The Dark Circus

by Ana Ballabriga

  He had to hear it from her own mouth.

  The landscape rolled past as if in a dream. He drove through the forested north and onto the agricultural flatlands of the central peninsula. The countryside became more arid as he worked his way down the map and the temperature rose. The drive took eight hours. He stopped only once, for gas.

  By the time he arrived in Cartagena, he could hardly see straight. A miracle occurred: he found parking in the Plaza de España. His mother and sister lived at the corner of Calle Tolosa Latour. He had too, until his wedding day. He needed to talk to someone and make sense of things. L wasn’t available, but maybe his mother would hear him out. And maybe she knew something. He opened the door to the paneled lobby decked with mirrors and staffed by a somber doorman who looked like he’d been up all night. Elías gave him a nod.

  He took the elevator to the seventh floor, hit the buzzer a couple times in greeting, and unlocked the door. The apartment was filled with the warm aroma of cooking. It momentarily transported him back to long-lost days when he’d had nothing to worry about except keeping up his grades and getting even with school bullies. Like Miguel, the big, slow-talking kid who liked to punch him in the stomach to see if he’d throw up his breakfast. Elías was never as big or as strong as Miguel, but he’d gotten the better of him once or twice.

  “Elías?”

  His mother wore a spotless white apron over a violet sweater and high-cut jeans. Impeccable as always, she hadn’t neglected her careful makeup or forgotten to wear fetching earrings. She went to her son, took his head in her hands, and gave him a kiss. They went into the main room, where his sister had just finished eating.

  “You might have told us you were driving back,” his mother complained. “We’d have waited for you.”

  “How did you know I was on a trip?”

  She shrugged. “Caridad told me.”

  Elías furrowed his brow. His wife and his mother were talking behind his back?

  “Are you hungry? It’s one of your sister’s vegetarian stews, but it’s actually not so bad.”

  “That’s okay, Mama.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  “I don’t believe you, but never mind. Sit.”

  Elías obeyed. The dining area was elegantly furnished in attractive light colors. His mother regularly updated the decor. Only the chairs and sofa stayed the same. She put up new wallpaper every four or five years. Her long, comfortable sofa must have cost a small fortune back in the day. It was a constant—unchanged and unchanging across the decades.

  “It’s really good, sweetie,” his sister said. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”

  Elías shook his head, and his sister turned back to the television newscast.

  “Mom, how much do you know about our uncle?”

  “Your uncle?” His mother seemed surprised. “Francisco Javier?”

  “Yes, that uncle. The bishop.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “You’re scaring me, Elías.” His mother’s gaze was stern. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “She’s right,” his sister confirmed without looking away from the television. “Your face is better, but your shirt is a mess.”

  He turned to Delia. “Do you know who Uncle is? Do you really know?”

  “Why are you so obsessed with him these days?” He had her attention now. “I’m sure you know him much better than I do.”

  “I thought so. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Have you heard something derogatory?” His mother’s voice was cautious. “Don’t believe what people say. You have to have faith in people. Especially in your uncle.”

  “Faith is something you have in ideas. Not in people. People always let you down.”

  She frowned. “If something serious has come up, it’d be best to discuss it with him.”

  “He won’t tell me the truth.”

  “Your uncle is a good man. He’s been there for us when nobody else was. Always. I want you to tell me once and for all what’s going on.”

  “What’s his connection with Navarra?”

  “Navarra? He used to live there. Before he requested the reassignment to Murcia and then became bishop.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know much more than that, son. He represented the bishop, they got along well, and he did good work. He doesn’t like to discuss it. Those were difficult years, it seems.”

  “And do you trust him, Mama?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “I just do! He’s always been good to us. He doesn’t have a selfish bone in his body. He lives for others and to bring the Lord’s Gospel to those in need of it. Elías, tell me, are you and your uncle having problems?”

  “No, Mama, that’s not it.” He meant to reassure her, but he heard how false he sounded. “Don’t you worry. I have to go.”

  “Remember that His Holiness celebrates Mass in Caravaca tomorrow. Your uncle says they’re going to make an important announcement, and it’ll be a day to remember.”

  His sister got up. “Hey, buddy, just a minute. Let’s have coffee and chat.”

  “I can’t. I have to go.”

  He went to the door without giving his mother the usual farewell kiss, then left. He pulled out his phone. Still no answer. Panic was creeping in. His mother’s loyalty to the bishop seemed sincere and totally innocent. How could he tell her who Uncle really was? That he was one of those people who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted, people capable of torture and murder?

  L had made the scales fall from his eyes. And then she’d left him in the lurch.

  He couldn’t trust anyone anymore. His uncle had betrayed him and so had L. And yet he was still desperate to see her again. He had to talk with her, convince her they must keep investigating, the two of them. Together. He wanted to see her again more than anything in the world. He ached to touch her and kiss her, to surrender his tormented mind and body to her.

  He called one last time before taking out his house key, but still nothing.

  He entered the apartment with his head spinning. He hung up his coat and hat, and went into the living room. Caridad said nothing. She was intent on a new puzzle illuminated by the fierce shaft of afternoon sunlight pouring through the picture window. But something about the scene was different.

