The Sands of Time (6 page)

The women, except for Lucia, who was already dressed, were totally naked. Carrillo watched as they awkwardly put on the new underclothes. Then they finished dressing, clumsily buttoning unaccustomed buttons and fastening zippers, hurrying to get away before they were caught.

Time to get to work,
Carrillo thought happily. He got down from the chair and walked out into the store. He approached the women, studied them approvingly, and said, “Excellent. No one in the world would ever take you for nuns. I might suggest scarves for your heads.” He selected one for each of them and watched them put them on.

Miguel Carrillo had made his decision. Graciela was going to be the first. She was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. And that body!
How could she have wasted it on God? I’ll show her what to do with it.

He said to Lucia, Teresa, and Megan, “You must all be hungry. I want you to go to the café we passed and wait for us there. I’ll go to the church and borrow some money from the priest so we can eat.” He turned to Graciela. “I want you to come with me, Sister, to explain to the priest what happened at the convent.”

“I—very well.”

Carrillo said to the others, “We’ll be along in a little while. I would suggest you use the back door.”

He watched as Lucia, Teresa, and Megan left. When he heard the door close behind them, he turned to Graciela.
She’s fantastic,
he thought.
Maybe I’ll keep her with me, break her in to some cons. She could be a big help.

Graciela was watching him. “I’m ready.”

“Not yet.” Carrillo pretended to study her for a moment. “No, I’m afraid it won’t do. That dress is all wrong for you. Take it off.”

“But—why?”

“It doesn’t fit properly,” Carrillo said glibly. “People will notice, and you don’t want to attract attention.”

She hesitated, then moved behind a rack.

“Hurry, now. We have very little time.”

Awkwardly, Graciela slipped the dress over her head. She was in her panties and brassiere when Carrillo suddenly appeared.

“Take everything off.” His voice was husky.

Graciela stared at him. “What? No!” she cried. “I—I can’t. Please—I—”

Carrillo moved closer to her. “I’ll help you, Sister.”

His hands reached out and he ripped off her brassiere and tore at her panties.

“No!” she screamed. “You mustn’t! Stop it!”

Carrillo grinned. “Carita, we’re just getting started. You’re going to love this.”

His strong arms were around her. He forced her to the floor and lifted his robe.

It was as though a curtain in Graciela’s mind suddenly descended. It was the Moor trying to thrust himself inside her, tearing into the depths of her, and her mother’s shrill voice was screaming. And Graciela thought, terrified,
No, not again. No, please—not again…

She was struggling fiercely now, fighting Carrillo off, trying to get up.

“Goddamn you,” he cried.

He slammed his fist into her face, and Graciela fell back, stunned and dizzy.

She found herself spinning back in time.

Back…Back…

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Las Navas del Marqués, Spain

1950

S
he was five years old. Her earliest memories were of a procession of naked strangers climbing in and out of her mother’s bed.

Her mother explained, “They are your uncles. You must show them respect.”

The men were gross and crude and lacked affection. They stayed for a night, a week, a month, and then vanished. When they left, Dolores Piñero would immediately look for a new man.

In her youth, Dolores Piñero had been a beauty, and Graciela had inherited her mother’s looks. Even as a child, Graciela was stunning to look at, with high cheekbones, an olive complexion, shiny black hair, and thick, long eyelashes. Her young body was nubile with promise.

With the passage of years, Dolores Piñero’s body had turned to fat and her wonderfully boned face had become bruised with the bitter blows of time. Although she was no longer beautiful, she was accessible, and she had the reputation of being a passionate bed partner. Making love was her one talent, and she employed it to try to please men into bondage, hoping to keep them by buying their love with her body. She made a meager living as a seamstress because she was an indifferent one, and was hired only by the women of the village who could not afford better.

Dolores Piñero despised her daughter, for she was a constant reminder of the one man whom she had ever loved. Graciela’s father was a handsome young mechanic who had proposed to the beautiful young Dolores, and she had eagerly let him seduce her. But when she broke the news that she was pregnant, he disappeared, leaving Dolores with the curse of his seed.

Dolores had a vicious temper, and she took out her vengeance on the child. Any time Graciela did something to displease her, her mother would hit her and scream, “You’re as stupid as your father!”

There was no way for the child to escape the rain of blows or the constant screaming. Graciela would wake up every morning and pray:
Please, God, don’t let Mama beat me today. Please, God, make Mama happy today. Please, God, let Mama say she loves me today.

When she was not attacking Graciela, her mother ignored her. Graciela prepared her own meals and took care of her clothes. She made her lunch to take to school, and she would say to her teacher, “My mother made me empañadas today. She knows how much I like empañadas.”

Or: “I tore my dress, but my mother sewed it up for me. She loves doing things for me.”

Or: “My mother and I are going to a movie 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 life-style of Dolores Piñero 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 grades 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 a 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 grades I expected you to get, and do you know why you got these terrible grades? Because you’re stupid. Stupid!”

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

Afternoons when school was out, 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 a movie, or walk into town and have a Coca-Cola.

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 fairy-tale 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, 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 churchgoer, and he too was aware of the stories of the constant stream of strangers who shared Dolores Piñero’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 the service 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 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 colorful circle. Graciela watched the visitors as they sat at the sidewalk cafés drinking
aperitivos
or shopping at the
pescaderia
—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, 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 el verga!”

“¡Mételo 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. 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 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 else. The Moor stayed in the small house most of the day, drinking heavily. He took whatever money Dolores earned. Sometimes at night in the middle of lovemaking, Graciela would hear him beating her mother, and in the morning Dolores would appear with a blackened eye or split Up.

“Mama, why do you put up with 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 the girl 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 toward 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 know finally the secret of all creation, to be a part of life at last, to know what joy was for now and forever.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

It was Dolores Piñero’s voice screaming, and for an instant everything stopped, frozen in time. She 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’s eyes were filled with an insane rage.

“You bitch!” she yelled. “You rotten bitch.”

“Mama—please—”

Dolores 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 intern 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 intern went on. “Our chief surgeon decided to sew you up himself. He said you were too beautiful to have scars.”