“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated!” His blood-spattered face and hands were hardly reassuring. “It is clear that today I’ve committed a grievous and unforgivable error that has cost the life of an innocent child. But do not fear. Surely you haven’t forgotten that I’m a magician?”
A leaden silence filled the hall. The multitude sat motionless, weighing his words.
“Come now. You must give me the opportunity to rectify my error. I shall have to invoke real magic if we hope to bring this poor creature back to life.”
Cheerful music filled the air, and new murmurs shot through the crowd. They tricked us. That’s disgusting! It was all part of the show. Gave me a heart attack! Yet everyone rushed back to their seats, eager to see how it would all play out.
The magician furnished a purple sheet and spread it over the coffin. He approached the crowd. “Real magic requires the participation of everyone present. In order to transform reality, you will need to chant the magic words with me.”
“What are the magic words?” an excited child called out.
“When you bind ’em with our bandage, they’re bound to bounce back better.”
There was a tremendous roar of laughter in response to the familiar commercial jingle, and the audience began to chant it in unison.
“Not yet! Wait until I tell you,” the magician admonished them. He positioned himself behind the wooden box and raised his arms to the sky. “Now!”
“When you bind ’em with our bandage, they’re bound to bounce back better!”
The chant became more and more emphatic as the orchestra sped up.
“Louder! I need more energy!”
The crowd was on its feet now, putting all its heart into those magic words. “When you bind ’em with our bandage, they’re bound to bounce back better. When you bind ’em with our bandage, they’re bound to bounce back better. WHEN YOU BIND ’EM WITH OUR BANDAGE, THEY’RE BOUND TO BOUNCE BACK BETTER.” And suddenly the magician whipped off the sheet. The orchestra fell silent, and the wooden box burst open, scattering pieces in every direction and exposing the girl’s motionless body. Silence fell for one second, two, three, five. No one breathed until the instant L opened her eyes and leaped to her feet. A roar of jubilation greeted her as the orchestra struck up a happy tune punctuated by shouts, hurrahs, and calls of “Bravo!” The applause was thunderous. The magician grabbed L, lifted her to his shoulders, and walked to the front of the stage to accept their adulation. Bravo!
Now L no longer felt afraid. She reveled in the people’s outpouring of emotion.
That was the real magic.
The door of the trailer was thrown open, ricocheting off the wall. L jumped in surprise. Her uncle stamped in and loomed over her in a rage.
“He wants us to change the act! Can you believe it?” He dropped onto the bed across from hers, raised a bottle of wine, and chugged half of it.
“Who?” L sat up. She’d just finished showering and scrubbing the last of the fake blood out of her hair.
“Who do you think? Sifo!” He passed her the bottle.
She took a couple of sips. “But everybody loved it.”
“The man’s lost his marbles.” Her uncle lunged forward and grabbed the bottle. He stood up in the middle of the trailer and took another long swig. “He says fewer and fewer people are coming, the circus is losing money, and he blames our act. He says nobody’s fooled by the accident anymore.”
“They were beside themselves, Uncle.” L stood up. “Sifo can’t be serious. What’s more fantastic than resurrecting the dead?”
“How the hell should I know?” He drained the bottle, peered down the neck to make sure it was empty, then threw it the length of the trailer. He seized his head in his hands, shivered violently, dropped back into bed, and lay inert.
L went to his side. She’d seen him drunk many times before, and it wasn’t unusual for her to have to haul him out of a bar or from the arms of a hooker. She herself had gone along on some of his binges, waking up at dawn sprawled out in a park with a terrible hangover. The drunkenness was nothing new. What was different now was his attitude. She wasn’t used to seeing her uncle throw things or shout this way.
“Should we call a meeting? I’m sure the others will back us up.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Her uncle raised his chin and gave her a look. The blue of his irises was scarcely visible in his bloodshot eyes. “Sifo has surrendered to mammon. He’s lost his mind with greed.”
