That whispering that always seems to suggest a mix of shock and malicious conjecturing. The only sounds coming from the audience are sporadic coughs and the clearing of throats and the occasional rustle produced by someone changing position on the benches. Iris Gonzalvo watches as the building that could be a windmill without giant blades becomes smaller and smaller in the distance. The image of someone mounting a half-naked riding instructor as if the instructor were a horse filters into her mind.
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They enter the group of guests and journalists and surly waiters that mill around the entrance to the gallery. Which has become a forest of waving hands and chins lifted in recognition and drinks that move in silent toasts. Antiques dealers from Barcelona and employees of antiques dealers and specialized journalists. All spread out to create a collective scene that is vaguely reminiscent of the Renaissance pictorial representations of Classical schools.
(2 nights)
They both gather up all their vaguely dental equipment as fast as they can and push the door open. Yanel sniffs and Aníbal Manta realizes that what he had thought were drops of sweat were actually tears. Yanel dries his cheeks and takes a deep breath. Like a tormented actress regaining her composure just before going onstage to act in a comedy.
PART III. “And They All Hid in the Caves and Among the Mountain Crags”
One of her alarmingly skinny prepubescent arms hangs in such a way that her knuckles drag on the floor. Picking up dust from the floor of the hospital hallway. Her mouth is slightly open and although a string of saliva isn’t hanging from the corner, she does have a dried white stain that indicates she has been drooling at some point. Her state is not technically catatonia, according to the explanation given by the intern in charge of her case, but rather a semi-catatonic state induced by the medicines she’s being given.
Bathed in the multicolored fairground glow of the Christmas decorations. Lucas Giraut’s gaze finds Hannah Linus’s above the forest of heads. The scene on the sidewalk in front of the gallery doors is a slightly better-attended and slightly more exciting version of all the openings the important antiques dealers in Barcelona hold.
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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 https://thedatingpros.com/ that she’s supposedly the stepmother of a poor girl locked up in a mental ward. Pavel opens up the notebook to a blank page and pushes the button that makes the pen point appear. All kinds of pre-urban and pre-civilized images are running through his head.
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The insistence of the ringer’s ringing is the insistence of a lunatic. Although the door to the street is two large wooden doors with iron rivets, the door that opens is a smaller door inside one of them. The bell for the upstairs apartment where Giraut lives has a high-pitched sound that reverberates throughout the building. Unlike the much softer electronic buzzing sounds you hear when you ring most modern doorbells.
Saudade’s penis, as she sees it now, is like a curled-up animal resting after the sexual act while still keeping an eye on her. Hannah Linus often gets that same feeling from the penises of men she has just had sex with. She can’t say it’s a feeling she particularly likes. Saudade’s penis isn’t exactly the same color as the rest of his body. Saudade’s skin is a toasted color reminiscent of dark bread and fishermen under the sun, while his penis is a sickly color that makes one think of skinless animals slithering out of their shell. Saudade heads off down the Roman street jammed with people under the midmorning summer sun.
Many of them have scabs on their knees and wear faded T-shirts of bands for teenage girls. One of the girls from the downtown team wears a faded black T-shirt of a metal band. The members of the band are singing about the fact that Emiliano Zapata was a man with exceptional moral qualities. A man that committed himself selflessly to the cause of liberating the poor.
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. Savage in its defiance of municipal ordinances.
Farina pats down the inner pocket of the suit jacket he wears over a sport shirt and jeans. His jeans don’t have the aerodynamic, second-skin cut of jeans popular with teens. And the hems have obviously been taken up. As is the case with the jeans of many married men over forty-five. Farina takes a wrinkled envelope out of the pocket of his jacket, gives it to Pavel and then returns to his paternal combination of cheers and cuticle biting and whistles of protest.