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The tattoo of a crown of interlaced thorns that the woman has around her ankle is actually a classic ornamental motif that Giraut is very familiar with. Found on many moldings, and in decorative stenciling on furniture and interiors from several periods. The woman exhales smoke and looks at Giraut with her eyebrows raised questioningly. Giraut considers the possibility of going down to the first-floor apartment, for a wider selection of drinks than he has in his. After a moment he comes back from his office with an unopened bottle of Macallan and two highball glasses with tinkling ice cubes.

Juan de la Cruz Saudade’s grimy head appears among the shadows surrounded by bags of garbage in one of the doorways. With his eyes half closed and a beard obscuring the lower half of his grimy face. His resolutely threatening expression is one that doesn’t necessarily mean he has a gun hidden in his pants, but which is often found on the faces of people with guns hidden in their pants.

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For a moment, it seems that nothing that is happening to her is real. That she’s not in her homeroom teacher’s office, and if she closes her eyes everything will disappear. And she’ll be back in her bed, beneath the blankets, or maybe locked in a bathroom stall at school.

The self-confessed fan of his nieces and nephews and of seventies-era British rock takes a meditative pull on his cigar and observes the unmarked car parked across the street. Inside which Commissioner Farina’s two lackeys are watching, as usual, with their state-of-the-art photographic equipment. Strictly speaking, one can’t say that Pavel likes his line of work. Or much less the people that fate has chosen to be the victims of his line of work. Although it’s true that he didn’t like Moscow, either, before he moved to Barcelona.

With one of those smiles that you only see on the faces of people who think they were born under a lucky star. With the neck of a bottle of Finlandia sticking out of the glove compartment. Saudade folds the fingers of one hand and points it at Giraut’s increasingly faraway back, imitating the barrel and hammer of a pistol.

One of those patently pointless kicks people do when they are starting to lose their patience. The location of the cigarette ad shoot is a field of epic proportions, in that stereotypical way that fields are epic in television commercials. Three advertising models, in winter coats beneath which they seem to be wearing nothing at all, stand about six feet away from the sports car, waiting for orders from the director’s assistant. Making those noises with their mouths that people make to show that they’re cold. Flanked by glass commercial buildings with their uniformed doormen and looking out on the traffic of Diagonal Avenue at Vía Augusta from its glazed upper floor.

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Now, let us take a look at them one by one. This Portuguese archipelago, which is comprised of nine volcanic islands, is one of the greenest places around, with policies that promote renewable energies and hardly any built-up environments. Three Azores islands have been designated as UNESCO biospheres — Graciosa, Flores, and Corvo — and there are 13 Ramsar sites and over 30 Blue Flag beaches to explore.

His puzzlement has clear Homeric connotations. He tries all the keys again, one after the other, and runs a fingertip over a lock that seems newer and shinier than the lock he remembers his apartment having. Of course, he is absolutely unaware of the Homeric connotations of his situation. A faint, throbbing headache stirs in his right temple. A good portion of his feelings of satisfaction about life and his overall optimism begin to dissipate as he alternates pushing on the bell with kicking the door with his right sneaker.

He avoids looking at his penis when he showers. Which has been creating a sort of blind spot in his showers. A blind spot located at the height of his crotch.

And Pavel walking through the streets of Kingston on one of his highly awaited visits. With a string of bananas and fish over his shoulder. Wearing a loincloth and an old T-shirt where Bob Marley’s face is now nothing more than a faded splotch. A souvenir crosspaths from a much more confused period in his life. And all his Rastafarian brothers and sisters waving to him from the hammocks in front of their multicolored houses. Coming over to shake his hand in complicated ways reserved only for spiritual brothers.

At the center of a circle of glasses of water and solicitous offers of medical help. His lower jaw seems to be out of joint and trembling at the same time. In spite of what he said a few minutes ago, it’s not entirely true that he has no problem getting satisfactory erections in private.

There is certainly something familiar about him. It’s not his wide, mustachioed and slightly sweaty face, or the way he talks. It’s more the way his features adjust to his different emotional states without losing a constant trace of underlying cruelty. A trace that evokes large predators in ecosystems not dominated by human beings.