“Yes, a fair amount. But he was always in control when it was time to go onstage.”
“What else can you tell me? Where was he living and working? Who were his associates?”
“Like I told you, we were with the circus for years and years. My uncle was a magician, and I was his assistant. He loved his work. It almost destroyed him when they closed down the circus. I tried to convince him we could go and live somewhere together, but he said the circus was his life, and now he had nothing left to live for. ‘You’re old enough now to make your own way,’ he said and gave me the painting, the only valuable thing he had. I tried to make it on my own. After a while, I ran into some friends who said my uncle was in Murcia. They’d heard he was practically a hermit, never went out, didn’t have any friends. So, I came here to find him.”
“And did you?”
“I did. He’d let his hair and beard grow, and he started shouting as soon as he saw me: ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Mind your own business.’ ‘Leave me alone.’ Things like that. He said he was entitled to wallow in his own misery if he wanted. ‘I’ll just curl up and die.’ He wouldn’t listen to me, and finally, he even threatened me. So I left.”
“When was this?”
“It must have been about a year and a half ago.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No. And I didn’t hear a word about him. Until I got the ransom note.”
“I see. Do you remember his address?”
“Of course. He was living in Murcia, in La Alberca.” She checked her cell phone, took out a scrap of paper, and wrote down the address.
“And what can you tell me about the painting?”
“It’s a family heirloom. It belonged to my uncle and to his father before him.”
“Do you think it’s valuable?”
“Well, obviously. You yourself paid over a hundred thousand euros for it.”
“Do you know the name of the artist?”
“Some follower of Bacon.” There was an almost saucy tone to her voice. “Or so everybody seems to think.”
“I want to know what you think. Whether your uncle ever told you who painted it, where, or why.”
“No. All I know is he treasured it, and I—I was shocked by his reaction when I went to see him. I think I decided to sell his painting almost as a way of getting even.”
“I understand.”
“I’d always loved the idea that it might be a real Bacon. Then they assessed it at the auction house, and of course they burst that bubble.”
“Do you like art?”
“I adore contemporary art.” Alicia looked up at him with those green eyes, wet with tears but sparkling with sudden interest. “Honestly, the classical stuff bores me.”
“Boring—Velázquez, Goya, Michelangelo, da Vinci?”
“Art depicts the reality of the moment when it was created. Those masters were marvelous, but as far as I’m concerned, their time is too remote. They say nothing to me. But that brings up a much more complicated subject—how to define art.” She gave Elías a defiant look. “What is art for you?”
Elías smiled. “For me, art is aesthetics.” He was pleased at this chance to show off his erudition. “A work of art must captivate with its beauty, rouse our sympathy, and excite our emotions.”
“So, just a painting of a pretty landscape?”
“If the work engages you with its composition, light, and colors, for me, yes, that’s what makes it art.”
“What about a pretty landscape?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me: the same landscape, same light and colors, but in nature, not as a painting. Is that art as well?”
“No, of course not. Art is the creation of a human hand.”
“Then let’s talk about a masterpiece of classical art. The Mona Lisa, for example.” She seemed happy now, her uncle’s plight forgotten. “It’s a simple portrait, not particularly evocative or captivating. What makes it so important?”
“You don’t think it’s captivating?”
“Not especially.”
“La Gioconda is the paragon of detail and technique. The painter played with the contrast between the portrait and the imaginary landscape behind her; he used the background to enhance her face and give it the importance it deserved. Beyond that, the painting is admired for all its mysteries. Her famous smile, for example, which is visible only if you look into her eyes; it disappears if you try to take in her whole face. And the theory that it’s not a portrait of Lisa Gheradini at all, but really da Vinci himself dressed as a woman. And don’t forget the mystic signs concealed in her pupils and the heads of the animals only partly visible in the distant landscape.”
“Even so, there are thousands of reproductions of that painting, all of them as perfect as the original. It’s impossible to tell them apart at first glance. Why is the original considered art while the copies aren’t?”
“Because innovation is fundamental to art. A copy, no matter how perfect, adds nothing new.”
“Yes! That’s exactly what I was getting to,” she said. “For hundreds of years, until the end of the nineteenth century, all artists did was refine and refine and refine technique. They didn’t innovate! But then the invention of photography made faithful reproduction of reality irrelevant, so artists left the material world behind and instead focused on subjective perceptions, emotions, and visions.”
“Right, but that was a very slippery slope. What happens when anything goes? Objective standards disappear, and only gallery owners and market prices determine what is art and what isn’t.”
“But if we agree that the essence of art is innovation, it’s absurd to submit it to rigid rules!” She couldn’t conceal the triumph in her smile. He didn’t reply. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” He smiled sincerely and without a trace of resentment. He basked in the warmth of her green eyes. Her playful, fleeting glances struck him like arrows anointed with a love potion. He didn’t mind being bested by such a beauty. Not at all. He’d be happy to die at her hand—or between her legs. “Look, I could accept modern art’s defiance of almost every rule for the sake of innovation if it weren’t for one thing: In my view, the other defining characteristic of art is aesthetics. Only through aesthetics can art touch the human soul.”
