ch07

IT WAS THE PRIEST’S own idea to break the Sixth Commandment of God’s law. One day he decided to pay a visit to the magistrate to discuss what he called “a pressing need for procreation.” He went to her office early in the afternoon, wearing his black polyester soutane despite the relentless heat that followed a fierce three-day storm. He brought his altar boy, fourteen-year-old Hochiminh Ospina, who was on probation for eating an entire week’s supply of hosts. The boy, who was fat and soft and flabby, hated the job, especially when, as on this day, he had to carry around el padre’s gigantic Bible. “Can’t we take a smaller Bible?” he asked every time, and every time he heard the same answer: “No.” El padre was convinced that a big Bible made him more important and added weight to his moralizing discourse.

Inside Rosalba’s office, the priest stood next to the window reading aloud an extensive selection of excerpts and psalms about procreation. The magistrate thought they were rather tedious and wondered why the priest didn’t just get to the point.

“Praise be to God!” he exclaimed after he finished. He slammed the Bible closed, peered over the tops of his reading spectacles and declared, “It’s our obligation to ensure the survival of our species.”

“I agree with you, Padre,” the magistrate replied. “Bringing men back to Mariquita has been one of my priorities since I was appointed magistrate. More than once I have requested the government, even the Lord, to send us a truck full of them.”

“The Lord can only do so much,” the priest said. “But what about the commissioner and the governor? Have they written back to you?” he added insincerely. He knew the answer.

“Who knows? They might have,” she replied, in a tone that suggested rather a yes than a no. “But now that the storm has swept every access road to our village, I doubt we’ll ever again see a postman around here—or anyone else, for that matter.” She thought about the actual implications of what she had just said: no more merchants, no more occasional visitors, no more passing travelers, no more men ever again. The dismal prospect made her anxious. “We must do something about those roads immediately,” she asserted, fetching her notebook and a stub of a pencil from a drawer.

“First things first, my child,” the priest suddenly interposed, before the magistrate could add Have access roads rebuilt to her long, useless list of priorities. “Procreation must be our number-one priority.” He motioned to the altar boy to step outside, then sat across from Rosalba. Together they discussed the issue at length, concluding that Mariquita’s women had to bear boys soon, or else their village would disappear with the present generation. The magistrate suggested that Santiago Marín “do the job.”

El padre shook his head, looking as if he’d just been cursed. “May God forgive that…man.”

“Oh, Padre Rafael,” Rosalba groaned. “Are you still bearing Santiago Marín a grudge for what he did?” She rolled her eyes and breathed an impatient sigh, oblivious to her condescending manner. “Wouldn’t you agree that being in quarantine, alone with his grief, was enough punishment for that poor man? Good Lord! It must take a great deal of courage, and love, to do what he did. And that’s exactly why I’d rather think of Santiago as one of us, a widow. The Other Widow.”

Feeling offended, el padre met Rosalba’s comment with impervious silence. He looked the other way and began playing with his fingers, which lay on top of his prominent stomach.

“Besides,” Rosalba continued heedlessly, “he’s the best chance we have to get a woman impregnated.”

El padre abruptly stood up. “Never!” he roared, hitting the magistrate’s desk with his palm. “A man who’s sinned against the Lord by lying with another man will never father the future people of Mariquita!” He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and patted his forehead with it, his hands trembling.

The magistrate observed the priest quietly and decided she’d wait for the little man to calm down. She was used to el padre’s bad temper. One time, long ago, he’d torn out the few strands of hair left on his head because he’d run out of wafers for the Eucharist. “Oh, what a disgrace!” he had said. How did they expect him to celebrate mass without the Body of Christ to offer? Was he supposed to just skip Holy Communion, the most significant part of the liturgy? In the end Rosalba, as always, had solved the problem. She made tiny, thin arepas and suggested that el padre bless them. At first he was insulted: “The Body of Christ a piece of corn bread?” But Rosalba made him understand that hosts were nothing but thin pieces of bread, and at length he accepted her offer. With all the confusion, however, the priest forgot to bless the arepas, and as a result the women swallowed in church the same thing they’d eaten for breakfast at home, only smaller. Ever since that day arepas had become Mariquita’s hosts, sometimes sweet, sometimes salty, and, when available, flavored with cheese.

