A burst of laughter comes from the darts area. Pavel is trying to throw a dart with his right arm, which is in a sling. Exaggeratedly leaning his body forward to compensate for his lack of mobility. He finally makes his throw. Whistles and applause are heard. The dart traces a weak downward parabola and sticks between someone's feet. Now insults are heard among the whistles.
Lucas Giraut watches how Aníbal Manta approaches Iris Gonzalvo and whispers something in her ear. The other dart players clear their throats and look away and feign interest in other things. Iris Gonzalvo nods blankly at whatever it is that Manta is telling her. She takes the large glass of Finlandia that one of the other dart players offers her and takes one of those sips that look like just a slight wetting of the lips but which actually lower the level of the drink considerably. Finally she looks toward the spot at the bar where Giraut and Mr. Bocanegra are and nods again. She raises her glass toward the owner of the establishment. Although she has stopped playing, her gestures continue to have that same oracular quality. Giraut suspects that the sensation could be due to Iris Gonzalvo's sexual appeal. To that ineffable and almost otherworldly quality that very sexually attractive people have. That quality that always makes you think that no matter how much you look at them, you are always missing something essential about them. That almost magical resistance to your gaze.
The men move aside as Iris walks to the bar. They watch each of her movements with animal attention. With that mix of caution and aggressiveness with which animals pay attention. Iris Gonzalvo's sex appeal and her ineffable aura produce a certain sensation that she is in a film, walking in slow motion. With that otherworldly elegance that slow motion bestows.
Finally she arrives at the bar. She puts a hand on Lucas Giraut's shoulder. An intimate gesture. No one present perceives the almost imperceptible shiver Lucas Giraut makes under her hand.
“Lucas tells me your name is Iris,” says Mr. Bocanegra. In a vaguely wary tone. As if for some reason that information didn't seem altogether convincing.
Iris Gonzalvo puts her empty glass in Aníbal Manta's enormous hand. Manta stares at the glass. Then he looks at her. With an incredulous expression.
“I guess Lucas has brought you up-to-date on the kind of business we're dealing with.” Bocanegra doesn't wait for her to nod or give any sign of having registered his words. “We aren't the kind of company that advertises in the yellow pages. In fact, we don't advertise anywhere. Fuck, even calling us a company is a bit much. We are a gentlemen's club. In other words”—Bocanegra's face transforms into an expression of open cruelty—“people don't put the jobs they do for us on their résumés.”
“I've already brought her up-to-date on those things.” Lucas seems to have unconsciously moved away from Iris's hand. “She knows that we don't have time to waste and that she's going to have to start studying her role.”
Mr. Bocanegra lets out a grunt.
“In our line of work we deal with strange people,” he says. He makes a wide gesture with his glowing cigar. “People who also aren't interested in advertising themselves. Eccentric people. Sometimes even paranoid. You have to understand how this world works. Collectors are passionate people. I myself collect statues. They're people who are forced to break certain laws and take advantage of other gray areas that the law doesn't mention. That doesn't mean they hurt anybody, most of the time. But they are forced to tread carefully. To sleep with a pistol under their pillows, to use a metaphor. I hope you are following me attentively, kid.” He points to Iris with the incandescent tip of his cigar. “Because I don't look kindly on you just pouting your lips and showing me a bit of leg every once in a while instead of really thinking about what I'm saying.”
Iris Gonzalvo doesn't seem intimidated. In fact quite the opposite. Her smile widens a bit. Her body settles a bit more comfortably on the stool. Her crossed legs uncross and cross again in such a way that the pale section of leg that's visible grows before the men's eyes.
“Tell me about this Mr. Travers,” she says. Taking the glass of champagne that Aníbal Manta offers her. “The buyer.”
“If I knew everything there is to know about Travers,” says Bocanegra, “I wouldn't be sitting here in front of you and selflessly offering you the most expensive bottle of Krug that I have in my wine cellar. More expensive than all the clothes any of us are wearing, including my friend Mr. Giraut. Because Travers isn't a guy who lets people know anything about him. That's how these guys protect themselves. That's how they become almost untouchable. There are people who have found out things about him, sure.” He shrugs his shoulders. “But they've disappeared without a trace. And I don't think they went anywhere very pleasant.”
“We know that Mr. Travers has a house in Paris,” says Giraut. “A palace in the center of the city. He does most of his business from there. The security system is almost as expensive as the house itself, or that's what I'm told. The truth is we don't have enough information yet.”
“Travers is a rich fuck.” Mr. Bocanegra waits for the waitress to serve him a cup from the bottle of Krug opened especially for this executive meeting. The waitress's expression as she serves the champagne is one of reverential fear. Like the face of someone handling something equipped with detonators and colored wires and a plutonium core. “Not rich like those guys in Fortune magazine or Forbes. Rich like the people that aren't in those magazines. You know what I mean. Let's just say there are two kinds of rich people.” He pauses. He picks up the glass and takes a sip.
“We've been lucky enough to find out some things about Travers from my father's diaries,” says Lucas Giraut. By this point he has moved far enough away from Iris that she's taken her hand off his shoulder. Now he is sitting in his familiarly rigid style on the bar stool. “He's an eccentric. We don't really know what kind of pieces he collects. My father's diaries say that they're extremely rare pieces. We can guess what some of them could be. Things that disappeared from the market, for example. But in general his collection is a mystery. Completely undocumented. And of course, we don't know where it is held. They say that Mr. Travers owns dozens of properties. And there's something else.” He clears his throat. “Mr. Travers is supposedly a well-known occultist. Of course, that adds to his legend.”
Iris Gonzalvo nods. Seated on either side of her, Lucas Giraut and Mr. Bocanegra exchange a glance. A glance too brief to be considered communication by anyone. Anyone but them. Somehow, Giraut understands what Bocanegra is thinking. Based on that single fleeting glance. They both seem to have perceived that certain something Iris Gonzalvo has that makes her strange. Beyond the questions associated with her sex appeal. And Giraut has also noticed the way Bocanegra is now looking at Iris. He isn't perplexed, that's for sure. Mr. Bocanegra's facial and gestural peculiarities don't allow him to express anything even close to perplexity. His features are too anchored in a strong, firm base of cruelty and power. His jaw seems made to destroy things. His mustache only bends into voracious expressions. His bald head is too wide and too shiny not to provoke associations with tyrannical leaders of the ancient world.
No, thinks Lucas Giraut, as the silence and the throat clearing seem to indicate that the conversation is drawing to a close. Bocanegra is not perplexed as he looks at Iris. Or suspicious. He's looking at her with something similar to genuine curiosity. Which is something Giraut has never seen on Bocanegra's face before.
“He's a man.” Iris Gonzalvo shrugs her shoulders. “Men don't scare me. I know how to deal with them. There are some differences, sure. But in general they're all more or less the same. Men are almost never a problem.” Her thin pale fingers hold up the glass of Krug very delicately. Her lips barely brush the edge when she takes a sip. “Women can be a problem, sometimes. It depends.”