LITMIR.BIZ

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to the pictures tomorrow.’

      And it would break her teacher’s heart. Las Navas del Marqués is a small village an hour from Ávila, and like all villages everywhere, everyone knew everyone else’s business. The lifestyle of Dolores Pinero was a disgrace, and it reflected on Graciela. Mothers refused to let their children play with the little girl, lest their morals be contaminated. Graciela went to the school on Plazoleta del Cristo, but she had no friends and no playmates. She was one of the brightest students in the school, but her exam results were poor. It was difficult for her to concentrate, for she was always tired.

      Her teacher would admonish her, ‘You must get to bed earlier, Graciela, so that you are rested enough to do your work properly.’

      But her exhaustion had nothing to do with getting to bed late. Graciela and her mother shared a small, two-room casa. The girl slept on a couch in the tiny room, with only a thin, worn curtain separating it from the bedroom. How could Graciela tell her teacher about the obscene sounds in the night that awakened her and kept her awake, as she listened to her mother making love to whichever stranger happened to be in her bed?

      When Graciela brought home her report card, her mother would scream, ‘These are the cursed marks I expected you to get, and do you know why you got these terrible marks? Because you’re stupid. Stupid!’

      And Graciela would believe it and try hard not to cry.

      

      In the afternoons when school was over, Graciela would wander around by herself, walking through the narrow, winding streets lined with acacia and sycamore trees, past the whitewashed stone houses, where loving fathers lived with their families. Graciela had many playmates, but they were all in her mind. There were beautiful girls and handsome boys, and they invited her to all their parties, where they served wonderful cakes and ice cream. Her imaginary friends were kind and loving, and they all thought she was very smart. When her mother was not around, Graciela would carry on long conversations with them.

       Would you help me with my homework, Graciela? I don’t know how to do sums, and you’re so good at them.

       What shall we do tonight, Graciela? We could go to the pictures, or walk into town and have a lemonade.

       Will your mother let you come to dinner tonight, Graciela? We’re having paella.

       No, I’m afraid not. Mother gets lonely if I’m not with her. I’m all she has, you know.

      On Sundays, Graciela rose early and dressed quietly, careful not to awaken her mother and whichever uncle was in her bed, and walked to the San Juan Bautista Church, where Father Perez talked of the joys of life after death, a fairytale life with Jesus; and Graciela could not wait to die and meet Jesus.

      Father Perez was an attractive priest in his early forties. He had ministered to the rich and the poor, and the sick and the vital, since he had come to Las Navas del Marqués several years earlier, and there were no secrets in the little village to which he was not privy. Father Perez knew Graciela as a regular church-goer, and he, too, was aware of the stories of the constant stream of strangers who shared Dolores Pinero’s bed. It was not a fit home for a young girl, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. It amazed the priest that Graciela had turned out as well as she had. She was kind and gentle and never complained or talked about her home life.

      Graciela would appear at church every Sunday morning wearing a clean, neat outfit that he was sure she had washed herself. Father Perez knew she was shunned by the other children in town, and his heart went out to her. He made it a point to spend a few moments with her after mass each Sunday, and when he had time, he would take her to a little café for a treat of helado.

      In the winter Graciela’s life was a dreary landscape, monotonous and gloomy. Las Navas del Marqués was in a valley surrounded by the Cruz Verde mountains and, because of that, the winters were six months long. The summers were easier to bear, for then the tourists arrived and filled the town with laughter and dancing and the streets came alive. The tourists would gather at the Plaza de Manuel Delgado Barredo, with its little bandstand built on stone, and listen to the orchestra and watch the natives dance the Sardana, the centuries-old traditional folk dance, barefoot, their hands linked, as they moved gracefully around in a colourful circle. Graciela watched the visitors as they sat at the pavement cafés drinking aperitivos or shopping at the pescadería – the fish market, or the farmacia. At one o’clock in the afternoon the bodega was always filled with tourists drinking chateo and picking at tapas, seafood and olives and chips.

      The most exciting thing for Graciela was to watch the paseo each evening. Boys and girls would walk up and down the Plaza Mayor in segregated groups, the boys eyeing the girls, while parents and grandparents and friends watched, hawk-eyed, from sidewalk cafés. It was the traditional mating ritual, observed for centuries. Graciela longed to join in it, but her mother forbade her.

      ‘Do you want to be a puta?’ she would scream at Graciela. ‘Stay away from boys. They want only one thing from you. I know from experience,’ she added bitterly.

      If the days were bearable, the nights were an agony. Through the thin curtain that separated their beds, Graciela could hear the sounds of savage moaning and writhings and heavy breathing, and always the obscenities.

      ‘Faster … harder!’

       ‘¡Cógeme!’

       ‘¡Mámame la verga!’

       ‘¡Métela en el culo!’

      Before she was ten years old, Graciela had heard every obscene word in the Spanish vocabulary. They were whispered and shouted and shuddered and moaned. The cries of passion repelled Graciela, and at the same time awakened strange longings in her.

      

      When Graciela was fourteen years old, the Moor moved in. He was the biggest man Graciela had ever seen. His skin was shiny black, and his head was shaved. He had enormous shoulders, a barrel chest and huge arms. The Moor had arrived in the middle of the night when Graciela was asleep, and she got her first sight of him in the morning when he pushed the curtain aside and walked stark naked past Graciela’s bed to go outside to the outhouse in the yard. Graciela looked at him and almost gasped aloud. He was enormous, in every part. That will kill my mother, Graciela thought.

      The Moor was staring at her. ‘Well, well. And who do we have here?’

      Dolores Pinero hurried out of her bed and moved to his side. ‘My daughter,’ she said curtly.

      A wave of embarrassment swept over Graciela, as she saw her mother’s naked body next to the man.

      The Moor smiled, showing beautiful white, even teeth. ‘What’s your name, guapa?’

      Graciela was too shamed by his nakedness to speak.

      ‘Her name’s Graciela. She’s retarded.’

      ‘She’s beautiful. I’ll bet you looked like that when you were young.’

      ‘I’m still young,’ Dolores Pinero snapped. She turned to her daughter. ‘Get dressed. You’ll be late for school.’

      ‘Yes, Mama.’

      The Moor stood there, eyeing her.

      The older woman took his arm and said cajolingly, ‘Come back to bed, querido. We’re not finished yet.’

      ‘Later.’ the Moor said. He was still looking at Graciela.

      

      The Moor stayed. Every day when Graciela came home from school she prayed that he would be gone. For reasons she did not understand, he terrified her. He was always polite to her and never made any advances, yet the mere thought of him sent shivers through her body.

      His treatment of her mother was something different. The Moor stayed in the small house most of the day, drinking heavily. He took whatever money Dolores Pinero

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