The perpetually frozen and surgically constructed expression on her face breaks down for the briefest fraction of a second before recomposing itself automatically. The hand with which she lights her cigarette becomes a tense claw. Fanny Giraut opens the door to the second-floor study.

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Imparting a certain atmosphere of classical mythology to the scene. The unveiling of the classic defenseless female. Her exposure to the forcefulness of the classical phallus. Hannah Linus sticks her hand beneath Saudade’s swimsuit and grabs his penis. A group of Spa-Center clients, who are passing by at that moment, whistle and clap.

It gives Hannah Linus a particularly comforting feeling when the gallery offices empty out. In general she has always felt comforted by any kind of empty corporate spaces. They give her a feeling of power, sweet and calm, mixed with a certain very subtly tragic atmosphere. And that’s why she’s now eating alone in her office in the deserted office area, while the gallery office staff is out, like every day, on their lunch break. With her shoes tossed any which way beneath her desk and her feet up on top.

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Bocanegra stares at the bouquet of flowers in his hand with a theatrical expression of surprise. With that overly surprised expression for surprise gifts you’ve been hiding behind your back while waiting for the recipient to open the door. The bouquet is wrapped in some sort of shiny paper that crunches when you grab it.

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He stares at the people coming in through the door for just a fraction of a second, and then pulls his pants up hurriedly. At the exact center of the room a gigantic mirror ball turns. The dancers having sex onstage and the clients reaching their arms over the bar and the statues are reflected in each one of its facets, as is the city government official dancing on the table. Whatever it is that’s going on near the exit door is reflected there, too. And whatever it is, it is attracting more and more attention at more and more tables and some people are even standing up with alarmed faces. But for someone sitting near the bar to see what’s going on at the door, the mirror ball would still have to make another full turn on its axis.

Yanel is standing before her, turned to one side, with his back curved forward and one hand on his knee. A bit like a Russian soldier in a romantic play, wounded and leaned elegantly toward one of those Russian ladies. Mr. Bocanegra picks up a pool cue from a rack beside one of the pool tables. By that point, the vast majority of people in the establishment have already left or are taking cover behind some piece of furniture, watching with fascinated horror. Bocanegra grabs the pool cue by both ends and breaks it in half over his knee. Then he tosses the larger piece to Aníbal Manta.

Raymond Panakian’s next movement is completely unexpected from a man of his age and complexion, especially a man who seems to have drunk so many dozens of glasses of Macallan. As if he had some sort of spring in his lower body, or perhaps a jet engine. Panakian shoots forward and up Phrendly toward the spot where the dancer had been just a minute earlier. It’s probably one of those physical feats born of absolute desperation and fear for one’s life. Which can only be pulled off when the seized-up, desperate mind forgets for a second that the body is incapable of it.

Seen from close up, Saudade’s powder blue and white Umbro sweat suit is much dirtier than it looked from outside the car. On his right wrist, partially visible under the sleeve, Saudade has a tattoo that reads “BB BB.” In the green ink of discolored tattoos. Fonseca gets up from the edge of the bathtub and smooths his clothes with the palms of his hands before approaching the door and unbolting it.

It’s not that Bocanegra has ever consciously made those associations and decided that he could establish a satisfactory analogy between the Universe and a service station. It’s that for him, deep down in his brain, the Universe is a service station. Being underwater fills him with a quite peculiar feeling of power. The power of powerful creatures that live under the sea.

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But the screams and threats of the waitresses and the dancers taking cover behind the bar have suddenly stopped. Indicating that something has just happened in the Eclipse Room. Manta turns slowly to look over his shoulder. Without letting go of the bars of the tower. Fanny opens the door to her private bathroom. She holds it open so Fonseca can enter and bolts it closed when they are both inside.

They have a dark hallway in front of them. From the building’s blueprints they know that the hallway ends at the back exit of the gallery’s office complex. In front of the door’s security panel with its magnetic card reader. In front of the office’s alarm system box that hangs above the door. Everything seems to converge at that door for an instant.

Eric Yanel observes the upper part of the anonymous building uptown that houses the Hannah Linus Gallery with an anguished expression. Planted in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of the building’s fire escape. He is wearing tall rubber boots and a protective jumpsuit, the kind people wear when working with toxic materials. The biggest protective jumpsuit Yanel has ever seen in his life.