Javier Calvo: Wonderful World

Five minutes later, Saudade has drunk what was left in the bottle of cheap whiskey, has hung up the sign that says “FULL” in front of the entrance in spite of the fact that more than half of the spots are free, and has left the parking garage through a small metal door that opens onto a back staircase for employees. The staircase ends at another identical door, a couple of floors above. Saudade uses his hand to comb his hair, exhales a mouthful of air into his cupped hand to smell his breath, and finally shrugs his shoulders and pushes the door open.

On the other side is a hallway with women in underwear and waiters in white bolero jackets and red bow ties. Saudade closes the door behind him. Two girls in underwear and stiletto heels who are sharing a cigarette stare at him with disgust. One says something to the other in a low voice and they leave.

Saudade passes through the employee area of The Dark Side of the Moon. He picks up a glass of whiskey from a drink cart pushed by a uniformed waiter and drinks it with a distracted expression. The waiter frowns. It is clear that whoever rules that enormous adult nightclub that is the universe doesn't show many signs of sympathy toward Saudade or his fate. In turn, Saudade has always devoted a large part of his physical and intellectual energy to taking his personal revenge on said ruler, either by destroying his property or venting his anger on the rest of the staff and the clients. Now he turns a corner, looks over his shoulder to make sure that no one is watching, and opens the door to one of the private rooms where the female employees take their breaks.

Inside the break room, a young woman in underwear who is lying on a sofa watching television stares at him with an irate expression.

“Not in your wildest dreams,” she says. “I'm still aching from the last time. And that was more than a month ago.”

Saudade closes the door softly behind him while he lowers his Umbro sweatpants. The way he is able to carry out these two operations simultaneously indicates a degree of skill that defies the laws of physics. During the next five minutes, in the heart of the empire built by Mr. Bocanegra, on a corner of the Upper Ensanche flanked by glass buildings, a symphony of shrieks, thuds and the sounds of tearing lingerie fills one of the break rooms for female personnel. Then there is silence. Saudade leaves the room cautiously. He is fixing his hair with his fingers and rearranging his clothes when a hand rests on his shoulder, a hand larger and heavier than any other hand that Saudade has ever known. A hand that defies conventional ideas about the size a human hand can reach. Saudade observes the hand and then his gaze travels up the arm, as thick as a leg, that's attached to it, and finally lands on the body and then the head of Aníbal Manta.

“Where have you been?” says Aníbal Manta. There is something incongruous in his crew cut and hoop earring. Something that doesn't quite mesh with his gigantic body or his belly that looks like a hot air balloon. Or with his custom-made Italian suit. “Bocanegra wants you in his office right now.” Then he gestures with his thumb toward the stairs. “We'll talk about you leaving your work post again later.”

Saudade shrugs. He follows Aníbal Manta to an elevator with velvet walls and a crystal chandelier inside and then through a hall flanked by statues. The statues, as anyone who knows Bocanegra is aware, are Bocanegra's main passion outside of work. Although that last part requires a certain speculative effort, given that no one has ever seen Bocanegra not working. It's not an easy idea to imagine either. Saudade waits with his arms in the pockets of his sweatshirt in front of the door of Bocanegra's office while Aníbal Manta announces his arrival. His gaze lands on a marble statue that represents a bearded guy with no arms wearing a sheet. Saudade shakes his head. He can understand that there are statues so old that some pieces have fallen off. What ticks him off is that there are people so stupid that they keep making new statues without arms.

The door to Mr. Bocanegra's office opens. Aníbal Manta makes a sign for Saudade to enter. Saudade stares with a half smile at the superhero comic that Manta has rolled up in his suit coat pocket, long enough to make sure he's annoyed Manta, and then finally goes into the office. More statues. More expensive rugs. More velvet on the walls. Mr. Bocanegra is seated at his mahogany desk, leaning back while one of the female employees from the nightclub files the nails on one of his hands.

Saudade sits in a leather chair with arms.

“Did I say you could sit?” Mr. Bocanegra lifts his eyebrows. His gesture makes trembling wrinkles form all over his bald pate.

Saudade gets up from the leather chair.

“I must say I'm impressed.” Mr. Bocanegra nods appreciatively. He places his feet on the mahogany surface of his desk. “In the time I've had you here you've shown yourself to be, by far, the worst worker ever at The Dark Side of the Moon. And we've had some bad ones in the past.” He pauses. He sighs. “Even Aníbal is capable of doing two or three things well, if one is careful not to give him tasks that surpass his intellectual capabilities. But you, Saudade.” He stops and looks at Saudade, who is standing in the middle of the office without showing any special sign of paying attention. “You have shown yourself to be useful for absolutely nothing. And that impresses me.”

Saudade looks out of the corner of his eye toward the part of the office where Aníbal Manta is standing, very still, as if he were trying to camouflage himself among the office's statues. Manta's stance is reminiscent of that stance soccer players take when creating a barrier for the opposing team about to make a free kick. Standing at attention with their chins high and covering their groins with their hands. Saudade doesn't know why they've called him to Bocanegra's office today, but he knows it's not because of anything he's done wrong. After all, he's not tied to a chair with that idiot Manta breaking his fingers. In his opinion, they've called him here to give him a vacation. So he can devote himself full-time to some secret, highly lucrative job of a special nature.

“I've called you here to send you on a vacation,” says Bocanegra. Leaning his head to get a better view of the plunging neckline of the girl who is filing his nails. “I'm sure that everyone will be pleased to hear it. Especially the girls.” He pauses. The girl who is working on his nails rolls her eyes. “I need you to devote yourself full-time to a job that's just come up. A highly lucrative job. Of course, this conversation does not leave this office. I defer to the usual threats if you talk out of turn.”

Saudade clears his throat. The tip of the tongue of the girl who is filing Bocanegra's nails sticks out from between her lips in a gesture of concentration.

“You'll be working with Aníbal.” Bocanegra moves the tip of his shoe on top of the mahogany desk and examines it with his eyes gathered in search of scratches or dull spots. “We will also bring in Pavel and that idiot Yanel. In other words, the whole team.”

What's incongruous about Manta's appearance, about his crew cut and his hoop earring and the superhero comic book that sticks out of the pocket of his suit jacket, is the feeling that you are looking at a high school kid who's been subjected to some monstrous growth procedure through atomic radiation treatments.

Saudade looks at Bocanegra and bares his teeth in a horrible expression that, against all common sense, seems to be his way of smiling.

A thick blue cloud of dry ice swells and hisses around the sports car whose door Eric Yanel is struggling to open. The car's roof and doors are printed with the corporate logos of an international cigarette brand. Eric Yanel kicks the inside of the printed door. One of those patently pointless kicks people do when they are starting to lose their patience. The location of the cigarette ad shoot is a field of epic proportions, in that stereotypical way that fields are epic in television commercials. Three advertising models, in winter coats beneath which they seem to be wearing nothing at all, stand about six feet away from the sports car, waiting for orders from the director's assistant. Making those noises with their mouths that people make to show that they're cold. Standing next to the camera, with a half-eaten doughnut in his hand, one of the technicians on the shoot looks with a frown at the hissing cloud of dry ice that is moving at top speed toward the area where the crew and cars and the catering van are.