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 Marques 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 Piсero'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 cafe for a treat of helodo.

In the winter Graciela's life was a dreary landscape,

monotonous and gloomy. Las Navas del Marques 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 cafes 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 cafes. 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!"

"Cogeme!"

"Mamame la verga!"

"Metelo 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 Piсero 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 lip.

"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 Piсero 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