The priest took a couple of deep breaths and sat again.

“What about Julia Morales?” Rosalba said. “Underneath those skirts there’s a fine man.” She emphasized the word fine.

The priest rolled his eyes. “Are you not listening to me, Magistrate? Procreation cannot be forced. It’s bad enough that it won’t be an act of married love, but it has to involve, at the very least, a degree of tenderness and affection that only a real man can give to a woman.”

“I don’t know what to say then,” the magistrate confessed, crossing her arms. “Maybe we should consider the boys. Che and Trotsky will be fifteen this year.”

“They’re children,” el padre said.

There was a long silence in which they avoided each other’s eyes. After a while el padre sighed, shaking his head. “Well…,” he murmured. “No, I can’t do that.” He covered his face with both hands, as though he were going to cry. “I can’t do that. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” he kept saying between his fingers, shaking his head frantically. But then, overcoming his guilt as only good Catholics can do, he said loudly and confidently, “One must face up to one’s responsibilities. If this is God’s will, Thy will be done.” He stood up, a martyr’s expression on his pink face, and gazed through the window at the cloudy sky. “I must do it!”

The magistrate objected to the idea. “I think it’d be terribly harmful for your and your church’s reputation, but also for our community. You’re the embodiment of—morality and chastity, Padre.” But the priest insisted it was a divine will with which they must not interfere. Rosalba didn’t pursue the matter further. She was almost certain that el padre’s idea would encounter heavy resistance among the villagers. She’d let the women argue with the obstinate priest.

In the evening, the priest pealed the church bell strenuously, calling for a town meeting. The women of Mariquita had grown weary of such gatherings, because nothing important was ever said. Oftentimes the magistrate just reminded them to sweep and mop their floors, keep their backyards, clip their nails, comb their hair or inspect their children for lice. They attended the meetings, however, because there was nothing better to do. Tonight, Rosalba read a series of short paragraphs written by the priest for the women of Mariquita. The first paragraph informed them—rather, warned them—that Mariquita was in danger of disappearing if they didn’t reproduce. “There’s hope, though,” the magistrate said. “El padre Rafael is willing to break his holy vow of chastity to help Mariquita stay alive.”

A murmur of confusion was heard in the crowd.

A second paragraph explained that el padre would risk having to spend, after his death, a much longer time in purgatory than he deserved, just to give back to the community that for all these years had supported his church. Following that there was a short sentence announcing the beginning of the Procreation Campaign. “The objective of the campaign,” the magistrate read, “is to impregnate twenty women during the first cycle.” She added that she and el padre would be praying that a good percentage of the newborns were male. Then she read the rules: Only women older than fifteen and younger than forty could participate. They had to register with Cecilia Guaraya, the magistrate’s secretary. Proof of age would be requested upon registration. Once the registration was official, the participant would be placed on a waiting list and told when she could expect to receive the visitation. The list would be permanently posted in the magistrate’s office. Out of respect for God, all religious images should be removed from the room where the holy act would be consummated. No feelings would be involved in the holy act: el padre wouldn’t be making love to them, he’d just be making babies, hopefully boys. And finally, the women should consider donating any food to help el padre stay fit and strong during the entire campaign, which would last a few months.

CONTRARY TO WHAT the magistrate supposed, the villagers didn’t publicly object to el padre’s idea. And contrary to what el padre supposed, no woman registered during the first few days after the announcement. They couldn’t even conceive of the idea of going to bed with a priest, let alone their priest. “It’d be like making love with God,” the Morales widow said. But that didn’t discourage el padre. Every day at mass, he reminded the women of their duty to the human race and accused them of being selfish. “If I’m willing to make the sacrifice, why can’t you do the same?” It wasn’t, however, until he assured them God had granted him special permission to break the Sixth Commandment that the procreation visit list began to grow.

A young girl named Virgelina Saavedra was number twenty-nine.

