The Legacy of the Bones

3

Winter 1979

He reached out his hand, seeking his wife’s warm presence, but found only an empty space where the heat from her body had long since evaporated.

Alarmed, he sat up, slid his legs out of bed and listened intently for any tell-tale sounds that his wife was in the house.

Barefoot, he searched every room. He entered the bedroom where the two girls lay asleep in twin beds, the kitchen, the bathroom. He even checked the balcony to make sure she hadn’t collapsed after she got up, and was lying on the floor unable to cry for help. Part of him wished this were true, rather than knowing that she had waited until he was asleep to steal out of the house, to go … He had no idea where or with whom, only that she would return before dawn, that the cold which had seeped into her flesh would take a while to ease, lingering between them, an invisible, insurmountable barrier, as she fell into a deep sleep while he lay there motionless. He went back to the bedroom, stroked the soft pillowcase, instinctively leaning over to breathe in the scent of his wife’s hair. A guttural cry of despair rose from his throat as he struggled once more to understand what had happened to them. ‘Rosario,’ he whispered, ‘Rosario.’ His proud wife, the young woman from San Sebastián who had come to Elizondo on holiday, with whom he had fallen in love the moment he saw her, the woman who had given him two daughters, and was carrying a third in her belly, the woman who had worked alongside him every day, devoting herself to the bakery, who undoubtedly had a better head for commerce than he, who had helped him raise the business beyond his wildest dreams. The elegant woman who never left the house without looking immaculate; a wonderful wife and a loving mother towards Flora and Rosaura, so distinguished and sophisticated that other women looked like housemaids in comparison. Standoffish towards their neighbours, she oozed charm in the bakery, but avoided contact with other mothers. Apart from him, her only friend was Elena. And then a few months ago the two women had stopped speaking to each other. When he bumped into Elena in the street one day and asked her why, all she could say was: ‘Rosario is no longer my friend, I’ve lost her.’ This made all the more puzzling her nocturnal escapades, the long walks she insisted on taking alone, her absences at all hours of the day or night, her silences. Where did she go? At first when he had questioned her, her replies were evasive: ‘Out walking, thinking.’ Once, half in jest, he had said: ‘Can’t you think here with me, or at least let me go with you?’

She had shot him a strange, angry glance, then replied with alarming coldness:

‘That’s completely out of the question.’

Juan considered himself a simple man; he realised that he was lucky to be married to a woman like Rosario, that he knew little about the female psyche, and so, filled with misgivings and guilt for what he saw as an act of betrayal, he sought advice from their local doctor. After all, the doctor was the only other person in Elizondo who knew Rosario relatively well. He had looked after her during her two previous pregnancies and attended the births. That was all, though: Rosario was a strong woman who rarely complained.

‘She sneaks out at night, lies to you about going to the bakery, is uncommunicative and wants to be left alone. What you’re describing sounds to me like depression. Sadly, here in the valley, that kind of affliction is commonplace. Rosario is from the coast, from the seaside, where the light is different even when it rains. The greyness here eventually takes its toll, we’ve had a lot of rain this year, and the suicide rate has reached alarming levels. I suspect that Rosario is slightly depressed. The fact that she showed no symptoms during her previous pregnancies means nothing. Rosario is a very demanding woman, but she makes great demands on herself too; I’m sure she’s a wonderful wife and mother, she looks after both the house and the bakery, is always impeccably turned out, but this pregnancy is more difficult for her because she’s no longer young. Hardy women like her see motherhood as another chore, another self-imposed responsibility. So, although she wants this baby, it has created a conflict between her need to be perfect in everything she does, and her fear of falling short. If I’m not mistaken, this will only get worse after the birth. You must be patient with her, shower her with affection and try to ease her burden. Take the older girls off her hands, hire an extra hand at the bakery, or find a home help.’

Rosario refused even to discuss the matter.

‘That’s all I need, one of those village gossips snooping around my house so she can tell people what I have and don’t have. What’s this all about? Have I been neglecting the house or the girls? Have I stopped going to the bakery every morning?’

He had felt overwhelmed, scarcely able to reply.

