He thought of his dead wife. His stomach turned over. What was the reason for that?
“How did things go in Navarra?”
Elías looked out the wide windows at the meticulously tended garden where palm trees swayed. It must be cold outside.
“I found the wine cooperative. Seems like it must have been very profitable. Enough to hire famous painters for the labels.”
“So now you know where the paintings come from.”
“Yes, but I still don’t understand why my uncle is so interested in collecting them.” The hot tea had settled his stomach a bit. He offered L a piece of crispbread.
She waved it away. “Do you know why the village was abandoned?”
“Yeah, I saw the letter. It looks like the local bishop asserted ownership and drove everyone out.”
“And you know who did that for him?”
He had a pretty good idea, but it was hard to say the words out loud. “I ran across an old lunatic who accused me of being the man who stole their property. He actually tried to kill me.”
“He’s not as crazy as you think.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you really do look like the man who did it. He was a priest but didn’t dress like one. He began to court a girl in the village, and she thought they were in love. But he was just using her, scouting the village and identifying its weak points. Particularly the fact that none of the property was registered.”
“Why did the priest care so much about a little village in the woods?” He felt anger beginning to burn within him.
“The bishop’s office—or rather, the Church itself—wanted to eliminate that village along with its people and their rituals and traditions. The priest they sent was no fool. He took advantage of the situation to make a career for himself. And he succeeded.”
“You’re talking about my uncle.”
“No. Your father.”
“What? My father—?”
“Forget whatever they told you. It’s all lies. Your father has been pretending to be your uncle all this time.”
“My father was the bishop’s brother. He died in an accident.”
“The bishop’s real brother lives in Pamplona and has never been to Murcia. I looked into it. He’s alive, and they’re in touch.”
“But I saw the death certificate.”
“And who gave it to you?”
Elías was confounded. It took him a few moments to get his voice back. “My uncle,” he admitted.
“No, not your uncle. No.” She took a dramatic pause. “Our father.”
“What?”
“The woman he deceived in that village was my mother.”
Elías got up and racked his brains for some way to dispute the crazy story. L watched him closely. He felt more and more confused. Was it even possible?
He remembered the instant attraction he’d felt toward her. And then he recalled what he’d read about incest: sometimes, when relatives didn’t meet until they were adults, they felt an overwhelming mutual attraction. Shared genes meant they shared obvious physical and psychological traits. In the absence of established family structures, they found each other irresistible.
If she was telling the truth, if Francisco Javier really was his father, how could L have had sex with Elías? Knowing he was her half brother? What kind of depraved creature was she?
His whole understanding of his world had been blasted away.
“You had no right!” he shouted. “You’ve destroyed me, destroyed my life. Everything. I have absolutely nothing left.”
“That’s right,” L agreed. “Nothing left but the truth.”
“I don’t give a shit about the truth!”
At that moment, his phone rang. He found it in the pocket of the jacket he’d hung on the bedroom chair. He hesitated for a moment, then took it out.
It was his uncle.
“Where are you?” the voice demanded. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m busy right now, Uncle.” He was tempted to ask the man whether he was in fact his father, if he’d deceived him and Delia all these years, if his lust for power had led him to destroy a village and its inhabitants.
“Elías, listen to me. Surrender that woman, or I won’t be able to protect you.”
“I’ll give you a call when I can.” For the first time in his life, he addressed his uncle with the familiar tu form.
“Elías—”
He hung up, turned off the phone, and put it back into his jacket pocket. Then, in a sudden burst of fury, he grabbed the tea cup and smashed it against the wall. He glowered as the liquid puddled into a stain on the floor. It looked like blood. Could his uncle really be his father? Francisco Javier had always been very close to his mother—that was undeniable—and had taken care of Elías, worried about his education, made sure he got a good job.
“It can’t be. You’re lying to me again.”
But suddenly it was as clear to him as the light flooding through the window. His own mother had lied to him all his life. His father was a bishop and, even worse, a bishop who’d defiled his vows and destroyed a whole population just to further his career. A bishop who did business with one of the most dangerous criminals in the region. Elías had been sired by a pervert, and without knowing it or wanting it, he had followed in his footsteps. He’d killed his wife and a nameless hitman. He’d ripped his life apart, and nothing of what he’d believed was left. And as for the person he’d done it all for, the woman he’d fallen madly in love with—now it turned out that she was his sister. His sister, his flesh-and-blood half sister! An impossible love shot through with taboo, shame, and guilt.
Naked as he was, he stooped and pulled the pistol from the pocket of his trousers where they lay at the foot of the bed. His entire life, a life of lies, flashed before his eyes. What had happened to him? How had he sunk so low? He’d committed all the unforgivable mortal sins: adultery, anger, hate, incest, robbery, and murder. His soul was condemned to hell; there was no escape. His only hope was, if all his beliefs were being proven false, then neither heaven nor hell existed, so no God stood in judgment, and death was the end of everything.
He turned and pointed the pistol at L. She just looked at him, expressionless. His hand shook. Only one mortal sin was left to him, the worst of all, the sin that sends you straight to hell. He crossed himself with his left hand and prayed there was no God. He raised the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.