VIRGELINA AND LUCRECIA, her grandmother, lived in a shaky house across from the market. As a child, Virgelina had been left in the care of her grandmother, who’d brought her up to be a housewife, servile and submissive. Shortly after Virgelina turned twelve, Lucrecia’s health deteriorated, and the girl was required to take care of both of them. The old woman spent her days peering through the curtains at the women in the market, guessing what they’d be saying and fabricating amusing stories she later told her granddaughter as if the women themselves had shared them with her. Virgelina listened to the stories while she did housework, nodding from time to time. The girl had a morning routine: she woke up at the crack of dawn, mouthed her prayers, started the fire in the kitchen, made breakfast, swept the floor with a bunch of leaves and bathed if there was water. Occasionally she’d bring water from the river, but most of the time she relied on the rain to fill up three water barrels they kept in the back of the house. After completing her morning chores, the young girl went to school, where the schoolmistress had named her “Best Student” two years in a row. Virgelina only had three dresses, all black and conservative, which she had inherited from her late mother. She was small, quiet and well-mannered, and she was only fourteen.

Lucrecia had managed to convince Cecilia that, though underage, Virgelina was fit to bear a boy. “My great-grandmother bore nineteen boys,” she’d said to Cecilia. “And my great-aunt’s second cousin bore eleven boys. We come from a family that knows how to make boys.”

Cecilia, who was notorious for her rudeness and inflexibility, surprisingly made an exception. She had a soft spot for two kinds of people, the elderly and the ones who paid her compliments.

IN THE MORNINGS Lucrecia looked like a mummy. She had arthritis, which was exacerbated by the night wind that blew in through the cracks in the doors and roof. So every night before bedtime, Virgelina wrapped her up from neck to toes in ten yards of white cloth. Her grandmother had kept the fabric from when she was Mariquita’s best seamstress. But regardless of the effectiveness of the therapy on her joints, the old woman promptly found new afflictions to grumble about: food never agreed with her stomach, noise gave her headaches, her kidneys hurt when it rained. Or pettier complaints: too cold, too hot, too sweet, much too sweet.

SINCE THE VISITS had begun, twenty-eight women had made room in their beds for the little priest, who, as rumors went in the market, was blessed with a large penis though he was a mediocre lover. “He finishes before you notice he’s started,” Magnolia Morales had told her friends during their nightly meeting at the plaza. One widow had had a late period, but it proved to be a false alarm. No one had yet claimed to be pregnant.

THE DAY VIRGELINA was to receive her visit, Lucrecia woke up complaining more than usual: “I can’t breathe,” she said. “My leg hurts.” “I’m drowsy.” “I’m nauseated.” At least twice Virgelina was on the brink of telling her to stop fussing, to be quiet for a minute or two, to shut her old beak because today, especially today, she wasn’t in the mood for her whining. But instead she kicked Fidel and Castro every time they crossed her way, and when she left for school, she slammed the door with all her might. After lunch, when the old woman woke up from her customary siesta crying and saying that she couldn’t open her eyes, Virgelina ignored her. She dragged a chair outside and started knitting a quilt, worrying about the visit: that night would be her first time with a man.

As she knitted and purled she recalled, one by one and in perfect order, the seven steps her grandmother had contrived for her defloration. Virgelina had been forced to recite them several times, and each time her grandmother made her reverse the order of them, or combine two steps into one, or cut or add new steps in case something didn’t work. Her first sexual experience had been meticulously planned, leaving no room for impulse, intuition, or the sudden passion that recently she’d begun to feel. Virgelina didn’t know why, but lately her nipples had begun to itch. Now, every night after blowing out the candle in her room, she found herself stroking her nipples with the tips of her fingers until she felt as though she had a colony of angry little ants marching inside each breast, biting her flesh, eating her up. As she knitted, she imagined the priest’s hands cupped on top of her small breasts, and the thought was so vivid that she could actually feel his fingers squeezing them hard. Suddenly, an electric current traveled briskly through her body, making her throw her hands and needles in the air. She rose and rushed inside the house, covering her bosom with her arms. She’d never felt anything like it before. She stood against the wall in the kitchen and took a deep breath, then another, and then another. Eventually she forced herself to remember that those fingers—el padre’s—were connected to a couple of flabby arms, which were connected to a small trunk with a protruding belly, which was connected to a large bald head with an ugly pink face, with a long nose and tiny chicken eyes half covered with drooping eyelids. When at length she went outside to retrieve her sewing instruments, she felt somewhat relieved.

