The Dark Circus

by Ana Ballabriga

  His uncle leaned back against the sofa, apparently satisfied with his little sermon. He patted Elías’s knee. “Now, then, be a good boy and pour me a cognac.”

  Elías rose and went to the bar. He had no desire to cause his mother pain. He wanted answers; that was all. He returned to the sofa with the snifter of cognac. “Uncle, if my father died in an accident, shouldn’t there be a—”

  His uncle raised a hand and stopped him. “And I thought this wouldn’t be necessary.” From his trouser pocket, he took out a short metal chain hung with sharp objects. It looked like barbed wire.

  “What’s that?” Elías asked.

  “A tree that is growing crooked requires a guide to find its way. In your present state, Elías, you are incapable of comprehending what I say. Your soul is turning away from the way of the Lord. I fear that you are in need of discipline.”

  “Discipline?”

  “This is a penitent’s chain. That’s right, Elías, you will wear it two hours each day for a month. The pain will help keep your mind clear and focused. You must learn to pray to God whenever you need anything, to ask Him for answers whenever you have doubts.”

  Elías jumped up. Self-punishment? “God isn’t going to tell me what happened to my father!” Never before had he dared to challenge his uncle.

  His uncle rose and slapped Elías across the face. “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and ye shall find; call and it shall be opened to you. For whosoever asks shall receive; and whosoever seeks shall find; and to him who calls, all is opened.”

  Elías clenched his fists and glared back. The man reached into his pocket again, and this time, he handed Elías an envelope. Inside was a military certificate for a person missing in action. It bore his father’s name.

  Elías’s defiance crumbled, and he began bawling like a small child. “Where did you find this?”

  “God is present everywhere.”

  He felt like an idiot for having distrusted his uncle, for having doubted God. He reached out and accepted the penitent’s chain.

  “What are you investigating these days?” His sister sat down in one of the green desk chairs and crossed her legs.

  “The truth is, it’s strictly confidential.”

  “Working for Uncle?” Delia gave him a sharp glance and the conspiratorial smile she’d always used to get whatever she wanted. “Oh, come on . . .”

  Elías had never been able to resist her. “The Caravaca True Cross.” He put the coffee cup on the table between the armchairs and sat down next to her.

  “What about it?”

  “It was stolen.”

  “Really? When?”

  “In 1934. You know the story.”

  “Oh, right, that! I thought you meant it just happened.” She leaned back a bit as if she’d lost interest. “Remember Pilar María?” She giggled suddenly. “She told us that story back when you were acting so cocky.”

  “Cocky?”

  “Yes, and the poor thing was stuck on you. You two would have been a perfect pair, if you’d just been willing to date a girl who was taller than you.”

  “That had nothing to do with it!”

  “Whatever you say. The fact is, all the girls were sweet on you back then.”

  “Were?” Elías laughed. “What, nobody finds me attractive anymore?”

  “Sure, but things are different now. You’re married, and you’re not the sort who goes about having affairs. Too bad, since I have a friend who’d be a perfect match for you.”

  “Are you saying Caridad isn’t a good match?”

  “I will never understand why, with all the women you had to choose from—”

  “Let’s drop it.”

  Delia leaned forward. “Fess up. What’s up with you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t pretend. I know you too well. You were acting really weird last night at dinner.”

  “I’m fine. Anyway, I’m the one who’s supposed to be interrogating you.”

  “Oh, really? What does Mama want to know now?”

  “Is it true you want to get pregnant?”

  “Lots of women want that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Fine, yes, I’m thinking about it.”

  “Are you crazy? What in the world prompted this?”

  “Nothing! And you’d better not breathe a word of it to her. Cross your heart!”

  “Cross my heart and swear to the baby Jesus.” Elías felt a bit goofy about following their childish ritual.

  “It’s just . . . I’m twenty-six years old, and I don’t want to wait any longer. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re still young; you can still find someone.”