‘Of course not, Rosario, I’m not saying that, I just thought that while you are pregnant, you could do with some help.’

‘I’m more than capable of running my house without any help, so stop interfering unless you want me to go back to San Sebastián. I refuse to discuss the matter again, you’ve insulted me simply by mentioning it.’

She had sulked for days, barely speaking to him, until gradually things returned to normal; she would slip out virtually every night while he lay awake until she came back cold and silent, vowing he would speak to her in the morning, even though he knew full well he would put it off to avoid confronting her.

Deep down, he felt like a coward. A fearful child before a mother superior. And realising that what he feared most was her reaction made him feel still worse. Each time he heard her key in the latch, he would heave a sigh of relief, postponing once more the discussion that would never take place.

4

The desecration of a church wasn’t the sort of incident that usually got her out of bed in the early hours to drive fifty kilometres north, but the urgency in Inspector Iriarte’s voice had left her no choice.

‘Inspector Salazar, forgive me for waking you, but I think you need to see this.’

‘Is it a body?’

‘Not exactly. Someone has desecrated a church, but … well, I think you should come and see for yourself.’

‘In Elizondo?’

‘No, a few kilometres away, in Arizkun.’

She hung up and checked the time. One minute past four. She waited, holding her breath for a few seconds until she heard the slight movement, the imperceptible rustle, followed by a sweet, tiny sigh that announced her son was waking up, punctually, for his next feed. She switched on the bedside lamp, draped with a scarf to diffuse the light, and leant over the cot. She picked up the warm bundle in her arms and inhaled the soft smell of his scalp. Placing him on her breast, she gave a start as she felt the force of his suction. She smiled at James, who was propped up on his elbow, watching her.

‘Work?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I have to go, but I’ll be back before his next feed.’

‘Don’t worry, Amaia, he’ll be fine. If for any reason you’re late, I’ll make up a bottle.’

‘I’ll be back in time,’ she said, stroking her son’s head and planting a kiss on the soft spot on his crown.

In the early hours of that winter morning, lights were shining inside the church of San Juan Bautista in Arizkun, contrasting sharply with the gloomy bell tower that stood narrow and erect, like a silent sentinel. Several uniformed police officers were busy examining the lock on the door to the south entrance to the chapel with their torches.

Amaia parked in the street and woke up Deputy Inspector Etxaide, who was dozing on the passenger seat beside her. Locking the car, she walked around it, stepping over the low wall that surrounded the churchyard.

She greeted a few of the officers and entered the chapel. She stretched her hand towards the font but pulled up short when she became aware of a smell of burning in the air that reminded her of freshly ironed clothes and singed fabric. She recognised Inspector Iriarte, who was speaking with two priests, who stood aghast, hands clasped to their mouths, eyes fixed on the altar. Amaia held back, observing the commotion caused by the arrival of the pathologist, Dr San Martín, and the legal secretary, as she wondered what they were doing there.

Iriarte hurried across to them.

‘Thank you for coming, Inspector Salazar; hello, Jonan,’ he said. ‘It seems that several desecrations have taken place in the chapel in the past few weeks. First of all, someone broke into the church in the middle of the night and smashed up the baptismal font. A week later they took an axe to one of the front pews. And now this,’ he said, pointing towards the altar, which showed signs of an arson attempt. ‘Someone set fire to the altar cloths, only luckily they’re made of linen and burn slowly. Since all this started, the chaplain, who lives nearby, has been keeping an eye on the church. He noticed a light inside and called the emergency services. By the time the patrol cars arrived the fire had gone out, and the culprit or culprits had scarpered.’

Amaia looked at him expectantly. She pursed her lips, puzzled.

‘Right, so, an act of vandalism, desecration or whatever you want to call it – I don’t see how we can help.’

Iriarte raised his eyebrows theatrically.

‘Come and see for yourselves.’

They approached the altar, where the inspector crouched down and lifted a sheet to reveal what looked like a stem of dry, yellow bamboo cane, charred at one end where it had been set alight.

Bewildered, Amaia glanced at San Martín, who leant over to inspect it more closely.