In the afternoon Virgelina rubbed her grandmother’s eyes with warm water, but it didn’t help. The woman’s eyes were hermetically sealed. “I’ll go get Nurse Ramírez,” Virgelina said. The old woman replied that it wasn’t necessary, that it was a sign from heaven, a warning that God was still mad at her for something only she knew.

Later on that night, the following conversation took place in their kitchen.

“Thank you for dinner, mija. Your soups are much better than your mother’s, may her soul rest in peace.”

“Drink your coffee, Grandmother. The cup is right in front of you.”

“I can’t drink coffee this late anymore. Last night I was up until dawn hearing the cries of all those poor men.”

“What men, grandma?”

“Mariquita’s men. Haven’t you heard their poor wandering souls? May God have mercy on them.”

“May God have mercy on us. We’re still here, suffering.”

“My child, you’re too young to talk about suffering. When I was your age I was the happiest girl—”

“Yes, I know. A handsome man was courting you, but your father didn’t approve of him because he was a Liberal. Two years later you were forced to marry my grandfather, who, of course, was a Conservador, and who, of course, beat you day and night. You see? I’ve learned the whole thing by heart now. Instead, why don’t you tell me once and for all how Mother and Father died?”

“This kitchen is too cold. Where’s my blanket?”

“You have it wrapped around you. Let me look for some cinnamon to make you a hot tea. That’ll warm you up.”

“And my walking stick? Where’s my walking stick?”

“It’s in your hand.”

“Are you ready for your visitor, mija?”

“I am, but he won’t be coming until eight.”

“I just heard eight bells.”

“I counted seven.”

“It’s better to be ready ahead of time. Remember that he’s a busy man these days.”

“I know, Grandmother. Where did I put the cinnamon?”

“Are you wearing rouge on your cheeks?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you remember all the steps, mija? Tell me all the steps.”

“Not again, Grandmother. Instead you tell me how Mother and Father died. I don’t understand why it’s such a secret.”

“Did you clean the entire house like I told you?”

“Every corner.”

“What about the bedspreads?”

“All clean. And I burned eucalyptus leaves in the outhouse and brought enough water in case he wants to wash. Oh, here it is: the cinnamon. It was mixed with the panela. Let me heat the water.”

“Did you remove the picture of Jesus on the cross from your bedroom?”

“No. Why should I do that? You said it would be a holy act.”

“It will be, but the Lord doesn’t need to witness it.”

“I’ll remove it, then, but before I do that, please tell me how Mother and Father died.”

IT TOOK VIRGELINA a great deal of perseverance to get her grandmother to tell her, in an exceptional moment of lucidity, the story she wanted to hear. The old woman had avoided talking about it for years, but today Virgelina would become a woman, and she was entitled to know the truth.

“Your father killed your mother,” Lucrecia said straightforwardly, as though that was both the beginning and the ending of the story.

Stunned, with her hands joined over her mouth, Virgelina fell into an old rocking chair she kept next to the stove.

Then, in a small but firm voice, Lucrecia gave her granddaughter the details: “One morning, some thirteen years ago, your father woke up and found his breakfast cold on the night table. Next to the cup of coffee there was a note from your mother saying, ‘My dear husband: these are the last eggs I cook for you. I’m leaving you for someone who’ll never beat me. All best, Nohemí.’ Your father went crazy.” Lucrecia said that the enraged man had gone from village to village looking for his wife and daughter—Nohemí had taken little Virgelina with her—until he found them near Girardot. And that he had brought them back to Mariquita on a rainy night in the middle of June. “The morning after,” Lucrecia went on, “I found a bundled-up little baby crying at my doorstep. It was you. I picked you up and rushed to Nohemí’s house, only a couple of blocks down. But it was too late.” When she arrived, she said, the house was in a terrible mess: broken glass everywhere, broken vases and chairs, broken everything. She had found Nohemí in a puddle of blood in the kitchen, her throat slit, and in back of the house, Virgelina’s father hanging from a tree, with Nohemí’s note lying on the ground right below his dangling feet.

