The Dark Circus

by Ana Ballabriga

  “Delia just needs to find herself a good man and start a family.” Caridad seemed even more scandalized than her mother-in-law. She was removing the place setting from the head of the table. She gestured, knife in hand, and declared, “That is how these things are done!”

  “Whatever will people say?” Elías’s mother took a sharp swig of her cocktail.

  “We don’t even know if she’s really planning something. Maybe you just misheard her.”

  “That may be.” His mother leaned back against the sofa. “I pray that God will hear you. It would be a sin and an enormous scandal. I’d have to explain it to everyone I know. Elías, my boy, sound her out and convince her not to commit such a folly. It would ruin her life. What man would want her as a wife after that? If he had to take care of another man’s child? It’s crystal clear to me . . . And how about you two? When will you give me my first grandchild?”

  The doorbell rang. Caridad tucked the place setting in a drawer and went to the hall. Moments later, she led Elías’s sister into the living room.

  “Hey there, folks. How’s it going?”

  Delia had to be seen to be believed: she had porcelain skin, full lips, almond-shaped green eyes, and blond hair. Tall and slim, she was the picture of Elías in feminine form. During their childhood, everyone had marveled at the resemblance, despite their mother’s best efforts to differentiate them with clothing and haircuts. Whenever the two had a checkup, the pediatrician would tease them, asking if they ever swapped clothes to confuse their teachers. Their mother was not amused in the least, especially when the doctor asked her if they took after their father.

  Elías understood perfectly. His mother refused to talk about the man. All Elías knew was that he’d come from Pamplona to do his military service in Cartagena, and he’d died in an accident aboard a warship, leaving their mother pregnant and unmarried. That was why his uncle had requested a transfer to Cartagena. He’d become their father figure, taking his dead brother’s place.

  “Is that really what you’re wearing? You thought that was appropriate for a nice dinner at your brother’s house?”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  “You look like you just left the gym.”

  “Because I did.”

  “I hope you took a shower, at least?” his mother asked.

  “Let’s sit,” Elías suggested.

  “Where’s Uncle?”

  “He’ll be here later,” their mother snapped.

  Elías and Caridad went to the kitchen to serve the first course. They heard the two women talking in the other room.

  “Your mother’s right: your sister has a really strange idea of appropriate dinner attire.”

  “You know how she is.”

  “Here.” Caridad handed him a dish of canapés. “Yes, of course I do. I hope you like these. She drives me crazy with all her nonsense about meat. I’m getting to be a real expert in vegetarian cuisine.”

  His sister had decided a couple of years earlier not to consume or wear anything that had caused suffering to any animal. That was just before she got her veterinary degree.

  Back in the living room, Delia had already poured herself some wine. The four of them took their seats.

  “Bless us, Lord God,” his mother intoned, “and bless the food we are about to receive. Bless those who prepared it, give bread to those who have none, and take care of all those who are ill or in need, for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Totally,” Delia added. “And congratulations, Caridad.”

  “Thanks,” she responded.

  “I brought you a present.”

  Delia held out a tiny package. Surprised, Caridad opened it. Inside lay a felt badge with the embroidered image of a red-haired teacher and a tiny child. Elías winced at the sight of a gift he thought too hippie for his wife’s tastes. But Caridad broke into a smile.

  “It’s lovely, Delia. Thanks very much.” She went around the table to kiss her cheeks.

  “You’re welcome. I found it at an art fair. So, where are they assigning you?”

  “Los Mateos.”

  His sister almost choked. “Are you serious?”

  Yes, thought Elías, that’s life. The assignment wasn’t much cause for celebration. Caridad had taken the teacher’s exam four years earlier. And two years after that. Then again in a special session just the other day. She’d passed it every time, for she worked as a teacher’s assistant in the morning and studied all afternoon. Now, on her third try, her score was high enough to merit a job offer.

  The problem this time was the assignment. Los Mateos was a humble stretch of ramshackle houses on a hillside near the Moorish Castle. It was a neighborhood of distressed families, men without jobs, and women who’d become mothers as teenagers and were still having children. The neighborhood was full of illiterates and mired in poverty. It was notorious for drug dealing.

  “You’ll be able to put in for a transfer later on, won’t you?” their mother asked. She poked suspiciously at a little piece of toast spread with vegetarian pâté.

  Delia didn’t seem to be hungry. “Why do you assume she’ll want to? She might really enjoy it. At least the neighborhood has character.”

  “I cannot imagine that Caridad will be happy in that school.” The pâté seemed to have passed the test, for their mother had finished the toast and was preparing another. “Mind you, I am not racist, but each of us should know his own place.”

  “That’s not just racist, Mama. It’s classist.”

  “I don’t much care for the neighborhood,” Caridad said. “But at least I’ll be working with children.”

  “There are loads of evangelical Protestants out there,” Delia said.

  “Worse and worse,” their mother declared. “What will people think? Did that ever occur to you? Quite a few of your friends won’t put up with such things.”

  Delia sighed. “Mama, don’t talk such nonsense.”

