Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

Manta looks at him quizzically.

“That thing that happened in the gallery,” says Yanel, “wasn't normal, was it? That wasn't a normal blackout.”

Manta shrugs his shoulders.

“Who cares?” he says. “We have the paintings. And if you get your ass in gear, everything will work out fine.”

Yanel starts walking behind Manta, who has resumed his departure with his own brand of paradoxical gracefulness. Which stems from the seeming impossibility of anyone his size achieving any sort of gracefulness. Now the two men turn a corner and a tall office building with a parking area at back appears before them. The few pedestrians that walk after midnight through the neighborhood of bank headquarters and corporate buildings walk alone and stare intently at the ground in their path.

“I've seen that before,” says Yanel, jogging a bit to keep up with Manta. The speed makes his wave of blond hair undergo a new rhythmic, vertical waving. “The exact same thing. I didn't know before what it reminded me of, but I just remembered. And you should remember, too. I bet you've seen it in your comic books.”

Aníbal Manta goes into the building's parking lot and walks between the parked cars toward the van at the back of the lot with the corporate logo of “ARNOLD LAYNE, WOOD PARASITE SOLUTIONS” printed on one side. With the lightning bolt splitting the insect in half. Manta walks toward the frost-covered window of the van's cab. He lifts up one of his colossal arms and makes a series of taps with his knuckles on the window, causing several pieces of frost to fall to the parking lot's asphalt floor. No reply comes from inside the van.

“I remember it from movies about aliens.” Yanel uses his index finger to push the nonprescription glasses that are part of his disguise back on his nose. “When the spaceship passes by. You know. And everything stops working for a moment.”

Manta cleans the windowpane with his hand and looks inside. There is no one in the van's cab. His face transmits several degrees of shock and anger. Then he walks with furious strides toward the back doors of the van, followed by Yanel. He pulls open the back doors, which for a moment give the impression they're about to go flying. Manta and Yanel stare into the back of the van.

Saudade seems to have found a way to partially remove the “ARNOLD LAYNE, WOOD PARASITE SOLUTIONS” jumpsuit in such a way that the whole thing lies empty and wrinkled around his ankles. The naked young woman on her knees in front of his open legs has goose bumps. Saudade looks up and stares at Manta and Yanel. The young woman looks over her shoulder with Saudade's penis still in her mouth and stares at Manta and Yanel with a not-very-friendly expression. A little cloud of steam comes out of her mouth.

“This is how you keep a lookout?” says Manta. Blushing.

Saudade shrugs his shoulders.

“I thought I could start celebrating the job,” he says. “I knew you guys were gonna do everything right.”

Manta closes his fist so tightly that his knuckles turn blue and then break out in a slight layer of flush as a result of the sequence of bursting capillaries. Everyone present can clearly hear the wave of metacarpal bones cracking. Manta would love to do something extremely violent to Saudade's face. Something that would leave the entire inside of the van dripping with blood and would make Saudade's whore flee buck-naked through the wintry parking lot, shrieking feminine little shrieks and covering her mouth with her hands. But he can't move. He is held back by the same emotional stress due to feelings of inadequacy and physical grotesqueness that has always left him paralyzed in situations like this one. A shame too deeply buried to be grabbed by the ear and pulled out into the open for once and for all. Saudade's penis seems to be looking at him with a mocking, defiant expression. Enormous and perfectly erect. As if Saudade were mocking him and defying him to break out of his paralysis with the image of that perfect penis.

“Shouldn't we get out of here?” Yanel says in that moment.

Manta snaps out of his ruminations with a blink. Saudade is lighting a cigarette.

Lucas Giraut opens the gate to the private parking lot of the offices of LORENZO GIRAUT, LTD., with his remote control, so that the van that reads “ARNOLD LAYNE, WOOD PARASITE SOLUTIONS” can enter. The van is driven by Aníbal Manta, who parks it in the spot right next to Mr. Bocanegra's convertible Jaguar. The winter moon bathes the parking lot in a silvery light that makes you think of frolicking fairies. Among the things illuminated by the silvery light are Lucas Giraut and Mr. Bocanegra, standing motionless in the middle of the frozen cement floor, the latter sheathed in a long-haired fur coat that no one would hesitate in classifying as completely feminine. According to the news, this night that is drawing to a close will be the coldest of the year. Giraut and Mr. Bocanegra watch as the back doors of the van open. Eric Yanel and Saudade come from inside, each carrying a couple of special zippered bags for the transportation of fragile works of art.

Mr. Bocanegra starts clapping. In spite of the obstacle posed by the open bottle of Moët et Chandon he has in one hand.

“Bravo,” he says. His voice slightly nasal because of the cigar he holds in his teeth. “I can't say I'm proud. Who could be proud of morons like you. Not even your mothers. But I'm pleased.” He nods emphatically. He takes a sip on the bottle of Moët et Chandon. “You've made old Bocanegra happy.”

Five minutes later, they are all gathered in the warehouse of LORENZO GIRAUT, LTD., which Mr. Bocanegra has had decorated with a multicolored assortment of garlands and Christmas ornaments. With reflecting plastic balls and strings of multicolored lights that blink in mysteriously rhythmic patterns. Even the windows have been decorated with a special spray that imitates, with limited success, the texture of snow. There are a couple of those portable refrigerators that are like futuristic baskets filled with bottles of Moët et Chandon. There are folding tables on one side of the warehouse with hors d'oeuvres and cakes cut into triangular pieces. Everything is ready for the celebration to begin as soon as the last step is completed.

Raymond Panakian walks through the group of men, leaning on a pair of crutches. Lucas Giraut can't help but think that Panakian no longer really looks like himself. His socialist factory worker coveralls are the same, no doubt about that. Giraut has learned to recognize the odor of unwashed clothes and unwashed male body that emanates from the garment. The swelling still hasn't gone down enough on Panakian's face, however, for the new him to look like the old one. His shredded, swollen lips are sunken in where there used to be teeth. His jaw and mustache area seem to have turned a black color that makes you think of rotten steaks.

“Our friend Mr. Panakian has decided to change his appearance,” says Mr. Bocanegra in an explanatory tone. “You can never be too careful in his line of work.”

A derisive grunt rises up from the area of the warehouse where Bocanegra's minions are. Out of the corner of his eye, Giraut sees movements among the three men that could be nudges. Slaps on the knee. Now that he is closer, Lucas Giraut can see that Panakian's work coveralls have paint stains in every imaginable color and texture. Something about the stains suggests that they have been produced over several different decades. An archeological record of paint stains. The strings of blinking, multicolored Christmas lights project onto the coveralls producing once again that impression that Panakian is a dazed actor from the era of psychedelic cinema.