When Lucrecia finished the telling, Virgelina wondered: Who was the man with whom her mother had fled? Had she been in love with him? What had become of him? She wanted to ask her grandmother, but the woman had slipped back out of lucidity and was shouting to the ceiling, “Lord, oh Lord. Forgive me for begetting a sinful daughter. Forgive me, for I didn’t bring the lost sheep to Your flock.” And then, with her sealed eyes toward Virgelina, she bitterly said, “Your mother’s behavior brought shame to my name. That’s why God’s sending misfortune unto me!”

EL PADRE RAFAEL knocked on their door with the first ring of the church bell, and by the time the eighth ring was heard, he and his altar boy were already sitting in the living room with Virgelina. The priest had his legs crossed and a delighted expression on his rosy face, like he’d just tasted candy. Hochiminh’s round face, on the other hand, was perfectly blank. He’d laid the enormous Bible on his lap and rested his plump arms on it. The Bible itself was much more likely to display a trace of a smile than he was. The light of a candle on the table illuminated Virgelina’s face, which was indeed smeared with rouge, making her fearful expression even more dramatic.

When asked, Hochiminh mumbled that he was neither hungry nor thirsty. He didn’t want coffee or cinnamon tea. He was fine. El padre said he’d take a “sip” of water. Just a “sip,” for he knew how arduous it was to carry it all the way from the river. He spoke condescendingly, addressing Virgelina’s breasts, smiling salaciously. The girl disappeared into the kitchen, where her grandmother sat unmoving and wrapped in her blanket like a poorly carved statue.

“He wants water,” Virgelina grumbled. She went about the kitchen, looking for the vessel where they kept their drinking water. It was on top of the only table, before her eyes, but the girl was so agitated that she didn’t see it. “Where did you put the water?” she asked, in a tone that betrayed her foul temper. The old woman turned her head to the right and then to the left, but didn’t acknowledge the question. Virgelina rolled her eyes at the bundle of clothes her grandmother was, and kept looking for it, slamming pots and pans and banging skillets. She couldn’t find it. “Where’s the water?” she yelled. Lucrecia didn’t reply. Virgelina walked up to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and shouted the same question once again.

Lucrecia pushed her away, brandishing her walking cane as if it were a sword. “What? What’s happening?” she said in a small, broken voice. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me! Where’s the damn water vessel?”

“Who’s there? Say something,” repeated Lucrecia.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Virgelina groaned.

Evidently their Lord had decided, in the past few minutes and on top of everything else, to take away her grandmother’s hearing. Virgelina sat at the table, weeping, then she saw the vessel sitting in front of her. She reared up, poured water into a cup, spit in it, stirred it with her index finger and ran from the kitchen, stumbling along the dark hall that separated the rooms. When she was gone, Lucrecia opened her eyes wide and walked to the door and pressed her ear against it to better hear the conversation taking place in her living room.

“Thanks, my child,” said the priest, taking the cup with both hands. He quickly gulped down its contents. “Will your grandmother join us for the Bible reading?”

“She’s not feeling well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to assist her?”

“Nothing, unless you can perform miracles. Can you, Padre?” Virgelina said with remarkable harshness.

El padre chose to receive the girl’s reply silently. He asked Hochiminh to look up Genesis 1:28 in the Bible, and when the boy found it, he moved the Bible onto his own lap, put on his reading spectacles and began to read by the flickering light of the candle:

“Then God blessed them, and God said unto them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply; and replenish the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.’” He crossed himself and, putting away his spectacles in a concealed pocket on the left side of his soutane, added, “Praise be to God!”

“Is that it? Can I go now?” Hochiminh asked. The priest assented, and both boy and Bible fled without so much as a wave.

