Furnishings, silver objects, and religious artworks sold well, most of them at prices slightly less than appraisals but sufficient nevertheless to yield a profit for the house. Interestingly, the pieces that provoked the liveliest bidding almost always went to telephone bidders represented by one of the women at the table. Sculptures and the paintings from the golden age sold even better, but the twentieth-century pieces didn’t appear to arouse much interest, going for far less than expected or getting no bids at all.
This looked to be an easy win, but Elías felt distinctly uncomfortable about the twosome in black. He was keeping an eye on them, trying not to be obvious, when at last the auctioneer got to the piece Elías had come for.
“The next lot is a painting by a follower of the twentieth-century painter Francis Bacon. The starting price is thirty thousand euros.”
Elías saw that two of the women at the table had picked up their phones and were talking to clients.
“Thirty thousand euros, will anyone give me thirty thousand euros?”
Elías waited to see if anyone was going to set the pace. He scrutinized the telephone women, the men in black, the rest of the audience. No one budged. Absolute silence; suspense.
The auctioneer began reciting the painting’s merits. “Anyone at all prepared to bid?” he asked, lifting his gavel threateningly.
One of the telephone women raised a hand.
“I have thirty thousand euros. Anyone willing to offer thirty-three thousand?” Elías raised his paddle. The battle had begun.
Bids went back and forth until the price exceeded fifty thousand. At that point, the telephone bidder desisted, and Elías saw the young woman hang up. He felt a sense of relief. The auctioneer gave his concluding call.
That’s when the second telephone operator went into action. “A new bid, by telephone, for fifty-four thousand euros.”
Elías resumed bidding, engaged in a fight he wasn’t certain he could win. His adrenaline kicked in and filled him with tension and emotion. His uncle had set the limit at 150 thousand euros, and a rapid succession of bids raised the price to 105 thousand euros.
The young woman at the table muttered something indistinguishable as she entreated her client. A moment later, she hung up and shook her head.
“One hundred and five thousand euros once, twice—sold for one hundred and five thousand.” The sharp impact of the gavel confirmed Elías’s victory and flooded him with pleasure, almost like a little orgasm. The men in black fixed their eyes on him, then got to their feet and left the room.
After the auction, Elías took his paddle to the desk to make out a check and sign the sales contract. He asked the auction house employee to fetch the painting for closer inspection. Holding it before him, he still thought it horrible but nonetheless impressive in a strange way. This was a painting that could become an obsession, one that could grip and stir one’s innermost being. He asked them to wrap it and prepare a transport insurance form so he could he take it in his car.
Another staff member came to retrieve the painting, and Elías felt his heart leap in his chest. Nothing like this had ever happened to him; it was as if Cupid’s unerring arrow had pierced him. Her face was as pale as Carrara marble, framed by a mass of red hair gathered in a ponytail. The mountains and valleys of her body seemed to call to him from beneath her green uniform.
The woman gave him an enigmatic smile as she took the painting and turned to leave the room. Elías stood there transfixed, enchanted by the perfection of her rear, the startling fire of her hair, the elegant swing of her body. In that moment, he understood the difference between the everyday and the divine, the beautiful and the sublime, Caridad and an Olympic goddess. It was the first time he’d ever regretted being married.
He finished his paperwork and waited eagerly for the goddess to return. But alas, the package was brought to him by a scrawny woman with crinkled blond hair. He desperately scanned the room in search of the redhead, reluctant to leave without seeing her again.
With a sigh, Elías gathered his things and headed for the exit. Stepping outside, he caught sight of the two men in black rather obviously conducting surveillance from a Mercedes across the street. He slipped into the parking garage and waited just inside to see if they intended to follow him. But the mysterious men didn’t leave their car, so Elías hurried to his, anxious to get back to Murcia and make his delivery as quickly as possible. The expensive painting was making him deeply nervous. He had to slide the back seats forward to make enough space for it in the trunk. Once in the driver’s seat, he put the key in the ignition, then froze. He’d been so thunderstruck by the redhead that he’d neglected to verify the merchandise.
This was a reputable house, but experience had taught him to take nothing for granted. He pulled out his Swiss Army knife, went to the trunk, and pried open the crate.
The only thing inside was an empty frame.
Shit.
He raced back inside, empty crate in his hands. The woman at the desk was confused and incredulous. She phoned the manager, then the police.
“They’re on their way,” she told him. “Don’t worry, the insurance you bought covers theft.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want the money. I want the painting.”
Elías sank down on one of the chairs from the exhibition. Nobody said anything, even though all the signs admonished clients not to so much as touch objects on display. He took out his mirror puzzle cube and began to fidget with it.
A school friend had given him his first Rubik’s Cube for his eighth birthday. The friend’s mother had confided to Elías’s mother, “My son solved it already. It took him only a couple of weeks.” She smiled from ear to ear.
“Well, Elías is very clever,” his mother replied. “Shouldn’t take him more than a day or two.”
