Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

Iris Gonzalvo turns her back to one of the blond, balding men so he can help her take off her coat again.

“Mr. Travers can't walk?” she says, taking a cigarette from the gold case the other man is offering her. “Is he very old? Or in a wheelchair?”

One of the men lights her cigarette. She lifts her chin and releases a mouthful of smoke toward the ceiling of the vestibule. There is a scene painted on the ceiling featuring something that looks like Egyptian gods. Those Egyptian gods with weird staffs and animal heads.

“Mr. Travers's problems are more spiritual.” The man who just spoke smiles again. “Mr. Travers is a very spiritual man. As you will soon see.”

“It would be more precise to say that Mr. Travers has problems leaving the house,” says the other. “His spiritual problems get worse when he leaves the house. Any of his houses.”

“Please, follow us,” says the first man. “Mr. Travers is very excited about the possibility of acquiring your wonderful pieces. We are all excited. The photographs you sent were wonderful.”

Iris Gonzalvo rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses and follows the two men up the stairs. Even the way they go up the stairs seems strangely synchronized. Leaning their respective hands gently on the balustrade, one of them two or three steps ahead of the other. Both peeking back with a smile over their shoulders the way people do when they want to make their guests feel as comfortable as possible. On the last landing is the largest statue that Iris Gonzalvo has ever seen in her life. It depicts a life-size Roman chariot with a charioteer at the reins and a group of rearing horses. Both the charioteer and the horses are broken and missing pieces the way ancient statues do. One of the two men points to black double doors. With some sort of climbing plants carved into them.

“The doors are of Etruscan alabaster,” explains Mr. Fleck, or maybe it is Mr. Downey. “First century BC. Mr. Travers will now receive you in his smoking salon. And, please”—he places a hand gently on Iris's arm—“remember what we said about his spiritual problems. Be careful in there. Mr. Travers's special condition makes him a very delicate person.”

Iris Gonzalvo stubs out her cigarette in a standing ashtray. Finally she walks between the two men and pushes the doors open.

The first thing that draws her attention on the other side is the smell. A smell of something like incense that inundates the room and makes it hard to even breathe. Iris Gonzalvo brings a hand to her mouth and waits for her eyes to get used to the half-light. She seems to be in a room so big that the far end gets lost in the distance. The only light comes mostly from a small reading lamp covered with a cloth and the fireplace that burns in a remote corner of the room. Mr. Travers, if he's there, must be hiding in the dim light. Iris wonders if everyone in that place is fond of dramatic entrances. Of surprise appearances in scenes out of gothic novels. She stands beside the door for a moment, almost waiting for a section of the wall to turn and for the owner of the house to appear from the other side with a book open in his hands and a malicious smile. Then she shrugs her shoulders. If he wants to play hide-and-seek, she doesn't have a problem with that.

“Mr. Travers?” she asks the darkness. Trying not to give her voice that vaguely singsong tone that children use when playing hide-and-seek to call out to their hidden friends.

She walks past a table larger than any table she's seen before, and covered by what looks like a diorama of a World War II battle. She walks past bookcases jammed with old editions. Past taxidermied animals. Past wooden rocking horses and other antique toys. Past glass cases filled with old coins and nineteenth-century signs. Finally she gets to the fireplace. In that part of the room the objects' shadows dance nervously against the walls. Like nervous animals. The flames in the fireplace are high. Someone has stoked them very recently. Iris Gonzalvo stares at the rug in front of the fireplace and the three cats that sleep curled up on it, united in a strange furry ball without any visible heads or tails. Then her gaze moves toward the slippers beside the cats, goes up the legs that lead to the armchair in front of the fireplace, and finally rests on the man seated in the armchair who is looking at her with a calculating expression.

“My oh my,” says the man in the armchair with a British accent. “You are quite a beauty. There were no women like you the last time I was in Spain. There were pretty women, sure.” He purses his lips in a dubious expression. “But nothing like you, I can assure you.”

Iris Gonzalvo makes a gesture similar to a smile. With her arms crossed over her chest. One of the cats has woken up and is looking at her with that face cats have when looking at someone who's just arrived. Without curiosity. Without fear. Without sympathy. Without anything that can be associated with any kind of feline emotion. The man in the armchair is fat and has long curly hair and a puffy face and a weary look.

“Please, have a seat.” Mr. Travers points to an armchair in front of his. “Make yourself comfortable. I suppose those ruffians Fleck and Downey haven't even made you a drink.” He gets up heavily from the armchair. A cascade of something like crumbs of food falls from the front of his frayed wool sweater. “They must have already told you that I don't go out much.”

Iris Gonzalvo moves a pile of books and boxes that is in the armchair. The room's dim light, plus her sunglasses, makes her visual field some kind of abstract composition of faint splotches. Finally she sits and takes the drink Travers holds out to her. She takes a polite sip. Port. Whoever this nutcase is, he keeps acting like he just escaped from a vampire movie.

“It's been a very long time since I've heard anything from Arnold Layne.” Travers collapses once again into the armchair in front of the fireplace. “Almost thirty years. Heavens, you weren't even born, I'm sure. Then everyone that was seriously into collecting rare pieces had heard of Arnold Layne Experts. And that society with the funny name. What was it called? Down With The Sun?” His puffy face twists into an expression that could indicate nostalgia. Something in his long, dirty curly hair makes him look somewhat like an over-the-hill transvestite. “Do you have any idea what I'm talking about, Miss DeMink? Do any of these names ring a bell?”

Iris Gonzalvo begins to feel a burning desire to light another cigarette. After all, one of those blond guys had said this was the smoking salon.

“I'm not authorized to reveal the names of the people I represent,” she says finally. “You understand.”

Mr. Travers nods. He leans forward a bit and starts searching in a pile of papers on top of the little table beside the armchair. The shadows of his body and arm dance nervously along with the rest of the shadows in the room. To the rhythm of the high flames. Finally Travers pulls a business card out of the pile. He stares at it with a frown.

“Penny,” he reads. “What is your name short for, Miss DeMink?”

Iris Gonzalvo thinks for a moment.

“Penelope,” she says finally.

“Penelope.” Travers smiles affably. “How appropriate. I suppose you must feel stuck in some dark cold place. Wanting to get out into the light.” Some sort of crowing escapes his lips, which Iris imagines is an affable laugh. “I know you must think I'm a nutjob with millions coming out of my ass while I rot slowly in this horrible place.” He gestures to his surroundings. “Don't be too hard on me. My illness took me by surprise one day, in the middle of the street. You can't imagine how it was. And now that I can't go out anymore, I like to have all my things in reach. That's why everything is so full of stuff. And you should see some of the rooms upstairs.” He points to the ceiling and crows. “But don't think that I asked to become a hermit. I used to love strolling through London. Sailing. Visiting all those wonderful cities around the world.”