In the few seconds that passed between the moment Hochiminh slammed the door and the moment the priest said, “Shall we, my child?” Virgelina, in her mind, debated whether or not her mother had been wrong to leave her husband. Until that afternoon, she’d only heard good things about her mother. People in the village raved about Nohemí’s innumerable great qualities but seldom mentioned her father. What a wife and mother, Nohemí! What a devoted Catholic, Nohemí! What a kind and generous soul, Nohemí! What a remarkable human being, Nohemí! They spoke so highly and sympathetically of Nohemí that Virgelina, who’d never seen a picture of her mother, imagined her as an angelic figure with long hair, rosy cheeks and a permanent smile. She had set up an altar to her mother in a corner of her bedroom, and she prayed to her every night. The altar had three levels, and it rested on piled-up boxes. On the top level she placed a small image of the Virgin Mary—who represented her mother—a rosary, and a white candle she only lit when she offered a sacrifice. On the middle level she kept a plastic bowl to hold the ladlesful of soup she offered up daily to her mother—she was very fond of soups, Nohemí!—and when she found them, yellow marigold flowers, the flower of the dead. On the bottom level Virgelina arranged a cup full of water and several little charms and trinkets she acquired at the market, in honor of her mother’s spirit.

But today, after her grandmother’s confession, Nohemí’s image had swiftly deteriorated in Virgelina’s mind. How good could a wife have been who abandoned her husband? Virgelina reflected. And how good a mother, who risked her daughter’s life by having an affair with God knows who?

“Shall we, my child?” the priest said, rising. He gracefully took the candleholder with two of his fingers and handed it to Virgelina, then motioned to her to go ahead, he’d follow.

As Virgelina entered her bedroom, closely followed by the priest, her head suddenly cleared. It occurred to her that both her mother and grandmother had had a free choice when they selected their paths. What they could’ve or should’ve done didn’t matter anymore, because back then, at that moment when they had to decide which path to take, in their own minds both women had made the right choices. She, Virgelina, had no right to condemn them.

Feeling empowered by her realization, Virgelina was able to see that she, too, had the right to make her own decisions. At this very moment several paths presented themselves before her: she could stay in the room with the priest, doing as her grandmother had told her to do, without complaining. She could run away like her mother, without looking back, hoping no one would ever find her. She could tell el padre the truth—that she was terrified—and politely ask him to leave. She could suffer “it” in silence until “it” was finished, then get the biggest knife from their kitchen, thrust it into el padre’s chest, draw his heart out and place it, all bloody, on the top level of her altar, next to the white candle. A sacrifice that big would certainly appease God’s fury against her grandmother; it might even prompt Him to give Lucrecia back her sight and hearing.

She closed the door with the tips of her fingers and turned around, ever so slowly, to face the eager priest.

VIRGELINA LAID THE candleholder on the night table. They stared at each other in the flickering light. Only the bed stood between them. From where he stood, the priest could see a small part of the girl’s lips and chin, and the outline of her small right breast. From where she stood, Virgelina made out an inquisitive eye fixed on her right breast, a trembling nostril and half a mouth smiling lustfully at her.

“Come over here, my dear,” el padre said, patting the bed with the palm of his hand. “Come…”

The room was so still she heard the throbbing of her own heart. And then, almost in a whisper, the echo of her grandmother’s voice repeating the steps for Virgelina’s defloration began resounding in the girl’s mind.

Step one: Tell him you’re a virgin so that he’ll be gentle.

“I’m a virgin, padre,” Virgelina blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m a virgin.”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect anything different from you, dear.” He walked around the bed, eliminating the space that divided them, and stood confidently before her. One of his hands rested on her hip while the other searched up and down her back for a zipper. It found buttons, undid them, and after a couple of swift motions Virgelina’s dress fell to the floor. She jerked her body a little and wrapped her arms around her chest.

Step two: Kiss him on the lips, then put your tongue inside his mouth and move it in circles.

