Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

The first blow to the structure of the tower makes the entire thing tremble and sends back a sound of metal against metal that sets your teeth on edge. Someone lets out a whistle of admiration. Someone comments that after all, in the end, the Crooked Cops' Party only really needs one observation tower. Saudade grabs on to the scaffolding-like structure with one hand and starts frantically patting down his pockets with the other.

“One minute,” he shouts from up on high. “Anyone got a match?”

The second ax blow sends pieces of the tower's base flying.

Barcelona's El Prat Airport first thing in the morning is a whirlwind of businessmen and women in suits that come out of taxis with cell phones stuck to their ears and pick up their boarding passes in the machines at the air shuttle terminal. There are pairs of national police officers that scrutinize the terminals with sleepy faces, looking for terrorists. There are invariably rosy-cheeked and healthy female exchange students dragging mountains of luggage behind them in carts with wheels. Their faces tired. In the midst of the executive whirlwind first thing in the morning at the airport, Pavel opens up his fake passport to the page with his photograph and contemplates his new identity. He trusts that the language exercises he's been doing the last two nights will solve any difficulties that might arise.

Pavel is in the check-in line for British Airways Flight 733 to London, where he'll change planes for Kingston, Jamaica. With a foam cup of coffee in his hand. Pushing his suitcase with his feet as the line moves forward at a torturous pace. Most of the other passengers bound for his flight are young Englishmen with hangovers. A guy with a shaved head and a Chelsea jersey is throwing up into a bag. Not one of those paper bags the airlines give you to throw up into. It is a regular plastic bag from a souvenir shop. There are also a couple of very serious Hindustani men who look like international terrorists, but Pavel doesn't see anyone who looks Jamaican, or like they're headed to Jamaica. There is someone in the line wearing a full-body bunny costume, the kind that have become popular in Barcelona this winter. Pavel takes a sip from his foam cup filled with coffee. The suit he's wearing is rented. He only had to pay the deposit and now it's his for the rest of his life. In Jamaica. Since Pavel is very tall and thin and only really looks good in custom-tailored suits, the light gray wool suit he's wearing is a little baggy in the butt and legs. A British Airways employee is examining the line for flight 733 and asking for identification from the passengers that look suspicious. When she passes Pavel she smiles and points to his suitcase with her head.

“Going to Jamaica?” says the British Airways employee.

“Yes.”

“Very appropriate,” she says. Pointing to Pavel's head. “The hairdo.”

Fifteen minutes and one British vomiting emergency later, Pavel arrives at the front of the line, pushing his suitcase along with his feet. In the nearby police frisking zone, the giant bunny is taking off his full-body bunny suit so they can search him. Pavel puts his documents on the counter. The stewardess in charge of check-in picks up his fake passport and his plane ticket and does that classic visual operation they do in airports, looking alternately at the passport photograph and at its holder. Her eyes show no sign of suspicion.

“Guten Morgen, herr Schumpfpeter. Sie reist nach Jamaica?”

Pavel nods cautiously.

“Mathias,” he says.

“Excuse me?” The stewardess at check-in looks up.

“I say you call me Mathias, please.”

Pavel tries to speak in a tone that conveys self-confidence. That's how he imagines Germans speak. Always conveying self-confidence.

The stewardess picks his plane ticket up off the counter and starts typing into her computer terminal. While staring at the screen. Pavel places his suitcase on the conveyor belt for suitcases, which is immobile. Checking his ticket seems to be taking more time than necessary, thinks Pavel, but really it's the kind of process that always seems to take longer than it should. Pavel smiles and tries to duplicate the expression in the photo in the fake passport. Behind him, some of the passengers on British Airways Flight 733 start to show signs of impatience. In some part of the line a couple of heaves are heard and then the vaguely liquid sound of someone vomiting.

“Mr. Schumpfpeter,” says the stewardess after a lapse of time that seems much longer than necessary for a routine reservation check. “There is a problem with your reservation.”

Pavel looks around him out of the corner of his eye. There don't seem to be police officers or private security guards approaching with handcuffs in their hands or beating their billy clubs into their palms. Although his smile doesn't fade, Pavel's entire body seems to have suddenly acquired that elastic tension that athletes have on their marks, ready to run as soon as the starting shot is fired.

“Mr. Schumpfpeter,” says the reservations stewardess. “It seems we have an overbooking problem. Your seat on the London-Kingston flight has been reserved for another passenger.” The stewardess speaks without looking up from the monitor or pausing in her typing. Pavel notices some sort of stiffening in his neck region. “I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Schumpfpeter. Luckily, the plane isn't full. We can offer you a seat in first class. If you don't mind, that is.” The stewardess looks up for a second and waits for Pavel to shake his head. “Okay. In that case, wait a moment and we will issue another ticket so you can pick up your boarding pass in London.”

Pavel turns his head and gives an apologetic smile to the sour-faced Englishwoman behind him in line who is now looking at him with contempt. It's one of those apologetic smiles given to the people behind you in line during situations of involuntary conflict. To make it clear that you aren't the one creating the inconvenience. Or to try to create a situation of general solidarity among the members of the line. The sour-faced woman looks away. The stewardess is waving the ticket over the counter to get Pavel's attention back.

“Mr. Schumpfpeter,” she says. She hands him several papers inside one of those paper sheaths airlines use. “Here is your boarding pass. Now follow that stewardess over there and we'll give you your new ticket.”

Pavel looks over at where the check-in stewardess's arm is pointing. The second British Airways stewardess that approaches the check-in counter with a smile is identical to the first except for the fact that she is plumper and carries a very large walkie-talkie in her hand.

“Mr. Schumpfpeter?” says the new stewardess. “Come with me to the ticketing area, where we'll issue your new ticket.”

Pavel crosses the terminal behind the second stewardess, letting his gaze wander over the groups of businessmen with cell phones and the sleepy policemen and the healthy exchange students dragging their mountains of suitcases. Every once in a while, some man offers to help one of the exchange students and they haul the crammed cart between the two of them, laughing and making internationally kind and understanding comments. Almost all the Arab and Hindustani men look like international terrorists. All the employees of the airport cleaning service have earphones in their ears. Pavel watches it all with the expression halfway between arrogant and disconcerted of someone convinced he will never set foot in that place again and if all goes well will spend the rest of his life in a much better place. With a lot more palm trees. With colorful houses that remind you of the colors of parrots and other tropical birds. With unpaved city streets where people set up their stalls to sell fruit and their hammocks to have a nap in or just chat with the neighbor. With that constant sound of crickets lulling you to sleep. And with the best music in the world. The music was what started it all. All of Pavel's current plans for a new life.