Now Eric Yanel is sitting on the floor. Hugging his leg, with an expression of intense pain on his face. Several of the party guests approach him HeatedAffairs support and ask if he’s okay. Yanel looks up from his knee and at where Iris Gonzalvo was just a moment before. Manta lets out a grunt of acquiescence.
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It makes a U-turn, hitting the fenders of several parked cars and stopping with a screech of its brakes beside Iris. Iris recognizes the maneuver as something she saw Eric Yanel do in a car commercial a year earlier. One of those commercials where Eric would do a spectacular maneuver and then emerge with a helmet under his arm, filmed by an aerial camera, into the company of a pair of models in bikinis. Eric Yanel sticks an arm through the open window.
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Several of the men in suits seem to be sucking on candy or chewing gum. It isn’t clear if this coincidence is the result of some sort of coordination. The taxi stops in front of a cement esplanade surrounded by blocks of housing projects. That icy pink tone of certain winter dawns.
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There is absolutely nothing childlike or prepubescent in her face or her expression. Her expression is determined and at the same time empty. 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. 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.
Offering him spliffs and hugging him. And the women’s lascivious gazes running over his body, and him turning toward his ample-assed jungle concubine and shrugging his shoulders. Now everyone is standing and Commissioner Farina and all the other fathers are shouting and waving their fists in the air.
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He pages through it distractedly and tears out a page completely filled with his father’s small, neat handwriting. Then he takes out a blank sheet of paper and writes down the note he has been mentally preparing for a couple of days. The note is succinct and has no exact instructions. Both the vocabulary and the tone have been conscientiously chosen to not sound too threatening, yet at the same time transmit an air of absolute confidence. Lastly he sticks the note and the page from the Highly Secret Ledger into an envelope and seals it after peeling off the paper covering the self-adhesive strip. On the front of the envelope he simply writes Koldo Cruz’s name.
Without her glasses and with her eyes swollen, her face takes on an unexpectedly grown-up look. The nurse sticks her arms into the trap door, takes the package and starts to remove the wrapping paper. Now some sort of guttural growls are heard behind Giraut’s back. From the place where the shockingly obese boy is sitting.
Especially in the upper part of his cheeks. The director’s assistant shrugs her shoulders and pats the pockets of her photographer’s vest as if the answer to the director’s questions might be in one of them. The player named Adelfi limps to the sideline of the school basketball court. She grabs the towel held out by one of her teammates and uses it to wipe her forehead and underarms. Someone mists one of her knees with a medicinal spray. Mr. Bocanegra stares at Aníbal Manta with an expression that seems to suggest that he’s trying to decide if Manta’s question meets the requirements he has just put forward.
Chased by groups of teenagers with desire on their faces. Chased by men with their penises in their hands. Trying to jump over the fences made of tree trunks and falling into the snow because of the pants around their ankles.