Without releasing her firm grasp from around her bosom, Virgelina pushed her lips together the way her grandmother had instructed her, closed her eyes and thrust her face outward, again and again, like a bird pecking at a piece of fruit, hoping that eventually her mouth would reach his. Recognizing what the girl was trying to accomplish, el padre took her head in his hands, and, standing on his toes, began to kiss her with great tenderness. Virgelina allowed el padre to go about his business, but she wouldn’t put her tongue inside his mouth. How could her grandmother think she’d do such a revolting thing? But el padre wanted to feel her tongue. And so their lips engaged in a violent fight: his twisting around, striving vigorously to push hers open; hers making strenuous efforts to resist. Virgelina had always thought that kisses had flavors, and that when two people liked the flavors of each other’s kisses, they fell in love and kissed and kissed until one of them died or their lips dried out. Her first kiss, however, tasted like spittle and blood because el padre Rafael, frustrated with Virgelina’s reluctance, bit her lips fiercely.

Step three: Grab his hands and put one on each of your breasts.

She didn’t need to aim the priest’s shaky hands anywhere. They knew what to look for, where to go, what to do, when to rest and how to stroke. They traveled slowly across her back, stopped at the knot she made with the ends of the pieces of cloth she wore as a brassiere, and untied it with great skill. Next, they yanked down her underwear faster than she could say no. Virgelina tried to blow air toward the candle on the night table, but it was too far away. Instead she shut her eyes as firmly as she could. And then she felt his lips again, this time sucking the angry little ants that had just begun to bite her breasts again, making her nipples itch.

Step four: Undress him.

The soutane el padre Rafael wore for his procreation visits was the kind worn exclusively by bishops, archbishops and cardinals. He’d bought it at an auction when he was young and optimistic, thinking one day he’d rise to the highest echelons of the clergy. Later, when he finally understood that he had neither the connections nor the determination to get ahead in the Roman Catholic Church, he started wearing the special soutane whenever it pleased him. It was tailored in black linette and featured purple and gold metallic brocade cuffs, five pleat inserts front and back, gold metallic piping, a removable tab collar and a full button-front closure, which served a good purpose in el padre’s nocturnal duties.

Virgelina decided to wait for the priest to rise before disrobing him. At the moment he was on his knees, his slimy tongue between her legs, causing her to make little nervous flutters with her entire body. But when it became obvious that the man wasn’t going to stand up anytime soon, she drew him up by holding her hands in his armpits. Sweating profusely, el padre removed the tab collar—which he liked very much, since it eliminated the need for an underlying clerical shirt. He unfastened the top button of his soutane, but was promptly interrupted by Virgelina’s dexterous knitter’s fingers. That’s our job, Padre, they seemed to say, and moved downward, freeing the first seven buttons from their holes. She knelt down and continued undoing the lower ones, her fingers gracefully descending along the golden piping. When she unfastened the last one, she looked up and watched the naked little man come out of his soutane with a majestic gesture, like an arrogant queen dropping her velvet mantle for her vassals to pick up.

Step five: Check how excited he is.

Standing in front of him, Virgelina remembered what her grandmother had told her to look for: “His penis will be erect, and you must touch it to make sure it’s hard.” The old woman had added, “If his penis isn’t stiff, kiss him some more and touch him here and there, like I told you.”

The priest was excited, very excited, Virgelina concluded after touching his swollen penis and hearing his howling. He gently pushed her onto the bed, and without taking off his white socks and worn sandals, positioned himself on top of her. El padre was smaller than she was and had a paunch, and yet his body fit into hers almost perfectly: a fist into an open hand.

Step six: Commend yourself to God and let him do the rest.

Virgelina’s grandmother had been vague about what “the rest” was. The girl had seen dogs mating as well as cats, and thought “the rest” would be the same: a game of power played by two in which the male scored by putting its member inside the female’s sexual organ, while the female scored by getting pregnant. Virgelina’s biggest fear was the pain she might feel during the bout—the cry of the cats she’d seen mating was terrifying—and her grandmother’s advice, “Bite the pillow and hold back,” hadn’t given her any comfort. She decided she’d let el padre score at once and get the game over with as quickly as possible.