46
Her horse was drinking from the trough. The purebred Burguete had a thick neck, arched back, and powerful shaggy legs. Salomé waited on the wooden bench at the entrance to the Eskisaroi Restaurant. He came into sight walking briskly, unmistakable with his blond hair and fine features. She brushed off her trousers and straightened her blouse but didn’t look up. She was intensely nervous, almost frightened. They were given a place by the window, the table draped with a white cloth. The menu was produced with a flourish. He didn’t bother to study it, but ordered for them both: the Iberian platter, squid salad, and two large veal chops.
“And wine,” he said. “Plenty of wine. We’re here to celebrate.”
“What are we celebrating?” she asked in surprise after the waiter withdrew. Had he somehow read her mind?
“What do you think, woman? My work has been a great success, and I’m sure to be promoted as a result.”
“You mean the route is all laid out?” He’d said he was a civil engineer with the railroad, surveying a new line through the Pyrenees, but she’d begun to doubt his story.
The waiter brought the salad, the sliced meats and cheeses, and a carafe of house wine.
“I’ve determined the lay of the land.” He filled their wineglasses. “It’s all planned.” He raised his glass in a toast, and she followed. “To my promotion!”
She took only a sip, but he downed the entire glass. He filled it again and turned his attention to the food. He ate heartily and seemed elated beyond all measure. She took
a slice of chorizo.
“Now I’ll have to go back to Pamplona.”
She forgot the chorizo before it reached her lips. She started to gesture, and the meat wound up on the tablecloth.
“Oh, don’t worry. We can keep seeing each other.”
Things were going from bad to worse. She had to tell him. Now.
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out, then held her breath.
He looked at her, his eyes narrowed, but still smiling. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, then! That’s wonderful.” He filled his glass again and raised it. “Let’s toast our future son.”
“Or daughter.”
“Yes, of course. Or daughter.”
They raised their glasses.
“I want you to come live in the village. We’ll raise our family here.”
“You know I can’t do that.” He ate with a wolfish appetite. Her news didn’t seem to have affected him very much.
“Then I’ll go to Pamplona with you.”
“Not possible either.” He gave her a condescending smile, as if he were speaking to a small child. “The village is your whole life. I don’t think you would survive anywhere else.”
“You may be right about that,” she concurred. “The problem is, I’m going to have to leave it, whether I want to or not.”
He fixed his eyes on her as he raised a forkful of squid to his mouth. She supposed he was trying to guess how much she knew. The waiter arrived with the veal chops. She just sat there. She hadn’t touched a bite.
“Don’t talk such nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. It seems that the Church has claimed title to all the property in town, including the fields.” He was intently focused on the meat, his face a perfect blank. “It hasn’t been announced yet. The mayor found out by accident, and there’s no way to contest it. It seems to be entirely legal.”
“That’s very strange. How—”
“I don’t think I need to explain it to you,” she interrupted him curtly.
The smile froze on his lips. “I—” He picked up his wineglass. “Well, I suppose it’s no use pretending anymore.”
“I couldn’t believe it when they told me. That’s why I came. I had to hear it from you.”
“I’m sorry.” He took another ample swallow of wine. “I admit it: I’m not a civil engineer. I’m a priest, and I’m just doing my job.”
“A priest? A priest whose job is deceiving, swindling, and abandoning women you’ve gotten pregnant?”
“Let me tell you something I’ve never told anyone before.” He drank again. “About an incident that showed me the way to my true calling. I was only eight years old at the time. It was a January morning, so cold I could hardly walk. My brother was two years younger than me. He walked along the street holding my hand, and he didn’t complain. He looked up at me; I nodded back. We understood each other. We knew where we were going and we were ready. We’d rehearsed it over and over since my mother had told us four days earlier she’d arranged the interview. We walked to the mansion of the González de Aripuzcuteta family. My mother had been their maid. The front of the place was enormous, all stone, and an imposing coat of arms hung above the beautifully carved front door. My mother had to knock several times. I could tell she was nervous because she kept smoothing down her dress. Eventually, a woman appeared, the mistress of the house. Her smile was in fact a sneer. I was just a child, but I was beginning to understand how the world worked.
“‘Are you little fellows hungry?’ Of course, we were dying for something to eat, even a scrap of bread, but we said nothing. My brother started to open his mouth, but I squeezed his hand to warn him. ‘They’re shy,’ my mother apologized.
“‘Our gentleman visitor the priest will be here shortly.’
“The house smelled of cooking and freshly baked bread. Our stomachs growled, but we didn’t move. We had to be big and strong. That’s what I’d told my brother. I told him we had to hold out and stick to the plan if we wanted to stay together.
“The priest appeared in the doorway. I was surprised to see he was a very fat man with a friendly face. ‘Is this the boy?’ he asked, pointing to my brother.
“My mother nodded. She was a widow, you see, and the master of the house had forced her to accept his advances; otherwise, she’d have lost her job. That man had just died, and his widow had no intention of keeping my mother on. Even so, she’d agreed to help my brother, her husband’s bastard. She said the local priest was looking for an assistant.
