Tarnished Beauty (12 page)

“I like it very much,” Jamilet answered. “I have only one question.”

Nurse B. raised her eyebrows in response.

“What are my duties?”

Nurse B. was momentarily taken aback. “Your duties are simply to do as he asks,” she said, fluttering her hands, and clearly annoyed with having to explain it yet again. “Bring him his meals and his mail, tidy up his room, and make sure he has everything he needs.”

“You mean, like a maid?”

Nurse B. squared her shoulders. “Yes, it's not at all misleading to think of it that way. Follow me,” she said, and left the office to stand before the only other door in the corridor. A small, thick window had been cut into the upper third, far too high for a person of ordinary height to see through. There was a sign with small lettering directly underneath. Nurse B. spoke low in her throat, as if she were afraid of waking the dead. “This is your patient's room,” she said, her eyes widening. “It's best that you enter alone.”

“By myself?” Jamilet could hardly believe that her employer wouldn't be marching into this patient's room as she had throughout the entire hospital. But in just a few seconds, Nurse B. had changed. The charge of authority that had colored her cheeks moments earlier had disappeared, leaving her pale and perspiring. Lips that were previously tight, and perched on the verge of a command, had loosened into a flabby scowl. She pressed her back against the door she would not enter, as though gathering the strength she'd need to return to the comfort of her asylum.

“I've learned,” she said, regaining some degree of composure, “that it's best when only one person attends to him at a time. Too many people upset him.”

Jamilet thought about the corridors through which she'd just passed, the inconsolable eyes peeking out from behind curtains and the laughter laced with a pain well past anyone's idea of upset. She felt a quivering fear in the pit of her stomach, and thought for the first time that she'd made a terrible mistake. Not just in accepting the job, but in leaving Mexico and everything she knew.

Nurse B. instructed Jamilet to wait until half past the hour, at which point she was to go to the cafeteria to pick up her patient's meal. After delivering it, she was to promptly leave the room. She would do this three times a day, and every day thereafter, all the while avoiding as much unnecessary conversation as possible. This had proved to be the undoing of all who had come before her.

Nurse B. was all too eager to leave once she'd imparted the last of her scant instructions, stating that Jamilet could review them on her own, as they were written on the door. When she was alone, Jamilet stared blankly at the sign on the door, realizing that she didn't even know her patient's name.

 

The breakfast tray was elegantly set, with a large domed plate and a steaming pot of coffee. Someone had also taken care to tuck in the day's correspondence. Jamilet considered this strange, noting that the other patients in the cafeteria received their meals on portioned plates, with cartons of milk or orange juice. Coffee was to be purchased in the canteen along with the cigarettes.

It was easy to spot Charlie's bald head, in the far corner of the room. He was eating alone, but in a matter of seconds the other patients had taken his lime Jell-O, coffeecake, and orange juice. He appeared quite accustomed to the situation and began eating his lonely eggs without complaint. Jamilet took an extra serving of coffeecake from the counter, and placed it before him saying, “Eat quickly. I'll wait here until you're done.” Charlie appeared more confused than grateful, but wasted little time in gobbling down his coffeecake, knowing that he was safe so long as a staff person was present.

She left the cafeteria after he finished, took the elevator up, and ascended the narrow staircase with the breakfast tray in hand. She studied the sign on the door, blinking slowly. The tray was getting heavier, and the words on the sign once again failed to deliver themselves, so she could only hope that Nurse B. had been thorough.

With her heart pounding wildly, she entered the darkened room. Meager sunlight slanted in through a half-open window. She placed the tray on the first surface she saw, a desk near the window, strewn with papers. She hadn't yet looked at the patient, but sensed him watching her from the other side of the room.

Once relieved of the tray, every muscle in her body urged her to bolt out of the room as quickly as she could, but that would appear weak and cowardly. So she forced herself to go to the window instead, and opened it a bit farther, hoping that fresh air would neutralize her fear. The rusty hinges moaned and complained at being moved back, and a gust of sweet air rushed in.

She turned, her heart now pumping at a ferocious rate. She would not be able to maintain this charade of calm for much longer. Nevertheless, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, as she'd learned to do back home when children and adults assaulted her with their jeering remarks.