The woman’s smile froze. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
After the birthday party, his mother sat down with him, and together they studied the cube.
“Do you know how it works?”
Elías shrugged. He had no idea, but he was going to do his best. He spent two days sliding the little squares from one side to another, completing one face or two but never managing all six at once.
The second evening, his mother sat down with him while his sister was watching cartoons. “Have you figured it out yet?”
Elías shook his head.
“Okay, don’t worry about it.” She got up and put a kettle on.
He watched as she steamed the colored stickers off one by one and then reapplied them with great care.
“But, Mama—”
“There’s nothing to discuss. Tomorrow you’ll take it to school and show Román. You’re too young to understand some things.”
Elías felt sick. This was cheating. Wouldn’t God punish them? “Mama, if Uncle finds out—”
“It’s our little secret, all right? A person shouldn’t lie, Elías, but sometimes God permits it so we can teach a lesson to people who are too proud. Pride is the worst sin of all, my son, for those who are proud think only of themselves and have no time for God.”
That sort of made sense to him, so the next morning Elías took the cube to school. After class, he showed it to Román, who was delighted with his friend’s success. But Román’s mother frowned and stalked off after snapping that her son was about to solve the 3 x 3 version.
They never discussed Rubik’s Cubes after that, but Elías didn’t forget. Maybe he’d taught someone a lesson about pride, but he had still lied, and now he had to atone for it. He mixed his cube back up, and from then on he spent all his free time on the puzzle and solved it within a month. For his next birthday, he asked for the most popular version, the 3 x 3 Román had supposedly solved in a matter of days.
It took Elías almost six months. Years later, he heard that a 4 x 4 version had come out. He got one for himself, and though someone had posted the solution on the Internet, he spent the next two years figuring it out on his own. So by the time he
bought the mirror version, he was pretty much an expert. This new variant was even more difficult because there were no colors. Once you’d taken it apart, it presented no discernible pattern, and you had to reassemble the pieces to reconstitute the original cube. He hadn’t solved it yet, so he carried it around with him as a stress reliever.
Calmer now, he put on his trench coat and hat and went out to the street with his phone in hand. The men in the Mercedes hadn’t budged. Trying to be subtle, he started walking, his eyes fixed on his phone, and just as he passed their vehicle, he snapped clandestine photos of the men and the license plate. He continued nonchalantly around the next corner.
On his way around the block, he sent a text message to a cop friend he knew from the Order of Santa María de Cartagena. Originally founded by Alfonso X, the Wise, for the naval defense of the Crown of Castille, the religious order had been absorbed by the Order of Santiago just a few years later. In 2008, a handful of Cartagena loyalists had gotten together to reestablish it. Elías had been happy to join. Some people called them “freaks,” but he believed they were doing something important. They were God’s valiants, as they declared in their oath, pledging eternal vigilance in upholding faith, justice, and honor. The fifteen men got together twice a week to practice fencing and martial arts, organize competitions, and fight tournaments. Sometimes he felt like a sort of superhero, walking the streets of the city in the anonymous guise of his trench coat and fedora, ever ready to help anyone in need.
Elías sneaked back on the other side of the street, slipping between parked cars to approach the men from behind. He saw that they hadn’t locked their doors. He crossed himself nervously and prayed: Lord, guide me in the way of justice. It was one thing to do training exercises with friends and another to provoke a real confrontation.
He crept carefully toward the front passenger door and yanked it open. The thugs’ first instinct was to reach for the pistols in their shoulder holsters, but Elías delivered a nasty karate chop to the neck of the one closest to him, which left him unable to breathe. Then he kicked the man full in the face, sending his head into his buddy’s and breaking the second man’s nose, sending blood everywhere. He disarmed them with fast, precise moves, stuck one pistol in his pocket, and climbed into the back seat clutching the other gun.
“What are you two doing here?”
“What the hell do you care?” answered the driver in a choked voice, pressing a handkerchief to his nose to stop the bleeding. The passenger was still gasping, trying to catch his breath.
“Someone stole a painting from me. The one you were so interested in.”
“Stole the painting?” The thug sounded surprised.
“That’s right. And right now, the two of you are my principal suspects, so either you tell me what you’re doing here or I’ll tell the cops, who are on their way, to haul you down to headquarters for a little chat.”
“We like art,” said the man. He removed the handkerchief, and Elías could see his bloody face in the rearview mirror. The bleeding had let up, but the man had to breathe through his mouth. “We wanted to know who bought the painting.”
“So you could steal it.”
“If we’d stolen it, why would we still be here?”
“Maybe you have an accomplice and you’re expecting a special delivery.”
“Pretty dumb to wait for it right in front of the door, don’t you think?”
Just then, the text reply arrived. Elías glanced at his phone but kept the gun trained on the men. His friend was very efficient, and luckily Elías had caught him at his desk.
Vehicle registered to the Midas Foundation.
