5
Elías sighed. He looked out his office window and fiddled absentmindedly with the mirror cube. A crowd of foreign tourists, cruise-ship escapees, surged out of Murcia’s port on their way to the ancient Roman quarter. The horde, with their pasty skin, shorts, and union jack hats, collided with the white-collar workers heading to cafés before work.
He turned away and stared at the Artemisia Gentileschi painting on the wall. Not real, of course, but a reproduction a friend had given him; the original was hanging in the Uffizi in Florence. Caridad thought it grotesque and had warned him there was no place for it at home. He liked it, though. The chiaroscuro technique in the realistically depicted scene was spectacularly dramatic.
Despite the obstacles women of her time faced, Gentileschi had eventually been recognized as one of the most important artists of the seventeenth century. She’d steadfastly defended her right to exercise her profession, and Elías admired her obstinacy almost as much as her art. Gentileschi’s singular talent was recognized when she was only a teenager, thanks to the influence of her father, also a painter. He arranged for a friend to take her as his ward and oversee her education. Unfortunately, this guardian, Agostino Tassi, raped her repeatedly, buying her silence with a promise to marry her.
When Gentileschi realized Tassi would never fulfill his pledge, she told her father, who denounced the man to the authorities. The investigation revealed that Tassi had also murdered his wife and seduced his sister-in-law, the latter an act that was categorized as incest. But despite his crimes, the man spent less than a year behind bars. Furthermore, he received the most important commissions of his career after his release. Gentileschi, meanwhile, was astonished and indignant to find the authorities indifferent to the wrongs Tassi had done her.
Elías took another good long look at the painting, appreciating the detail, the colors, and the brushwork. It was a high-quality reproduction. Only an expert like himself could detect the differences from the original. The painting’s subject was a Bible text he’d seen treated a number of times over the years, one that was vivid in his mind. Old Testament stories were nothing like those of the New Testament. The new Gospel preached a doctrine of love, while the older Scriptures told stories of a vengeful God, a divine presence that played favorites. The Old Testament God was worshipped by heroes who confronted oppressors, ready to kill or to die for the sake of their people.
Judith of Bethulia was one of those heroes.
In the story, Judith was walking through the city’s narrow streets in the company of her servingwoman. She wore a striking gown, having just put away the mourning garb she’d worn since the death of her husband. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, hoop earrings, and pendants enhanced her beauty. She stopped at the gate where Uzziah, governor of the city and son of Micah, was waiting with the elders Cabri and Carmis. All were astounded at the sight of her. After receiving farewell blessings, the women left the walled city of Bethulia. Night shrouded them as they began the steep descent toward the enemy stronghold in the valley below.
An outpost manned by Assyrians blocked their way. When Judith asked the soldiers to take her to their general, they laughed in scorn. She insisted she had information that would help them take the city but had to deliver it directly to the general. And so they escorted Judith to the camp, which was occupied by 170 thousand foot soldiers and 12 thousand horsemen with bows. Servants and porters tended camels, asses, mules, sheep, oxen, and goats.
They took her to the tent of Holofernes, commander of Nebuchadnezzar’s army. The general lounged bare chested on a divan beneath a purple canopy studded with gold, emeralds, and other precious gems. The silver lamps the servants held bathed the interior in a soft glow. The general studied the women with obvious interest. Holofernes was tall and muscled, dark skinned, bearded, and long haired. He had a hooked nose and dark, penetrating eyes. His army had besieged Bethulia for more than a month, barring access to fresh water. City dwellers were suffering agonies of thirst and the prospect of a terrible death.
Holofernes was carrying out his monarch’s orders to annihilate any population that refused to submit to the Babylonians. His long campaigns had left devastation in their wake: corpses of men, women, and children; burned harvests; and desecrated places of worship. Judith was entering the lion’s den, hoping God would guide her in stopping the Babylonian host from destroying her city and continuing on to Jerusalem.
