“You were good in bed, but not the best. I didn’t need you for that; you’re hardly irreplaceable. But the fact is, you’ve got something unique, something I need to try again.”
“My scintillating conversation, perhaps. Our art history lessons and everything I taught you. Too bad you’re such a shitty student.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“W. And this time I want the formula.”
“Are you sure about that? I just heard that your bosses are dead set on eliminating it. You don’t choose your friends very well.” L saw that the remark wounded his pride. “You never have.”
“Don’t worry about me; you’re the one who’s in a fix now. I promise, honey, soon you’ll be begging to go back to the room we put you in last time.”
The younger man abruptly stretched his neck from side to side, audibly cracking his vertebrae. As he stepped toward her with a vague smile, a knife appeared in his hand.
42
After the circus folded, L decided to move to a relatively large town where her ads for escort services wouldn’t attract attention. She chose Pamplona. She found a charming, full-floor apartment on Calle Estafeta. She went shopping in the old town for a new wardrobe and lots of elegant lingerie. She raised her prices and worked evenings till midnight. She rose by nine a.m. for calisthenics and a long run. After a shower, she holed up in a café to enjoy her newfound passion for reading. When the weather was pleasant, she sprawled out under a tree in Ciudadela Park.
She read and reread Don Isidoro’s books about the Agotes, the Cathars, and the odd self-help book, The Oxymoron, Learning to Live a Life of Irony. She learned them by heart. She located the public library and was delighted to find it far better furnished than the tiny bookshops she’d seen in her travels. Remembering what Flora had told her, she checked out an instruction manual on yoga. She took yoga classes where the teachers advised her to mediate for at least half an hour every day. She read everything she could find about the Cathars and encountered something called theosophy that advocated a world view similar to theirs. She concluded that the search for truth was universal. Certain basic beliefs were shared by Buddhists, Hindus, and devotees of the Abrahamic religions.
L elaborated her own belief system in those warm cafés and the sunny mornings on the grass. She decided that duality was the fundamental principle of the universe. Everything material was impure and debased, while the intangible world of the spirit was eternal. Since their corporeal existence was of little importance, people were free to seek any physical pleasure they desired while continuing their pursuit of spiritual knowledge, termed gnosis. Gnosis alone provided the way to enlightenment, transcendence, and eventual reunification with the origin of all. That monad, or ultimate essence, was pure spirituality. It showered its living sparks across the universe. The imperfect material world corrupted them, so those living spirits had to perish and be reincarnated many times in order to achieve the purification that merges them once more into the monad. Among the enlightened of the world, L determined, were Jesus, Buddha, the count of Saint Germain, and the Russian spiritualist, Madame Blavatsky. To succeed in the theosophical quest, one needed to meditate and contemplate to achieve gnosis. There was no other way.
Almost all metaphysicians stressed the importance of love, positive thought, and gratitude to the Divine. L accepted the view that positive thinking influenced a person’s life, but she rejected the contention that it alone was sufficient to lead to prosperity and universal betterment. That was akin to blind belief in a magic wand, and it faulted people for their own oppression.
One day, while speculating about these abstractions, she made an unexpected connection: positive thinking was perfectly congruent with the concept of the oxymoron, Don Isidoro’s strategy of whimsical irony. Ironic detachment made life far less dire. Problems and even impossible dilemmas lost their urgency and importance.
From that day on, she embraced irony, diligently questioned assumptions, and refused obvious answers. She invented mantras and chanted them to expel negativity. For example, when she awoke with a headache, she thought, What pleasant torture! If she didn’t care for a meal, her response was, Such an insipid delicacy! If some fat old bastard insisted on pissing on her tits, she told herself, It’s a blessing to luxuriate in a filthy hot shower.
She’d been in Pamplona for nearly a year, and now summer with its festivals was at hand. L got up early to breakfast on her balcony overlooking the bull pens. She adored the noise of the crowds at the corrida, the agile and heroic young men racing away from the bulls raging through the streets. That week-long running of the bulls also brought plenty of work. She scheduled jobs early in the day so she’d be free to go out for evening fun.
