Giraut nods with a weak smile. Looking above the heads. The exhibition is comprised of about fifty religious paintings, wooden sculptures and liturgical objects. The small pieces are in long glass cases that run along the gallery's backbone. The way the glass cases are lit from within projects their light upward onto the visitors' faces. Giving them a diabolical appearance.
“And this is Mrs. Giraut?” ventures Hannah Linus. “Or perhaps the future Mrs. Giraut?”
Marcia Parini seems to crouch down and become rigid under the openly disapproving look that Hannah Linus gives her dress and her figure. The same way certain animals crouch down and become rigid when they find themselves cornered by a larger animal.
“We're not engaged,” she says. In a chilly tone. Then she crosses her arms in a gesture that seems to transmit both anger and modesty. “We're actually neighbors. I live below Lucas.”
Hannah Linus nods, her brow furrowed in a gesture of interest. The gesture is correctly calculated to be experienced by Marcia as a slap across the face. Then she shrugs her shoulders.
“I'll leave you two alone,” she says. “And don't forget to try the venison sashimi with pear. They cost me six euros each.” And she heads off. Not without first taking a perfectly deliberate last glance at Marcia's purse. The same purse that hangs on the shoulder of the wife of one of the other antiques dealers.
Lucas Giraut frowns. He is vaguely aware that Marcia Parini is muttering something under her breath. The waiters and waitresses move with the skill of professionals through the meta-adjacent groups of guests. Carrying round trays filled with cups of Moët et Chandon. Filled with piles of carefully molded venison sashimi with pear. The same round trays of undefinable color that every catering service in the world seems to use. The same round trays that appear in every graphic depiction of waiters around the world. Lucas Giraut can't manage to make out exactly what it is that Marcia is muttering. Or maybe he's having trouble concentrating on what she's saying. His attention now seems to be tracing a wide circle around the room. As if he were searching for something.
“She has hickeys on her neck,” Marcia Parini is saying. In a voice low enough that only Lucas Giraut can hear. As she takes a sip on the glass of Moët et Chandon that she's plucked from a tray. “At her own opening. And the Moët isn't cold enough.”
Lucas Giraut doesn't show any sign of listening to what she's saying. It's becoming more and more clear that he's looking for something as he gazes around the room. His gaze wanders among the meta-adjacent groups of guests. Among the surly waiters and among the minor figures in local politics who roam around looking for respect. Finally his gaze lands on one of the photographers.
It is, as far as Lucas Giraut can see, the largest photographer he has ever seen. In fact, it's one of the largest human beings he's seen in his life. There is something in his mass that suggests supernatural transformations of comic book superheroes due to chemical or radioactive leaks. It's not one of those cases of gigantism that causes an exaggerated lengthening of the bones. He is holding a professional camera with an adjustable telephoto lens in front of his chest and his size makes it seem like a toy. One of those plastic kid's toys in the shape of a camera. There is also something strange about the way he holds the camera, with those hands as big as small mammals. A certain uncomfortableness. Or better put, a certain inadequateness. As if a bird was trying to smoke and hold the cigarette with his wings. The enormous photographer holds the camera uncomfortably and with his brow furrowed and takes photographs of the paintings and the various corners of the gallery. Placing the camera in the right position and then pushing the button with his giant finger and a concentrated expression that suggests his hands aren't up to the task. Lucas Giraut stretches his neck to see above the guests' heads. His first impression was right. The photographer is Aníbal Manta.
“Six euros?” Marcia Parini is saying. With a frown. Chewing on a venison sashimi hors d'oeuvre with her face wrinkled in disgust. “For this?”
Aníbal Manta raises one hand and makes a gesture toward the other end of the room. Some sort of signal. Ambiguous enough so that no one would recognize it if they weren't waiting for it. Lucas Giraut looks in the direction of Manta's signal. It only takes him a second to recognize the surly-faced waiter in uniform that receives the signal on the other side of the room. His characteristic wave of blond hair has been plastered down with gel and stuck to his skull. His unhappy expression has been replaced by a professionally surly face. But there's no doubt about it. It's Eric Yanel. With a tray professionally raised in the air so people can take glasses of Moët et Chandon.
“She has it set up well,” Marcia is saying. She has finished her first two venison sashimi hors d'oeuvres and now reaches out a hand to grab the third with her slightly greasy fingertips. “I won't deny that.” She shrugs her shoulders. “The gallery isn't bad. But your place is much bigger.”
Lucas Giraut continues looking around the gallery. Finally he looks up and his eyes find a staircase leading to a locked upper floor. In the landing halfway up the stairs a group of guests has gathered. Or better put, the party's inner circle. The people closest to Hannah Linus.
The first thing that Giraut sees is the hand that's grabbing Hannah Linus's butt. As she chats with a couple of guests from her inner circle. Giraut's gaze follows the strong arm that grabs her butt until he reaches the shoulder and then the face. The face is looking at him with a snide smile. As he grabs Hannah Linus's butt in a way that Lucas Giraut finds inappropriate to the circumstances. Saudade's face looks at him with a snide smile and makes an obscene gesture with his tongue and then articulates in silence something Lucas Giraut could swear included the words “Mr. Fancy Pants, Esquire.” A small shiver runs up Giraut's spine.
“You aren't listening to me, are you?” says the voice of Marcia Parini. “You haven't heard a word I've said since we came in.”
Giraut looks at her.
“I'm not very good at parties,” he mumbles. He looks at his hand and discovers he's holding a glass of Moët et Chandon that Marcia must have put there some minutes before. He takes a sip. “But I think I'll be better once we see the paintings I told you about. The St. Kieran Panels.” He pauses as if he didn't quite know what to say next. “I think that will perk me up.”
Marcia stares at his face and her expression slowly transforms into one of amusement. One of those amused expressions that many women use when contemplating signs of male eccentricity. Just like they're looking at a small, stupid, harmless animal.
“Of course,” she says finally. “I'm sure those paintings are really great.”
Lucas Giraut takes Marcia Parini's hand. Together they head away from the sculpted wooden crucifixes and the polychrome virgins. Leaving behind the crucifixes inlaid with jewels. Leaving behind the tunics and cloaks with swastikas and other Celtic signs assimilated by Irish Christianity. Leaving behind the rooms filled with paintings and large sculptures taken from dimly lit apses. Leaving behind the last meta-adjacent groups. Leaving behind Aníbal Manta's gigantic body, which is pressing the button on his camera with an uncomfortable expression. And as they leave behind all these things, the spatial layout of the things in the gallery seems to reconfigure in a more profound way. The party no longer seems to be organized around a system of meta-adjacent groups surrounding an inner circle. Now Lucas Giraut and Marcia Parini can see the entrance to the room where the St. Kieran Panels are hung. Covered by a curtain so that no outside light enters. As tradition dictates, the four paintings are hung in a room where the light has been lowered to a minimum. Giraut reaches the entrance and stops cold.