“‘Let’s see, young man—do you believe in God?’ My brother nodded. ‘Do you know how to pray?’ He nodded again and started reciting the prayer just like we’d rehearsed: ‘Our Satan, who art in hell, damned be thy name, thy kingdom come.’
“The priest was shocked. ‘Child, what are you saying?’ And my brother went on: ‘Thy will be done on earth as in hell. Give us this day our daily damnation.’
“The priest looked at my mother and saw her shock. He raised his hand and stepped toward us. But I was quicker. I gave my brother a tremendous wallop and knocked him down. He looked up at me in surprise, bawling and bewildered.
“The priest, though, gave me an approving look. ‘You, there, what’s your name?’ “‘Francisco Javier, sir.’
“‘Do you believe in God?’
“‘Yes, sir. People say we’re poor, but I always say that’s not true, since the greatest poverty is ignorance of God.’
The priestly gentleman beamed his approval. ‘Do you know how to pray?’
“‘Yes.’ I said the ‘Our Father’ like a perfect choirboy, and that was that.”
Salomé turned her eyes away, unable to bear the sight of him. “You’re despicable.”
“Despicable?” His smile was unrepentant. “I was starving, don’t you see? And when I saw how fat that priest was, I knew I would never have to be hungry again.”
“What happened to your brother?” The more she heard from this monster, the more repulsive he was. She couldn’t imagine what she’d seen in him.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him since. But it was a small price to pay to find my way to God.”
“Was it?” She felt her gorge rise.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I suppose this puts an end to our meal. Guess we’ll have to leave without trying the cheesecake.”
“Yes. Such a shame.” Salomé was on the verge of tears. “Would you mind paying at the bar? I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”
He got up and went to pay the bill. She took three plastic tubes from her pocket, poured the contents into his glass, and added wine to both glasses. He returned.
She took her glass and handed him the other. “To our daughter,” she said, articulating what she felt must be true. “A symbol of the savagery and chaos of this world.”
They toasted. This time they both drained their glasses.
When they got outside, he staggered and almost fell down.
She took his elbow and steadied him. “What’s wrong?”
“Must’ve had too much to drink.” He collapsed in a heap, then burst into a fit of giggles.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get over it. Soon.”
He was conscious, but just barely. She led her horse over, pulled the man to his feet, and guided him up onto the bench so he could mount the horse. He almost tumbled off, but she got up behind him and put her arms around his waist. The horse galloped home.
By the time he awoke, the villagers had already met, debated, and determined his punishment. Salomé knew her own trial was still to come. At the moment, though, she simply didn’t care. All her hopes and dreams were gone. She was carrying the child of a monster. That was the direst punishment of all.
They had gathered in the old church. It was decorated with dry vines, grape leaves, and the Cubist fresco celebrating the grape harvest. They’d taken refuge here to escape the abuse they’d endured everywhere else they’d settled. They’d built
their own church, unaffiliated with the diocese and without a priest. It was a sanctuary free from conventional religion, dedicated instead to rituals that celebrated the grapevine. Wine had been their most precious commodity until the end of the nineteenth century, when a clever ancestor had invented the formula for W.
The priest lay upon the altar, bound hand and foot. His chest was bare. Festo had lit a bonfire directly on the stone floor. The entire village had assembled to witness their sentence being carried out. Salomé pulled a red-hot iron from the fire and stepped toward him.
“What are you going to do?” the bound man exclaimed.
She was no longer a person. Her life lay in ruins. She’d fallen in love with this man and dreamed of living together, raising a family, both of them caring for the children, sharing good times and bad, joys and torments. Now she knew she hadn’t fallen for him at all; she’d fallen for the man he’d pretended to be. She’d eagerly swallowed all his lies. He was a foul and despicable fraud who’d stop at nothing to get what he wanted. At least now that damned smile was gone from his face.
“I’m making sure you won’t deceive any other women.”
“No, wait. Salomé, stop!” Francisco Javier shouted. The huge villager known as Hercules immobilized his shoulders and legs as she carried to the altar an iron rod glowing incandescent red. “You’re making a mistake! I—aaahhhhh!”
She branded his chest with two straight lines, perpendicular to each other, the horizontal one lower than she’d intended.
“The mark of Satan.” Her voice was muted and almost indifferent. She found this duty imposed on her by the community extremely unpleasant. Almost in a fugue state, she imagined that the monster on this altar had murdered her beloved, depriving him of life in order to usurp his body, his features, his existence. Memories of happy times haunted her as she looked into his face. “Now your true nature cannot be concealed.”
“Are you out of your minds? Untie me! The bishop’s men will take revenge on all of you! If you don’t let me go, you’ll all pay a terrible price!”
Sifo carried another red-hot iron from the fire to the altar in his gloved hand. This rod was thinner and much shorter. “Don’t worry, we will release you. But first we’ll make sure you never forget us. No one will ever mistake you for a man of virtue.” He gestured to Hercules. “The other side.” The strong man flipped the prisoner over like a big doll. Sifo pulled the man’s trousers down.
The Dark Circus Page 27