From time to time, she had beers and snacks with women from her yoga class. L wanted to discuss the path of the yogi, but the others just talked about the weather and men they were dating. Once, L opened up and told some stories about her clients. Her friends were astonished by the frank admission that she accepted money for sex. They giggled, gave her wide-eyed looks, and asked her all sorts of intrusive questions.
But the next day L found herself shunned. The other women wouldn’t speak to her before class or afterward, and they made excuses when she called to suggest getting together. That bitter lesson forced her to search out another yoga studio and a new set of companions. Her circus life was gone, and she’d come face-to-face with the real world, where certain things were forbidden or at least couldn’t be acknowledged. No matter how open-minded individuals might seem, social pressure and societal conventions prevailed over everything else. Including friendship.
She told her new classmates she worked in fashion. If pressed, she said she modeled for an agency. New friendships developed. L got along especially well with Leire the librarian. She loved to discuss books she’d read.
One night, they’d had dinner together after yoga. L left her friend and was crossing Plaza Castillo toward Café Iruña when she noticed a group of people gathered around some kind of street performance. Flames billowing above their heads filled her with sudden nostalgia for the circus, so she pushed her way into the crowd.
A tall, robust man stood in the center. A tangled mane of copper-colored hair obscured his face and draped over his bare torso and shoulders. Next to him posed a woman whose beautifully sculpted body was squeezed into a leather costume with a neckline that plunged to her navel. L started in disbelief. Festo and Gaya, the masters of fire from the Scottish Circus! Each capered and pirouetted as they twirled chains with flaming spheres on either end. Festo squatted and sent his rolling along the ground, and Gaya jumped high to avoid it. A circle of flame erupted around them and forced the surprised audience to step back.
The performers picked up short swords and waved them through the flames. The blades caught fire. They began a mock combat of precisely synchronized moves. Every clash of swords sent sparks swirling in all directions. The blades resounded again and again as the performers circled each other in that deadly dance. Gaya ran at Festo, leaped to plant a foot on his knee, and then the other on his shoulder. She balanced above him and aimed the point of the flaming sword at the crown of his head. He threw his head back, and his hair parted to reveal a terrified expression on a face so scarred it looked inhuman. He opened his mouth wide as if in protest. At that instant, Gaya shoved the sword down his throat, deep through his esophagus and into his bowels. She drew it out and brandished it to show the flames had been extinguished. The crowd broke into a storm of happy applause.
The performers took their bows. With a dramatic gesture, they held up their left hands to reveal small blue flames flickering in their palms. They used their right hands to hold out cigar boxes and collect coins from the crowd. When Gaya reached L, she frowned in confusion.
L dropped a bill into the box. “What a fine act. Where did you learn it?”
“L, is that you?” She embraced her. “You’ve changed so
much. You’re beautiful! You’re—more of a woman.”
“Thanks. I didn’t know there were different levels of womanliness.” L grinned at her own joke. “You look pretty womanly yourself.”
“Oh, hush, silly.” Gaya took her hand and dragged her to where the performers’ belongings were piled. She started putting them away. “How have you been this past year?”
“I can’t complain. Haven’t been hungry or cold, and that’s saying something for around here.”
“We can’t say as much, but I can handle a little chill. Look how I’ve filled out!” Gaya slapped her rear and tensed her thigh.
L smiled. “So, what happened with the cops?”
“Doris and Damián went to jail. Their fingerprints were on the victim’s pendant. And the police found the knife and bloodstains in their trailer. They charged the rest of us as accessories, but nobody had ID and we just gave phony names. They released us on bail until the trial, and you can bet nobody hung around. We had to disband the circus, and everyone went their separate ways.”
The crowd had dissolved. Festo came up and they exchanged kisses. “L, I’m so happy to see you.”
“Likewise!”