“I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Art succeeds when it breaks free of the material world. Its ultimate greatness lies in the world of imagination.”
“Fine.” Elías smiled again, feeling back in control. “But whether it achieves that is always subjective. Classical art at least obeys objective criteria that are quantifiable. It goes beyond mere opinions or, as happens all too often, purely personal interests.”
“I might agree with some of that,” she countered, “since it’s undeniable that pretentious nonsense sells for crazy sums every day. But I’d rather trash sometimes get overhyped than let arbitrary rules of composition hinder the emergence of truly innovative work.”
“We’ll have to talk about Duchamp sometime.”
“I’d love that.”
Elías checked his watch: almost seven. Caridad would be home by now. He suddenly felt the need to see his wife and remind himself why he’d married her. “I have to go.”
“I’m sorry for keeping you.” Alicia stared at the floor. “Are you going to help me?”
He stepped closer, reached out, and lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. She seemed about to cry again.
“I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.”
“Thank you so much!” She grabbed him in a sudden embrace. Elías felt a shiver run up his spine. He exulted in her warmth and her breasts pressing against him, heart to heart, just as Lola had taught him. “It’s such a relief to know that you—”
“Don’t thank me.” Elías pulled away. “I’m not doing it for you.” He was sure the only way to conquer a goddess like her was with studied indifference.
Of course,
he didn’t want to . . . no, he didn’t want that.
All right, maybe he did. But only as an opportunity to test his resistance to temptation and to strengthen his spiritual discipline.
“You need to find your uncle, and I need that painting back. Two goals, same path, so we’ll see where it leads.”
“Thank you anyway.”
He donned his coat and hat, keeping a wary eye on her. “I should get your phone number in case I have any further questions.”
“Of course.” She wrote it on another scrap of paper.
He accepted it and turned to leave. He tipped his hat before stepping through the doorway. “Good evening to you.”
“Wait. You haven’t told me your name.”
“Elías.”
It was all he could do not to look back.
12
The wind was still howling outside, and Elías was sorry he hadn’t grabbed one of his silk-and-wool scarves from the dresser drawer.
His encounter with Alicia Silva had left him uneasy, and he was glad to get back to the familiar safety of home. He hung his coat and hat on the rack in the hallway. The silence was total.
Caridad had painstakingly chosen every piece of furnishing and decor, and she’d ensured each had its own defined place in the apartment. She’d coordinated the white-upholstered furniture, ample sideboards displaying the good crystal and china, and chests to hold hand-embroidered table linens. The only spot of color in the living room was a vase containing real orchids. Two weeks before the wedding, they’d invited friends and family over and enthusiastically shared this little corner of the world they’d made all their own. Everyone had praised it except Delia, who said she’d never understood purely decorative junk and impractical furniture. Her offhand comment infuriated Caridad. Elías had tried to persuade his future bride to shrug it off. Everyone knew how Delia was.
He went into the master bedroom.
His wife looked up from the jigsaw puzzle on the bed. “You’re back early.”
“I missed you.”
“Oh, really? Since when am I more important than your work?” she teased.
“You’ve always been more important.”
Elías helped her with the wooden panel used as a base for the puzzle. The two of them slid it back into its usual place beneath the bed, careful not to disturb any of the thousand tiny pieces she was so patiently assembling into the familiar picture of sunflowers.
“Why Van Gogh?” asked Elías with genuine curiosity. “Does his style appeal to you more than Gauguin’s or Seurat’s?”
“It was the biggest puzzle in the shop.”
Elías couldn’t help laughing. He knew Caridad and her tastes very well. The only sort of art that interested her was something she could hang in the living room to impress visitors. It was a shame he’d never been able to discuss art with her, but there was more to life than that. He took off his shirt and bared his muscular chest. She glanced up in surprise.
“Elías, what are you doing?” She gestured to the bedside clock. “I have to head out for a meeting with Alfredo.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s a bit late, but he’s had so much to deal with lately. We have to decide whether we’re going to send missionaries to countries with Ebola outbreaks. Alfredo says it’s an unnecessary risk and if God has chosen to punish people with a plague, we shouldn’t get involved. I don’t agree. I think it’s a chance to take the Gospel to places that most need it. Anyhow, lost causes are always good for the Church’s image.”
“You keep trying to save the world.”
“I do what I can.”
“Here’s one thing you can do right now,” he decreed. “Get naked.”
She complied with a timid smile, her eyes fixed upon him. He stripped and tossed his clothing across the custom-built wooden bed frame. He stepped to the edge of the bed, took her hand, and kissed her passionately as he undid her lace bra. He gently massaged her small breasts, their pointed nipples stiff and hard. She protested and pushed at him, but he didn’t stop. He grabbed her panties and ripped them off. She gave a low grunt of surprise and offered no resistance. He grasped her shoulders and turned her around, pushing her down over the bed. She spread her legs, and Elías plunged his thumb deep inside and found her wet and willing, then spanked her rear with his other hand. She responded with a moan that drained the blood from his brain and sent it down to his manhood just before he used it to replace his probing thumb.
