This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2016 by Ana Ballabriga and David Zaplana
Translation copyright © 2018 by Michael Meigs
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Ningún escocés verdadero via the Kindle Direct Publishing Platform in Spain in 2016. Translated from Spanish by Michael Meigs. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2018.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503951792
ISBN-10: 1503951790
Cover design by PEPE nymi
For my father:
the first of our novels he won’t be able to read
CONTENTS
START READING
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
AFTERWORD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Man, in his pride,
created God in his image and likeness.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
I trust those who seek the truth
but distrust those who claim to have found it.
—André Gide
1
She urged her horse across the hospital parking lot in the predawn light. She dismounted, her bare feet landing in something sticky, probably vomit, but she strode forward without a glance. The thin nightgown clung to her lushly rounded body. At the community meeting the previous day, everyone she loved had turned their backs on her. She hadn’t slept a wink that night. Tired at last of thrashing about in the sheets, she’d made a decision.
She pushed open the main door and marched to the reception desk. The place stank of urine. People turned to stare. They whispered to one another, tittering at the sight of her—at least, those who could did. One old man with a vacant gaze simply drooled. A young woman came limping out of the restroom. A man in a green robe was pushing a wheelchair in which there was a young boy covered in blood.
“Your health card,” came a voice from behind the desk.
She turned to look and saw only her own reflection in the safety glass. Her black hair was matted and wild, making her look as mad as she felt.
“I need your card.”
“What?” She peered through the glass and caught a glimpse of dyed-red hair, glasses with heavy plastic frames on a cord. No sign of intelligence. She told herself to be patient, to speak clearly. “Call a doctor, please.”
“Do you have your health card?” The woman seemed rattled.
“No, I don’t have one.” She took a deep breath. “Please call a doctor right now.”
“I’m afraid that, unless you have your card . . .”
Oh, God. “Get her out, please!” She burst into tears. “She can’t just die!”
“Ma’am. I need your health card.”
“Didn’t you hear me, bitch?” She hammered the glass partition. “I told you to get her out!”
The woman jerked back. “Ma’am!”
“Get her the hell out of me, right now!”
The receptionist picked up the phone and punched a couple of buttons, muttered something, then hung up. “A doctor will be here momentarily.”
She stood stock-still, scanning the room, poised to attack. A security guard appeared in a doorway and pulled up short at the sight of her.
“I want her cut out this instant!” She pulled a knife from the sleeve of her nightgown and approached the guard, her eyes locked on his.
He backed away and crouched defensively. “Take it easy, ma’am. The doctor’s on his way.”
And sure enough, one appeared, stepping around the guard.
“What’s going on?” The doctor put up his hands. “What is it you need?”
She held the handle of the knife to her swollen belly. “You have to give me a cesarean!”
“How far along are you?”
“Twenty-three weeks.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s too late for an abortion. The law here says—”
“I don’t want an abortion; I want a goddamn cesarean.”
“But the fetus is terribly premature. It wouldn’t survive.”
She pointed the knife at the doctor. “What do you know about my baby, you piece of shit?”
“I’m a doctor, ma’am, and I assure you—”
“This baby is not going to die today, you hear? She has a mission to accomplish.”
“Then why do you want a cesarean?”
Choking, blinded with tears, she shouted, “Because I can’t live like this anymore!”
She raised the blade to her throat. The doctor and the guard tackled her at the same time, and all three went down in a heap, her throat slashed from ear to ear and blood gushing out in throbbing torrents.
2
“Ave María purísima.”
“Born without sin. Father, forgive me for I have sinned.”
“May the Lord dwell in your heart and enable you humbly to confess your sins. Tell me, daughter, is there anything in this last week of which you especially repent?”
“Yes, Father, something terrible happened.”
“Proceed. Relieve your torment as quickly as possible.”
“A man called on me. Tall and handsome, middle-aged, maybe late forties. Dressed in a suit and tie, seemed clean and polite . . .”
“But was not in the least, I fear.”
“Yes, Father, his appearance was deceiving.”
“And what happened this time? Let me help you clear your conscience and salve your soul.”
“I’m very careful with my personal hygiene, as you know. I’d taken a shower, rubbed aromatic oils into my skin, put on makeup and a short dress. But no, the first thing he said was he couldn’t stand the smell of me. And my clothes were disgusting. He got out a heavy tracksuit and wool socks, made me put them on, took me to the hotel gym, and told me to run as fast as I could on the treadmill. He kept sniffing me to check my body odor. It took like half an hour before he was satisfied enough to let me go back to the room. I was sweating like a pig—I really thought I might pass out. But he didn’t care. When I tried to take off the tr
acksuit, he snapped at me. He wanted me to keep on sweating and making pheromones for him to snort up his nose into his sick brain.”
