the bar of The Dark Side of the Moon and looks over it to the other side. He looks first at the group of kneeling dancers and waitresses and then at the still unconscious security guard who has bloody water running down his forehead and cheeks.
“You have three seconds to explain what is going on.” Bocanegra slugs down the contents of one of the few intact glasses still on the bar. “Or heads are gonna roll.”
Several dancers come out from behind their barricade and take refuge behind Bocanegra's back. At the foot of the tower, Aníbal Manta clears his throat and shuffles his feet nervously like a six-foot-two kid caught somewhere he shouldn't be. Bocanegra looks up toward where the fingers of the barricaded girls are pointing behind him. He is still wearing the obviously woman's coat and is rubbing his hands to warm them up.
“Ooooh, I'm so scared,” says Saudade sarcastically from up on the tower. “Mr. Bocanegra. Ooooh, he's a real gangster! He could have our kneecaps broken!” He brings his fingertips to his cheeks like the actresses of the twenties did to convey fear. “Well, you don't scare me, you two-bit gangster.” He holds up his can of gas proudly. “It's time to take it down a notch or two, you bald bastard. You've been laughing at me for years. But you're not laughing now, are you? Looks like it's time to start negotiating.” He kisses the can of gas and almost loses his balance. “Unless, of course, you want me to just burn the place down.”
No one says anything for a long moment. In the Eclipse Room at The Dark Side of the Moon there are not only velvet sofas and wooden platforms and statues. There are also tapestries on the walls and framed engravings that mostly depict female nudes and classical scenes with fauns and nymphs and women with pale chubby bodies fleeing from hefty men in forest settings. The set onstage represents some sort of back alley adjacent to a prison wall. With a garbage can and an old-fashioned streetlight.
“Aníbal,” says Bocanegra. Without taking his eyes off the dance platform transformed for the occasion into a prison observation tower. “Bring me the ax. And you,” he says to Saudade, “of all the cretins I've had working for me over the years, you are the biggest, stupidest cretin of them all. You take the prize. Congratulations. And now, we're going to negotiate.” Bocanegra takes off his woman's coat. He gives it to one of the dancers and then removes his suit coat and rolls up his shirtsleeves. “The only difference is that my ax is going to do my negotiating for me. You can think of it as my agent.”
Bocanegra grabs the ax that Manta has just brought out from the other side of the door near the bar that says “PRIVATE—STAFF ONLY” and wistfully taps the handle into the palm of his hand a few times. His forearms are so hairy that in some places his skin seems covered with some kind of closely-knit black cloth. His mouth is pursed under his mustache in a way that could convey rage but also has an element of cruelty that's hard to miss. His way of gathering momentum for the first blow makes you think of a golfer before a long shot. With a rotating motion of his entire upper torso accompanied by a swinging of the arms.
The first blow to the structure of the tower makes the entire thing tremble and sends back a sound of metal against metal that sets your teeth on edge. Someone lets out a whistle of admiration. Someone comments that after all, in the end, the Crooked Cops' Party only really needs one observation tower. Saudade grabs on to the scaffolding-like structure with one hand and starts frantically patting down his pockets with the other.
“One minute,” he shouts from up on high. “Anyone got a match?”
The second ax blow sends pieces of the tower's base flying.
Wonderful World
CHAPTER 48
German for Dummies
Barcelona's El Prat Airport first thing in the morning is a whirlwind of businessmen and women in suits that come out of taxis with cell phones stuck to their ears and pick up their boarding passes in the machines at the air shuttle terminal. There are pairs of national police officers that scrutinize the terminals with sleepy faces, looking for terrorists. There are invariably rosy-cheeked and healthy female exchange students dragging mountains of luggage behind them in carts with wheels. Their faces tired. In the midst of the executive whirlwind first thing in the morning at the airport, Pavel opens up his fake passport to the page with his photograph and contemplates his new identity. He trusts that the language exercises he's been doing the last two nights will solve any difficulties that might arise.
Pavel is in the check-in line for British Airways Flight 733 to London, where he'll change planes for Kingston, Jamaica. With a foam cup of coffee in his hand. Pushing his suitcase with his feet as the line moves forward at a torturous pace. Most of the other passengers bound for his flight are young Englishmen with hangovers. A guy with a shaved head and a Chelsea jersey is throwing up into a bag. Not one of those paper bags the airlines give you to throw up into. It is a regular plastic bag from a souvenir shop. There are also a couple of very serious Hindustani men who look like international terrorists, but Pavel doesn't see anyone who looks Jamaican, or like they're headed to Jamaica. There is someone in the line wearing a full-body bunny costume, the kind that have become popular in Barcelona this winter. Pavel takes a sip from his foam cup filled with coffee. The suit he's wearing is rented. He only had to pay the deposit and now it's his for the rest of his life. In Jamaica. Since Pavel is very tall and thin and only really looks good in custom-tailored suits, the light gray wool suit he's wearing is a little baggy in the butt and legs. A British Airways employee is examining the line for flight 733 and asking for identification from the passengers that look suspicious. Wh
en she passes Pavel she smiles and points to his suitcase with her head.