He started pushing, gathered speed, and rammed himself into her in a way he’d never done before. Wild and reckless, he needed fulfillment right here and right now. He imagined himself penetrating his wife’s ass over and over again. He put a finger to that forbidden part of her anatomy, but she swatted it away. Then his vision blurred, and suddenly Caridad’s back became a pale expanse scattered with tiny freckles right up into a mane of red hair. He grabbed her neck with one hand to keep her from looking back. He didn’t want to see her face. He kneaded her tits with the other hand as he kept ramming into her, more ferocious with every thrust, intent on splitting her wide open. He shut his eyes and saw the redhead’s face, her huge tits filling his hand, his cock penetrating her perfect ass. He orgasmed with one last, savage push before collapsing, exhausted, to one side. His wife lay gasping for breath. Then she pressed her thighs together and began to pray.
Elías felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He’d essentially betrayed her, and for the second time. Wasn’t he capable of making love to his wife without thinking of the redhead?
What if you’re not as strong as you thought? What if, instead of resisting temptation, you’re giving in to it?
No, that couldn’t be right.
Are you so sure?
He didn’t know what to think. Perhaps, despite his earnest resolutions, his soul was turning toward evil.
He suddenly remembered the penitent’s chain his uncle had given him all those years ago. He’d worn it for a month, and it had in fact helped him regain the path to righteousness. The spikes had inflicted a pain so intense he could think of nothing else. It had helped clear his mind, driving out all distraction.
Clearly, something has gone wrong.
Maybe it would be a good idea to wear that chain again a couple of hours each day.
“What’s wrong?” Caridad asked.
Was she reading his mind? That was a bad sign.
“Nothing’s wrong. You didn’t like it?”
“Yes, but it was so”—she hesitated, seeking the right word—“weird. You’re acting weird.”
Elías embraced her and gave her a big kiss. “Don’t be silly. I’ve had you on my mind all day long, looking forward to this.”
She blushed and kissed him back. Then she glanced at the clock.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “I’m going to be late. Elías, don’t you ever do that again.” Her wagging finger was tempered by her smile. “You can’t just show up and do what you want. The rest of us have schedules too.”
Caridad made a quick phone call, showered, and got dressed. Fifteen minutes later, she was out the door, ready to defend her proposals to her dear friend the vicar. She’d been spending more time with Alfredo lately than with her husband, always talking about their organization.
Still naked, Elías got up and located the penitent’s chain in an old shoebox. He wrapped it around one leg and fell backward onto the bed, focusing on the searing pain. He gritted his teeth and stared up at the chandelier, a suspended globe of stainless-steel wire set with countless brilliant little lights. Everyone had gushed about it. Everyone but his sister, who’d glanced up blankly and hadn’t bothered to comment, making Elías feel defensive.
The pain in his leg shot up into his brain, igniting an electric storm.
Suddenly, the hanging contraption disgusted him. He couldn’t say why, for the pain overrode rational thought. He averted his eyes, for now he could hardly stand the sight of it. His reaction wasn’t reasoned; it surged out of his innermost self.
The pain was no help at all. His mind was confused.
The pain was consuming him.
What was happening to him?
Elías took off the chain and looked up at the chandelier again.
His sister had been right. It was tawdry, a thing without a touch of grace. Worse than that, it offended every last one of Elías’s carefully cultivated aesthetic sensibilities. He marveled, wondering how in the world they’d been convinced to spend three thousand euros on that crass monstrosity.
13
La Alberca was a typical Murcian village. Adjoining buildings of one, two, or occasionally three stories lined its long, straight streets. Many middle-class Murcians had grown tired of this claustrophobic existence and moved to single-family homes on the outskirts of town by the Valle Perdido Nature Reserve. Out there, children could run free and play soccer while their parents picnicked or treated themselves to coffee at the little café.
The GPS directed Elías to a small home behind a low stone wall and rusted metal fence.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
The place looked more like a vacation cottage than a principal residence. The surrounding yard was wild and neglected, containing little more than a few sickly palms and some orange trees. Fallen fruit lay rotting among weeds and fallen leaves.
Across the street, an elderly woman opened her front door and peered out at him. When he turned to meet her curious gaze, she quickly disappeared. Elías went across and rang the bell.
“Who is it?”
“I’m from the police,” he lied, flashing a fake badge. “I just need to ask you a few questions.”
The old woman reluctantly cracked the door a few inches. “What do you want?”
“Do you know if anyone’s living in the house over there?”
“Been empty for years.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I most certainly am.”
“Maybe the owner just stays inside most of the time?”
“It’s been more than four years since anyone came or went. I’d know it if they had. Used to be you might see movement from time to time. Food deliveries and things like that.”
The Dark Circus Page 9