Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

Lucas Giraut runs a hand through his long straight hair, still damp from his morning shower. Deep down he is aware that his pale eyebrows and round, mostly hairless face and his slightly droopy eyes give him a namby-pamby look that makes a lot of people not give him the due respect conferred by his age and position. Or at least the conventional respect between adults in society. One of the reasons why he can't find any conventionally tranquil elements on the beach is that Giraut has no conventional experience of beaches. He never went to the beach as a child, except maybe to the breakwater by the house in the Ampurdan. There was no one to take him. Giraut imagines that the conventionally tranquil aspects of beaches are one more of the elements that distinguish him from the rest of the population. Now, sitting in front of an irregular line of shells and dried seaweed and litter, he realizes that he doesn't need to turn around or look over his shoulder to know that Saudade is no longer with him.

Pavel thoughtfully observes his reflection in the glass display case of the jewelry store he's about to rob. In violation of most of the basic rules on how to rob a jewelry store. For example, every occasional jewelry store robber knows that the first golden rule of said activity is that more than one person is needed. Not just because there always has to be someone watching outside or at the door. There is also the danger of being outnumbered by the store staff, or even the difficulty of gauging the relative value of the pieces stolen and therefore the paradoxical danger of being ripped off by the victims. Of course, Pavel knows all of this in theory. But Pavel has a dream. A pressing dream, which has to do with palm trees and ubiquitous black women with ample asses. In normal circumstances, he himself would laugh at the idiot looking at himself in the display case. But Pavel doesn't even remember the last time he was in normal circumstances.

Standing in front of the jewelry shop's reflective display case, Pavel adjusts his starter pistol inside his sweatpants and checks his dreadlocks. The way he is looking at himself is the way people look at themselves in reflecting surfaces when checking their hair. Sucking in their cheeks or maybe even biting the inside of their cheeks and lifting their eyebrows high and moving their head slightly from one side to the other. His dreads are fine. According to all the relevant parameters. Their length is approaching the desired length. The reason why he's carrying a starter pistol is because it's much cheaper than a real one. Besides the less catastrophic repercussions in the case of a trial for illegal possession of weapons.

The time for his scheduled entrance into the jewelry store is about to appear on the screen of his cell phone. Pavel isn't carrying his usual khaki canvas backpack from the army surplus store. He's carrying one of those black bags with very long handles that doctors used to carry back in the olden days. When they made house calls in the middle of the night. Those bags that make you think of shiny instruments with serrated blades and syringes the size of travel-size deodorant sprays. The wide section of the inside of the jewelry store that can be seen through the display window is dimly lit compared to the street. Pavel rummages around in his bag more appropriate to a doctor from the olden days and takes out a series of objects that include sunglasses and a gray wool hat. There seems to be someone inside the store. Behind the counter. Sitting in a chair behind the counter under a large horizontal painting. A girl who seems to be fingering something small with both hands. The way Pavel puts on the gray wool hat is: carefully making sure all of his dreadlocks are inside. On the door there's a sign that says “OPEN” and a sticker on the upper part with a schematic drawing of a camera that warns that the store is connected to the police station through closed-circuit television. Pavel puts on his sunglasses and pushes the door open.

The inside of the jewelry store is much darker than the street. Pavel blinks. His sunglass-covered eyes try to adjust to the level of light. On the door there are other stickers that depict the different credit cards one can use in the jewelry store and its membership in various professional business associations. Pavel turns the “OPEN” sign so that the side that says “OPEN” now faces inside the store.

The door closing activates an automatic sound similar to a bell ringing. Pavel scrutinizes the area where the wall meets the ceiling, looking for security cameras. The sunglasses aren't exactly helping him to make out the details inside the jewelry store. The salesgirl looks up from the small object in her hands that, judging from the high-pitched electronic noises it's making, seems to be some sort of portable game device. Pavel is standing in the middle of the jewelry store with his sunglasses and gray wool hat and his black leather bag hung over his shoulder. Staring at the large horizontal painting on the wall behind the counter. Right above the salesgirl. The painting depicts a fortified rectangular structure with defensive turrets and some sort of taller inner building. Pavel points to the painting.

“That the Temple of Jerusalem?” he asks. He takes off his sunglasses to get a better look. “The Temple of Solomon? The original?”

The salesgirl pushes a couple of buttons that interrupt the flow of electronic noises coming from her portable device. Then she turns her neck to look over her shoulder.

“I don't know,” she says finally. “But I guess so. If that's what it says, then that's what it is.”

Pavel approaches the counter. He rests his palms on it and extends his neck to look more closely at the pictorial representation of the Temple of Jerusalem, his eyes squinted. He can't say he knows much about the Temple of Jerusalem or its history, but he knows enough about the Rastafarian movement and Bob Marley's music to understand that the temple occupies a central place in his philosophy and is prominently featured in many of his song lyrics. What is most disconcerting to Pavel about the painting is how underwhelming the temple is, in every sense. Considering the whole people of Zion and the history of Babylonia and the lion that breaks his chains and all that stuff.

“How can be possible?” Pavel speaks without taking his eyes off of the painting. “I mean, it was someone what was there that painted it? Or they made the painting later, from memories of their mind?”

The salesgirl looks at the painting again. There is something incongruous about her appearance. Something probably having to do with the formality of her jacket versus the winding tattoo that peeks out from the collar of her blouse and runs up one side of her neck. As if for some reason the two things couldn't possibly belong to the same person.

“I don't know,” says the salesgirl. “You'd have to ask my uncle. I can tell you the prices of the stuff on sale. I can even sell them to you.”

Pavel thinks for a moment. Then he takes the pistol out of his sweatpants.

“Get on floor,” he says to the salesgirl. “Flat on floor. Like this.” Pavel puts his hands behind his head as a demonstration.

The salesgirl with the suit jacket and the tattoo lies facedown on the floor, with her hands behind her head. With the self-confidence of someone who has seen enough movies to know perfectly how the victim of a robbery in a jewelry store should lie down. Then she looks at Pavel with a vaguely expectant expression. Like a low-level employee waiting for instructions from a supervisor. Pavel thinks he can see the salesgirl chewing gum.

“Are you here alone? No?” Pavel waits for the salesgirl to shake her head. “Your uncle here? Your uncle the boss?” He waits for the salesgirl to nod her head. “Call this uncle now. Call him.”