“Going to Jamaica?” says the British Airways employee.
“Yes.”
“Very appropriate,” she says. Pointing to Pavel's head. “The hairdo.”
Fifteen minutes and one British vomiting emergency later, Pavel arrives at the front of the line, pushing his suitcase along with his feet. In the nearby police frisking zone, the giant bunny is taking off his full-body bunny suit so they can search him. Pavel puts his documents on the counter. The stewardess in charge of check-in picks up his fake passport and his plane ticket and does that classic visual operation they do in airports, looking alternately at the passport photograph and at its holder. Her eyes show no sign of suspicion.
“Guten Morgen, herr Schumpfpeter. Sie reist nach Jamaica?”
Pavel nods cautiously.
“Mathias,” he says.
“Excuse me?” The stewardess at check-in looks up.
“I say you call me Mathias, please.”
Pavel tries to speak in a tone that conveys self-confidence. That's how he imagines Germans speak. Always conveying self-confidence.
The stewardess picks his plane ticket up off the counter and starts typing into her computer terminal. While staring at the screen. Pavel places his suitcase on the conveyor belt for suitcases, which is immobile. Checking his ticket seems to be taking more time than necessary, thinks Pavel, but really it's the kind of process that always seems to take longer than it should. Pavel smiles and tries to duplicate the expression in the photo in the fake passport. Behind him, some of the passengers on British Airways Flight 733 start to show signs of impatience. In some part of the line a couple of heaves are heard and then the vaguely liquid sound of someone vomiting.
“Mr. Schumpfpeter,” says the stewardess after a lapse of time that seems much longer than necessary for a routine reservation check. “There is a problem with your reservation.”
Pavel looks around him out of the corner of his eye. There don't seem to be police officers or private security guards approaching with handcuffs in their hands or beating their billy clubs into their palms. Although his smile doesn't fade, Pavel's entire body seems to have suddenly acquired that elastic tension that athletes have on their marks, ready to run as soon as the starting shot is fired.
“Mr. Schumpfpeter,” says the reservations stewardess. “It seems we have an overbooking problem. Your seat on the London-Kingston flight has been reserved for another passenger.” The stewardess speaks without looking up from the monitor or pausing in her typing. Pavel notices some sort of stiffening in his neck region. “I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Schumpfpeter. Luckily, the plane isn't full. We can offer you a seat in first class. If you don't mind, that is.” The stewardess looks up for a second and waits for Pavel to shake his head. “Okay. In that case, wait a moment and we will issue another ticket so you can pick up your boarding pass in London.”
Pavel turns his head and gives an apologetic smile to the sour-faced Englishwoman behind him in line who is now looking at him with contempt. It's one of those apologetic smiles given to the people behind you in line during situations of involuntary conflict. To make it clear that you aren't the one creating the inconvenience. Or to try to create a situation of general solidarity among the members of the line. The sour-faced woman looks away. The stewardess is waving the ticket over the counter to get Pavel's attention back.
“Mr. Schumpfpeter,” she says. She hands him several papers inside one of those paper sheaths airlines use. “Here is your boarding pass. Now follow that stewardess over there and we'll give you your new ticket.”
Pavel looks over at where the check-in stewardess's arm is pointing. The second British Airways stewardess that approaches the check-in counter with a smile is identical to the first except for the fact that she is plumper and carries a very large walkie-talkie in her hand.
“Mr. Schumpfpeter?” says the new stewardess. “Come with me to the ticketing area, where we'll issue your new ticket.”
Pavel crosses the terminal behind the second stewardess, letting his gaze wander over the groups of businessmen with cell phones and the sleepy policemen and the healthy exchange students dragging their mountains of suitcases. Every once in a while, some man offers to help one of the exchange students and they haul the crammed cart between the two of them, laughing and making internationally kind and understanding comments. Almost all the Arab and Hindustani men look like international terrorists. All the employees of the airport cleaning service have earphones in their ears. Pavel watches it all with the expression halfway between arrogant and disconcerted of someone convinced he will never set foot in that place again and if all goes well will spend the rest of his life in a much better place. With a lot more palm trees. With colorful houses that remind you of the colors of parrots and other tropical birds. With unpaved city streets where people set up their stalls to sell fruit and their hammocks to have a nap in or just chat with the neighbor. With that constant sound of crickets lulling you to sleep. And with the best music in the world. The music was what started it all. All of Pavel's current plans for a new life.
