by Mariné, Lola
“No!” Billie screamed. “Let go of me, please! Help! Help!”
“You can scream all you want. You fool! No one can hear you.”
Billie screamed louder, struggling futilely under the man’s crushing weight. He increased the pressure on Billie’s neck as he ripped off her dress with his other hand. She felt like she was being strangled and tried to free herself from the hand gripping her throat. Whipping her head from side to side, she desperately tried to get some air.
“Enough!” Quiroga punched her several times, hard enough to leave her dazed. “Shut up and stay still or you’re going to end up dead!”
Billie stopped fighting, realizing that it would be useless to try to resist. She knew that he was serious and that he wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted, even if it meant killing her to get it. For a moment, she saw the face of death up close. She felt her life draining away under the increasing pressure of that hand, her breathing slowing, her vision blurring, everything going dark around her …
When Quiroga realized she had stopped resisting, he lightened the pressure a bit. He looked at her with a slight smile of triumph.
“That’s better,” he said in a conciliatory tone, stroking Billie’s hair like a loving father who was trying to make an unruly child see reason. “Now be good and nothing bad will happen.”
Billie took several big gulps of air, coughed, retched, and then gathered what little strength she had to push against her aggressor’s powerful hand. She tried to separate it from her throat, but to no avail.
“No, please … I’m begging you …” She could barely get out a whisper.
“Come on, calm down,” he said, his tone softening. “I don’t want to hurt you, believe me. I just want us to have a good time together. But if something happened to you and you disappeared, no one would look for you, isn’t that right? Who would worry about just another black immigrant? I would have to explain to my wife when she gets home that you weren’t here when I arrived and that you had taken all the jewels and money in the house … I would tell the police the same thing if you got the idea of going to them with the story, and I can promise you that you’d be the one who ends up in jail. And we don’t want that to happen, right, beautiful? That’s how I like it … so just relax and let me do my … Oh! … You’re so beautiful!”
Quiroga’s voice had become rough again as he began panting and frantically stroking the girl’s inert body with his free hand. He sullied her with his mouth, biting and licking her breasts, moistening every inch of skin with his tongue, savoring her as if she were an exquisite delicacy.
Billie cried soundlessly and begged in a small voice. He ordered her to shut up with a hiss and squeezed her throat as a warning sign. She finally gave up, exhausted. There was nothing she could do, nobody who would come to her rescue. Clamping her empty gaze on the wall, she stopped crying and mutely tried to tune out what was happening. She just wanted it to be over as soon as possible.
As her attacker separated her thighs, she reflexively tried to resist, but one of the man’s powerful legs pushed between hers, and then his fingers buried deep inside her, digging and playing with her sex like worms wriggling in her warmth. The other hand still circled her neck threateningly, and his weight immobilized her. She released a sob as his hardened member, throbbing and hot, penetrated her. As he bore into her, burning and thrusting violently, his monstrous cries of pleasure reached her like a shameful, far-off echo.
“That’s right … that’s right, beautiful … You like it, don’t you? You all like it, though you try to hide it. Did your husband do the same thing? I could tell you were dying to … you black women are all so fiery—”
He broke off as a moan of ecstasy escaped his throat. He thrust with even more fury, speeding up until it became spasmodic, frenetic, brutal. Then he suddenly stopped with a savage howl.
Billie felt the hot fluid flooding her inside, then the accelerated beating of that foul beast’s heart, his panting breath, his sweat sticking to her body, silence, repugnance …
Carlos Quiroga fell beside her, exhausted and satisfied, trying to catch his breath. Billie didn’t move. Nothing mattered anymore.
“You did very well,” he said, giving her a few soft pats on the thigh. “Keep acting like that and you won’t regret it. We’ll have a great time together, you’ll see. I’ll buy you jewelry, dresses, whatever you want. I know that in Cuba people are in need of everything … I’ll take care of you, princess, and it will be our secret, alright? But if you’re not nice to me, you already know what’ll happen.”
He closed his eyes and was asleep in no time, snoring loudly. Billie stood up like a robot, put on her dress and sandals, and left the room. She crossed through the living room and opened the front door. The dogs ran up, jumping around her, but Billie passed between them as if she didn’t see them. She opened the garden gate and started to walk down the deserted street, her face blank, lost in the darkness of the night.
The sun had started to rise when she reached the highway. The infernal roar of the trucks barreling past her jarred her from her catatonic state and brought her back to reality and the horrible abuse she had just suffered. Tears filled her eyes, and she suddenly felt terribly tired. She had no idea how long she had been walking, fleeing that abominable being—escaping a man, once again … She wondered why such terrible things happened to her. What was it about her that brought out men’s basest instincts?
Truckers honked their horns as they passed her, some of them yelling out their open windows. Billie walked along the shoulder with no idea where she was going, hating her dark skin, her voluptuous body that prevented her from passing unnoticed, turning into a shadow, disappearing …
Disappearing …
She stopped, drawn by the gray of the asphalt. In her mind, it transformed into a gentle river of mercury, inviting her to sink into it, to drown among the millions of cold drops of metal.
