Carol (Carol Schmidt Series) (10 page)

For some considerable time neither of them spoke. And then he
buttoned up his jacket and placed a hand on the door handle.

“I will be back later this afternoon, by which time you will have
decided.”

He turned to go.

She swallowed hard, then spoke.

“I have already decided.”

He turned back toward her. Fear suddenly overwhelmed her, a young
woman whose life had come crashing down around her. But as she saw his firm,
uncompromising expression, his eyes cold but steady, she knew instinctively
that they were the eyes of someone who would never lie to her, however
unappealing the truth, however base and degrading the world turned out to be.

The Cardinal, she knew, was no ordinary priest.

So she agreed to do his will.

“After the
pictures have been taken,” the Cardinal explained to her several days later,
“and regardless of whatever else is happening around you, leave the building by
any means you can and make your way to the airport.” He handed her a passport.
“This has been acquired for you. It is genuine. You will have no problem using
it. You are now eighteen, and legally free to leave the country.”

She opened the passport, saw a recent picture of herself, taken for
the convent registry some months previously.

“I am not eighteen until tomorrow,” she said, seeing that the
correct date of birth had been entered.

“That is of little consequence,” he said. “By the time you get
there, flights will have stopped for the night. Go directly to the First Class Lounge
and wait there for the first flight in the morning. It is already booked in
your name. New York.”

He handed her an American Airlines ticket.

“Once your finances are in order, you will be able to book your own
flights,” he added. “First class is always best. No one asks questions in first
class.”

“And when I get there?” she said, staring at the ticket.

But she was hardly listening. It was as if the Cardinal had been
able to see into her dreams, that he had known that her fantasy had always been
to escape the convent and go to New York. It had been the very first place she
wanted to go.

“The
Marriot
Hotel
on Times Square. A reservation has
been made in your name. Await instructions there. Do you have enough money?”

She nodded. In her new purse was well over a thousand US dollars,
left over from a wad of bills he’d given her to buy new clothes.

“I believe,” he added with what she took to be humor, although he
did not smile, “that in New York the thing to do is to
see a show
. Feel
free to do so. Then we will talk.”

With that the Cardinal was gone. She watched as he hailed a cab and
drove off without looking back at her. She was already burning with excitement
at the thought of going to New York, a new life, a new start. Before that there
was only one thing to do, and after everything she’d been through, it didn’t
sound as if it was going to be too difficult.

At precisely nine o’clock that evening, she rang the bell of an old,
elegant apartment block on Castelar Street in the upscale Polanco district of
Mexico City. It was on the other side of town from the convent, and she’d never
been there before.

The main door buzzed open and she took the elevator straight to the
top floor, as instructed. There were only five stories, and there had been only
one bell for each story. Judging by the size of the building, each apartment
must have been enormous.

As she rose silently up, she looked at herself in the mirror which
took up one entire side of the elevator. And looking back at her was not the
girl who had grown up in a convent, but a woman; a young, attractive woman who
knew exactly what she had to do. Nervous? Yes, horribly, desperately. But the
prize was such that her fear was hidden beneath a firmness of purpose that
would allow for no mishaps. This was her chance.

On the landing there was deep red carpet on the floor, and lush
potted plants all around. Even the corridors here were sumptuously decorated, a
huge improvement on the convent, almost a palace. For a moment she stood there,
taking in the rich smells of furniture polish. Then she walked up to the large,
dark wood door and rang the bell.

The man who opened it was tall and fat. He was dressed in a
full-length black cassock, but no collar; around his neck the cassock had been
buttoned up, but he looked strange, unlike any priest she had ever seen. Also,
there was a smoldering cigar in his mouth.

“Miss Schmidt!” he said, removing the cigar and revealing a set of
gleaming teeth which looked somehow odd on his fat, jowly face. “Please, come
in.”

The apartment was extremely large, with high ceilings and framed
paintings on every wall. The air smelled of cigars and there was music playing
quietly in the background. She recognized it immediately: Bach’s
B Minor
Mass
.

He walked through an archway and into what appeared to be the main
living room. As instructed, she made sure the door was not quite closed, and
followed.

There were several crucifixes on the wall, and an enormous depiction
of Christ’s Passion took pride of place above a large marble fireplace, the oil
painting stained with age, its gilt frame thick and ornate, almost as if the
fireplace was an alter.

He turned, a broad, welcoming smile on his face, and she recognized Father
Arturo Bonavente Rivaldo from that morning’s newspaper. He was one of the
country’s best known priests, famed for his work with the poor and the champion
of good causes. He was also tipped to be named the new bishop of the city, a
position which would inevitably lead to him being elevated to the position of
cardinal.

“This,” he said, with an ironical expression, “is perhaps a little
impertinent of me, my child, but may I offer you a drink? I often have a small
glass of something at around this time in the evening.”

She knew how this would go, and she didn’t want to disappoint.
Lowering her head timidly, she answered:

“At the convent we older girls were occasionally allowed a small
glass of sweet wine, Your Grace.”

The error was deliberate. The priest, who was perhaps fifty-five,
straightened his back with apparent pride.

“Not Your Grace,” he said. “Simply Father.”

It’ll be “Your Grace” soon enough!
his
smile said, clearly enough.

With that he busied himself with the drinks, returning with a whisky
tumbler for himself, three fingers of neat liquor swilling about in it, and a
glass of sherry for her, almost to the brim.

Taking a gulp of whisky, he popped the cigar back in his mouth and
sat on an old damask armchair close to the fire. In front of the chair was a
velvet footstool, and he lifted both feet onto it, until his body was reclined.

“Please,” he said, indicating a similar chair on the other side of
the fire.

