Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

Iris Gonzalvo has stopped paying attention to Bocanegra and is looking at something that approaches along the highway beyond the abandoned restaurant and playground.

“You'd better hurry up and shoot us already,” she says. And she brushes aside the locks of hair that fall over her pale forehead. “Because it looks like this place is getting popular.”

The three main characters in the scene plus Valentina, who is off to one side, look at where Iris is pointing. At the three rental cars with tinted windows approaching along the highway that have now taken the exit that leads to the abandoned service area. None of the four seem surprised by the appearance of the three cars. As if somehow they were all waiting for them, in some part of their minds. As if somehow they had all been aware the whole time that some dramatic element was missing to make the scene satisfactorily conclusive as a final narrative piece. As if they had been postponing the dénouement and buying time with their speeches until this new dramatic element arrived on the scene. Which is arriving right now. Driving in single file to the parking lot of the abandoned service area. The first rental car in the line of three rental cars passes over the remains of the broken fence and crashes into the back of the Jaguar. Moving the Jaguar several yards and causing a small rain of glass to fall onto the ground.

Iris Gonzalvo crosses her arms. She snorts.

“Since when do you park cars by crashing into the car in front of them?” she says. “Because I swear, no one told me about the new rules.”

Several individuals of above-average size and Slavic features come out of the cars. Some of them carry automatic weapons and one has a Soviet-made assault rifle. Finally the doors of the third car in the line of rental cars open and a bullet-shaped head leads the way for Leon's heavy figure. The last person to get out of the last car takes a moment getting out. The first thing that appears is one leg sheathed in black trousers with burgundy pinstripes, and then another. Finally the rest of the exquisitely dressed body appears, followed by a head with a patch covering one eye and a metal plate where there once was a right temple. Koldo Cruz stands up beside his car and pulls the lapels of his suit coat in an unconscious gesture of royal vanity. The suitological analysis that Giraut carries out on Koldo Cruz in their first official meeting yields the following results: an elegance too exquisite to be of this world and that melancholy that accompanies some emperors in history that have arrived at the peak of their imperial power and are now experiencing firsthand the loneliness of having it all.

“You.” Bocanegra stares at Koldo Cruz. With his eyes open very wide. With that face reserved for the appearances of people who are supposedly dead in movies where supposedly dead people appear at the end. With that expression members of pre-civilized tribes had on their faces as they watched the arrival of explorers from technologically advanced civilizations. “You. Here.”

The metallic sound of half a dozen automatic weapons and one assault rifle cocking in unison is heard. Bocanegra throws his gun to the ground and lifts his hands. Without blinking. Without taking his eyes off of Cruz.

This is a story about people that started the world. About people who have no father and no mother. This is not meant to be understood metaphorically. This is literally the story of the people who started the world.

Pavel leaves the arrival terminal at Norman Manley International Airport in Kingston, Jamaica. He stands on the other side of the automatic doors for a moment. Just standing. Looking around. With his military knapsack over his shoulder and his dreadlocks rocking softly beneath the sea breeze. The sky is a bigger sky than any he's ever seen. The ocean he can see behind the roofs and the highways is much bigger than the sea in Barcelona. And the airport. Pavel has never seen such a big airport. Spreading in every direction as far as the eye can see. Bigger than a lot of towns he's been in. Nothing like his fantasies of little aerodromes with palm trees and people dressed in white with sweat stains under their arms fanning themselves with wicker fans. There are quite a few men in suits and most of the people's clothes fall into the category of what Pavel considers normal, non-Jamaican attire.

Pavel clears his throat and spits on the ground. The last traces of European fluid in his lungs. The spit is scattered at his feet. Pavel observes it with detached curiosity. It's a strange spit. Strangely dark. Like some sort of dark thick fluid that's not like anything he can remember ever coming out of his lungs before. He shrugs and decides that it's as good a moment as any to light a cigarette.

In the line for taxis to the center of the city, Pavel is at least seven inches taller and much whiter than the rest of the people waiting in line. The people that look at him lift their heads and scrutinize him for just a second before going back about their business. The sun is bigger and hotter than any sun Pavel has ever felt before. For some reason, it seems to be summer instead of winter. When he gets to the front of the line, Pavel gets into a taxi driven by someone with a scar on the back of his neck and tries to explain that he wants to go to the city center. He takes a map out of his pocket and points at a spot. The taxi driver nods and takes off. Jamaica's Norman Manley International Airport is on a small peninsula surrounded by an endless stretch of dark blue ocean just south of Kingston. The taxi goes along a dilapidated highway surrounded by slums for five minutes and stops in front of a piece of open ground where the sun seems to have completely burned up all the vegetation. Pavel waits. The taxi driver turns halfway around and points a nine-millimeter pistol at him. A strange model, much older than any Pavel has seen before.

Thirty minutes later, Pavel parks the taxi on a street in the center of Kingston and throws the ignition key on top of the unconscious body of the taxi driver in the backseat. He sticks the pistol into the waist of his pants and leaves the car with a cheerful slam of the door. The streets of downtown Kingston are also much bigger and more crowded than Pavel had imagined. Wide avenues surrounded by mostly dilapidated buildings. Pavel throws his knapsack over his shoulder and starts walking down the street.

After walking several blocks, Pavel sits on the sidewalk to count his dollars and have a look at the people. A pretty large group of kids have been following him for a while and now seem to be both asking him for coins and making fun of his appearance at the same time. One of the kids is doing what looks like an imitation of Pavel, walking on tiptoes and chewing the inside of his cheeks and rolling his eyes. Pavel looks his map over several times, trying to find the beach. After a little while he decides to throw a rock at the group of kids and they start shouting at him threateningly and shooting at him with finger pistols.

Getting to the beach takes him a while. When he gets tired of wandering he stops another taxi and this time he decides to put his pistol at the taxi driver's temple while he shows him the map. The driver takes him to a pretty wide, nice beach, with various sizes of palm trees and little shacks with very loud music where they serve colored drinks in plastic cups.

Pavel throws his knapsack onto the sand and sits down, hugging his knees. A few feet from the waves. The sun is high in spite of it being late afternoon, according to Pavel's calculations. Or maybe late morning. He's not really sure. The beach is mostly filled with groups of young people with bottles and boom boxes. Some of them are dancing in a strange style that Pavel doesn't recognize, and passing joints around. No one seems to be wearing anything more than a swimsuit and a hat.