The Dark Circus

by Ana Ballabriga

  “I was having lunch with a friend here in the neighborhood.”

  His mother had a great many friends. Or perhaps acquaintances was a better term. “There is no such thing as true friendship; the only thing that really counts is family,” was a theme she’d drummed into him all his life, meaning that dirty laundry could never be aired. “Friends are for amusement and dining out.” She adored going to fashionable restaurants.

  His mother wasn’t terribly wealthy, but she was a prominent member of the town’s petty bourgeoisie. She’d inherited a couple of storefronts and three floors in a condominium, including her own floor-through apartment overlooking the Plaza de España. Although she’d retired from daily involvement in the business, she always complained that managing rental properties was worse than any salaried job. It was a continual battle to get the tenants to pay on time. She said that even when they did, it was scarcely enough to live on.

  She’d grown up enjoying all the privileges. She’d gone to Colegio Hispania, a private school for the offspring of Cartagena’s leading merchants. Her parents had run a shop specializing in linens and household fabrics. It was one of the largest shops in the city, where every respectable family purchased goods to fill their hope chests, new homes, and layettes. Those of more modest means allowed themselves an occasional indulgence so they could boast that the living room cushions or bath mats were from the House of the Virgen de la Fuensanta.

  Sales of such household finery brought in enough to send the family’s only daughter to summer camps abroad, always in English-speaking countries. She’d traveled several times to Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and even to San Francisco. She got a degree in sociology and embarked on a corporate career that took her first to Madrid and then, for four years, to Glasgow. When she was laid off, she claimed the new director had replaced key employees with his own people. She was forced to return to Cartagena, where she had to care for her ailing mother. But the matriarch died shortly thereafter, and Elías’s mother struggled to find the sort of employment she’d enjoyed abroad. Her father pulled some strings and landed her a job with an accountant in Calle Real. But after her early success, the small office had felt like a prison cell.

  Then she got pregnant. Her father had been scandalized and had come close to disowning her. They immediately began preparations for a wedding, but her young man died in an accident, and her father simply had to accept the situation. Then he died as well, shortly after she had the twins, and that was the end of the House of the Virgen de la Fuensanta. The inventory was sold off and the space became a cell phone store. His mother’s inherited rental properties meant she didn’t have to go back to work for the accountant, so she’d dedicated herself to “living the life,” as she put it. She liked to lecture her children about how she’d had to make her own way and live by the sweat of her brow, but the truth of it was that she lived a society life while María, the family maid, brought up Elías and his sister. Their mother was equally zealous about overseeing her children’s educations and making sure her tenants paid on time, and the family lived very comfortably. They also had help from their uncle, who later became the bishop of Cartagena.

  “The food was good, but the apple crumble”—pronounced with her impeccable English accent—“was nothing like what they serve served in London. Still, the service was excellent, quite different from most restaurants here. I shall have to recommend it to your uncle.” She studied him for a moment. “You’re busy. Am I intruding?”

  “I am busy, Mama, but you’re always welcome.”

  “Your uncle is extremely tense; this business of the papal visit has him all wound up. You’re working on something related to it, aren’t you?”

  Elías didn’t respond.

  “Your uncle has not confided in me, of course,” she continued. “You know how secretive he is about his business. You two are very much alike as far as that goes. But a mother always knows things when it comes to her children.” She leaned across the desk as far as she could. “This visit is very important to your uncle. You must give him your total support. He seems concerned that other matters are distracting you from what’s really important.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “Elías, you know how much your uncle has done for us. You will not let him down.”

  His mother was acutely aware of her unpayable debt to his uncle. Elías remembered how the bishop would celebrate Mass in the Church of the Padres Claretianos and then go home with them for a glass of vermouth and dinner. He had baptized them and heard their confessions for their first communion; he’d helped their mother choose the best private schools and had made certain they were admitted. His uncle had advised them on all important decisions, and he’d been with them for every celebration, every Christmas and birthday. The only thing that distinguished him from a real father was the fact he didn’t live in the house.

  “I always give the highest priority to Uncle’s cases. There’s no need to remind me.”

  “You think you know everything, but you’re very young. At least you’re not like your sister, God be praised. All right. But just remember: if you want someone’s unconditional support, you have to show him every day that you deserve it. He has to be able to count on you. Do you understand?” Elías couldn’t tell whether she was talking to him or to herself. “It’s just that I’m worried about him. I was so pleased when he said he’d persuaded the pope to visit for Jubilee Year, but I never imagined the headaches it would cause him. I’m going to buy two gold crosses to give your uncle so the pope can bless them.”

  “Don’t you already have one?”

  “Yes, but these will be for my grandchildren. Speaking of which, did you have a talk with your sister?”

  “Mama—”

  “Of course you did. I knew it. That’s a relief. We’ll have to persuade her to put this absurd notion out of her head.” She got up. “Well, then, I have to go. How is Caridad?”

  “Fine.”

  “Any news?”

  Elías shook his head.

  “Listen, this woman you have working for you . . .”

  “Lola.”

  “What is it with those clothes? She looks like a strawberry lollipop.”