Midas was a sculptor from Murcia who’d enjoyed a period of glory but now was mostly passé. He ran a foundation that oversaw art galleries, and owned a well-known piano bar downtown. But in truth, it was all a cover for his real businesses in prostitution, drugs, stolen art, and other, even shadier undertakings. The man was a full-fledged gangster masquerading as a contemporary artist.
“Well, if you two didn’t get your hands on it, I suspect that Midas”—the name had a visible effect on the two—“might just pitch a fit when he finds out someone got there ahead of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your boss deals in stolen art, among other things. Are you trying to tell me you didn’t steal the painting—you weren’t sent here to steal it?”
“Midas would never get in the bishop’s way!” said the man in the passenger seat.
Elías was taken aback. They knew who he was and whom he was working for. He took the blow and parried. “And why not? Has Señor Midas turned honest? Or even pious? I suppose you’re going to swear to me that he profoundly respects all that’s holy?” Silence. “The police will be here any second, and I still haven’t heard a credible answer from you.”
The two exchanged a glance.
Finally, the one with the broken nose spoke. “We were sent to watch and see if the woman who owned the painting turned up.”
“The owner? A woman?” Some useful information at last. “Who is she?”
The man held up a photo of the magnificent redhead in a party dress.
“She was there today.” Elías felt a deep pang in his gut at the sight of her. “She took the painting from me to have it packaged. A different woman brought me an empty crate.”
“There you go, then; that’s your thief,” the thug snapped. “Is there any other way out of the place?”
“There’s a service entrance that opens to the alley.”
“Then she’s long gone.”
“And why were you looking for her?”
The man’s face hardened, and Elías knew he wouldn’t get any more information. He got out of the car and tossed the pistols in a dumpster. The men would recover them, no doubt, but by then he’d be long gone. He went back into the auction house, and soon afterward the police arrived.
The first thing they did was take his statement in the presence of the general manager. He outlined, step by step, the handling of the painting: the Olympic goddess who had carried it off and the skinny woman who’d brought him the crate. The officers had the manager call all the female staff into the hall. It was no surprise that the Olympic goddess was nowhere to be seen.
“She isn’t here,” Elías said. “A young woman, very beautiful, red hair in a ponytail.”
“That’s right,” the counter attendant confirmed, looking at the manager as she tried to evade blame. “I remember her: she carried away the painting. I didn’t think anything of it since there’s always a lot of turnover with the staff here. I thought she was new, I swear! She was wearing the house uniform.”
“She handed me the sealed crate,” the skinny woman said. “I didn’t recognize her either. Asked her if she was new, and she said yes, it was her first day.”
The police officer turned to the manager. “Do you know who they’re talking about?”
“Not a clue.” He shrugged. “All our female staff are here in this room.”
“Sounds like we have our primary suspect. We’ll need a statement from everyone, and I’ll arrange for a sketch. We’ll need to dust the crate for fingerprints.”
The police officers began taking statements one by one. Elías headed for the front door to use his phone.
“Elías, how did it go?” The bishop’s voice was cheerful.
“Not well, to tell you the truth.”
“You didn’t get the painting?” The voice was suddenly sharp, almost threatening.
“I won the bidding, but the painting has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Elías knew that tone all too well. Serenity in the face of frustration was not one of his uncle’s strengths. “What, exactly, do you mean it ‘disappeared’?”
“Someone stole it. I asked the staff to pack it for safe transport, and when I checked the crate, there was nothing inside but the frame. The police are investigating.”
“Well, well, well. Very well.” His uncle
was using one of his coping mechanisms. When he spoke again, Elías could sense the forced smile. “Let’s not get too worked up about it, agreed? You took out an insurance policy?”
“Of course.”
“That’s fine, then. Leave it in the hands of the police. They’ll take care of this.”
“I’m already looking into it. It seems to me that—”
“Elías, stop. Don’t do anything else. That’s my desire. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“No ifs, ands, or buts.” His uncle had switched back to severity. “You’ve finished your job in Madrid. Come back home. We need you here as soon as possible.”
“All right.”
“The True Cross of Caravaca is calling you. Don’t forget that.” He hung up.
Elías looked at the phone with a resigned expression and prepared to leave, but the image of the goddess rose before him. No other woman had ever made him feel like that. If he obeyed his uncle’s order and dropped the case, he would almost certainly never see her again. He tried to push the thought from his mind, but it wouldn’t budge. He was married, he told himself, happily married. He knew it was best to avoid temptation. But on the other hand, it might be good to confront her and reject her. That would be a laudable spiritual exercise. Like Jesus in the desert.
No, he would never give in to temptation, but he did need to see her again.
Besides, his job was more than simply raising a hand at an auction.
He looked around. He was alone. The staff was still being interviewed. With every sense on high alert, he crossed the hallway to the administrative office, which was deserted. He swiftly plugged in a flash drive and uploaded a tiny rogue program that would give him remote access to the office computer. Then he headed to the garage. He had a long drive ahead.
The Dark Circus Page 3