  “I don’t want to find someone. The truth is, I have to beat them off. You’re not the only good-looking one in the family. But none of them appeals to me. You men are all alike: complicated and simple at the same time, and in the worst possible ways.”

  “Here we go again with your riddles.”

  “Listen to me, seriously. I can’t just have a baby with some man unless he shows me he’s worthy of my baby—and me! And so far, I haven’t met a single one truly capable of critical thought, willing to break with tradition. I don’t mean repudiating everything. Just someone who wonders why things are the way they are, instead of accepting them simply because they’ve always been that way. Every man I know, and I mean every single one, is totally ordinary and boring, and I won’t have my child raised by someone like that.”

  “Every single guy? So, me too?”

  “Yes, Elías, you too. Despite the fact that you’re an intelligent person, you’ve spent your whole life swallowing everything Mama and Uncle believe, never even asking yourself if those things make sense.”

  “So I guess that means I’m unfit as an uncle.”

  “Not at all! Don’t be a ninny.” Delia smiled and took his hand. “As long as you don’t try to indoctrinate the poor kid.”

  “There are atheists who deny God with more blind passion than the most devout Catholics.”

  “That’s just Uncle talking.”

  “Have you really thought this through? Has it occurred to you how much your child is going to suffer from not knowing who his father is?”

  “Oh, no you don’t, Elías. Don’t you dare. I still haven’t made up my mind, but if I have a baby, my child will know from the beginning how much it’s loved, that I chose to be a single mother because of that love.”

  A silence fell between them. Holiday’s voice slowly died away in the quiet of the room. Elías got up and put on another record. “Run Joe” set up its hypnotic beat. He stood motionless by the turntable.

  “Maya Angelou.” Delia tapped the rhythm with the fingertips of one hand. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve heard this album. Not since you left home.” She looked at her brother, remembering. “There she is, a civil rights activist, and she up and marries this big Greek hunk.”

  “So?”

  “It’s just that she did whatever she pleased. And that’s what I want for myself. Sorry, Elías, but I don’t want to be like you.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “The fact that marriage, religion, and art are three big lies. And you’re devoting your life to them.”

  “If we’re going to get philosophical, I could posit that absolute truth does not exist, so everything is just our interpretation. Maybe those three things are really love, spirituality, and beauty.”

  “Of course everything’s just interpretation, but that’s my point. People like you who believe in one all-powerful God aren’t allowed to interpret for yourselves. You’re required to believe in the one absolute truth they’ve served up to you on a platter, telling you to shut your eyes and ears and swallow it down without even tasting it. You’re not even allowed to ask what’s in it.”

  “That’s not fair, Delia.”

  “It’s the truth, and I understand if you find it hard to accept. Some of us, a mi
nority, know that truth is relative, and we dedicate ourselves to thinking, reasoning, and assessing the options so as to do the least harm.”

  “There’s nothing enlightened about being insufferably pedantic. Besides, if you’re so bent on living your life as you like, why do you still live with Mother?”

  “You want to know why I still haven’t moved out?”

  Elías shrugged and gave her a smug grin.

  “Because she’s all alone.”

  The smile froze on his lips. He looked away from her steady gaze.

  “That’s right. I worry about the people around me, especially those I love, even though we have nothing—zero—in common.” A long moment went by. “Surprised you, didn’t I? I’m an atheist, I reject most tradition, but I have my ethics and morality. They just have nothing to do with your precious Church.”

  Delia’s phone alarm rang. She took it from her handbag and clicked it off. She leaned over and kissed her brother on the cheek. “Gotta go. Love you, sweetie.”

  And she left. The record player gave him the final notes of “Run Joe,” and then the needle began to skip. The record was scratched. Elías got up and moved the arm to the next track. Then he settled into the chair his sister had vacated, feeling the warmth and impression of her in the cushions. He found it odd that, although they had opposing views and ways of reasoning, he was spellbound by her attitude, both rebellious and deeply committed.