  “She’s very good at her job, Mama.”

  “Well, I don’t know. It undermines the respectability of your business. You should be firmer with her. Turning up looking like a bowl of sherbet! I think you should put a uniform on her. I can help you choose one if you like.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  His mother opened the door and retrieved the Chanel jacket from the hanger where it had been casually tossed. Elías had to suppress a grin at her dismay. He escorted her out.

  His mother pointed at the arugula plant. “And this?”

  Elías shrugged.

  “You’re growing salad in the hall now?” She gave a sniff of distaste and trotted down the stairs and out the door.

  “She’s gone?” Lola asked.

  Elías nodded.

  “About time. Excuse me, I know she’s your mother, but that woman really tests my patience.”

  “Lola, would you consider wearing a uniform?”

  Lola heaved a sigh. “Doing her best to keep you under her thumb, I see. I’m going to pretend that you didn’t ask me that while I go to the kitchen to deal with my jaundice. Give me a whistle if you need anything.”

  Elías grinned. He knew Lola was right—this was far more about dominance than about his secretary’s appearance. His mother almost never visited the office, partly because she thought his profession was idiotic. She’d have preferred to see him study medicine, law, or political science; maybe theology, so he could follow in his uncle’s footsteps. So why had she turned up out of the blue today, pressuring him to drop everything else and focus on the Caravaca case?

  No doubt about it: Uncle had sent her.

  But her admonitions had the intended effect. He decided to put off a second visit to the Midas Piano Bar and rededicate himself to Caravaca. T
he woman who headed the fellowship had insisted that her grandfather would have returned the cross to the authorities, so perhaps the fault lay with them. It was time to take another look at the archives in the bishop’s office.

  17

  She sat on the edge of the bed and took off her shoes. He stood next to the desk.

  “It wasn’t easy to make time for you, child. I’m extremely busy these days.”

  “I am terribly grateful. Thank you so much for your time. Is the pope’s visit keeping you busy?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “It’s in all the newspapers.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, of course.”

  “Is it that complicated to organize?”

  “Think of the stations of the cross. The torment and agony. The bishop is overwhelmed. After all he did to get His Holiness to visit, he wants everything to be perfect. And this is a very special pope.”

  “He’s the pope. The only one.”

  “An old cunt, if you ask me. He’s more of a maniac with every passing year. Just imagine: the Vatican has conveyed the express wishes of His Holiness that all food we serve be vegan. Not just vegetarian. And in plain earthenware bowls like at the Last Supper!”

  “Sounds like he wants his actions to fit his words.”

  Alfredo snorted in derision. “We have to tear up our catering contacts, find some vegan restaurant, completely change the menu . . . And for what? He’s just pretending. Do you think he got so grossly obese on vegan food?”

  “Maybe you’re right. I’ve heard that he has very expensive tastes. They say that he’s a fanatic about art.”

  He stared at her in silence. After a few moments, she looked down.

  “Yes. You’re right about that. And that’s one of the problems. The bishop wants our art collection ready when the pope gets here, and we’re still missing two of the paintings—” He stopped short as if he’d said more than he should. “Stop wasting time. I want to hear your confession.”

  She finished stripping down and knelt naked before him. He lowered his trousers and took his seat. His stubby penis poked up toward God and the angels. He took the insolent little thing in one hand.

  “Ave María Purísima.”

  “Born without sin. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”

  “May the Lord dwell in your heart so you may humbly confess all of your sins. Tell me, daughter, what was the greatest sin you committed during this past week?”

  “A man came to visit me, Father, a pervert.”

  “Go ahead, daughter, unbind your tongue and resolve your anguish.”

  “He told me to put on a miniskirt he’d brought with him. It wasn’t much more than a belt. And to take off my panties. Everything seemed more or less normal up to that point. I was hoping he just wanted to fuck me right away. But no—he wanted me to take a walk with him dressed like that.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Well, what could I do, Father? I was uncomfortable with it, but I had to obey, so I did my best just to relax. After a while, I even began to enjoy the stares. The women we passed in the street were envious and hateful. The men’s eyes were full of lust.”

  “Repent, for sin is even greater if you enjoy it.”

  “I do repent, Father. He took me to the patio of a restaurant. A young couple and three small children were sitting at the next table. I followed my client’s instructions; I leaned back a little and spread my legs. The father of the little family couldn’t keep his eyes off me. I can still see him drooling. When his wife realized what was going on, she was furious. She jumped up and stormed off with the kids. The man was so embarrassed and confused that he rushed after her but forgot to pay. One of the waiters ran after him. It was spectacular. My client was delighted. He asked for the check. Then he took out his wallet and dropped a bill on the ground. He told me to pick it up. Instead of squatting, I bent all the way over. They couldn’t believe their eyes.”

  “Go on, please.”

  “Next we went down the street to an ice cream shop. While the waiters were busy, the two of us sneaked into the restroom together. I leaned against the wall, reached back, and slipped a condom over his dick. He started banging me like crazy. No foreplay, nothing.”

  “Continue. Come on, more details.”