‘Good Lord!’ he said with surprise.

‘What is it?’ asked Amaia.

‘A mairu-beso,’ he whispered.

‘A what?’

San Martín drew back the sheet, revealing another piece of broken cane and the tiny bones of a hand.

‘Good God, it’s a child’s arm,’ said Amaia.

‘A child’s arm bones, to be precise,’ San Martín corrected her. ‘Probably less than a year old; the bones are tiny.’

‘I’ll be …’

‘A mairu, Inspector Salazar, a mairu-beso is a baby’s arm bone.’

Amaia looked at Jonan, seeking confirmation of what the doctor had said. She saw that his face had turned visibly white as he contemplated the charred little bones.

‘Etxaide?’

‘Yes,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘it’s a mairu-beso. For it to be genuine, it has to come from a child that died before being baptised. In the olden days, it was believed they had magical powers that protected people when used as torches; the smoke they gave off could put to sleep the inhabitants of a house or an entire village, while the bearers carried out their “sorcery”.’

‘So, what we have here is not only the desecration of a church but of a grave as well,’ declared Iriarte.

‘In the best-case scenario,’ whispered Jonan Etxaide.

It didn’t escape Amaia, the way Iriarte drew Jonan aside, their uneasy conversation coupled with furtive glances towards the altar. In the meantime she went on listening to Deputy Inspector Zabalza’s observations:

‘As with suicides, desecrations carried out on human remains aren’t usually made public, due to their social consequences and because of the possible copycat effect, but they occur more often than is reported in the media. Since the arrival of immigrants from Haiti, the Dominican Republic and Cuba, as well as parts of Africa, religious practices that originated in those countries have gained acceptance among Europeans. Santería, for example, has become more popular in recent years; in some of its rituals, human bones are used to summon the spirits of the dead – as a result, desecrations of tombs and niches have increased significantly. A year ago, during a routine drugs search, a car was intercepted on its way to Paris containing fifteen human skulls stolen from various cemeteries along the Costa del Sol. Apparently, they fetch a good price on the black market.’

‘So, these bones could have come from anywhere,’ ventured San Martín.

‘No, not from anywhere,’ Jonan said, rejoining the group. ‘I’m convinced they were stolen here in Arizkun, or in one of the surrounding villages. It’s true that human bones are used in many religious rituals, but mairu-beso are limited to the Spanish and French Basque Country, and Navarre. As soon as Dr San Martín has dated the bones, we’ll know where to look.’

He turned round and walked towards the far end of the nave, while Amaia gazed after him bemused. She had known Jonan Etxaide for three years, and in the last two her respect and admiration for him had grown in leaps and bounds. Jonan had joined the police force after finishing his studies – he held a twin degree in anthropology and archaeology – and although he wasn’t a typical cop, Amaia appreciated his somewhat romantic viewpoint and his discreet, non-confrontational approach. She was all the more surprised, therefore, by his somewhat stubborn insistence about where to steer the case. Concealing her unease, she said goodbye to the pathologist, still puzzling over the way Iriarte had nodded while Jonan spoke, the two of them casting anxious glances at the walls of the chapel.

She could hear Ibai as soon as she turned the key in the lock. Leaning back against the door to close it, she hurried upstairs, slipping off her coat. Guided by his urgent cries, she burst into the bedroom to find her son screaming his lungs out in his cot. She glanced around, a knot of anger clenching her stomach.

‘James,’ she yelled, as she lifted the baby out of the cot. He walked in carrying a feeding bottle.

‘How could you leave him to cry like that? He was desperate. What on earth were you doing?’

James stopped in his tracks, holding up the bottle.

‘He’s fine, Amaia. He’s crying because he’s hungry, which is what I was trying to deal with. It’s time for his feed, you know how punctual he is. I waited a few minutes, but when you didn’t arrive, he started getting louder …’

Amaia bit her tongue. She knew James’ words weren’t meant as a reproach, but they felt like a slap in the face. She turned away, sat down on the rocking chair and lifted the baby to her.

‘Throw that muck away,’ she ordered.