  He looked around and noticed the room-sized rug.

  “How was your trip?”

  “It was a tough drive, but it’s over now.” He pointed to the new rug. “What’s this?”

  “It’s part of getting the house ready. You know, for children.”

  “You’re pregnant?” The few seconds his wife made him wait for a reply seemed an eternity. He didn’t know how he would react if she was.

  “It seems to me my body is different somehow. It’s just a feeling, but it’s exciting. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes, of course.” He looked at the puzzle and tried to change the subject. “What happened to the Van Gogh?”

  “I never told you my theory about puzzles?”

  Elías shook his head apprehensively.

  “Every piece I place captures my emotions at just that moment. If I’m happy, the puzzle is happy, and every piece radiates happiness. But if it’s full of sadness or anger or doubt, I have no choice: I have to abort it. I have to replace it with one that gets off on the right foot. One that brings up good memories every time I sit down to work on it.”

  “And you feel better now?”

  “Yes,” she said, rubbing her abdomen. “I’m sure everything will turn out all right.” She looked into his eyes. “I’m going to the gynecologist tomorrow. I’d like for you to come with me.”

  Elías hesitated. “Tomorrow’s the Papal Mass.”

  “Of course.” She smiled beatifically. “I forgot. How silly I am! It’s just I’m so excited.” She rose. “Would you like me to run a bath for you?” />
  “I’ll take a shower instead.”

  She came up and nestled close. “Maybe you’d like some company?” She looked into his eyes with a mischievous smile. Like a cat in heat.

  Elías was deeply confused. He’d walked out after a fight, after intentionally humiliating her. Now here she was, acting as if nothing had happened.

  Had the prospect of a child transformed her?

  She kissed him on the lips. He stood there unmoving, still unsure what to do.

  “I love you, and I want to make up. You’re very important to me, Elías, and all I want is for us to be happy together. The way we used to be.” She reached down and cupped his crotch in one hand. “You can come outside me if you want; I don’t mind. In fact, I actually kind of liked it.” She took his hand. “Let’s get in the tub.”

  “Not now.” Right now, he could think of no one but L. Bedding his wife would be wrong.

  “What is it with you!” Suddenly, she was shouting. “What the hell do you want from me? Do I have to dress like a whore to get your attention?”

  Caridad took a deep breath. She spotted her cell phone, grabbed it, and stormed off to the bedroom. Elías stood petrified for a few moments. Was she just releasing pent-up anger, or did she really know about L?

  He followed her to their room. She lay stretched out on the bed with the phone in her hand. The dress she’d bought for the Papal Mass was on a hanger hooked on the wardrobe handle. A confection of stiff black fabric with a shawl. But hadn’t she claimed she’d forgotten about the event? That she’d made an appointment with the gynecologist?

  What was going on here? Was the pregnancy sheer invention?

  “Give me your phone,” he said.

  Caridad held it tight. “Why?”

  “I have to make a call.”

  “Use your own, then.”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  “Then look for it.” She turned her back to him and clutched her phone to her chest.

  Elías went to her, grabbed her arm, and forced her to face him. “I told you to give me the goddamn phone!”

  “Let go of me!” Caridad tried to twist free. “You’re crazy! Get out of here!”

  She raised the phone, intending to throw it against the wall, but Elías grabbed her wrist and snatched it from her.

  Caridad began hitting him, furious. “Give that to me, it’s mine! You have no right!”

  Elías gave her a violent shove, and she fell back on the bed. She broke into sobs. He tapped the messaging app. Up popped a photo of L in what looked like a hotel room.

  Alfredo had sent it. Elías scrolled up to read the thread. The day before, Caridad had sent Alfredo a photo of the note with L’s number and the name of the village. She must have rummaged through his pockets while he was in the shower.

  The vicar had answered a few minutes later. We have to talk. I’m coming to your place.

  Then, at nine p.m. the night before, the vicar had sent the photo of L.

  Elías looked at his wife. “So now you’re spying on me?”

  She didn’t answer. She huddled on the bed in a fetal position, arms wrapped around her legs.

  “Answer me!” he shouted, and threw the phone at her. It bounced off the bed and clattered onto the floor. “Why did Alfredo send you a photo of her? Did you ask him to?”

  “Yes.” Caridad didn’t budge, but she replied with an anger equal to his. “I wanted to see what your whore looked like.”

  Elías threw himself across her on the bed, seized her arms, and wrestled her to her feet. “What have you people done to her?” he bellowed. “Where is she?”

  “Alfredo paid her off so she’d go away and leave us alone.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “She’s a whore! What did you expect? I never thought you’d stoop so low.” Despite the loathing in her face, his wife spoke with an icy calm that chilled him to the bone. “I’d have understood if you’d hooked up with Sandra or something, but a common prostitute? How humiliating!”

  “L isn’t a common prostitute. You have no idea. She’s a hundred times more sophisticated than you, smarter, more attractive—and more of a woman.”