Holofernes received her courteously and promised she would be unharmed if she offered her allegiance to Nebuchadnezzar, king of the world entire. She told him the city of Bethulia had gone mad. They were planning to profane the temples and had asked permission of the sages to consume foods, wine, and oil already consecrated for the priests. The wrath of God was sure to fall upon them when they did. Holofernes listened closely, enchanted by the woman’s eloquence and beauty. Judith said she would help the Babylonian army on one condition: they must allow her to leave the camp each night to pray. God would tell her as soon as the Jews committed sacrilege. She would inform the besieging army, and their subsequent attack was certain to succeed.
Soldiers gave Judith and her servant their own tent. The women ate only food they’d brought with them and avoided contact with troops discomfited by their alluring presence. Three days passed. On the fourth, having received no news, Holofernes called for a banquet. Judith accepted his invitation and adorned herself with dazzling jewelry and perfumes. Bagoas, the general’s major domo, escorted her to the commander’s tent. She dazzled everyone as she accepted the place of honor beside the general, who burned with desire for her. Judith ate only from her own provisions, while Holofernes and his followers stuffed themselves like gluttons. When the other guests retired, Bagoas closed the tent flaps and left Judith alone with Holofernes. The alcohol overcame his ardor, and the general soon fell asleep. Judith knelt by the bed to pray, asking for a sign. She lifted her almond eyes and saw a sword hanging at the headboard. She unsheathed it without hesitation, stepped toward Holofernes, seized his hair, and with two sharp strokes struck his head from his body.
Judith Slaying Holofernes.
That was the moment depicted by Artemisia Gentileschi in 1620. The Bible says that, after the murder, Judith pulled down curtains from the tent columns and used them to wrap up the head. With the help of her servant, she carried it out of the camp toward the place she’d nightly gone to pray. They did not stop there but continued to the gate of Bethulia and delivered the head to her people as a trophy.
Elías stood in his office under the spell of the painting. He studied the sweeping brushwork, and the painter’s triangular composition of slayer, victim, and servant. The Bible said the maid had left, but, as a rule in painting, evens were inferior to odds. The number three was the essence of art.
This Judith wasn’t particularly attractive. Her face was rigid from the effort required to cut off the head. The executed man’s face contorted in helpless surprise as tremendous jets of blood spurted left and right.
Some historians argued that Gentileschi had depicted herself as Judith, and Tassi as Holofernes, making the painting a revenge fantasy against her abuser.
“My Elías!” A deep voice interrupted his reverie. “My golden boy!”
He’d never cared much for that nickname, but some things couldn’t be changed.
“My Lolita!”
His assistant, Lola, was just over fifty, and she looked it. Her agility made up for extra weight, just as her joy and enthusiasm compensated for an occasionally crabby nature. They hugged each other exactly as she’d taught him: for six seconds, heart to heart. It had seemed an eternity to him at first, but by now it was almost too brief. Lola left and came back immediately with a steaming cup of herbal tea. Elías dropped the mirror cube into his pocket and accepted the beverage.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Lola said. “I was in the file room. Cinnamon and honey, the all-purpose cure. Tell me how it went in Madrid. I thought you’d be back yesterday.”
“There were some unexpected developments.”
“Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?” Lola settled into the padded visitor’s chair and adjusted her scarf. It was the same green as her blouse, her shoes, and her earrings.
“I have to get my thoughts in order. Maybe I’ll seek some divine guidance.”
The office buzzer sounded, and Lola rose to go to the reception desk. “Oh, yes,” she called back, “Caridad phoned to say you two have a lunch date. She says your cell phone is turned off.”
Elías deposited the cup on a saucer decorated with a Corinthian column. He checked his phone and discovered that it was indeed turned off. Shit. Caridad must be spitting mad.
“This way, please.”
Alfredo came in, and Lola closed the door behind him. Elías motioned him to the visitor’s chair.
