by Warren Adler
"For a newspaper."
The man looked at him blankly, but held out his hand. Eduardo gave him two bills. The girl's father looked at them closely, folded them, and put them in the band of his pants. Then Eduardo lifted the camera and began taking pictures of the hut, the rusting debris. Turning, he captured the girl in his lens again.
"You want to fuck my daughter," the man said, his face a blank. He looked at the girl and spat into the ground.
"You filthy bastard," Eduardo said. He was not sure the man had understood. His features registered no reaction.
"She has had no man."
"No thanks to you." He was still not sure that the man understood him. He had put the money back into his pocket and began to move toward the girl. Her father stood up and followed him. Standing over the girl, he lifted her to her feet. Her face, like her father's, was mute. Or he did not know how to read their signs?
"The padre keeps the men away," the man said. "I am her father. I can give her to you." He spoke to the girl in the strange language. The girl merely lowered her eyes. He could not determine what he loathed more, his own temptation, or the man's callousness.
"I will tell the padre," Eduardo said. The man ignored him. He moved the girl in front of him and squeezed her breasts.
"Good," he said.
Eduardo grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and pushed him away. But the man kept his balance and snarled at Eduardo.
"She is only a woman."
"And you are an animal."
"But I can see that you want her." He had lowered his voice. His eyes blazed like coals. "And you have money."
Eduardo wavered. He looked at the girl, felt his own desire, and his own compelling need to understand what was driving him. Yet, he could tell himself that she was in need of protection from this vapid life on which she was impaled. There are good instincts in that, he assured himself. Who is the greater monster, he wondered, watching the man who eyed him now.
Eduardo thrust his hand in his pocket and threw all the bills on the ground, scattering them. The man groped for them like a bird pecking at a handful of scattered feed. Eduardo watched him with contempt, waiting until he had gathered all of the bills in his hand.
"Tell her," he commanded, his voice harsh.
The man looked at his daughter and spoke to her. She looked at Eduardo, but her face told him nothing.
"I will be good to you," he said gently, knowing that she could only understand his tone, not his words. Despite his disgust with himself, he felt special joy in the knowledge that he could possess her.
"And that." The man pointed to the camera, which Eduardo unhitched from his shoulder and gave to him.
"You bastard," he said again, unable to look at his face, moving away, but first making sure that Uno was following. He heard her soft padding walk behind him as he followed the path in the direction of the mission. At the edge of its wall he retraced his steps down the burro path he had ascended earlier. Balancing himself on the jutting rocks that lay on the trail, he turned back occasionally to observe her following him. She was watching him now, he knew, and her eyes no longer looked downward when he looked directly at her.
In two hours, they reached his car, parked along the dirt road that led to the main highway, ten miles to the west. She sat beside him in the front seat, watching the roadway. He was certain she had not been in a car before.
It was, he knew, the most bizarre act of his life. It offended every moral bone in his body. In many ways, it was an offense against himself.
"I will not hurt you," he said. She showed no emotion, her eyes steadily watching the roadway as night fell slowly over the Cordillera where she had spent the whole of her previous life.
"I will be good to you," he pleaded, not looking at her. "I need someone to love." It seemed a cry from the depths of himself and, for a moment, he felt the power of his confession. He was certain that she did not comprehend.
The car slowed in traffic along the two-lane highway as they moved closer down the coast to Valdivia and he did not arrive at his house until nearly dawn. She had dozed fitfully, but in an erect position, and was instantly alert when the car had stopped.
"This is my home," he told her. "Your home."
He had not touched her up till then. Now he took her hand, surprised at its smallness, and led her into the house. She showed no fear, her face reflecting the same even expression, as if she lived behind a veil that screened out emotion.
He felt stiff and exhausted, his energy sapped. Because he was not sure of her and was genuinely frightened that she might run away, he brought her to his own bedroom. He could not bear to let her sleep on the couch, like some dog. He pointed to the bed and she walked toward it. Then she dropped to the floor and stretched out at its foot.