“What, all of the sudden he’s turned into a rotten miser?” L couldn’t conceal her surprise. Sifo had always been generous. He was the one who’d heard about a cousin’s failing circus, bought it, and turned it over to the villagers, who had lost everything and were close to starvation. L had been an infant back then, but her uncle had often told the story. How Sifo had convinced his cousin to teach them all the tricks of the trade, how he’d tested them all to determine their abilities and assigned the most appropriate roles. Sifo had pledged to respect the villagers’ traditions, to put all important decisions to an open vote, and to share profits equally among them.
“It’s been coming for a while, I just didn’t want to believe it. I’m almost certain that he’s been hoarding the lion’s share of the profits for himself.”
“What are you saying?”
“Look, I don’t care if he skims off the top from time to time, as long as the rest of us have enough to feed ourselves. The problem is that one thing leads to another. After a man starts to cheat, mammon takes over, and there’s no turning back.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“I need to get my thoughts in order.” Her uncle took out a little plastic vial containing a black liquid. He handed an identical one to L. Each uncapped the container and threw back the contents.
“Thanks.” The drug had an immediate effect on her. She felt something change in her brain, as if the connections between the neurons had dissolved and reconfigured themselves into something new and strange.
“He told me I have to change the act, make it even more spectacular. He wants something to knock them off their feet so they can’t talk about anything except the amazing spectacle they saw at”—he raised his voice and gestured as if holding a poster—“the Great Scottish Circus!” He held that pose for a moment and then sagged. “And he threatened me.”
“Threatened you?”
“Said he’ll fire us. He reminded me he’s the owner and said he’s ready to take drastic action if we don’t get him out of this mess.”
“What mess? Okay, so we’re not filling every last seat, but we make enough to keep us comfortable.”
“Like I told you, all he cares about now is money, and he wants more of it. He’s forgotten the real reason for living, the thing that unites us in this company. Nothing is more important than making the audience laugh, giving them a couple of hours of happiness. If we can do that and make enough to live on, what more could we want?”
“So, what are we going to do? Are we really going to change the act?”
“Look, L, you’re only a child, but you’re old enough now to understand that there are certain social principles, certain rules, that should never be broken. Never let anyone imply he’s more important than you, never let anyone trample on you or force you to do something you don’t want to do. And never let anybody sneer or turn his back on you, because in this world, we are all equal.”
“I know all that already, Uncle.”
“I know you do. But it’s very important to keep it in mind, because you’re going to come across many people who’ll try to persuade you otherwise, who’ll try to make you think they’re better than you.”
“Like Sifo?”
“Yes, like Sifo, right now. And when someone violates a principle, extraordinary measures are called for.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Sifo wants something huge, an illusion that’ll get people talking and draw crowds from miles around. He even went so
far as to imply that, instead of faking an accident, we should let a real one happen . . .”
“What? What did you say?”
“I told him he was right. We need to do something truly spectacular. I’ll get rid of the wooden box and use glass instead.”
7
Elías crossed San Sebastián Plaza on his way home. The bright multicolored tiles gleamed in the brilliant sunshine. He checked his watch: exactly two o’clock. A platoon of military cadets marched in formation up the narrow main street, pristine in elegant blue formal uniforms with distinctive red cords. When Elías turned the corner onto Calle del Aire, he was surprised to see Sandra seated at a sidewalk café, one of many that lined the busy street. His heart skipped a beat. She and two other women were having an animated conversation.
Sandra’s usual drink had been fresh-squeezed orange juice, but today she ordered coffee and toast. She’d broken up with him four years earlier, and he hadn’t seen her since. He kept his distance and watched her from behind one of the massive planters along the street. Her hair wasn’t bottle-blond anymore. She’d cut it short and was about twenty pounds heavier. Her clothes looked like cheap junk from some outlet. Elías smiled smugly. He saw no reason to go up to her now.