“Oh, my daughter, how little joy God has granted you in this life. You are constantly encountering the most miserable and depraved human beings. Continue, please.”
“He forced me to sit on a chair, and he knelt in front of me. He rolled the legs of the tracksuit up to my knees—I guess he wasn’t interested in anything above that—and he took my foot in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He clamped his teeth on the tip of the sock and pulled it off slowly. Then, without a word, he started licking my foot—sucking my toes like little cocks, like a bunch of little dicks.”
“Oh, daughter, how dreadful. Don’t stop now.”
“He took his time and did it all over with the other foot, really slowly, like the sweat was delicious. It was hard to keep from giggling, plus I had to resist the impulse to kick his filthy teeth in. Once he’d finally had enough, he took off his clothes. He knelt there with a massive erection and told me to massage his cock with my feet. At first it kept slipping away, but eventually, I managed to get my feet around it, and I began sliding them up and down, up and down. He was moaning with pleasure.”
“Go on, daughter. And then?”
“Yes, Father. So, this guy goes all limp on the floor, and I keep rubbing, massaging his cock. If my feet get too dry and start chafing, he gets up and slobbers on them. I’m starting to get the hang of it, and now I lower my heels a bit so they push down on his balls with every stroke. His cock starts drooling now too, so it’s like oil lubricating a piston, and I give it to him harder and harder. He’s making all this crazy noise. I speed up, stroking faster and faster, squeezing his balls like a real pro.”
“Don’t stop.”
“I lift and pump, Father; I run my feet along every inch of his enormous dick. I feel all of it, stroke the tip where it’s most sensitive, press down on those balls so swollen I know he’s about to explode.”
“Keep going.”
“Up and down, up and down, my feet massaging his cock. Up and down, each stroke stronger than the last—”
“Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .”
“Until finally he blows his wad all over my legs.”
“Yeesssss.”
The room wasn’t large. Just space enough for a double bed and a small writing table, an abstract engraving in a frame on the wall above it. It was minimalist, with pastel colors and impersonal furnishings. Gray and khaki swirls on the curtains formed the hotel logo. The man was sprawled in an armchair while she knelt before him on the floor, completely naked. Now he got to his feet, a water glass in one hand as he yanked up his underwear and trousers with the other.
“Do you repent of all your sins?”
“Yes, Father, I repent.”
“Then dip your fingers into this holy water given to us by God and cross yourself to be rid of them.”
She obeyed with a submissive smile, looking up at the handsome man beaming his benevolence on her.
“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. You may get dressed.”
She went to the bathroom to clean up, then returned. With precise and deliberately sensual movements, she rolled her stockings up her legs before putting on a garter belt and panties.
“Father, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask your advice about something.”
“Of course.”
“You see, a girlfriend of mine bought a sculpture from a dealer who swore it was a Salzillo. My friend knows lots about art; she’s a real connoisseur. She even published some articles about twentieth-century painters. But Salzillo wasn’t a painter or from that century, so she’s out of her element. And now she’s starting to wonder whether the statue is a fake.”
“I see.”
“And I was thinking that since Salzillo’s work was always religious, maybe you might know something about his technique. Could you maybe take a look and tell me if my friend got cheated?”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m no art expert. I’m flattered by your confidence, but I don’t think I’m the best person for the job.”
“I understand.”
“But I do have an acquaintance I can recommend.” He fished a business card out of his wallet and offered it to her: Elías Segado, Art Expert and Appraiser.
“Tell him I sent you.”
3
Jubileo in perpetuum.
In the early days, the place was just called Caravaca, no “de la Cruz.” That was long before it was proclaimed a holy city and became a destination for pilgrimages, a Christian enclave facing Muslim Al-Andalus. Long before the True Cross, the Lignum Crucis, appeared to the Moor, Abu Ceyt, and the humble Christian clergy.
Elías Segado parked his BMW on Gran Vía, the main street of the lower and more modern part of the city. He got out, adjusted his tan trench coat, and consulted his 1994 Casio watch and remote control, a gift from his sister for his eighteenth birthday. During college, he’d often amused himself by using it to change the TV channel in bars, much to the surprise and indignation of soccer fans.
Twenty past nine, so he had only ten minutes to climb to the fortress—no time to pray at the Church of the Sanctuary. Maybe he could go afterward if the meeting didn’t run too long.