"No, not there," he cried, bending over and lifting her onto the bed. She lay there, flat, her arms folded like a corpse. He smiled down at her gently, bent over and kissed her on the forehead. Then he locked her in and stretched out on the couch. Luckily he was exhausted, his mind drained of intelligence. Plunging into a vacuum, he felt his body slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When he awoke he felt the panic of strangeness and it took him a few moments to regain his sense of place. Remembering Uno, he felt the pores of his body open. What had he done? He felt the enormity of the crime against himself, against her. He had bought her as if she were a commodity to be traded or bartered against her will. Was it his own selfishness? The need to replicate Miranda? Or was he subconsciously delivering her from the life of drudgery and despair, the futile charade before she would enter the kingdom of heaven. If that was the truth of his motivations, he could live with that.
And, after all, he had not touched the girl, not invaded either her body or her soul. It was a cleansing thought. Enough to provide the courage to open the door of his bedroom.
She was still there on the bed where he had left her, looking darker against the sheets than he remembered her yesterday. Her eyes were open and, as before, expressionless.
"Good morning, Uno," he said pleasantly. At the sound of his voice, she got off the bed and stood before him, a small, perfectly proportioned doll. He observed her closely, seeking to discover what in her had reminded him of Miranda.
"Come here," he said gently, moving his hands in pantomime. She drew closer to him, barely inches away, and he could smell her odor, like that of an animal. Then it occurred to him that she had not relieved herself. He took her arm and guided her toward the bathroom, realizing that she had never seen a plumbing appliance. Even the priest had used the outdoors, as the animals did. Taking her arm, he led her gently to his overgrown garden, a miniature forest. She understood and squatted behind a bush, and discreetly he turned his eyes away.
It was Sunday and, for the first time, his consciousness absorbed the sounds of the bells clanging around the city. She heard them, too, hesitating as she came toward him again, her ear cocked in attention.
"They are calling the slaves for their shot of subjugation," he said. Guiding her to a chair at the kitchen table, he searched the cupboards for food. He found bread, cheese and fruit and made some tea. She did not begin to eat until he sat down at the table. He watched her and she reminded him of a squirrel, nibbling away with her front teeth, looking blankly ahead of her.
"Later, I will take you back to the village," he said. "I can't imagine what possessed me." He drank his tea and watched her.
"If only you could be Miranda," he said, the idea inflating him. "My little dark, ebony Miranda." He paused. "Why is it such a complexity?" He reached out and patted her head. She continued to eat. "I shall tell you all about my private hell. Then I will take you back to the village, where you will live yours."
When she had finished everything on her plate, she looked down, contemplating its emptiness. The smell of her filled the room, running out of her pores, a gaseous presence. Leaving her there at the table, he got up, went to the bathroom, and filled the ancient tub with warm w
ater. At least, I will send her back clean, he thought, but the idea of her small naked body in the tub had begun to move his sensuality. He felt his penis begin to harden.
When the tub was filled, he brought the girl to the bathroom and undressed her. At the sight of her perfectly formed body, his penis rose to fullness. Her breasts were small, but high, the nipples protruding from large, dark puddles. He felt them, kissed them, watched them harden. He deliberately averted his eyes from her face, wondering if she felt anything.
"Are you frightened?" he asked. She had worn nothing under her gray smock, and although the scent of her disgusted him, it also excited him. She had a tiny thatch of hair at the base of her motte and he could not resist kissing that as well. Lifting her, he put her in the tub and, soaping his hands, moved them over her body until her skin slickened. His fingers gently probed and cleaned every part of her body. He could not understand his passion to suddenly cleanse her. Perhaps it was his own heart, his mind, or his soul that he wanted to cleanse. What am I trying to wash away? he wondered. The girl was docile under his touch. He wondered again what she felt.