She was being buffeted by the wind from the trucks passing her. She would only have to close her eyes and let go—if she took just one step forward, she would find herself under one of their enormous wheels, and it would all be over.
“Do you need help?” A car had pulled over on the shoulder, and a young man was leaning over the passenger seat and out the window. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
She shook her head and started walking again, faster now. The undergrowth stopped her from leaving the highway. The car started rolling slowly, keeping up with her.
“There’s nothing for miles in that direction,” the young man insisted. “You’ll get dehydrated from the heat before you get anywhere.”
Billie stopped again and looked at him. He gave her a cordial smile and opened the car door. She felt like her legs were about to give out beneath her, and she was exhausted. So she climbed into the car, not caring where she ended up, settled into the seat, and stared silently ahead. The young man put the car in gear, sneaking a look at the red marks around the girl’s neck, arms, and legs as he did so. Something bad had happened to her, but he didn’t dare ask any questions. Instead, he put some quiet music on in an effort to ease the tense silence a little.
“Is the music bothering you?” he asked. She shook her head without taking her eyes off the highway. The man asked again, “Are you okay?”
The girl nodded, her lips pressed firmly together. She didn’t seem to want to talk. He sighed and concentrated on driving. Still, he couldn’t stop looking stealthily at her and wondering what had happened. What was she doing walking alone on the highway at that hour of the morning? When he had spotted her on the shoulder, he had felt a shiver—a premonition that she was about to do something crazy.
“Did you have a fight with your boyfriend?” he dared to ask, but got no response. After that, he gave up. “Fine. If you don’t want to talk, I won’t bother you.”
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Billie suddenly said neutrally.
The man was surprised to hear her voice.
“O
f course. There’s a service station a few miles ahead. Can you make it?”
She nodded. Neither of them said another word until they got to the gas station.
As soon as the car stopped, Billie jumped out and ran off in search of a bathroom. The young man watched her move away, intrigued, then filled the gas tank and went into the bar. He ordered some coffee and sat down at a table facing the bathroom, his eyes glued to the door.
Shaking uncontrollably, Billie turned on a tap and dampened a wad of paper towels, then pulled up her dress and roughly scrubbed her thighs and genitals. The smell of the sticky semen between her legs repulsed her. She pressed the soap dispenser and rubbed compulsively, repeating the operation over and over again until her skin chafed, but the smell wouldn’t disappear. It was ingrained in her body, her brain, her nose, her mouth.
She vomited.
Then she washed her sweat-stained and tear-streaked face and breathed deeply, trying to calm down. She ripped off her dress in fury and washed her whole body exasperatedly, trying to contain her sobs and not scream. Suddenly the door opened, and a woman stopped, her jaw dropping at the sight of this nude ebony statue. Billie looked at her expectantly for a few seconds. The woman looked unsure whether to go in or back out again. She finally looked down and hurried into one of the stalls. Billie, suddenly calm, dried herself off, put on her dress, and went out to the bar.
The young driver waved at her, and Billie walked over to him.
“What can I get you?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. Eat something. You’ll feel better.”
At his insistence, she ordered a café con leche. He watched her in silence as she poured in sugar, her eyes fixed on the inside lip of the cup.
“I don’t want to be intrusive,” the young man said. “But something serious happened to you. There you are all alone in the middle of a highway at dawn, with marks all over your body. You don’t even have a purse.”
Billie suddenly realized the young man was right. She had left the house with nothing: no money, no documentation … But she could never go back there. Nothing in the world could make her return.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied sharply.
“Do you want to file a report? I can take you to a police station.”
She shook her head vehemently and looked at him with terrified, pleading eyes.
“It’s okay, whatever you want to do,” he said. “Where are you heading?”
Billie shrugged. She hadn’t thought about it. Where was she heading? It didn’t really matter. She had no idea where to go. She had no money, no papers, nothing, and Quiroga had warned her that the police would detain her and nobody would believe her story. All she wanted was to get away from here.
The woman from the bathroom passed by them and shot her a furtive look. Billie ignored her.
“Where are you going?”
“To Barcelona,” he replied, surprised.
“Barcelona is fine,” she said.
The young man said nothing. He simply nodded, and paid the check. On the way to the car, he wondered whether he was getting himself involved in a mess by helping this strange woman. But she had such an innocent, helpless look about her that he felt it was his duty to help her.
“If we’re going to take such a long trip together, I’d at least like to know your name,” he said with a smile.
“Billie,” she said, not looking up. “My name is Billie.”
“I guess you hear all the time that that’s kind of a weird name for a girl,” he tried to joke.
“Yes,” she replied plainly.
“Okay, Billie,” the young man sighed. “My name is Mario.”
They got into the car and hit the road.
CHAPTER 16
They spent the whole day on the highway. Mario drove calmly, chatting animatedly and managing, whether he meant to or not, to clear the ghosts from Billie’s head.
