Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

Lucas Giraut and Iris Gonzalvo nod their heads more or less simultaneously. They are both sitting with their legs tightly together and their hands on their laps at the foot of the child-size bed in Valentina Parini's room at the clinic. The colors and objects in the room seem to have been chosen based on their therapeutic qualities. The walls are painted in a sedative tone of light green. The television in front of the bed plays something that looks like a loop of calming images of deserted natural landscapes and animals in the wild. Around the bed, half a dozen members of the center's cleaning crew wearing very thin latex gloves are searching the room in search of Stephen King's New Novel. A female member of the crew is taking all of Valentina's clothes out of a drawer, unfolding them carefully and then refolding them into a cardboard box. Another one is standing on a bench and taking the curtains down. Another is kneeling on the ground checking to see if any of the floor tiles are loose. Giraut is wearing an ink blue Lino Rossi suit. Iris is wearing a sky blue Lilly Pulitzer dress with a low back but not a plunging neckline, and she decided not to wear much makeup. Considering that she's supposedly the stepmother of a poor girl locked up in a mental ward.

“How can you be so sure…?” Iris reads the name on the ID tag that the medical intern has clipped to the front of his white coat and looks into his eyes. “…Victor? I mean, it doesn't seem possible that she's read that book. With such strict observation and so much staff here at the center. I imagine that you are investigating other possible causes of her deterioration. That's what I would do.”

In one of the corners of the ceiling there is a security camera, which emits a buzz that's barely audible beneath the sedative music coming from the television. Iris Gonzalvo stares at the intern as she talks to him. With a convincingly maternal blend of frankness and worry. The intern whose name tag identifies him as Victor frowns.

“I read that book.” He is turning the pages of his plastic-covered file as he speaks. Without looking at them. His expression of professional consternation sets itself apart from nonprofessional expressions of consternation by the slightly deeper tone of his voice and a hint of distracted calmness in the way he addresses them. “It's a good book. Entertaining, that's for sure. I'm not saying it's not interesting. Everybody likes that kind of entertaining book once in a while. But that's not the point. We have heard descriptions of certain creatures from Valentina. We have seen her make certain gestures with her hands when she's alone, on the security camera tapes. We've identified certain drawings on the inside of the bathroom stall doors.” It seems that his way of turning pages in the file is just a nervous gesture, just like the chewing on a pen or playing with a little ball that other nervous people do when they talk. “It's obvious that she is identifying with what happens in the book.” He shrugs his shoulders. “For example, she's convinced that I'm a slave to the aliens.”

On the table where Valentina Parini is sitting, drawing with colored pencils on a pile of white drawing paper, there is a copy of The Lost Rivers of London by Álex Jardí. With the classic signs of wear on the spine that indicate it has been opened too wide. The book is on top of a tidy pile of books in large octavo format. All with the same dimensions. Valentina Parini doesn't seem to be trying to eavesdrop on what is happening on the other side of the room. Although her appearance hasn't changed noticeably since the last visit, somehow she isn't the same person. There is absolutely nothing childlike or prepubescent in her face or her expression. Her expression is determined and at the same time empty. They have cut her hair in a way that accentuates the verticality of her face and the wideness of her forehead and she is wearing a patch over her eye, held on by strips of translucent white hospital tape. What she's drawing on every sheet of paper are almost identical variations of the same drawing. A white dog with black spots chasing a butterfly.

“I understand perfectly how you must feel at times like this.” The doctor crosses his arms in such a way that the plastic-covered file hangs from one of his hands beside his hip. “Considering that you have just flown in from Uruguay on the first flight after hearing the news and all that. But you have to understand that it is a very slow process. It could take weeks to get any response from her. We should be prepared.”

One of the members of the cleaning crew clears his throat and indicates to Lucas Giraut and Iris Gonzalvo with a latex-glove-covered gesture that he needs to inspect the space under the bed they're sitting on. Giraut stands up and wipes the lower part of his back with both hands in an instinctive gesture that he does every time he gets up from a seat that isn't one of his own personal chairs. Next to him, Iris Gonzalvo also stands. She picks up her handbag with the tag from the Montevideo airport still stuck to the handles and takes Giraut by the arm in a classic marital gesture. She kisses his hairless cheek, leaving an almost perfect red lipstick print. The intern looks at both of them with an intensified version of his slightly distracted expression of professional consternation.

“I'm going to leave you alone with the girl for a few minutes,” he says. “It's the least we can do, I guess. Considering you haven't seen her in so many years. There's a button for emergencies by the door.” The medical intern named Victor points to the comer of the ceiling where the security camera buzzes in a barely audible way. “And remember that we are watching the whole time.”

Giraut waits for the members of the cleaning crew to leave, followed by the medical intern. The television is showing supposedly calming images of a group of male penguins chasing a terrified group of female penguins. In the Antarctic. Giraut approaches the tables, takes a chair and sits down. No one says anything. Iris remains standing by the bed.

“Valentina?” Giraut examines the drawings on the table with a frown. The dog chasing the butterfly has one of those anthropomorphic smiles typical of representations of animals in children's storybooks. The dog is smiling happily and chasing the butterfly with cheerful bounds through a field filled with flowers. The same drawing is repeated on each and every one of the sheets of drawing paper. “This is a highly secret meeting. We know what your situation is here.”

Valentina rolls her only visible eye. Giraut thinks he can also see some sort of pursing of her lips that could be a mocking expression. The way she draws dogs chasing butterflies is: with the tip of her tongue sticking out through her lips, in that universal gesture associated with artistic concentration. She holds the colored pencils by grabbing them with almost her entire hand. Like little kids do. Giraut sighs and intertwines his fingers on top of the plastic surface of the table.

“You have lipstick on your face.” Valentina speaks without looking up from the paper. “You don't have to explain anything. Thanks for the books.” She shrugs. “I can't talk,” she adds, and makes a subtle gesture with her only visible eye toward the only window in the visiting area.

Giraut looks at the window with a frown and then looks at Valentina. He gets up from his chair. He goes over to Iris and whispers something in her ear. Iris takes a pen out of her handbag with the airport tag and draws an X on the upper part of his neck. Then she turns so Giraut can draw an X on her neck, too.

“We bear the Mark of the Resistance,” Giraut says to Valentina. Approaching the table again. “You can check it if you want.”

Valentina stops halfway through drawing a canine smile with her tongue out and looks up. She puts the pencil down on the table. Her only visible eye looks at Giraut with interest. Giraut leans over the table and Valentina lowers the neck of his shirt a bit with her hand to examine the pen mark carefully.