  He was reluctant to admit it, but he knew that there was some truth in what she’d said. But didn’t it just make her bitter? Neither she nor anyone else was going to change the world, so wasn’t it better to just go along with the system and be happy? No one could spend an entire life rowing against the current. If Delia ever did have children, she’d want them to be part of society, not outcasts. Sooner or later her strong will would buckle, and she would wind up compromising. Like everyone else.

  Elías reached for his coffee cup and took a sip. Cold. He poured it down the kitchenette sink, then fixed himself another in a clean mug before returning to his desk.

  He had to concentrate on the cross. Time was running out. He flipped through his folder of notes yet again, trying to think. He was certain the chaplain had let the thieves in, thinking they’d come to protect the relic. Nothing else was plausible. A few days before the theft occurred, a group of locals had organized a demonstration next to the church expressly to deny the importance of the True Cross and all it symbolized. Those were times of popular unrest, the country about to be plunged into war and decades of misery. The police had taken statements from all of those accused of participating in that demonstration, but they had all denied speaking out against the cross. Nevertheless, a military tribunal reopened the case in 1939, convinced they could find sufficient evidence to indict the protestors for theft. But by then, the chaplain was dead and the protestors had been imprisoned, exiled, or shot. A note in the paperwork concluded that conspirators had successfully spirited the cross abroad. A tidy little story without a shred of evidence. The tribunal had blocked later efforts to investigate.

  The crime scene was an obvious farce. The thieves had left behind tools, but too many of them and none suited to the task. They’d tossed a rope over the wall that turned out to be too short and insubstantial to use for climbing, and they’d profaned the sanctuary door with a hole scarcely large enough to push a naked infant through. The setup was slapdash and laughable, a poorly executed stage set.

  He sipped his coffee and waited for his scattered thoughts to coalesce.

  Who were the chaplain’s accomplices? That’s what it all came down to, and there wasn’t a hint in any of the documents. Who could they have been? Who had a special relationship with the chaplain and the cross? No one—except for the sextons, the curates, the deacons, and the rest of the clergy . . .

  The most likely culprit, Elías mused, was the senior deacon of the Illustrious Royal Fellowship of the Most Holy True Cross of Caravaca. The fellowship was made up of Caravaca natives who had pledged to protect the cross. It wasn’t hard to imagine them faking the robbery and hiding the relic to protect it from those turbulent times. Could they still have it?

  Maybe instead of thinking about art thieves, he should look to the Church itself and interview the woman who was currently the head of the fellowship. How had he not thought of that earlier? Was he as unimaginative as his sister claimed?

  He absently fingered the little chain around his neck with the silver Caravaca Cross his mother had given him when he was a teenager. His sister had an identical one she kept in a drawer.

  He heard the outer door open. Lola. Elías got up and went to greet her. She was dressed entirely in green.

  “I need for you to get a telephone number for me.”

  “Of course, just tell me whose. And by the way, I put a new arugula plant on the landing.”

  “Okay, thanks. Also, I need to ask a favor.” Elías felt silly asking Lola to put her charms to work for him. But given the weird episode in Madrid, maybe it was a good idea. “I want you to give me some luck.”

  “I can protect you against the evil eye.”

  “I was hoping for something stronger. A magic spell or something like that.”

  Lola laughed merrily. “I’m not a witch, my boy! If you have a problem, you should discuss it with people you trust. If you’re feeling under the weather, I can give you a drop or two of something from my herbalist.” She took a vial from her bag and offered it to him, but Elías waved it away. “Well, if the problem’s more serious than that, the best thing is to buy a statue of Saint Pancras and surround it with parsley.”

  With that, Lola gave him another great big hug, six seconds, heart to heart.