"What do you feel?" he asked, remembering Miranda. Was it this lack of response that reminded him of Miranda? He washed her hair, soaped her again, titillated the tight, small crevice between her legs, massaged her nipples until they stood.
"So there is something inside," he thought joyously, lifting her from the tub. She was light, hardly an effort, and he wrapped her in a towel and patted her, watching her eyes now. They looked at him blankly.
"You are my little doll," he said, drawing him to her, enveloping her in his arms, wondering if she had ever received such love, such warmth.
"You must feel that I love you," he said, hating his ridiculousness. "Will you be Miranda?" he asked, as a supplicant.
Carrying her to the bed, he unwrapped the towel and put her on it. The old smell of her was still on the sheets and soon her body was immersed in it again. Undressing, he stood before the edge of the bed. Her eyes watched his erect penis.
"So here is something," he said, sensing the madness of it. He looked about the room. Was someone watching? He walked to the window and pulled the blinds. The light in the room was muted.
Standing beside her again, he lifted a fragile hand and put it on his penis, making it stroke him.
"This is my manhood," he said. "It has a life of its own, mindless ... like you." He wondered if she was really mindless.
Then he disengaged her hand and spread her legs, putting his tongue in the little crevice. He could not distinguish whether she was wet from him or herself.
"Does it move you?" he asked suddenly, watching her.
"Would you feel anything if I cut your heart out?" he said. He squeezed one of her erected nipples. Her expression did not change.
"You don't feel pain either?" he asked.
He lifted her to a sitting position and put his hard penis between her breasts, pressing them around it. He moved her arms around him so that her hands held his buttocks, and leaned her head against his belly, caressing her hair.
"Do you love me, Miranda?" he asked the silent room. He could feel the coolness of her breath against his skin.
"You must love me forever," he said. "I insist on that. You must not let me love alone." Then he made her lie flat on the bed, as he kneeled over her, directing his swollen penis against the tiny pink gash.
"Surely you have seen this before," he said suddenly, oddly clinical, absorbed in the process. "Sooner or later it all comes to this," he said, feeling a sob gather in his throat. He moved forward, feeling her small opening part, wondering why she did not cry out.
"You must love me," he cried, feeling a sob gather deep inside him. "Miranda," he cried, moving forward, the weight of his body plunging the hard penis forward, slowly penetrating, feeling the pain of it.
"Feel something," he shouted. "Anything, pain, pleasure, disgust!" He continued to move forward, her tissue yielding, beginning to lubricate the passage. He felt her heartbeat's speed, the pumping of her blood. Or was it his own. Then her body began to twitch, her lips parted slightly as she gasped for breath. She was fully penetrated now, her body opened like a flower, moving on its own power. Her eyes had closed. He could not tell if it was pleasure or pain, or both. Was he feeling the power of her race now, he wondered, the brutality of the unconquered, dominating by their submission. He moved his body ruthlessly, feeling her squirm beneath him.
He felt his pleasure begin, a suffusion of energy at the base of his spine, focusing its center in his loins, his hard piston moving without mercy in the fragile form below him, vanquishing, self-contained in its awesome power. Then she screamed, a long wail of anger, like an animal being quartered while still alive. It was impossible to believe the sound could come from such a tiny figure, but it continued, both frightening and exciting him, urging his energy. Then he felt the pleasure come, an ejaculation that shook him as if his blood had become a gusher, pumping through his veins with an intensity that he had never felt before. Only then did her screams stop and he lay on top of her, his pores dripping with the liquids of himself, their odors mingling.
He could not tell how long he lay over her, still penetrated. When he opened his eyes, she was watching him. Was the mindlessness gone? Did he detect some communication? He disengaged himself and lay flat beside her, staring at the ceiling. He could feel her eyes watching him, but he did not turn toward her.
