Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

There is silence at the table where Iris Gonzalvo and Lucas Giraut are seated. Allowing the background noise of the restaurant to invade the space between them. That sarcastically sophisticated murmur of expensive restaurants. On the wall closest to them there are photographs of guinea pigs and laboratory animals before and after having been inoculated with artificially mutated organisms in an attempt to find new vaccines. On the walls there are panels explaining the contents of each photo. Right behind the hanging crocodile, in the direction his three-foot-long tail is pointing, there is a series of framed photographs, in black and white, of blind animals from the area surrounding Chernobyl's nuclear power station. At first glance, one wouldn't notice anything mutant or special in the anatomy of the crocodile that hangs from the ceiling. Nor would one see anything that explains why so many people would want to dine in a restaurant with such decoration. In any case, it seems clear that the Atomic's strategy of surrounding diners with unpleasant or potentially nauseating images is the key to its success. A success echoed in reviews around the world. On many television channels. With pixels covering the photographs' contents. The last word in Barcelonian design. With imitations already up and running in Tokyo and Chelsea. Iris Gonzalvo finally leaves her spoon by the side of her plate and shrugs her shoulders.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” she says. “But I understand the part about your father. Fathers are important. Mine was a tall, very handsome man. And I was his favorite daughter. Because I was the prettiest and all that. I guess it's because of my father that I am the way I am. And because of him that I'm here right now. I mean that I do everything I do because of men. For men. If it weren't for men, I wouldn't be an actress. But I am what I am. And I guess men are the audience for what I am.” She makes a gesture that could indicate helplessness. Iris's gesticulation isn't exactly a question of nuances. It's more defined by what's missing. Like the silhouettes created by atomic explosions. “And I guess it's all my father's fault. And that I wanted him to like me all the time and that kind of thing.”

One of the waitresses, with the restaurant's trademark blank expression, asks for permission to remove their plates and bring their second courses. Both Giraut and Iris have chosen something called The Manhattan Project, according to the embossed menu in the shape of a nuclear mushroom. Among its ingredients is something called Projectile Squid Sashimi.

“Miss Iris,” says Lucas Giraut, once the waitress has gone.

“Lucas.” She interrupts him again. Now that she's not wearing sunglasses, her eyes are large and green and have those kinds of large, thick lids that give the impression that her eyes are never fully open. “I think it would be better if you just left out the 'miss.' It will make things easier if we're going to end up fucking.”

Lucas blinks.

“That isn't what I'm trying to suggest,” he says. “You are mistaken as to my intentions. I'm not doing this so I can sleep with you.”

Iris takes out a pack of English tobacco from her purse and places a cigarette between her lips. She waits for Giraut to take out a lighter and light it for her, protecting the flame with the palms of his bony hands. Then she exhales a mouthful of smoke.

“You're a good guy,” she says. “A bit odd, maybe. But that's to be expected, considering you're an antiques dealer and all that. You aren't like all the other men I've met, that's for sure. You still haven't tried to fuck me. You haven't offered me drugs or tried to impress me. And I don't think you're into guys. I'm good at seeing that kind of thing. I don't know why I like you. It must be intuition,” she says. She pauses while one of the waitresses places their second courses on the table. The raw squid in the dish known as The Manhattan Project really are shaped like torpedoes or projectiles about to be launched from a plane. “I think we can work together. I'm not saying that you're doing what you're doing just so you can fuck me. That's clear for the moment. My romantic relationship with Eric has been a pretty negative experience. That doesn't mean I'm doing things out of spite or to try to make him feel bad.” She pauses. There is nothing in her attitude that suggests she has any intention of eating her second course. “Although I have to admit that I chose this place so we would be seen together. A lot of Eric's friends come here.”

Lucas Giraut looks around him. Since they arrived at the Atomic restaurant, which is full at dinner hour, he's had the feeling that the other customers have been watching Iris Gonzalvo. Although they've only known each other for a few days, he has already realized that this seems to happen everywhere she goes. Like a vortex. Like some sort of magnetic force field that moves along with her. Causing reactions at neighboring tables and in practically everyone that crosses her path. The most shocking photographs at Atomic aren't in the main room. They are in the wide, well-lit hallway that leads to the bathrooms. A series of photographs showing different types of burns and wounds on victims of nuclear explosions. The location of said photographs is a question that isn't explained by any of the restaurant reviews that Giraut has read. Now he notices a man who is staring at Iris Gonzalvo. The man takes a pair of glasses out of his pocket and puts them on so he can see her better. He blinks several times and furrows his brow. The man is dressed entirely in white. His white suit has scallop trim and frills embroidered into the lapels and the sleeves that give the suit a certain Mexican air without actually making you think of Mexico at all. His face is unrealistically tan.

“I don't know who that woman that came to your apartment the other day was,” says Iris Gonzalvo. “But she wasn't your girlfriend. I can always tell these things. An ex-girlfriend, maybe.”

The tall man dressed in white has stood up and is now walking toward their table without taking his eyes off the low-cut back of Iris's dress. Iris follows Giraut's gaze as the tall man dressed in white stops beside their table and crosses his arms.

“Santi.” Iris looks at the man with a cold smile. “What a wonderful surprise. Let me introduce you to my friend Lucas Giraut. This is Santi Denís.”

“Terrific.” The face of the guy with the white suit is one of those artificially tanned faces where the entire complex system of facial wrinkles has transformed into a moving network of white lines. The effect is reminiscent of how spiderwebs are depicted in comic books. “As far as I'm concerned you can screw the king of Spain if you want. I was expecting a slightly more remorseful attitude after you lied to the security guards at my party and snuck into my bedroom. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. In fact, the less I talk to you the better. Your asshole boyfriend owes me a lot of money. I haven't had his face broken yet only because I can't find him. But you.” He uncrosses his arms and sticks a big tan finger into Iris's bare shoulder. “You do know where he is. And I'm not going to make a scene here. As much as I'd love to give you a good beating. But give him a message for me. He has twenty-four hours to give me my money.”

According to the restaurant review of Atomic that appeared in one of Barcelona's biggest newspapers, the place “descends to the kingdom of the atavistic as it confronts food and death. There is nothing in this place that doesn't bring you back to death's primal impulse and the fear that it arouses, from the employees' surgical garb to the hanging crocodile and the allusions to unnatural births and deaths. The masterpiece is undoubtedly the images of mutagenic explosions in the hallway leading to the bathrooms, where the nutritional act/mutated birth finds its parallel in the elimination/death by disintegration.” Iris Gonzalvo exhales a final mouthful of cigarette smoke and stubs out the butt in the saucer that holds the table's candle. She looks at Lucas Giraut with a slightly tense half smile and shrugs her shoulders.