Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

“I vouch for her,” says Lucas Giraut. He takes a drag on the cigarette with his soft and slightly namby-pamby face. “She's exactly what we need. We have an opening. The sale operation starts in a few days. Mr. Yanel isn't in any condition to run the operation, because of his depression. She can do it. Almost better than Yanel.”

A silence filled with sips on their respective drinks, pensive drags on their cigars and cigarettes, and surreptitious glances at Iris Gonzalvo's legs once again hovers over the three men at the bar. The way Iris Gonzalvo is playing darts, in the center of a ring of men that applaud her movements and attend to all of her needs, seems to be altering the very nature of the game itself. It's something in the way she throws the darts. Taking a couple of sips of Finlandia with tonic between dart and dart. Or perhaps licking a pinch of salt from the back of her hand just before downing a shot of tequila in one swig and biting a lemon wedge. There is something unyielding in the way she plays. As if the board and the darts and the cycle of turns were no longer just a simple game. As if it were an oracle. An arcane code. An astral or solar system for figuring out the universe. And the men that are playing with her seem to sense that on a very profound level. They seem to be worshipping their high priestess. That barely visible swaying of her hips is discernible on a deeper level and seems to be transforming into the very center of the universe.

“Fuck.” Mr. Bocanegra wipes off a few drops of sweat that have started to drip off his exceptionally shiny bald head. “I wish she did work here. That girl has talent. Damn.” He loosens the knot in his tie a bit. “Bring her a drink.” He gestures toward Aníbal Manta. “The most expensive drink we have. Send them downstairs for it if need be.”

Aníbal Manta leaves his empty drink on the bar. The bar of the Eclipse Room at The Dark Side of the Moon is circular and has multicolored lights. And in the center of the bar there is an elevator.

A burst of laughter comes from the darts area. Pavel is trying to throw a dart with his right arm, which is in a sling. Exaggeratedly leaning his body forward to compensate for his lack of mobility. He finally makes his throw. Whistles and applause are heard. The dart traces a weak downward parabola and sticks between someone's feet. Now insults are heard among the whistles.

Lucas Giraut watches how Aníbal Manta approaches Iris Gonzalvo and whispers something in her ear. The other dart players clear their throats and look away and feign interest in other things. Iris Gonzalvo nods blankly at whatever it is that Manta is telling her. She takes the large glass of Finlandia that one of the other dart players offers her and takes one of those sips that look like just a slight wetting of the lips but which actually lower the level of the drink considerably. Finally she looks toward the spot at the bar where Giraut and Mr. Bocanegra are and nods again. She raises her glass toward the owner of the establishment. Although she has stopped playing, her gestures continue to have that same oracular quality. Giraut suspects that the sensation could be due to Iris Gonzalvo's sexual appeal. To that ineffable and almost otherworldly quality that very sexually attractive people have. That quality that always makes you think that no matter how much you look at them, you are always missing something essential about them. That almost magical resistance to your gaze.

The men move aside as Iris walks to the bar. They watch each of her movements with animal attention. With that mix of caution and aggressiveness with which animals pay attention. Iris Gonzalvo's sex appeal and her ineffable aura produce a certain sensation that she is in a film, walking in slow motion. With that otherworldly elegance that slow motion bestows.

Finally she arrives at the bar. She puts a hand on Lucas Giraut's shoulder. An intimate gesture. No one present perceives the almost imperceptible shiver Lucas Giraut makes under her hand.

“Lucas tells me your name is Iris,” says Mr. Bocanegra. In a vaguely wary tone. As if for some reason that information didn't seem altogether convincing.

Iris Gonzalvo puts her empty glass in Aníbal Manta's enormous hand. Manta stares at the glass. Then he looks at her. With an incredulous expression.

“I guess Lucas has brought you up-to-date on the kind of business we're dealing with.” Bocanegra doesn't wait for her to nod or give any sign of having registered his words. “We aren't the kind of company that advertises in the yellow pages. In fact, we don't advertise anywhere. Fuck, even calling us a company is a bit much. We are a gentlemen's club. In other words”—Bocanegra's face transforms into an expression of open cruelty—“people don't put the jobs they do for us on their résumés.”

“I've already brought her up-to-date on those things.” Lucas seems to have unconsciously moved away from Iris's hand. “She knows that we don't have time to waste and that she's going to have to start studying her role.”

Mr. Bocanegra lets out a grunt.

“In our line of work we deal with strange people,” he says. He makes a wide gesture with his glowing cigar. “People who also aren't interested in advertising themselves. Eccentric people. Sometimes even paranoid. You have to understand how this world works. Collectors are passionate people. I myself collect statues. They're people who are forced to break certain laws and take advantage of other gray areas that the law doesn't mention. That doesn't mean they hurt anybody, most of the time. But they are forced to tread carefully. To sleep with a pistol under their pillows, to use a metaphor. I hope you are following me attentively, kid.” He points to Iris with the incandescent tip of his cigar. “Because I don't look kindly on you just pouting your lips and showing me a bit of leg every once in a while instead of really thinking about what I'm saying.”

Iris Gonzalvo doesn't seem intimidated. In fact quite the opposite. Her smile widens a bit. Her body settles a bit more comfortably on the stool. Her crossed legs uncross and cross again in such a way that the pale section of leg that's visible grows before the men's eyes.

“Tell me about this Mr. Travers,” she says. Taking the glass of champagne that Aníbal Manta offers her. “The buyer.”

“If I knew everything there is to know about Travers,” says Bocanegra, “I wouldn't be sitting here in front of you and selflessly offering you the most expensive bottle of Krug that I have in my wine cellar. More expensive than all the clothes any of us are wearing, including my friend Mr. Giraut. Because Travers isn't a guy who lets people know anything about him. That's how these guys protect themselves. That's how they become almost untouchable. There are people who have found out things about him, sure.” He shrugs his shoulders. “But they've disappeared without a trace. And I don't think they went anywhere very pleasant.”

“We know that Mr. Travers has a house in Paris,” says Giraut. “A palace in the center of the city. He does most of his business from there. The security system is almost as expensive as the house itself, or that's what I'm told. The truth is we don't have enough information yet.”

“Travers is a rich fuck.” Mr. Bocanegra waits for the waitress to serve him a cup from the bottle of Krug opened especially for this executive meeting. The waitress's expression as she serves the champagne is one of reverential fear. Like the face of someone handling something equipped with detonators and colored wires and a plutonium core. “Not rich like those guys in Fortune magazine or Forbes. Rich like the people that aren't in those magazines. You know what I mean. Let's just say there are two kinds of rich people.” He pauses. He picks up the glass and takes a sip.