He tossed his hat back into the car, afraid the gusting wind might whisk it away. He walked up the street, relishing the cushiness of his yellow Oli13 sneakers. It was nice to stretch his legs; he was still a young man but found he was spending entirely too much time sitting down.
Jubileo in perpetuum. The Lignum Crucis.
He was still a student when he’d first heard of the relic’s 1934 theft. His sister’s friend Pilar María spent summers in Caravaca with her paternal grandparents and knew all the local lore.
“All the young people were celebrating Carnival Night, stuffing themselves with pastries and hot chocolate. No one realized what had happened until the next day . . .”
It was the first time he’d seen Pilar María since those long-ago days when she and his twin sister, Delia, had studied piano together at the conservatory in Cartagena. Back then, he and Pilar María had fooled around a little. It never amounted to more than a few kisses. After his sister stopped seeing her, so did he. But he never forgot her, and they’d all run into each other again years later and decided to catch up. Hearing that Elías now spent some time in Caravaca, she’d jumped at the chance to tell the tale.
“They were halfway through Ash Wednesday Mass when the chaplain’s sister arrived, completely distraught. They’d stolen the cross! Right away, the Guardia Civil knew something was off. The gates were locked every evening and not opened until the next morning. The thieves had supposedly scaled the wall—but the rope the police found wasn’t long enough or strong enough for that.”
“Wait, so the burglars didn’t scale the wall?” Delia asked.
“Not if the rope was too short, idiot.”
“Elías!” his mother called from the kitchen. “Be nice to your sister!”
Pilar María lowered her voice. “And way up high in the door, they’d drilled a hole.”
“And crawled through it!” exclaimed Delia.
“Nope,” Pilar María continued. “The hole was too small. And even weirder: they left tools scattered around, useless stuff.”
Delia’s eyes were huge. “So how did they steal the cross?”
“It was a setup,” Elías said. “All that stuff was just to mislead people. It had to have been someone on the inside. The chaplain, I’ll bet.”
“That’s what everybody thought. A mob dragged him out of the church and beat him up.”
Delia frowned. “Did they kill him?”
“No, because the mayor pulled out a pistol and stopped them. They threw rocks at the chaplain and everything, but he swore he didn’t do it.”
“Then who did?” Delia asked.
“Well, the local judge said he’d identified the thief, but the mayor
’s brother killed him before he could talk. They put the brother in jail but never proved that the murder had anything to do with the theft. So it’s still a mystery.”
“Really? Do you mean there’s no True Cross there now?”
“Oh, the pope donated a different fragment of it to the church a few years later.”
“But the original is still missing? They just gave up?”
Their lunch guest shrugged, and Elías’s face fell. He’d always preferred stories where everything was wrapped up nice and tidy at the end, the wicked packed off to prison and the good guys allowed to enjoy the fruits of their virtue.
Elías thought back to Pilar María’s story now as he struggled up the town’s serpentine streets against the dry wind. This part of Caravaca, with its huddle of white façades, flower boxes adding splashes of color, resembled a village more than a city. He nodded to several elderly women descending to the center of town for their morning shopping.
Elías had heard no more of the theft of Caravaca’s True Cross until one day when his uncle, the bishop of Cartagena, brought it up. Elías often worked for him, cataloging and appraising furniture and jewelry from private donations or estates, investigating stolen artifacts, and authenticating artwork.
“A sacrilege,” Elías had said. “Who do you think did it?”
They had been installed comfortably on the sofa in his mother’s Cartagena apartment, having just finished a copious Sunday dinner. Each had held a snifter of French cognac, swirling it hypnotically.
“I want you to find out.”
Elías had furrowed his brow. Almost a century had passed; surely all evidence was gone and the culprits were long dead.
“Recover the True Cross for us, Elías. It’s absolutely vital that we find it before the pope’s visit.”
Absolutely vital. If the cross were recovered at last, they’d be able to offer it as a new miracle.
“But the pope’s visit is only eight weeks away. And how am I supposed to solve the case when so many others have failed?”
His uncle had smiled. “I have faith in you.”
Over the weeks that followed, Elías had spent his days bouncing between the archives at Caravaca, Murcia, and those in the town where he lived, Cartagena. It was a bizarre and complicated case, reopened and shut several times as it passed through the hands of different judges. He had read court documents, newspaper articles, and commentary by contemporary writers. He had sat up late studying his notes in bed, even though his bedside lamp had kept his wife up. But there was no time to waste.
The Dark Circus Page 1