She was almost to the door when a silken voice addressed her with words tempered by a Spanish accent refined enough to lend them the eloquence of a count. “Young lady, didn't you read the sign on the door instructing you to knock before entering?”

Jamilet turned to the sound of the voice, and beheld an imposing elderly man who was in bed and leaning on one elbow. He had a full head of snow white hair that curled about his head like smoke. His black eyes were devoid of emotion, absorbing her with unblinking intensity.

“No, sir,” she muttered.

He watched her for a moment longer and then sat up straighter to get a better look. “What were your instructions?” he asked.

Jamilet wasn't sure whether or not to answer. Could this be considered unnecessary conversation? She decided that not answering might upset him, and that too was to be avoided. “I…I was given the same instructions as the others,” she said.

“Yes of course, you're to bring my meals three times a day, call downstairs if a problem arises, and, this is most important, you're not to engage me in any unnecessary conversation. And if you are able to keep your position for a month, you'll have the benefit of a raise.” His eyebrows, black as his eyes, rose to the top of his forehead. “Correct?”

Jamilet nodded and felt a cold finger tracing down her spine. She couldn't look away from him.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Monica,” she answered, surprised she'd kept enough of her wits about her to use her assumed name.

“Well then, Monica, please allow me to complete your instructions.” For the first time since she'd entered, he shifted his gaze away from her face and she was able to breathe a bit easier. “You are to knock before entering, and you are not to enter unless I give you permission. You are to leave the windows, the furniture, and everything else you see in my room exactly as you find it and you are never,” he said, both raising and deepening his voice to a seething pitch, “to place anything upon my desk. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect my room to be cleaned thoroughly on a daily basis, including the bathroom and under the bed.” Jamilet looked around the room as he spoke. It was elegantly furnished with a four-poster bed and rich-looking carpets and pillows similar to the kind she'd seen at the Miller house. There was also an elaborately carved desk upon which his breakfast tray steamed. The bathroom was at the far end of the room, and Jamilet could see the corner of the tub from where she stood.

The patient continued to list his expectations in excruciating detail. His outgoing mail was to be placed upon Miss Clark's desk no later than ten every morning. His breakfast eggs were to be cooked so that the yolks ran, and the whites stayed firm. His coffee was to be hot enough to scald the feathers off a chicken, and if he found even one hair in his bathroom, she would be fired on the spot, and denied her wages for that day.

As the list of duties grew, the patient's voice softened and he relaxed into his pillow, quite pleased with his ability to demand and command. He concluded the litany by adding, “…and don't tell me you weren't hired to be a maid, or I guarantee that you won't last a week.”

Jamilet looked about the room briefly. “Where would you like your tray, sir?”

He patted his lap with both hands. “I prefer to take my morning meal in bed.”

Without hesitation, Jamilet took the tray to her patient, lowering her eyes when at arm's length from him as she gently placed it on his lap. With a polite nod, she turned to leave, but he spoke once again. “And I expect you to address me by my proper name.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

His massive white head was cocked to one side and his eyes sparkled. “Yes, what…?”

“I'm afraid I don't know your name, sir.”

“How can that be? Didn't your employer inform you?”

“No, sir, she didn't.”

“Well, it's written on the door, for God's sake. Didn't you read the…” But he stopped, and muttered to himself as he buttered his toast, “This time she's managed to hire not only a fool, but an illiterate fool.”

Overcome with shame, Jamilet was unable to deny this or defend herself as he swiped the domed lid off his breakfast and tossed it to the floor so that it landed just inches from her feet.

While poking at the yoke of his eggs with a fork, he said, “My name is Señor Peregrino. Repeat it so that I'm sure you're able to pronounce it properly.”

“Señor Peregrino,” Jamilet said in a quiet voice.

“Again,” he repeated, holding up his fork like a conductor.

“Señor Peregrino,” she said a bit more loudly.

He squinted at his eggs, obviously not pleased. “Your pronunciation is good, but your accent quite vulgar. Where are you from?”

“Mexico.”

He glared at her as though momentarily stunned by the depth of her stupidity. “Obviously, but where in Mexico?”

“Guadalajara,” Jamilet answered, preferring to avoid mentioning her village.