As she sat on the edge of the armchair, he shifted in his seat, and
the cassock came apart slightly at the front. He had slipped off his shoes and
he wore thin black socks, but nothing else. Up to his knee, at least, his legs
were bare.

“Now, someone has told me that you found yourself in a spot of
trouble up at the
Slaves of the Lord
.”

“Yes, Father.”

“It falls to me to oversee the convent, as I’m sure you know. The
church is a family, and we try as we might to protect those who belong. If, of
course, they have faith.”

He looked directly into her eyes.

“Do you have faith, my child?”

She nodded.

He smiled, took another drink, and encouraged her to do the same.
She drank a little sherry, but no more than that. She was already appalled by
this fat, unappealing sack of pomposity. Bishop? Yes, he no doubt wanted that,
plus everything that went with it, including her.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “a man is dead, in the most
distressing of circumstances. Really, the reports of it seemed to me so
strange, almost incomprehensible. It pains me even to imagine it.”

The cassock inched further apart, revealing his pale, hairy legs
past the knee. He looked down, made a half-hearted attempt at covering himself
up, and continued:

“I will protect you, my child. A death like this is very serious,
especially on sacred grounds, and in a country like this...”

As he spoke, the music seemed to glide by under them like running
water, fast and unstoppable, just as what was about to happen seemed
unstoppable.

“... I will protect you. But I must know, my child, I must know the
truth. Trust me, this is the only way.”

She nodded solemnly, her eyes fixed on his face as he spoke, cigar
in one hand, whisky in the other, lying back in his chair like a Roman emperor.

Then he struggled slowly up, putting both cigar and glass down as he
got himself settled on the edge of his chair. He reached down the side of the
cushion and brought out a small bundle of black fabric.

Straight away she recognized the panties and bra that Raúl had
brought for her. No doubt they had been delivered into Father Bonavente’s
safekeeping by someone at the convent, eager that the police be kept away from
the worst details of the scandal. Only a man as pure as Father Bonavente could
be entrusted with such sordid evidence.

He now took the panties and pushed them into his face, inhaling
deeply several times.

“Here,” he said, leaning forward and passing her the panties, “put
them on. I want to see exactly what this odd-job man saw.”

He shuffled back into his armchair and raised his legs once more as
she stood there, feigning surprise.

“Don’t be shy,” he said, grinning as he puffed on his cigar, “you
will do as you are told, girl. You are safe here. No one will ever know.”

With that he lay back, whisky in one hand and cigar in the other,
and waited for Carol to do as she was told.

Reticently, she moved further off, behind a chair close to the
archway, and began removing her clothes. She removed her blouse, and, looking
down at her new lace-edged bra, removed that too.

“Exactly as before,” came the priest’s voice from over by the
fireplace.

So she carefully put on the black bra, then eased both her tits out
of the cups and let them sit there. She then leaned forward to take off her
skirt, and her breasts toppled forward and hung down. For a moment she had to
stifle a smile. The way the woman’s tits had looked in that magazine of Raúl’s
had been sexy, but hers? They were a little less developed, and they looked
kind of naughty, as if they’d escaped from the bra and were having fun.

Making sure Don Bonavente didn’t see her smiling, she slid off her
panties and pulled on the far skimpier black ones. She ran her finger along the
gusset, feeling her sex beneath, cold and unresponsive, as the nerves took over
and she fought against the urge to run.

She tried not to think about the horrible man waiting for her over
by the fire. For so long she’d dreamed of sex, relishing the feelings it
stirred within her, the thought of all the world outside the convent just
waiting for her. Then, a few weeks ago, she had discovered the intense pleasure
of showing one’s most intimate parts to someone else, to a gentle, modest man
who watched, patient, unseen. Now this...

“Closer,” the priest said, between mouthfuls of whisky.

She moved to within a couple of feet of his chair, keeping her eyes
down to the floor. Her tits were hanging down over her bra, and despite her
best efforts to look away from him, she caught the priest staring wide-eyed at
them. Right then she told herself: she was not going to let this obnoxious man
touch her.

With that, she turned and bent right over, until she felt the black
panties riding up between her butt cheeks, her ass pointing directly at him.

“He liked me to do this for him,” she said, weakly, apologetically.

“Very good,” came the reply. “Continue.”

“And this,” she said, whimpering as she pulled the panties away from
her sex and let a finger inch itself way inside her. “He forced me, sir.”

“Do everything he forced you to do, my child.”

Raúl had never forced her to do anything. She had loved every second
of it, there in the heat of the bulb room, the delicious frisson of being
watched, and of knowing that it would be a filthy, joyous secret between them.

For several minutes she pretended to pleasure herself for Don
Bonavente, emitting little whelps of pleasure and hearing the priest’s
breathing getting heavier behind her.

Then she turned and pulled the panties down and handed them to him.

By now his cassock was unbuttoned up as far as the waist, his pale
white legs set slightly apart. And between them stood his prick, erect but not
very large, at least not as large as the one she had seen in Raúl’s magazine.

“I saw those images that he brought you,” Bonavente said, holding
her stare as he spoke, “so don’t pretend to be shocked, you slut. Do everything
you did to him, or I’ll call the police and tell them you tried to seduce me,
just as you did to that stupid odd-job man, damn his soul!”

His words drove her to distraction. Raúl’s death had been nobody’s
fault, although her desire to fulfill his deepest desire had led him to his
death. A sweet man, lonely, perhaps, and suddenly finding a young woman not
only willing to show him exactly what he wanted to see, but apparently enjoying
every second of it, letting her self-lust sweep her away until she forgot he
was there, just outside the door, peeping in.

She was not ashamed of what she had done for Raúl. She was proud, it
had been a profoundly intimate sexual awakening, and it had been done with
delicacy and respect. Then the poor man died.