LITMIR.BIZ

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him?’ Graciela asked.

      ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said sullenly. ‘He’s a real man, not a midget like the others. He knows how to satisfy a woman.’ She ran her hand through her hair coquettishly. ‘Besides, he’s madly in love with me.’

      Graciela did not believe it. She knew that the Moor was using her mother, but she did not dare protest again. She was too terrified of her mother’s temper, for when Dolores Pinero was really angry, a kind of insanity took possession of her. She had once chased Graciela with a kitchen knife because she had dared make a pot of tea for one of the ‘uncles’.

      

      Early one Sunday morning Graciela rose to get ready for church. Her mother had left early to deliver some dresses. As Graciela pulled off her nightgown, the curtain was pushed aside and the Moor appeared. He was naked.

      ‘Where’s your mother, guapa?’

      ‘Mama went out early. She had some errands to do.’

      The Moor was studying Graciela’s nude body. ‘You really are a beauty,’ he said softly.

      Graciela felt her face flush. She knew what she should do. She should cover her nakedness, put on her skirt and blouse and leave. Instead, she stood there, unable to move. She watched his manhood begin to swell and grow before her eyes. She could hear the voices ringing in her ears:

      ‘Faster … Harder!’

      She felt faint.

      The Moor said huskily, ‘You’re a child. Get your clothes on and get out of here.’

      And Graciela found herself moving. Moving towards him. She reached up and slid her arms around his waist and felt his male hardness against her body.

      ‘No,’ she moaned. ‘I’m not a child.’

      The pain that followed was like nothing Graciela had ever known. It was excruciating, unbearable. It was wonderful, exhilarating, beautiful. She held the Moor tightly in her arms, screaming with ecstasy. He brought her to orgasm after orgasm, and Graciela thought: So this is what the mystery is all about. And it was so wonderful to finally know the secret of all creation, to be a part of life at last, to know what joy was for now and for ever.

       ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

      It was Dolores Pinero’s voice screaming, and for an instant everything stopped, frozen in time. Dolores Pinero was standing at the side of the bed, staring down at her daughter and the Moor.

      Graciela looked up at her mother, too terrified to speak. Dolores Pinero’s eyes were filled with an insane rage.

      ‘You bitch!’ she yelled. ‘You rotten bitch.’

      ‘Mama – please –’

      Dolores Pinero picked up a heavy iron ashtray at the bedside and slammed it against her daughter’s head.

      That was the last thing Graciela remembered.

      

      She awoke in a large, white hospital ward with two dozen beds in it, all of them occupied. Harried nurses scurried back and forth, trying to attend to the needs of the patients.

      Graciela’s head was racked with excruciating pain. Each time she moved, rivers of fire flowed through her. She lay there, listening to the cries and moans of the other patients.

      Late in the afternoon, a young doctor stopped by the side of her bed. He was in his early thirties, but he looked old and tired.

      ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You’re finally awake.’

      ‘Where am I?’ It hurt her to speak.

      ‘You’re in the charity ward of the Hospital Provincial in Ávila. You were brought in yesterday. You were in terrible shape. We had to stitch up your forehead.’ The doctor went on: ‘Our chief surgeon decided to sew you up himself. He said you were too beautiful to have scars.’

      He’s wrong, Graciela thought. I’ll be scarred for the rest of my life.

      On the second day Father Perez came to see Graciela. A nurse moved a chair to the bedside. The priest looked at the beautiful, pale young girl lying there and his heart melted. The terrible thing that had happened to her was the scandal of Las Navas del Marques, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. Dolores Pinero had told the policía that her daughter had injured her head in a fall.

      Now, Father Perez asked, ‘Are you feeling better, child?’

      Graciela nodded, and the movement made her head pound.

      ‘The policía have been asking questions. Is there anything you would like me to tell them?’

      There was a long silence. Finally she said, ‘It was an accident.’

      He could not bear the look in her eyes. ‘I see.’

      What he had to say was painful beyond words. ‘Graciela, I/ spoke with your mother …’

      And Graciela knew. ‘I – I can’t go home again, can I?’

      ‘No, I’m afraid not. We’ll talk about it.’ Father Perez took Graciela’s hand. ‘I’ll come back to see you tomorrow.’

      ‘Thank you, Father.’

      When he left, Graciela lay there, and she prayed: Dear God, please let me die. I don’t want to live.

      She had nowhere to go and no one to go to. Never again would she see her home. She would never see her school again, or the familiar faces of her teachers. There was nothing in the world left for her.

      A nurse stopped at her bedside. ‘You need anything?’

      Graciela looked up at her in despair. What was there to say?

      

      The following day the doctor appeared again.

      ‘I have good news,’ he said awkwardly. ‘You’re well enough to leave now.’ That was a lie, but the rest of his speech was true. ‘We need the bed.’

      She was free to go – but go where?

      

      When Father Perez arrived an hour later, he was accompanied by another priest.

      ‘This is Father Berrendo, an old friend of mine.’

      Graciela glanced up at the frail-looking priest. ‘Father.’

      He was right, Father Berrendo thought. She is beautiful.

      Father Perez had told him the story of what had happened to Graciela. The priest had expected to see some visible signs of the kind of environment the child had lived in, a hardness, a defiance, or self-pity. There were none of those things in the young girl’s face.

      ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a bad time,’ Father Berrendo told her. The sentence carried a deeper meaning.

      Father Perez said, ‘Graciela, I must return to Las Navas del Marques. I am leaving you in Father Berrendo’s hands.’

      Graciela was filled with a sudden sense of panic. She felt as though her last link with home was being cut. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded.

      Father Perez took her hand in his. ‘I know you feel alone,’ he said warmly, ‘but you’re not. Believe me, child, you’re not.’

      A nurse approached the bed carrying a bundle. She handed it to Graciela. ‘Here are your clothes. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave now.’

      An even greater panic seized her. ‘Now?’

      The two priests exchanged a look.

      ‘Why don’t you get dressed and come with me?’ Father Berrendo suggested. ‘We can talk.’

      Fifteen minutes later Father Berrendo was helping Graciela out of the hospital

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