Mounted on top of her, el padre rocked his hips in a way that was everything but sensual, more like scouring, like scrubbing off a stain.

“Do you like it?” he whispered in her ear. She didn’t reply. He kissed her mouth, her nose and eyes, her chin. “Do you like it?” he insisted, a bit louder this time, for she might not have heard him before. Not a word back, a gesture. Virgelina was striving to make herself believe that the man lying atop her was an entirely different man from the one who had given her first communion not so long ago. He kept scrubbing and kissing, asking the same question and getting the same silent answer.

But then, without a warning, he thrust down on her with all his might, until a part of him disappeared in her flesh, and blood flowed down Virgelina’s legs. She screamed. She felt her insides being split, as if by a giant nail, and she screamed with pain.

“It feels good,” the priest said, lying still on her stomach. She dug her nails into his back and shouted to him to please remove that from within her, “Please.” But he didn’t; instead he started moving in and out of her. She tried to push him aside. “For the love of God!” He didn’t hear her supplication; he continued thrusting into her, gathering speed inside her body, and so she fiercely scratched his face and sank her teeth into his chest. “Stop!” He stopped abruptly and shouted, “How dare you?” He slapped her twice across the face, then grabbed her hands, spread her arms and held them down firmly with his own hands, his fingers twined in hers, before resuming the furious motion of his hips: up and down, right to left, back and forth and around again (she wept, thinking of her grandmother’s sacrifice), fuming, biting, breaking, tearing, (she wept, thinking of her mother’s sacrifices), digging into her flesh, faster and faster until his legs tightened and he exploded inside her, chanting, “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…” (she wept some more, this time thinking of her own sacrifice).

Step seven: Close your legs and cross your feet so that the seed won’t escape from within you. Stay in that position for a reasonable length of time.

Beneath the priest, Virgelina sobbed and shivered. “Is there any thing wrong, dear?” el padre asked, suddenly noticing her wailing. She shook her head. He let go of her arms slowly, as though afraid she might attack him again, but the girl didn’t move. Then he got down off her, picked up his soutane and promptly enrobed himself in it, his back to Virgelina. “I enjoyed myself very much,” he said softly as he fastened the tab collar. “I hope that your grandmother considers putting your name down for a second visit.” He introduced each button in its respective loop, bending down slightly to reach the lower ones. “I promise it won’t hurt next time,” he said, addressing the wall, and that’s when he saw it. Before his eyes, hanging on a rusty nail, was the picture of Jesus dying on the cross. With all the distress caused by her grandmother’s confession Virgelina had forgotten to remove it. El padre was stunned to see it.

“It is finished,” Virgelina suddenly said and sighed with relief. The three Biblical words made the priest shudder. He swiftly turned around, and what he saw filled him with horror: lying face upward with her head slightly tilted to the right, her arms stretched out to the sides, her legs joined together and her feet crossed, Virgelina looked like Jesus crucified, bleeding and moaning, dying half naked upon an imaginary cross.

The priest hastily crossed himself and ran off, stumbling first over Fidel and Castro, who had the peculiar habit of sleeping by the doorway, and then, when he was out of the house, over stones the size of dogs and dogs that lay like stones in the street. He ran and ran without looking back, shouting, “Lord, oh Lord, have mercy on me. I’ll never do it again!”

Indifferent to the priest’s reaction, Virgelina collected the little strength she had left and sat up on the bed, wincing. Her body shook, and her hands trembled. She gathered the white, bloodstained bedspread from underneath her and used it to wipe down her inner legs, rubbing the thick cloth so harshly against her skin that it hurt. She slowly rose and began folding the bedspread with great care, until it was but a small, compact square of red-stained fabric. Then she knelt down in front of the altar and placed the cloth on its top level, next to the white candle that tonight burned fitfully.

And finally, as she confidently waited for her grandmother to walk into her room shouting that God had worked her a miracle, that all her pains were gone and she could see and hear again, Virgelina, hands clasped under her chin, began mouthing prayer after prayer until the white candle died and the night covered their house with absolute darkness.

CHAPTER 7

The Virgin Sacrifice