“I really do like your office. It’s so sunny.” Alfredo gestured toward the bookcase that occupied the side wall. “And you’ve got a fine collection of books.”
“Thanks. It’s small, but it’s very practical.”
“And well lit. Don’t forget: God is light and in him there is no darkness whatever.”
Alfredo was only in his midforties, but he looked a good deal older, perhaps because of his bald head. Or maybe it was the dark suit and clerical collar.
“Can I offer you something?” Elías pointed to a side table set with a Japanese teapot and several porcelain cups.
“No, thanks. I never have anything between meals. One must be disciplined. Of course—did you see the match yesterday?”
“No, I was late getting back to the hotel.”
“What a game. I was in agony right up to the end. I just love soccer. To some it might seem a touch sacrilegious, but I feel closer to the Lord while watching Real Madrid on the field. It’s the call of my origins. A festive atmosphere and a wildly enthusiastic crowd. Sometimes a bit too enthusiastic, of course. If only we could rouse such passion in the churches.”
“You know I’m not much of a soccer fan.” Though they got along well enough, Elías knew they’d never be good friends. But Caridad was closer with Alfredo; with the bishop’s blessing, the two of them had created a religious organization to send volunteers to countries in Africa.
“Shame on you! I’ve always said you can’t really trust men who don’t like soccer. But never mind all that. I have some business with Santo Domingo Parish and thought I’d drop in.”
“I sent my account of the Madrid events from my hotel.”
“Yes, yes, don’t worry, we received the report.”
“I have to think about it some more before drawing any conclusions.”
“Never mind. The truth is, it was foolish to send you to Madrid. I’d heard that particular auction house isn’t well managed, and this certainly won’t do anything to improve its reputation. The matter’s settled as far as we’re concerned—written off. Our principal concern now, with only two weeks left, is that you locate the Lignum Crucis. Perhaps someday we’ll find out more about this business in Madrid; we’ll just have to trust in the Lord. Curiosity isn’t a capital sin, but it can send us on a wild goose chase and distract us from the true path.”
“Lots of people are interested in that painting.” Elías was going to tell him about Midas’s henchmen, but Alfredo raised a hand.
“Remember, Elías: curiosity killed the cat. One must learn to obey instructions.” His manner was unexpectedly stern. “If you feel the need to discuss something, talk to your uncle. Family is family. But I strongly suggest you put that business behind you.”
Alfred rose, all smiles again, bade an affectionate farewell to Lola, and left. Before proceeding down the stairs, he called back to Elías, “Do keep me informed. Please.”
Elías followed Alfredo to the front door and spotted a half-dead plant Lola had set on the outside landing. “Lola, good God, this thing is a disgrace. Get it out of here.”
“No, no! Surely we can do something for it.”
“It’s dying.”
“It’s arugula, to absorb bad vibrations.”
Elías was too tired to argue. He closed the door and went back to his office. He took the mirror cube from his pocket and began fiddling with it. The shapes refused to line up. Maybe he’d never solve it.
He glanced at the overnight bag by the door. He needed to go home. His mind was elsewhere as sections of the cube revolved beneath his fingers. He couldn’t forget about the events in Madrid. Too many weird things had happened, and he wasn’t willing to leave them unresolved.
He turned to his computer and began to search his inbox until he found the e-mail he was looking for. It contained the IP address of the auction house computer along with the username and password.
It wasn’t even two o’clock, so their computer had to still be on. He clicked on the program he’d installed to give him clandestine access and opened the sales log. There was his name as the winner of the auction of the untitled painting by a follower of Bacon. He highlighted the registration number and searched again, discovering immediately that the house had acquired it two months earlier from a certain Alicia Silva Mataró for fifteen thousand euros—exactly half the starting price and only a seventh of Elías’s winning bid. A tidy little profit for them. Then he reviewed the bid register. Those first telephone bids had come from a man. The second series of telephone bids, which had forced him to raise his own offer above a hundred thousand euros, had come from a woman: Alicia Silva Mataró.