  “Well, don’t be surprised if people talk. When someone spends all day long with juvenile delinquents, don’t you think something rubs off on her?” She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Caridad. “It’s your choice: either you get out of there quick as you can, or they write you off as contaminated, and soon you two won’t have a friend left. Cultivated people prefer to mix with their own kind, and they choose friends who feel the same way. Don’t you understand that?”

  “Their own kind?” replied Delia. “I get along with everybody I meet.”

  “I was referring to cultivated people,” their mother responded tartly. She looked down and studied her plate.

  “All right now, let’s not spoil the celebration.” Elías knew their mother loved them both very much, but she couldn’t stand his sister’s liberal notions. “A toast to the new job. At least you won’t have to study ever again, right, dearest?”

  “I will, my love. One has to take refresher courses. They’re much easier, though.”

  They all rose for the toast.

  “To Caridad. May God guide her and give her all the best!”

  The sky visible through the living room’s plate-glass window was cloudless above the majestic Roman amphitheater. Only a few tourists were visible. The place seemed enchanted, as if the ancient days had reclaimed the city and, at any moment, a performance of The Trojan Women was going to commence.

  8

  Elías was feeling jumpy when he got to the office—out of sorts, angry, and unmotivated. Like a junkie in need of a fix. Even though he’d already had his morning coffee, he went to the cramped kitchenette to make some more. He’d slept poorly.

  The previous evening, his uncle had arrived in time for dessert but hadn’t stayed more than half an hour. Their mother made excuses for him, as always, reminding them how busy he was with the upcoming papal visit. Still, Elías couldn’t help being annoyed that his uncle had neglected Caridad’s big celebration. And though he knew he was overreacting, he was still upset that his uncl
e had told him not to investigate the theft in Madrid. He was annoyed he’d been sent to bid for the painting in the first place, only to be strongly drawn to the goddess who’d stolen it. Lessons his uncle had drilled into him for all those years about suppressing doubt and obeying orders had instantly gone up in smoke. Listen to me: God commands and we obey. Who are we to question his purposes?

  Easy for him to say, considering that, according to Catholic doctrine, he himself was God’s mouthpiece.

  Elías shook his head to drive away these resentments.

  Lola was away from the office running errands. Elías lifted the lid of the coffee machine, inserted an aluminum capsule, and pressed the button. While the black liquid trickled into the cup, he absently contemplated the glass bowls stationed along the marble countertop. Three bowls were full of water, in which various scraps of cloth—black, white, yellow, and red—were swimming. Elías was generally indifferent to office decor, but Lola had asked him pretty please if she might use that space to ward off jaundice and the evil eye.

  Elías understood why. Here at work, there were no children to disturb her charms. No one peering at the colorful display, no persistent questions, no little fingers scooping out twists of cloth, no water spilled, no one ruining her magic spells. He didn’t have to worry about his clients coming into the kitchenette. In fact, Elías was almost never in there himself. He’d had no reason to turn down Lola’s request.

  Over time, he’d gotten used to the bowls, and Lola had told him about interpreting the patterns. He studied the scraps now, some floating, some underwater, each resembling an unrolled paper streamer. One red scrap floated free in its bowl, a sign that someone’s heart was functioning normally. That person’s spirit was also healthy, for two white scraps undulated in the depths as well. But the black scrap was cause for concern. It had gone to the bottom right side of its bowl, a warning that person was suffering from distempered humors.

  Elías had always supposed the “evil eye” was some sort of curse, but Lola set him straight. The evil eye was harm caused by people whose eyes held a special power. Most of the time, they didn’t even know it. If such a person’s gaze was fixed upon on a person, an animal, or even a plant, the object of attention would weaken and might fall ill with fever. The evil eye could cause bad luck. Elías found such superstitions absurd, but Lola told him of eerie things she’d seen firsthand. Once, she said, a woman visiting her home had effusively praised a potted plant. Throughout their conversation, the visitor hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off that plant. After she left, it suddenly wilted. Lola’s verdict? “She sucked up its energy and walked off with it.”

  Such superstitions were common in Cartagena. One often saw baby carriages adorned with big red ribbons, a tactic to distract anyone whose gaze might inadvertently harm a child.

  Elías picked up his cup of steaming Dharkan coffee, set it on a saucer, and returned to his office. He placed the beverage on the coffee table he sometimes used instead of his desk. He turned on the record player from his student days. Silence gave way to Billie Holiday’s voice from her last LP. He settled into his armchair and tasted the coffee.

  Perfect.

  Charms against the evil eye had originated in Egypt, Greece, and Turkey, but now they were common throughout the Mediterranean. In Cartagena, for example, the iconic shape of the True Cross of Caravaca was thought to have special powers. It was the favorite symbol for pendants on gold or silver chains, but one couldn’t simply go out and buy it. Custom dictated that its protection was effective only when received as a gift.

  The Church, of course, had no patience for such superstitions and took pains to emphasize that the cross was not a charm. It symbolized Jesus Christ, who should never be associated with superstition or witchcraft.