  “His cock goes in, pulls back; he goes at me hot and heavy. His dick is stiff as a poker. He’s jamming it up my pussy like he’s going to rip me in two.”

  “Keep going, for God’s sake.”

  “He grabs my hair and pushes my face into the wall. His cock is dripping with my juices, Father, slamming in, pulling back. His cock’s about to blow because he was so turned on by our little display back at the restaurant. His dick—”

  “Yes—yes—yes—”

  “His dick explodes, floods me, fills up my pussy.”

  “Yeesssss.”

  After catching his breath, he got to his feet with the glass in one hand. He pulled up his trousers with the other.

  “Do you repent of all these your sins?”

  “Yes, Father, I repent.” And without waiting to be told, she dipped the tips of her fingers in the oily liquid and crossed herself as a sign of submission.

  “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. You may get dressed.”

  18

  Elías parked by the bishop’s office and ducked inside to get his uncle’s signature and seal on a document. He knew he should visit the archives, but he decided to take a detour and walked over to Plaza del Cardenal Belluga, the very heart of Murcia. The Midas Piano Bar was only a few blocks away.

  In his reverie, he pictured the redhead waving her arms, a siren trying to distract him from finding the cross. He remembered a childhood game he and his sister used to play: one would name an object, and the other would try not to think of it. Delia always taunted him with a pink elephant. That absurd image always provoked a grin. The more he tried not to think of it, the more brilliant the image became.

  Bacon’s painting was the pink elephant now. Alfredo, his uncle, and his mother had all told him not to think about it, thereby feeding his obsession. He was tempted to skip out on research and go back to the Midas Piano Bar instead. But a vision of his mother’s stern face prevailed. At least for the time being.

  He opted instead for coffee at one of the many touristy restaurants along the plaza. He made a phone call and set up a late-night appointment. Then he finished his coffee, paid the check, and marched himself back to the cathedral.

  The bishop and the diocese had originally been headquartered in Cartagena, but in the thirteenth century, Bishop Diego Martínez Magaz had the offices transferred to Murcia. He hadn’t bothered to ask the Vatican for permission. Eight hundred years later, the people of Cartagena still hadn’t forgiven the slight.

  Elías doffed his hat as he passed through the majestic entrance. The reek of incense and burning candles was stifling. He dipped his fingers in holy water, crossed himself, and took the tower stairs to the administrative offices.

  “Good day to you!” the archivist said, greeting him with a handshake.

  The room was cramped, filled with unlabeled file boxes. Fortunately, interns from the University of Murcia had recently made a dent, and a considerable number of documents had been organized into archive-quality binders.

  Elías had already gone through all the 1934 files except for those kept under lock and key in the massive oak chest.

  “I need to take a look at the personal files of the bishops.”

  “Do you have the bishop’s permission?”

  Elías gave him the paper his uncle had just signed.

  “Come with me.”

  The archivist unlocked the chest with an antique iron key and then discreetly withdrew. The voice of the stern deacon of the fellowship came unbidden into his mind.

  Even if my grandfather had removed the Lignum Crucis, the only conceivable reason would have been to protect it. And therefore, once the danger was pa
st, he would have delivered it into the hands of the appropriate authorities.

  Elías took out a binder labeled 1939–1946. It was stuffed with handwritten papers of all sizes. Glumly foreseeing a whole afternoon of tedium, he sat down at one of the tables, turned on a reading lamp, and took a deep breath.

  Back then, all the Spanish and even some foreign newspapers had reported the theft of the cross. These days, however, few remembered that the Lignum Crucis in the sanctuary wasn’t the original. The bishop was convinced that its rediscovery would be front-page news. It would be heralded as a miracle marking the pope’s visit.

  Elías meticulously evaluated each document. It was time-consuming work. The episcopal correspondence file held appeals, administrative actions, and personal letters.

  The only other soul in the room was the archivist, who sat absorbed in the daily paper.

  Elías worked doggedly under the focused glare of the reading lamp. He found a letter from a nun begging the bishop for forgiveness for having stolen food to distribute to the needy. There was no record of a response. Elías wondered if he’d pardoned her.

  After several long hours, he began to tire. His eyes and brain needed a rest. But he was determined not to abandon his search for a clue. He prayed wordlessly to Saint Helena. Help me, please. Please, Saint Helena, show me what I need to find.

  Saint Helena, mother of Constantine the Great, had discovered the Cross of Jesus on Mount Calvary beneath the ruins of a pagan temple devoted to Venus. Elías’s mother had taught him to pray to Saint Helena whenever he needed to find something, and he’d found it very effective. It might take a day or two, but the lost object always turned up.

  He blinked wide, flipped over the next page, and, lo and behold, there it was: a document dated Friday, March 1, 1946.

  The Illustrious Royal Fellowship of the Most Holy True Cross of Caravaca has devotedly protected the Sacred Relic and assured its preservation throughout the turbulent years of war and the subsequent period of unrest. Now that peace and stability have been restored to the nation, the Fellowship places the Most Holy Cross once more in the hands of the Church so it may be returned to its rightful place at such time and in such manner as may be determined appropriate. This document acknowledges the transfer of the Holy Relic.