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.”
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 Marqués, 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.
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 intern appeared again.