  “She’s as much a woman as you are a man. You heard me! You’re only half a man. Even in bed with me you’re a failure, hardly a husband at all. I understand now; oh, yes, I do. You don’t get turned on unless you’re paying for it.”

  Caridad yanked with all her strength and managed to free her right arm. She slapped him so hard it spun him halfway around. She took advantage of his surprise to flee into the hall. Elías ran after her to the living room, grabbed her shoulder, turned her around, and immobilized her in his grip.

  She struggled to get away, trying to punch him and kick him. “Leave me alone! Let me go!”

  “Where is she?” Elías shook her like a doll. “Tell me where she is! What did all of you do to her, you bitch?”

  That was too much. Caridad pulled free and brought her knee up into his groin. Elías doubled over but didn’t let go. All his anger went into violently straightening up again. His head slammed into his wife’s chin with such an impact that it sent her flying backward. Her back smashed into the coffee table, and she fell to the floor. Elías staggered and felt the room spinning. He fell, one hand pressed to his crotch and the other to his head. As if in a dream, he heard his wife gag and scream in pain. The scream turned into a horrible choking that sounded like drowning.

  Time passed. He didn’t know how much, but he finally struggled to his feet. Caridad made no sound at all. She was sprawled out on the carpet, one arm reaching toward him as if pleading for help. Her mouth was open and full of blood. It had welled up and spilled over her face, but now it flowed no more. She had bitten through her tongue and drowned in her own blood. Her eyes were fixed on infinity. Her gaze was without luster, without light, without life.

  Elías recoiled in horror. Dear God, what on earth had he done?

  He’d killed his wife.

  44

  His gold teeth gleamed in the dim light. When he opened his mouth to sing, everyone in the bar stared at the letters: SCOT.

  “If I’m going to work, I have to pay attention to my image,” he’d told her. “And I don’t want to forget the circus.”

  L lingered by her uncle, savoring his bittersweet rendition of “Piano Man.” Each and every time, the lyrics sounded like they’d been written for him. His performance was profoundly moving.

  The place was jammed. The crowd was particularly dense along the black-and-white bar that curled like a question mark around the piano.

  Her uncle drew out the last few bars, milking the number for all it was worth. His eyes twinkled as he looked up.

  A storm of applause. That one was always a sure hit.

  Now it was L’s turn.

  Her ballad was harsh and grim, a song depicting the widespread racism of the southern United States. She had to breathe deeply to maintain control and hold back tears as she delivered its searing lines. Each time she performed “Strange Fruit,” her voice threatened to break.

  The silence in the bar was total. Some people gave her furtive glances. Most looked down at the glasses they were holding, reluctant to catch her eye or see the grief in her face as she sang. She seemed possessed by the spirit of Billie Holiday.

  Midas appeared. A couple of men rose deferentially, and he sat at the small table they’d vacated. He stared at her without blinking. He took in her face, the body in the clinging olive-green dress that emphasized her curves and pushed up her full breasts.

  L painted the scene, making them all smell the sweet, cloying magnolias and the acrid, burning flesh.

  Midas smiled. His face was hard but alluring. It was full of self-confidence and without a trace of empathy for her emotion or the story she was telling. “Strange Fruit” might have been the most important song of the twentieth century. It denounced the brutal lynchings of black Americans. L sang of corpses with bulging eyes swaying in bloodstained tre
es. She moaned the dirge about white people’s indifference to that bitter harvest.

  She held the note of the final word as long as she could. Three dying notes from the piano; a tear ran down her cheek. The room was silent for what seemed an eternity until Midas applauded and broke the spell. The crowd took his cue, and her uncle tore into a rollicking rock ’n’ roll tune by Jerry Lee Lewis to dispel the terrible gloom.

  L needed a drink. As she stepped away from the piano, several men jockeyed to congratulate her and offer drinks. She accepted the first man’s offer. But just when a gin and tonic had materialized, Midas appeared.

  “Would you excuse us a moment?”

  Her new friend turned with a frown to chase off whoever had dared to intrude, but when he saw Midas, he gulped and his face went pale. He picked up his drink and slunk away.

  “Your delivery was marvelous.”

  “It’s a marvelous song.”

  “I don’t know how much I’m paying you, but I can see you’re worth it.”

  “And that makes me part of your art collection?”

  Midas stared at her so intently that L felt like his gaze would bore through her. He took note of everything: the delicate makeup accentuating her green eyes, the sensuous touch of blush on her cheeks, the way her scarlet lips seemed to expect a kiss. He clearly approved of the contrast between the copper-colored hair pulled tight and the loose, insouciant drape of her dress. Cut outrageously low across her breasts, it hugged her figure as far as her hips, then descended in a green cascade down those never-ending legs and stopped just short of her black high heels.

  “Well, you are a work of art,” he said. “My only regret is that I didn’t sculpt you myself.”

  L rewarded him with a smile. She reached for his right hand and turned it palm up. She brushed her index finger across the surface, ran it along the edges, traced his life line. She tapped the calluses at the base of his long, thick fingers. These hands were instruments ready for anything. They were capable of creating art, making love, or delivering sudden, violent death.