His eyes held her, as they had earlier. “You're lying. You're from a place with dirt roads where people wash in the stream and take care of their bodily functions in much the same manner as dogs.” He applied blueberry jam to his toast and continued, “Your mother probably birthed you in the fields and you were as likely to have learned your first words from the hogs as you were to have learned them from her. She's still there, waiting for you to send money because the hogs were sold and there's been a drought…”

“My mother is dead.”

He prepared his coffee next, adding a teaspoon of sugar and a touch of cream. “Good for her, it's probably the smartest thing she ever did.” He continued with his litany of insults, and as before, the more hateful his words became, the more serene his demeanor. He might have been talking about the sweet succulence of the fruit on his plate, or the likelihood of showers in the evening. It was also clear that his tirade would continue so long as she stood before him and listened. She had to find a way to get out, even if it meant interrupting, and possibly upsetting him in the process.

“Excuse me, Señor Peregrino, may I be excused, please?” Jamilet asked. “I need to use the…the bathroom.”

“I'm not finished,” he said, scowling. “Nevertheless, you asked for permission to leave without specific instructions to do so.” He waved her toward the door with his fork. “You may go.”

Jamilet left the room calmly, and waited until the patient's door had closed completely before running down the corridor to the adjacent office. Once there, she flung open the window and leaned out as far she could, breathing deeply and allowing the fresh air to fill her lungs and quell the nausea brewing in her gut. Feeling somewhat better, she glanced back at the clock on the wall. She'd been in the patient's room for less than fifteen minutes, and couldn't imagine how she'd survive the rest of the day. A month was out of the question.

J
UST QUIT
,” Carmen said. “You shouldn't be working in a hellhole like that anyway.”

“But it pays well, and they didn't have any problem with the papers.”

“Nobody's gonna have a problem with those papers,” Carmen said while stuffing a meatball sandwich into her mouth. “You can take them anywhere. You'll see.” She took the remainder of her sandwich with her to the couch and propped up her feet. She was eating rapidly, dispensing with a napkin and cleaning up the sauce that escaped from the corners of her mouth with the bread. Louis would be over soon and she didn't like to overeat in front of him. She'd enjoy a regular meal with him later, and her appetite would appear a bit more ladylike. “I'll bet the old man's a child molester. That's why they got him locked up,” she concluded as she swallowed the last of her sandwich.

Jamilet shrugged. “All I know is that he has so much hate in his eyes. It scares me just to look at him.”

Upon hearing this, Carmen tossed the wrapper on the coffee table. “Is it something like this?” she asked, leaning forward and giving Jamilet a frighteningly cold stare that seemed to stiffen her body from head to toe. This was the kind of look that kept stray dogs out of her yard, and Jehovah's Witnesses from knocking on her door a second time.

Jamilet couldn't help but feel its effects, and shudder a little bit. “That's pretty good, Tía, but I think Señor Peregrino's look is even worse than that.”

Carmen dropped her face. “What the hell kinda name is Peregrino?”

“I don't know.”

“You say he's a Hispanic guy?”

Jamilet nodded. “He acts like he's the king of Spain or something.”

“I'll tell you what he's the king of,” Carmen declared. “He's the king of perverts. Now bring me a beer. I got cheese breath.”

Jamilet brought Carmen her beer, and a napkin besides. “What does the word ‘peregrino' mean, Tía?”

She popped the lid and took a swig as she thought about it. “It means pilgrim, I think.” She took another swig. “Yep, I'm sure that's what it means. His name is Mr. Pilgrim, if you can believe that.”

 

By the end of the second week, Jamilet managed to settle into a routine that involved less work than she'd ever known. She arrived at seven thirty in the morning and waited in the office at the end of the corridor until eight, after Señor Peregrino had showered and changed. Then, she went back downstairs for his breakfast and mail, collected his dirty laundry from off the bathroom floor, and made his bed while he sat at his desk completely absorbed by the papers he kept there. Sometimes he would write furiously with his head down and his back arched, for hours. At others, he'd simply gaze at the papers before him, as though they were speaking to him of the great mysteries of life and death. On the good mornings, he wouldn't say a word, and allowed her to go about her duties undisturbed.