The previous owner of the painting had been bidding on it. That might have made sense if it were on consignment, but since she’d sold it outright, she didn’t stand to get any of the profit from the auction. So why would she drive up his offer? And then steal the painting?
He opened the auction house’s spreadsheet of clients and located Silva Mataró’s name and address. Odd. She lived in Cartagena, as he did. Elías closed the connection to the auction house computer and sat there thinking. His uncle’s instructions were clear: he was to drop this investigation and concentrate on finding the True Cross. Well, the Lignum Crucis might be his highest priority, but that was no reason to abandon the other inquiry. He’d become a professional investigator for a good reason: he hated unsolved mysteries.
6
“Ladies and gentlemen, get ready to witness the greatest illusion of all time.” The magician turned and held up a chainsaw. “Today, this is my magic wand.”
He pulled the cord, and the saw kicked into action. Its snarl oscillated relentlessly above the orchestra’s frantic accompaniment.
L slipped her head through the folds of the burgundy curtain behind the circus stage. The vicious roar of the chainsaw made her stomach turn and her legs quiver. Yes, they’d done this act countless times, but the terrible machine never ceased to frighten her. The illusion mocked death and fooled the public with a clever bit of unseen manipulation—but what if something went wrong?
Her uncle stalked toward the audience as if intending to decapitate them, and their rhythmic clapping died away as parents and children drew back in their seats. Fearful grimaces from some mixed with nervous laughter from others. He smiled and retreated, setting down the saw with the motor still running.
“I present to you my assistant!”
Here goes. L emerged from the wings pushing a wooden box the size of a coffin. She was a child of eight, red-haired and freckled, so thin that she looked like a walking skeleton. She rolled the box to center stage. After bowing respectfully, her uncle helped her climb inside. He closed the lid slowly and left visible only her feet, hands, and head, all protruding from the box like bizarre growths. The magician wheeled the container from one side of the stage to the other, turned it so the audience could see it from every angle, so they could convince themselves that no trickery was possible.
Then he approached the chainsaw where it was whining as if to complain about being abandoned. Back in the hands of its master, it regained its previous élan, making the spectators cower once more in their seats. To v
anquish all doubt of its destructive power, L’s uncle suddenly pivoted and, with one swipe, sliced in two the chair that had been placed there for that purpose. He again stepped forward and brandished the chainsaw at the audience, a sly smile on his face. Then he positioned himself before the box containing his niece.
On cue, the music slowed and grew shrill and pounding. Squealing trumpets, shrieking violins, and thundering drums grated on the nerves and made hairs bristle in grim anticipation.
He lifted the chainsaw high overhead and lowered it slowly to the midpoint of the wooden box, more or less where her waist would be. L closed her eyes and tensed all her muscles. The wood gave way and the whole audience held its breath. The spinning blade bit and tore, bit and tore until, after several long seconds that felt like forever, it reached the surface on which the box rested. Her uncle yanked it upward.
L opened her eyes and smiled at those present. She waved her hands and feet. The tense audience suddenly remembered to breathe, releasing an avalanche of applause punctuated by whistles. But the ordeal wasn’t over. The music stopped for just a moment as her uncle moved to the right and planted himself just behind the girl’s head. Again he raised the diabolical device and brought it down to her neck. She shut her eyes tight and held her breath. The trumpets protested again, the violins shrieked, and the drums roared in redoubled rhythm.
The chainsaw chewed its way slowly down through the wood, sending splinters into the air and leaving them clinging to clothing and hair. Suddenly, a pool of blood splattered across the floor and sprayed the magician’s face. He grimaced in terrified amazement, stopped the chainsaw, and hurled it aside. The orchestra fell silent. Stagehands rushed out, and a rumble of astonishment spread through the crowd, followed by hysterical cries and panicked shouts. Just as things were starting to get out of hand, L’s uncle walked to the lip of the stage and blew a whistle.
The Dark Circus Page 4