  He opened the folder with all the information he’d gathered about the theft of the Lignum Crucis. Copies of the nine pages he’d found locked in the chapel were on top of the documents. In them, the terrified chaplain admitted to opening the church gate. But who’d taken the cross?

  A sharp buzz from outside made Elías start and almost spill his coffee. He hadn’t been expecting anyone.

  He went to the door.

  “Hey, hon.” His sister had let down her blond hair and now wore lightly shimmering makeup. Her tight green dress matched her eyes.

  “Delia! Where are you off to, looking like that?”

  She grinned. “I’ve got an appointment at the bank, but I’m early.”

  “The bank? Everything okay?”

  “I’m asking for a loan to expand the animal hospital. We want to offer boarding services.”

  “Sounds great.” Elías stepped to one side. “Come in. How about a coffee?”

  “Nespresso?”

  Elías nodded.

  “No, thanks. Nothing but fair trade for me, you know,” she said, as he chimed in, “No exploitation of animals or persons.” They both burst out laughing.

  “You are a fanatic.”

  “I’m committed. Not the same thing. And you’re conventional, as always.” In his office, Billie Holiday was yearning for a lover she claimed to have forgotten. “Seriously, Elías, someone must have switched one of us at birth.”

  They’d been polar opposites since infancy. Delia was impetuous, strong-willed, and optimistic, while he was patient, affectionate, and reserved. But despite their differences, they kept no secrets from each other. Though they’d been told of their father’s death at sea during naval maneuvers, Delia and Elías had liked pretending that one day he’d turn up aboard one of the vessels tying up at the dock. The two had often slipped away to stare out at the waves and imagine that, at that very moment, their father might be embarking in Sicily, New York, or Smyrna on his way back to Cartagena to embrace his children and apologize for all the time lost. He would tell stories of all the battles he’d survived, how he’d saved thousands of lives and received the fistfuls of medals now adorning his uniform.

  That ship had never arrived. And as they grew, so did their doubts. Where was their father buried? Why had they never been taken to visit his grave? Why did Mother never mention him? When Elías started college, he decided to carry out his own investigation. He went to the civil registry and asked for the death certificate. No luck; they told him he’d have to try the military authorities.

  So he went to naval headquarters and explained that he was looking for information about his father, a sailor who died before he could marry his pregnant mother. The only relevant information he had was the date of his own birth. After a lengthy and animated discussion, the clerk finally agreed to initiate the paperwork. Elías returned the next day, and the clerk handed him a note with only two words: No information.

  “What does this mean, ‘no information’?”

  “There’s no death certificate in our files under that name.”

  Elías informed Delia, who said, “It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t die at all. He probably just walked out because he couldn’t put up with Mama.”

  This very theory had long haunted Elías, but it seemed cruel for Delia to say it out loud. After all, Mama had raised them—even if Delia insisted that she’d only done so because she was too ashamed to put them in an orphanage.

  Elías decided to raise the subject with his mother. When he told her what he’d discovered, she flew into a rage.

  “Do you know how much I suffered when your father died? You have no idea what it means to lose your partner when you’re pregnant. Pregnant with twins! Why are you trying to stir up the past? Do you enjoy inflicting pain? Is that it?”

  “I just want to know who my father was.”

  “Your uncle’s brother. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  “No, it’s not. I want to see a photo; I want to know where he came from and how he died. I want to put flowers on his grave.”

  “I want, I want, I want, I want!” His mother screamed. “Stop it! Your father was nineteen years old when he died. We were just children! I hardly knew
him at all! We’d only been together for a few months!”

  Elías bowed his head in shame. His mother stormed out. That ended the conversation.

  That night, his uncle came to dinner. Afterward, Elías settled on the sofa, knowing he was in for a man-to-man talk.

  “Your mother is very upset with you, Elías.”

  “Why? Because I want to know about my father?”

  “You need to remember that this is a very painful subject for her.”

  “I understand that.”

  “It’s painful for me, as well,” his uncle went on. “I lost my younger brother, and I had to leave everything in Navarra behind to come here and take responsibility for all of you.”

  “And don’t think I’m not grateful.”

  His uncle gave him a piercing look. “Very well. What do you want to know? How he died? It was an accident. My understanding is that, during a storm, a cable broke loose from a crane and hit him in the head. He was knocked into the water. They never found his body. Your father is gone. It’s our responsibility to take care of the living, those who are part of our world now, to ensure they suffer as little as possible during their difficult path through life.”

  Elías nodded unhappily.

  His uncle sat down next to him. “You must learn to overcome your curiosity, Elías. Curiosity is praiseworthy when applied to studying the Word of the Lord and deciphering the mysteries of the soul. But curiosity can also be pernicious and destructive. It plagues a person with anguish and makes those around him suffer. Do you wish to be happy, Elías?”

  “Of course I do, Uncle.”

  “Do you want those you love to be happy as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then learn to obey your elders, pray when assailed by doubt, avoid temptation, and never question the truth.”

  Elías sat there in silence.