The stewardess stops in front of the British Airways ticketing offices. Which are still closed. A sign says that the ticket service opens at nine thirty, Monday through Friday. The stewardess opens a side door to the offices with a magnetic key shaped like a credit card and asks him into some sort of waiting room. The seats are covered in the British Airways corporate color scheme. There are no ashtrays. There is no piped-in Muzak. There are piles of magazines on the small glass tables. And a man sitting in one of the seats reading a magazine. Pavel sits across from the other waiting passenger and takes a copy of German for Dummies out of his back pocket. The stewardess leaves through the other door. The face of the man sitting across from Pavel is covered by the magazine he's reading. Pavel is practicing pronunciation in his head, moving his lips to silently articulate the phrases Ich bin ein Ausländer and Wo ist die Diskothek, when he thinks to look up. The magazine the man sitting in front of him is reading is a magazine about cars. Pavel's teach yourself German book falls to the floor.
“Don't get mad.” Commissioner Farina lowers the magazine he's reading and puts it in his jacket pocket. With a sleepy, happy expression. “We thought about nabbing you when you got home yesterday, but it turns out that the French had put out an arrest warrant on the idiot that bought the jewelry from you. You gotta make nice with the neighbors.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Anyway, we didn't want to rob you of all these hours of anticipation. The wonderful night you just had. These hours of happiness courtesy of the Barcelona Police Force.” He mimes putting a medal on the front of his shirt. Commissioner Farina's shirt, just like the rest of his clothing, looks like it was bought out of a catalogue on one of his coffee breaks. “We love you, Bob Marley. By the way.” He takes a quick look at Pavel's attire. “Someone should have told you that Germans don't wear shoes like that.”
Pavel looks down at his rented Italian shoes with the tips slightly pointed outward and the teach yourself German book between them. The carpet in front of the seat is full of round black cigarette burns that look a bit like coffee beans. Or maybe coffee beans in negative. Pavel rubs his temples with his index finger and thumb. The thoughts that come to his mind are once again alarmingly out of sync with any type of Rastafarian teaching.
Wonderful World
CHAPTER 49
The Years of Physical Impossibility
Iris Gonzalvo lights a postcoital cigarette with her eyes squinted and her mouth a bit twisted. The way people light cigarettes when they are lying horizontally on sweaty, messy beds. Especially postcoital cigarettes. She blows out the first mouthful of smoke and turns her head to look at Lucas Giraut, who is lying beside her. Naked except for his socks.
“That was horrible,” she says. “Probably the worst I've ever had. I didn't feel a thing. Not to mention how boring and quick it was. I was about to grab a magazine. Didn't
anyone tell you no one fucks in that position anymore? Drops of sweat were falling on my face.”
Iris Gonzalvo brings the cigarette to her lips again. In spite of everything she's saying, Giraut can't see any element of irritation or resentment in her face. He also doesn't see that amused expression people have when telling funny sexual anecdotes to a unisex group of their peers.
“I've never seen anyone so inflexible,” she says. “Or who seemed so close to having a heart attack.”
From the bed, lying faceup, Giraut can see the wooden beams and the high, slightly vaulted ceiling of what was, in its day, a room in a duke's palace. Maybe a duke's bedroom, or a duke's library. Or a duke's bathroom. Or a duke's fishing trophy room. Giraut imagines the bedroom he's in with the walls covered in fishing trophies and photographs of fishing expeditions. With taxidermied fish mounted on plaques. With six-and-a-half-foot-long swordfish. With the largest red tuna ever fished from the Mediterranean. With black-and-white photographs showing people with many-pocketed vests. A shiver runs down his back.
“I'm really sorry.” Lucas Giraut takes the cigarette Iris Gonzalvo offers him between two fingers. “I guess you're used to doing it with another kind of man.”
Iris Gonzalvo stares at Lucas Giraut as if she doesn't understand. Giraut shrugs. In his opinion, sex requires an intensity of physical effort and vigor practically incomprehensible in relation to the ephemeral and ineffable nature of its gratification. Not to mention the foreplay. Not to mention how hard it is to do it all well and give your sexual partner the satisfaction that guarantees her desire to retain you as a sexual partner. It's a mystery to Lucas Giraut how people manage to resolve sexual situations and keep their partners. None of that diminishes Iris Gonzalvo's sexual appeal. Which is undeniable.