  9

  It seemed like years since he’d been in Caravaca, even though only a few days had passed. He drove more than an hour to get there and parked again on Gran Vía. The name was pretentious in a town like this, the main thoroughfare being neither long nor broad. A pharmacy sign blinked the temperature, and Elías, used to the moderate winters of coastal Cartagena, grimaced. He turned up his coat lapels against the icy wind and set out on foot.

  He crossed the Plaza del Arco and walked into the old city, hurrying through its narrow streets up to the Church of El Salvador, where he’d located the nine missing pages—and where Chaplain Don Ildefonso Ramírez Alonso had celebrated Ash Wednesday Mass in 1934. He entered a café at the top of Calle Mayor, just opposite the church. The warm interior was heavy with the tantalizing odor of fresh bread and cakes. He found a table by the window and set his hat and trench coat on a vacant chair. The café’s floor sparkled with colorful mosaic tiles, and the wood of the walls and the shelving lent the place a rustic air. Glass display cases were filled with artful arrangements of cream-filled delights, white chocolates, cupcakes decorated with caramel drizzle, layer cakes, croissants, meringues, and meat pastries. The shop was a glutton’s paradise and a diabetic’s nightmare. Elías was neither, and because he’d already had breakfast, he managed to resist temptation and order just a large coffee.

  He checked the time: 10:35 a.m. The woman who’d chosen this location was five minutes late.

  The door swung open, and a smartly dressed woman of about fifty stepped in carrying a heavy bag, her patrician air emphasized by subtle jewelry of good quality. Elías stood to greet her and realized he’d seen her leaving the bishop’s conference room.

  “Adriana?”

  “You must be Elías.”

  They formally shook hands, and she took the seat across from him, saying nothing of her tardiness. The waitress appeared immediately.

  “A fresh-brewed decaffeinated café con leche with artificial sweetener and organic milk, served in a tall glass.”

  Elías looked her over discreetly. She might have been attractive had it not been for the thick, straight brows that gave her face a masculine quality. Her dark dyed hair had obviously been carefully styled, and her nails were professionally manicured. He was baffled that no one had done anyth
ing to tame the bushy brows above her precise eye makeup. They bristled like a forest and were black as an ink stain.

  Adriana caught his appraising eye and furrowed those extensive brows. “Well, then? You insisted it was quite urgent that we speak.” She held her handbag in her lap as if she hadn’t quite decided whether she was going to stay.

  “As I mentioned, I’m writing a history of Caravaca—”

  “A great deal has already been written about my city, young man. I fail to see how you expect to come up with anything new.”

  “Oh, absolutely! More than anything, I’m interested in the history of the True Cross—”

  “Exactly the topic that’s been most written about.”

  “Certainly. Lots of theories but no real results. The difference is that I’m not interested in speculating. I want to tell the true story. That’s why I need a statement from you.”

  The waitress brought their orders. Adriana checked to see that hers was exactly as specified. A tense silence ensued as they added sugar and sweetener, respectively, to their coffees. They studied each other. It occurred to Elías that if there were any truth to Lola’s theories about the evil eye, Adriana’s stare would have cleaved him from top to toe.

  But thank God, at that very moment, a woman of a similar age entered the café and greeted her with a big smile. “Adriana, my dear, how nice to see you!”

  Rising to respond, the woman across from him nearly overturned their coffees with her enormous bag. She deposited it on the chair with Elías’s things. He frowned slightly and pushed her handbag to the side so it wouldn’t flatten his hat.

  The two women kissed each other on both cheeks and stepped away to speak in private, almost in whispers. The new arrival had sweeping blond hair and a leather coat that exaggerated the volume of her already imposing figure. She glanced in his direction as if sizing him up, and he had a sudden vision of her as a bear about to lunge, jaws wide. She interrupted the illusion by turning to go to the counter.

  Adriana came back with a more relaxed expression. “Do excuse us.”

  “Not at all.” Elías took out a notebook and the Montblanc fountain pen his mother had given him for Christmas.