Mario told her that he made this trip all the time for work, and he always drove because he was afraid of planes. He was thirty-four years old, married, and the father of a three-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy. Billie listened with interest and a sliver of envy, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a family like his—a home, a job, a calm life among his own people. That was the life she had dreamed of when she married Orlando. But her dreams had been destroyed—and in a more brutal way than she ever could have imagined. She was starting to think she was cursed, that tragedy would always follow her, and she would never be happy. Why? She wondered. What had she done wrong?
Mario didn’t ask her any more questions or pry further into her life, despite his curiosity and his desire to help her. But it was obvious that she didn’t want to—or couldn’t—speak about it. In fact, she barely opened her mouth the entire way except to respond politely from time to time. She seemed to relax a bit when he told her stories about his children and when he spoke about places he had visited, his job, the things he liked to do. She smiled slightly and nodded every once in a while, inviting him to keep talking. In her frightened eyes and sad smile, Mario could read a mute plea—“Please don’t ask”—as well as a shadow of gratitude for respecting her silence. When she seemed absent, Mario kept talking, watching her out of the corner of his eye even when he knew she wasn’t listening to him. Occasionally, her face darkened and her eyes shone as if they were brimming with tears, but Billie clenched her jaw, breathed deeply, and swallowed the tears, turning her face to the window until she had contained her emotions. When he saw this, Mario wanted to tell her to cry, to scream, to explode, that talking would help her feel better, but he was afraid to upset her further and so just tried to distract her with his chatter.
They stopped to eat halfway through the trip, and when they got back on the road again, Billie fell asleep. She didn’t open her eyes again until they got to Barcelona. Then she startled awake, as if she had intuited that the sweet truce had come to an end. She would soon have to go her own way, leaving the only person of clean mind and good heart she had crossed paths with in a long time. He would reunite with his charming family in his warm house full of love and children’s laughter, and she would have to face an uncertain destiny alone.
Night was starting to fall over the city.
“We’re here,” Mario announced when he realized she was awake. “Where would you like me to drop you?”
“Wherever you’re going,” she replied doubtfully, shrugging her shoulders.
“Do you have somewhere to go? Do you know anyone here?”
Though Billie nodded, Mario knew she was lying. He felt so sorry for her, but what could he do?
“If you like I can leave you downtown. From there, it’ll be easy to get … wherever you’re going.”
“Okay,” Billie said, and felt tears forming in her eyes again. She didn’t want to cry. She had to be strong. At least until she got away from Mario. She didn’t want to make him more uncomfortable.
They both stayed silent as the car passed through the dense city traffic. Both curious and nervous, Billie studied the streets, watching the crowds rushing around, though they didn’t seem to move quite as quickly as in Madrid. The heat was humid and settled on her skin. She swallowed the despair that pressed against her chest. At least the hell she had lived through was behind her, many miles away. Maybe it would be easier to forget that way …
Mario stopped the car at the corner of Catedral Avenue and Via Laietana.
“Well,” Mario said, turning toward Billie and forcing a smile, “I think you’ll be fine here. It’s a nice central spot with plenty of metros and buses. I have to turn off here.”
The man pointed to the left, toward Princesa Street.
“Okay,” Billie said, her voice wavering as she prepared to get out of the car.
“My wife and children are waiting for me,” he added as though to justify himself.
She nodded again and hurried to get out.
“Thank you so much for everything,” she said fro
m the sidewalk, through the window.
“Wait,” Mario handed her a folded slip of paper. “Here’s my phone number. Call me if you need anything. Good luck, Billie.”
She took the paper and nodded with a weak smile as Mario gave a final wave and his car disappeared in traffic. Billie unfolded the paper and discovered that, along with a phone number, it contained a thousand-peso bill. She looked up with a protest on her lips, but his car was already out of sight. “Thank you,” she muttered. She folded the bill and the paper again and clenched it in her fist. Then she took a deep breath and turned toward Catedral Avenue. As her gaze landed on the magnificent Gothic facade of the illuminated church, she felt overwhelmed by its beauty.
Unable to take her eyes off the cathedral’s front doors, she walked decisively toward the wide stairs, as if drawn by a magnet.
As she stepped into the dimly lit interior and inhaled the scent of incense and wax, she felt an immediate sense of calm. She dipped her fingers in the stoup of holy water and blessed herself fervently. Billie had inherited her mother’s religious syncretism, and since there was no venerated image of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, who presided over the family home in her house in Cuba, she prostrated in front of the sorrowful Holy Christ of Lepanto. Many candles lit by the pious burned at the image’s feet, and she lamented not having any coins to light her own. Instead, she murmured a prayer to ask the good Lord to light one for her to change her luck.
She felt calm and safe there, the silence broken only by the respectful whispers of prayers.
“Excuse me,” a voice whispered to her.
She looked up. A young priest in a black cassock was leaning toward her with a friendly smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re closing soon.”
Billie looked around. The church had completely emptied out.
“Father, I need to confess,” she said impulsively.
“I’m sorry, my daughter, but that’s not possible now. Come back tomorrow. And be calm. Jesus has already forgiven you and is with you.”
Billie stood up from the bench and headed toward the exit after giving the priest a small wave.