She heard him sigh good-naturedly as he walked out.

Grilles, railings, and French windows: the flat, three-storey façade of the Archbishop’s palace, whose weather-worn oak door gave on to Plaza Santa María. Inside, a priest dressed in a smart suit and clerical collar introduced himself as the Archbishop’s secretary, then led them up a wide staircase to the first floor. After ushering them into a room, he asked them to wait while he announced their arrival, then disappeared noiselessly behind a hanging tapestry. Within seconds he was back.

‘This way, please.’

The Archbishop received them in a magnificent room, which Jonan estimated must have spanned the entire length of the first floor. Four windows, which opened on to balconies with close-set railings, were closed against the bitter morning cold of Pamplona. The Archbishop greeted them standing beside his desk, proffering a firm handshake as the police commissioner made the introductions.

‘Monsignor Landero, this is Inspector Salazar who heads the murder squad at the Navarre regional police, and Deputy Inspector Etxaide. I believe you’ve already met Father Lokin, the parish priest at Arizkun.’

Amaia noticed a middle-aged man standing gazing out of the nearest balcony window. He wore a dark suit that made the secretary’s look shoddy in comparison.

‘Allow me to introduce Father Sarasola. He is attending this meeting in an advisory capacity.’

Sarasola walked over, shook hands with them while staring straight at Amaia.

‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Inspector.’

Amaia didn’t reply, but bobbed her head by way of greeting, before taking a seat. Sarasola returned to the window where he stood with his back to the room.

Monsignor Landero was one of those people who can’t keep their hands still while they speak. Picking up a pen, he began to twirl it in his pale, slender fingers, until all eyes were focused on him. However, to everyone’s astonishment, Father Sarasola spoke first.

‘I’m grateful for your interest in this case, which both involves and concerns us,’ he said, turning to face the company, without moving from the window. ‘I’m aware that you went to Arizkun yesterday when the, shall we say “attack”, took place, so I assume you’ve been informed about the spate of previous incidents. All the same, permit me to run through them once more with you. Two weeks ago, in the dead of night, exactly like yesterday, somebody broke into the chapel through the sacristy door. It’s an ordinary door with a simple lock and no alarm, so it didn’t present much of a problem. However, instead of behaving like common thieves, pilfering money from the donation box, the intruders with a single blow, split in two the baptismal font: a work of art over four centuries old. Last Sunday night, they broke in again, took an axe to one of the pews, reducing it to a pile of fragments the size of my hand. And yesterday they desecrated the temple a third time, setting fire to the altar, and placing beneath it that atrocious offering.’

Amaia noticed the parish priest fidgeting anxiously in his seat, while Deputy Inspector Etxaide wore the same frown she had seen the morning before.

‘We live in turbulent times,’ Sarasola went on, ‘and of course, more often than we would like, churches suffer acts of desecration, most of which go unreported to avoid any copycat crime. Although the way some of them are staged is quite spectacular, few possess such a dangerous element as in this latest case.’

Amaia listened carefully, suppressing the urge to interrupt. Try as she might, she couldn’t understand what importance all this had, beyond the destruction of a four-hundred-year-old liturgical object. And yet she was curious to see what direction this unusual meeting would take; the attendance of the city’s highest police and Church authorities was an indication of how seriously they viewed these incidents. And this priest, Father Sarasola, was seemingly in control, despite the presence of the Archbishop, to whom he scarcely paid any attention.

‘We believe that these acts demonstrate a hatred towards the Church based on a misinterpretation of historical concepts. The fact that the most recent attack entailed the use of human remains leaves us in no doubt as to the complexity of the case. Needless to say, we count on your discretion; in our experience, nothing good ever comes of giving publicity to such matters. Not to mention the concern this would arouse among the parishioners of San Juan Bautista, who are shrewd enough to understand the significance of these attacks and liable to be very disturbed by this sort of thing.’

The Commissioner took the floor:

‘You have my assurance that we shall proceed with the utmost care and discretion. Inspector Salazar’s abilities as a detective and her knowledge of the area make her the best person to lead this investigation; she will look into the case with her team.’