He remembered all too well the day he’d dropped to one knee in one of the town’s most fashionable restaurants. The place had designer lamps, designer tables and chairs, designer food, even designer waiters. He’d looked up at her and held out the little box containing the expensive diamond ring. In response, she’d picked up her Prada bag and walked out of his life.
Elías never got an explanation. He’d asked his friends, people who’d been their friends up to that point, but nobody could explain Sandra’s reaction.
Elías had called and called but never managed to get her on the phone. He had made the dutiful trek to her house every day for a solid month, hoping to catch a glimpse. But her family had formed an impenetrable wall. Everyone had said to let it go and just forget her. But he couldn’t. He’d never been dumped like that. He’d had two girlfriends before Sandra, but both times he’d been the one to end things.
Elías had wallowed a long time in the deep well of despair and almost dropped out of school. His sister had reported that Sandra was a basket case. Then he heard she’d gone to Scotland. His bewildered humiliation had gradually turned to rage and finally to disgust.
One day, it had hit him like a sudden shaft of light: he could live without her. His wounded pride would heal.
He’d started going out again with friends. One night, Caridad had simply appeared, an elegantly dressed blonde with quiet charm. As the weeks passed, he’d observed her carefully. Her outfits were from the very best boutiques and always beautifully coordinated. Her artfully applied makeup masked slight imperfections. The gems she wore were real. Her skin and nails shone brilliantly thanks to weekly spa sessions that included meticulous depilation. Her body was always perfectly moisturized and perfumed. Her shoes and handbag always matched.
They’d dated chastely for a year. When Elías decided the time had come, he bought tickets for a hot-air balloon flight down the coast of Alicante. They’d gotten up very early on the appointed day and arrived at the takeoff point well before dawn. Elías had set out an exquisite, candlelit breakfast of champagne and canapés in a palm grove. Lift-off had been at daybreak. The view of the sea had been spectacular. Pink rays of dawn against the clouds had created dreamlike images, and they’d been enchanted to see an enormous orange sun slowly peer over the horizon. Elías had been elated but terribly nervous. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined anything so romantic. He’d pulled a tiny box from his pocket and held it out to an astonished Caridad. She’d flung her arms around him and kissed him passionately.
He’d hoped they’d have sex once they were engaged, but that didn’t happen. Instead, they got completely caught up in preparations for the wedding. His uncle reserved a church, which, of course, had to be the one dedicated to the patron saint of Cartagena, for whom his fiancée was named. They reserved a restaurant for the reception, bought wedding attire, and planned their honeymoon with the travel agency in the Corte Inglés department store, deciding to spend two weeks in New York City.
Caridad had found the spacious apartment for them. A friend of the family had inherited it, and he offered it to them for a very reasonable price. Elías fell in love with the place at first sight. It had needed a complete renovation, but the location and the views couldn’t have been better. The work was finished just a few days before the wedding. Caridad agreed to share the bed with him, but despite his best efforts, she wouldn’t let him go all the way. She’d reserved that reward for their wedding night.
Elías paused before the entryway with its massive ten-foot-tall wooden door in olive green. The building’s privileged position gave them a view over the Roman amphitheater where clumps of tourists milled about from midmorning until seven at night. Outside those hours, a spectacular uninterrupted panorama stretched into the distance beyond their living room’s picture window.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor and went in. As he deposited his keys in the tray by the door, he heard Caridad’s voice.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes!” he called.
He deposited his overnight bag by the antique English table. He was in the process of hanging up his coat and hat when his wife appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“Get in here!”
He felt the rush of a sudden erection. Caridad was barefoot and wore only a purple, see-through negligée. He followed her without thinking, unbuttoning his shirt. The warm smell of cooking filled the apartment. He was drawn by the sight of her slim, firm but curvaceous body. Caridad turned and gave him a passionate kiss. He ran his hands gently over her, then tugged a shoulder strap and liberated a breast.