“Did Gaya tell you about your uncle?”
“No—what happened?”
“When they let us out, we went to collect our things from the circus and found him passed out in his trailer. His face was all bloody, and he wasn’t moving. But he was breathing. He’d knocked out his four upper front teeth. We found them on the floor. It looked like he’d passed out and fallen against the stovetop. We hid the booze, gave him a shower, and made him eat something and drink a gallon of coffee. Once he was more or less conscious, we told him we had to skip town. Anyone who stayed would end up in jail. But he knew that already. He said he felt like the worst had already happened because you’d turned your back on him.”
He paused to check L’s reaction, but she betrayed nothing. She’d walked away because all of them, her uncle included, had done exactly the same thing to her mother nearly twenty years before, abandoning her in her hour of need.
“He said you two had gone to our village and found it still deserted. Said he was going to go back there again, to his old house, your mother’s place. Said he was tired of running in circles.”
“He’ll be all right in the village. He and the old man will get along just fine.”
“Knowing him, he’s probably spent the year completely drunk. Or else he’s already dead. Your uncle was a shell after you left. You should go see him. He won’t last long if he can’t find some reason to live.”
L looked from Festo to Gaya. They were both in their forties, so they had to have been part of the assembly that had voted to banish her mother. But she didn’t resent them for it the way she did her uncle. She’d trusted her uncle completely, so his betrayal was unforgivable.
Then again, it wasn’t L he had betrayed. Her uncle had assumed the entire responsibility of raising his niece, educating her, and giving her a life suited to her talents. What right did she have to hate him?
Metaphysics, theosophy, Buddhism, and other spiritual teachings stressed that rancor was the most destructive emotion. Parables taught that resentment gnaws at one’s insides, saps energy, and blocks reflection, leaving one corrupted and impotent. Resentment obstructs thought and poisons the soul but has no negative effect whatsoever upon the person who caused it. Therefore, it is important to forgive those who have offended you. One must pardon with a whole heart and eliminate every trace of resentment, wipe clean the mind and spirit, and dedicate oneself again to positive thought, the only sure path to happiness.
“All right. I’ll go see him.”
“Just a second.” Festo pawed through a leather bag and came up with a newspaper clipping. “You’ll have to motivate your uncle if you want to help him.”
The headline read, “Consecration at Murcia Cathedral of the New Bishop of the Diocese of Cartagena, Francisco Javier Santos Pena.”
“What’s this?” Why was he giving her an article about a bishop?
“That’s your father.”
L stiffened. She examined the photo again. The photo showed a man with a kindly face, about fifty years of age, with light-chestnut hair.
“I thought my father was a monster. This bishop looks like a nice man.”
“How do you think he managed to fool us all?”
43
Elías tried to phone L. He needed to talk to her, tell her what he’d learned, get her take on it. There was no answer. Steering through the twists and turns of the road, he held his phone against the wheel and composed a text message: On way back. Want to see you. “See you,” not “talk to you,” because he wanted to be with her. And not just because of what he’d discovered in the village. A checkmark popped up, confirming the text had been delivered.
Snow began to fall, and Elías turned up the heat. He wasn’t used to the low temperatures of the north. It was all too much: the long drive, the ghost town, the lunatic who’d tried to attack him, the terrible new information. He was dizzy with fatigue and needed time to process what he’d learned. A roadside hotel appeared, and he pulled in. He got out as the last rays of sunset behind the mountains stained the clouds a bloody red. The dusting of snow melted on his hat and trench coat as soon as he stepped inside the warm lobby. Still-life paintings of slaughtered small game hung along the stippled wall.
The lanky, bald receptionist surveyed the bruises and cuts on his face. “Good thing you stopped, friend. The roads’ll ice over soon. But don’t worry. If that snow lets up, they should be all clear by five in the morning.”
“Are you serious?”
“It’s a communal effort around here. The villagers take care of it themselves.” The man handed him a key.
