Carmelina is both. She’s the ancient Greek slut who made out with Juan underneath David’s slingshot. And she’s the Manhattan debutante who walked into Geronimo’s penthouse with instructions not to wear any panties.
But she’s also neither. Because in another story – hers – Carmelina is a middle-aged Spaniard locked in an Algerian prison awaiting execution, or a ransom payment. She fled Toledo years ago, upon being accused of prostituting herself by an Inquisition task force.
Yes, it’s the fifteenth century. And Carmelina’s captors would prefer to receive ransom money. Yet they kidnapped her in a forest, where she wore a pretty red dress with no pockets to hide her true identity. Which has remained a secret. Despite years of torture.
So she sits strapped to a chair. Eyelids stapled open. Captors screaming in her ears. Water dripping on her forehead. Yet she doesn’t see faces, hear screams, or feel water. She instead watches the rise and fall of an ocean tide through a window atop a terrace.
While listening to a Beethoven symphony. And feeling a slight ocean breeze. And noticing that her once rotten teeth are again white pearls. Her once sagging breasts are again full. Her once weak breath is again strong. And she’s almost ready… Now!
She dips a feather into ink, touches it to a piece of parchment, and writes:
*****
Longing eyes. Desperate. To engage, to penetrate, to possess. Because he believes, as men so often believe, that engagement, penetration, and possession will give him whatever he’s looking for. Which isn’t whatever. It’s a soul.
His soul! A place where rest and contentment happen. After an undisclosed amount of achievement or domination. Manifested, for tonight, in a kiss. If it’s perfect. And a first. Or even if it’s not perfect. Or a first. Because he can pretend. And look into my eyes. And choose not to notice me pretending too.
Atop me now. Either on his soft penthouse couch or on the hard cobblestone street. Kissing with the unbridled innocence of a boy who hasn’t kissed before. Or the longing innocence of a man who refuses to remember his first kiss.
Grabbing for my breasts. Desperation. Pulling at my hips. Engagement. Prying open my lips. Penetration. But not possession. Which doesn’t exist when all things must end. As tonight must. With a punch! Or with the discovery of several other women’s undergarments.
*****
Her captors are done torturing. For the night. So they sit in a secret room and share a few pints of beer. And laugh. And talk about their captive. Who passes horrific and unending torture sessions telling stories. Unless they staple her mouth shut. Which stops the stories!
Although Benny isn’t so sure. “What if the stories still continue… in her mind?” he asks. Geronimo and Juan not Don laugh. But Benny chugs the rest of his beer. Because he realizes that by torturing a storyteller, he’s already become part of her story…
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