"Did I rape your soul as well, Miranda?" he said. "And you, Uno, what did it matter who opened your womanhood? It would have been done sooner or later. Genetic programming, some inchoate force that sustains the race of humanity, the mysterious push of life. Do you know what I'm talking about? Do I know? What is self-perpetuation?" He paused, moved his hand to feel her flesh.
"Who am I, you ask?"
"I am Eduardo searching for the missing part of himself. We are all searching for the missing part of ourselves."
"And have I found it?"
"I thought it was Miranda. It is a delusion. As you know. You are not Miranda. You are a primitive. One step above an animal. And if I have given you my seed, we will propagate a strange race. Whose genes will dominate? What does it matter?"
"Have I been unjust to you? Exploited you for my own pleasure?"
"Yes, I admit that. I am just as vulnerable as the next man."
"Did I enjoy the manipulation."
"Yes, I took pleasure in it."
"And did I move you?"
"We shall see."
He got up, gave her her smock. She dressed and they drove north again. He did not talk to her and she sat, as she had sat yesterday, watching the road, her eyes expressionless. He no longer wondered about his motives. He wanted her away from him. She had somehow become the focus of an evil in himself, a terrible vulnerability. He wondered what she might tell the old padre.
Darkness came. He moved the car off the highway and onto the dirt road, bumping along, headlights ablaze to light the way. He drove cautiously. Occasionally an animal would find itself trapped in the circle of the headlight's illumination. There was a full moon, which helped his vision. When he felt he was close enough to the trail that led upward to the Cordillera, he opened the car door and signaled for her to leave. Obediently, she stepped out of the car, and for a moment, like a trapped animal, she appeared in the circle of light. As he backed the car away, the beam moved and Uno disappeared. The car headed back toward the highway.
He arrived back at his house as the sun poked its way above the peaks of the Cordillera. Exhausted, he threw himself on his bed. The smell of her was still pervasive, and although it triggered the memory of her, he fell into a deep sleep.
Three days later he found her squatting in his doorway, a fragile lump of flesh. Her feet were raw and bleeding, and he carried her into the house, washed and bandaged them. It was different now, he knew. Somehow what he had done to her had exorcised him, and although he felt a sense of shame, he no longer felt any desire for her. Somet
hing had come over him, he decided, and until he saw her in his doorway, he had almost begun to believe that it had all been part of a dream.
He had thrown himself with renewed vigor into the party's work, and Miranda seemed less of an obsession than she had been. Until now, he had actually imagined that he was free of her.
He let her sleep on the couch, fed her, and allowed her to stay in the house when he was off at party headquarters. During the next few days, he kept his co-workers away and did not answer any phone calls. He did not talk to her as he had before, and when her feet had healed, he again drove her to where the trail began. It was daylight then, and when he let her out at the foot of the trail, he motioned with his arms for her to leave.
"You must go back," he cried. She stood immobile, her dark face a mask. In the way the sun angled over her face, he could see the harbinger of her future face, wrinkled, prunelike, lined and dry like burnt cork. He motioned furiously with his arms.
"Go back."
Finally he got into the car and angrily reversed it, moving it over the road. The wheels had kicked up a huge cloud of dust and he could no longer see her in the rear-view mirror. Stopping the car, he let the dust settle, waiting to see if she had gone. In the thinning cloud, he saw her, squatting now, a speck beside the road, immobile, waiting. Another curse, he thought, as he put the car in forward and slowly approached the girl. She watched him come, stood up and waited, while he got out of the car and slammed the door, hearing the echo in the hidden canyons.
Looking up, he squinted into the peaks of the Cordillera, the snow-capped wonders glowing like platinum swords stabbing into the sky. He felt his own smallness, his inability to control his own destiny. Annoyed with himself, he started up the trail. She moved with him now, a few feet behind, her legs surer than his on the rocky trail. If there was pain in her newly healed feet, she showed no visible signs. After three hours, he reached the village, saw the steeple of the ancient mission in the dusk and retraced his steps to her father's shack.