The room wasn’t much, just a cramped space with dated furniture and cheap wall-to-wall carpet. But there was a bed. He washed up and went back downstairs for something to eat.
The waitress seated him at a table covered with sticky oilcloth. The restaurant smelled of rancid grease, but the roast venison special was delicious. Christmas ornaments were still on display next to the few bottles in the glass-fronted cabinets behind the bar. She told him these were the last remaining bottles of Ordoki, a flavored gin unique to the Baztán Valley. She claimed it was a treasure trove and assured him the drink was much sought after because the distillery had closed down. Elías acquiesced and ordered a bottle. He was the only customer, so he invited the waitress to join him.
The woman couldn’t have been much over forty, but her eyes belonged to someone much older. Gray-streaked tangles fell to her shoulders, and her makeup was garish. Exaggerated eyeliner rimmed her eyes, and dark foundation sat thick on her cheeks. But she had a quick, sincere smile.
Elías asked her what she knew about the Agotes, but it wasn’t much. Agotes, she said, used to be outcasts because people said they had leprosy and worse. In the old days, no one wanted to have anything to do with them, but now some folks even searched their family trees for Agotes. Claiming to have Agote ancestors was some kind of fad these days.
He asked her about the village he’d visited.
“It’s near here? Huh. Never heard of it. But that stuff about the Church is a scandal. In old settlements like that, the land was held in common. It’s always been that way, and folks never bothered to register it. Then the Church comes along and scoops up farms, houses, even public buildings. Lots of times, they turned around, haggled with the village council, and sold it back to the people. Imagine: the Church steals their property, and the owners have to pay ransom. And it was all perfectly legal!”
They drank more than half the bottle. Elías went off to bed with his mouth full of the licorice taste, hoping it would help him sleep. He checked his phone. The checkmark hadn’t turned blue, which meant L hadn’t read his text.
He sent another, this time to his wife. Staying at a hotel. Heading back tomorrow early.
She responded promptly. Ok. Be sa
fe. Miss you. Her affectionate tone surprised him, considering her chilly attitude when he’d left.
He felt obliged to reply. Miss you too.
He turned off the phone and went to bed.
He rose before five and called the front desk to ask about the roads. The clerk assured him the highway was clear, so Elías had breakfast downstairs, coffee and a pastry. The waitress was gone. A tall, thin young man served him. Elías sipped his coffee and turned on his phone.
A text message appeared.
L had sent it after he’d gone to sleep.
I have come to a negotiated agreement with the bishop. He’ll pay me. Sorry I used you and made you believe things that weren’t true. Don’t look for me, don’t call. I have everything I need from you. Thanks.
No signature, just an emoji.
A kiss.
Elías read and reread the message, incredulous, as his forgotten coffee cooled. He tried to call her, and a recording told him the number was not available.
Of course L had exploited him. That was obvious. But he refused to believe she was only after money. Why go to all this trouble? What about her uncle, murdered by Midas? Hadn’t she wanted Elías to investigate a killing and incriminate those responsible, including, possibly, the bishop?
Though it shook him to his core, Elías had to accept the fact that his own uncle had exploited the law and defrauded the Navarra villagers of their property. He’d destroyed their community. L and her uncle had wanted revenge, so Midas, the bishop’s errand boy, had done away with L’s uncle.
But now she’d been bought off? It didn’t fit.
If she’d accepted their blood money, she had no principles. Then again, what more could he expect? After all, she was a whore. He got up and left a few coins stuck to the oilcloth next to the pastry wrapper and coffee mug.
He emerged into the piercing cold and got into his car, rubbing his hands together before gripping the frozen wheel. He started the engine and pulled out onto the road. Sparkles of salt on the asphalt reflected his headlights. He tried calling L several more times, but her phone was still off. As he drove, his anger grew. He’d been duped. She’d turned his life upside down, then sold out the first chance she got. And yet it had felt so real—her desire for him to learn the truth, their debates about art.
The Dark Circus Page 24