Dolores

Chapter I: Growing up

• Previous Chapters: (Prologue), (Youth and Aesthetics)

Dolores - the woman on whom an entire small empire of discipline and order depended. Her presence was not merely felt; it was law. She walked with a confidence that seemed to bend the air itself, and her eyes, sharp and unyielding, knew nothing of a false smile. When, on rare occasions, she did smile, you could be certain it was truly earned - no masks, no pretense.

Her mother was Dominican, her father Venezuelan. Born in Santo Domingo, she later carved a home from Europe’s stone and sky. I said I would not speak of heritage, that I would not reduce a person to bloodlines or expectation - but she makes me break that promise. I have never met a Dominican woman I could call weak or lost. They carry fire in their chest, unyielding, unborrowed. Whether it is woven in their bones, or forged by the relentless push of life toward the edge, I cannot say. Only this: from that struggle, from that ceaseless fight to exist, rises a strength that is raw, primal, unstoppable.

It was this strength that made Dolores perfect for her task in our house - to supervise, to judge, to punish, to approve. Perhaps it sounds cold, almost like the description of a butcher’s job, but in my world, full of metaphors and shadows, the difference scarcely existed.

Nearly two meters tall in her twenty-centimeter heels or boots, which she wore as though the world had no right to question them, she carried her height like a crown.

I must confess, though she was in charge of elegance, she was not elegant herself. Her body was powerful, lush, unmistakably Latin - hips generous, breasts full, every curve an affirmation of life. She did not dress with restraint; she preferred a style that was bold, almost vulgar, and she reveled in it. She wanted the girls to look like dolls, polished and pristine, while she remained the opposite - provocative, alive, and entirely unashamed. And perhaps it suited her better than elegance ever could.

Mistress of space, mistress of time, she announced herself without a word, and I felt it immediately. That is why I loved and respected her like an aunt; in some strange, quiet way, she was family. She chose the shape of my days, the limits of my body, the cadence of my dreams. She wove my childhood and my desires into the precise, unyielding form of a doll - and I did not resist, for to resist her would have been to deny the world itself.

Yes, a doll I was. A fairy-tale princess, polished and arranged down to the smallest detail. Perhaps it sounds dreadful, as if I were trapped in a cage. Perhaps I was - yet I never felt confined. I reveled in every sequin, every whisper of silk, in the illusion that I belonged to noble blood. I wanted to be beautiful. I wanted them to see me, to watch me, to speak of me in hushed tones, as if I were a princess plucked from legend itself.

But beauty, you see, comes at a price. It cannot be worn like a dress; it must live in your movement, in your posture, in the quiet pauses between words. You must be the perfect doll, and every gesture must be measured, or the illusion crumbles. Without it, all you have is a cracked porcelain doll on display - beautiful at a glance, yet fragile, incomplete, and impossible to believe.

I cannot help but notice how many cracked porcelain dolls there are today. Bags more expensive than some homes, yet not a trace of curiosity, no hunger to learn, to understand, to grow. The world feeds them, and they feed it in return - thoughtless, unquestioning, hollow in their elegance, and vulgar in the very same breath.

But it would be fair to be honest. I had no choice either. I had to learn, to shape myself according to the rules of the world around me. I was the doll for whom time and money were spent - the kind of doll no one makes anymore: too costly, too exacting, too educated to survive in a world of hurried, shallow souls.

And as for the one responsible for my ethical education - the other person in my story - I will speak of him later. Memories arrive disorderly, as if they have a life of their own, and I am merely their humble recorder. And you will have to get used to the sharpness of my voice, the precision of my critique. As I said, I am that old doll for whom there is no remedy. Once wound, you must listen to her song until the very last note, or you must break her. And it would be a shame to break her, for she is worth so much…

Returning to Dolores

As I said, her presence was never merely a body occupying space; it was a force that pressed upon everything, shaping it, bending it to her will. She was the mistress of discipline, a woman whose gaze tolerated neither weakness nor error. When her eyes fell upon someone, you knew there was no hiding, no excuse, no mercy.

Her lessons were exactly the same - merciless. How to walk, how to wear your clothes, how to shape every gesture until it became flawless. But these lessons were not the same for everyone. For me, a princess with peculiar rights and expectations, they were one thing. For the maids, who wore their uniforms like second skin they were another. They had to tread the razor’s edge, balancing on heels and silk stockings, while cleaning, washing, laboring without pause.

And yet, I would not trade those lessons for the world as it is. I would not trade the sharpness of her eyes, the precision of her critique, the way she forced me to confront myself with every step, every glance, every breath.

She made me, in ways no one else could, and even if it hurt, even if it demanded everything, I understood then - as I understand now - that the world would never forgive weakness.

And neither would Dolores.

• Next Chapter: (Beneath the Silk)

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