“No time for that,” she responded breathlessly as she unbuttoned his jeans.
She threw herself back onto the bed and opened her legs. Elías obediently penetrated her and began pushing in and pulling back. She moaned in satisfaction but glanced from time to time at the alarm clock on the nightstand.
“I can’t do it like this, my darling,” Elías protested.
“I thought you’d be here an hour ago!”
Elías resigned himself and went back to work. Unexpectedly, he had a blurred vision of himself making love to that redhead. He pushed harder and faster, hearing Caridad’s moans from far away. The thought of that goddess brought him to a wild pitch of excitement that spasmed into orgasm. He was immediately struck by guilt, as if he’d been unfaithful to his wife. He collapsed onto her and looked around. Caridad, ever prepared, passed him the box of tissues. He withdrew carefully and went to the bathroom to clean up.
Naked, he came back and found Caridad on her back, knees up, murmuring a prayer. Elías didn’t interrupt her ritual. He took a patterned blue shirt from the dresser and picked up his jeans. He dressed with calm deliberation as Caridad went to take a shower. He slipped on a pair of brown boat shoes and adjusted his watch. He completed his toilette by splashing himself with a cologne that evoked wood and tropical fruits. At least that’s what the ad said.
“Your family will be here any minute,” Caridad called from the bathroom. “How did things go in Madrid?”
“I don’t really know. It was very strange.”
She didn’t ask for details, and Elías couldn’t tell if she hadn’t heard him or just wasn’t interested. In truth, she rarely asked about his work. In her mind, their worlds ran on separate tracks, which gave each a measure of independence.
Caridad reappeared, fully dressed and as perfect as ever. The pink blouse gave her face a lovely glow, and the high-cut jeans were snug about her rounded hips. She disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen, her businesslike steps echoing behind her. Elías went to the living room and found the table already set. Three wineglasses with gold filigree stood at each place. Matching dishes accompanied them. The dinner plates and small
er dishes for the first courses were set out along a raffia runner with a centerpiece of white flowers and candles.
The doorbell rang.
“Can you get that?” she called from the kitchen.
His mother was waiting.
“Hello, my son.” She took his head in both hands, as always, then went up on tiptoes and kissed both his cheeks. She smelled of Chanel. Fashion might change, but she would always use that sickly sweet No. 5. Her bracelets clattered as Elías accompanied her into the living room.
“Where should I put this?”
His mother gave him her double-breasted, floral-patterned coat. She still had a stylish figure, and she liked to emphasize it with trousers and sweaters that were just a bit too tight. Elías went back and hung the coat by the front door.
“Where’s Caridad?”
“Just putting the last touches on dinner. We lost track of time.”
“Don’t worry. I’m in no rush.”
They took their places on the heavy chesterfield sofa. It was upholstered in white with matching buttons punctuating the backrest.
“Did your sister speak to you? Has she told you about her mad plans?”
Caridad came into the room. “Hello, Fuensanta.” They exchanged affectionate little kisses. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Of course.”
Caridad went to the bar and opened a door that concealed a tiny fridge. She brought Elías a bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“Two parts champagne, one part sparkling Martini Rosé,” she instructed, fetching two glasses. “What’s Delia up to now?”
Elías’s mother looked away for a moment. “She wants to have a child on her own.”
“What?”
Elías hadn’t been expecting that either. “Oh, my God!”
“Do not take the name of the Lord our God in vain, my boy. She told me nothing at all; I know only because I overheard her on the telephone.”
“But she’s only twenty-six!” exclaimed Caridad.
“It appears she’s thinking about going to one of those fertility clinics. Atrocious! And don’t you dare say a word about it to your uncle.” The admonitory finger his mother waved at them was more menacing than a razor-edged sword. “That reminds me: he called to say he has a lot to deal with and can’t make it for dinner. He’ll try to be here by dessert.”
The Dark Circus Page 5