The mornings Jamilet dreaded most were those in which he was not reading or writing, but was staring off into space as if lost in a horrible dream. At these times, he looked for every opportunity to distract himself from this inner unpleasantness however he could. He'd study Jamilet while chewing on his pen, and for his own amusement was quite adept at identifying her weaknesses. “I notice that you hunch your shoulders, rather like a troll. What is it you're so ashamed of, Monica?”

“I'm not ashamed of anything, Señor,” Jamilet said.

“Oh, but you most certainly are ashamed of something.”

Jamilet continued straightening his bed just as he'd instructed her to, without tucking the sheet in under the mattress, as it caused him unnecessary trouble when getting back into bed. She dared not look at him when he watched her like this for fear that she'd be lost in the black oblivion of his gaze. It was best to avert her eyes, and when she had no choice but to look at him, she did so with muted attention.

“I believe it isn't just your inability to read and write,” he mused. “It's something else…something much uglier. It might have something to do with your family. I won't denigrate the memory of your dead mother, but you've said nothing of your father. I would imagine that he's probably a drunken fool, a misshapen soul who's forgotten he's a man and that he has a daughter.”

Jamilet fluffed the pillow and dropped it into place. She was getting better at deflecting him, and could easily have found a way not to answer, but something prompted her to do otherwise. “I never knew my father, Señor. But I heard many silly stories about the way he died, and I know people make up stories when they don't want to admit the truth. So…he probably was even worse than you say.”

This revelation, as honest and direct as it was, prompted Señor Peregrino to be silent. But she sensed him still watching her as she collected his dirty laundry from the floor, then left the room. A good while later she returned with his laundered shirts, and arranged them in the closet as he'd instructed her to do the first week, like colors together, short and long sleeves separated. His eyes followed her as she went to his bathroom with fresh towels. She took her time hanging them on the racks, one by the sink and two by the bath.

When she returned he had not moved. “You think yourself to be very clever, don't you?” he said.

“How could someone who doesn't read or write be clever?”

Señor Peregrino's lips flickered with a smile in spite of his desire to remain severe. “I'm curious,” he said. “Don't you wonder why I'm up here, why it is that I don't have a file like every other patient in this hospital? Not that you could read it if I did, but I would think that you would have asked a few questions by now.”

“I don't know why you're here, Señor.” Jamilet shifted her weight onto her other leg. She wanted anything but to be engaged in a guessing game with him, one that he could twist and turn about her throat until he strangled her with his vile humor. But she knew that she must indulge him, or suffer his disagreeable moods later. “People are here because they're crazy. So, I guess you must be crazy too.”

Señor Peregrino clapped his great hands together, and then bowed his head with exaggerated humility. “You certainly pushed your mind beyond its limits to arrive at that conclusion. Bravo!”

Jamilet allowed herself a rare moment to look fully into his eyes. “But you don't seem like the others downstairs.” She shook him out of her eyes, and muttered, “I don't know…” Señor Peregrino's own eyes widened and in the corners there appeared a momentary softness, a veil of tears remembered and withheld. “Those poor souls you see writhing around in their own excrement below are the lucky ones. Nevertheless,” he said, “I'll make it worth your while if you're able to find out something about me—why I'm here.”

“I don't understand, Señor.”

His face hardened. “Open your mouth for once and ask questions.”

Jamilet lifted her chin and tightened her arms around the laundry. “That's not my job, Señor. Why should I do this?”

“Because…because if you manage to make any accurate discoveries before the end of the week, I promise I will not speak a word to you until you've completed your month's tenure. Then you'll most certainly have earned your raise, and as paltry as it must be, I'm sure you'd be delighted by the extra pennies in your wallet.”

“The end of the week is tomorrow, Señor…”

“Then you haven't much time, have you?”

“And I'm assigned up here. I'm not supposed to leave.”

“That does make things more difficult, but a clever girl like you would be resourceful.”

Jamilet hated being manipulated in this way, but the possibility of making it to the end of the month without having to endure his constant barrage of insults was too tempting to pass up. Perhaps when the month was over, after she'd received her raise and proved her worth as an employee, she could request a transfer to another department. And even if she had to continue attending to Señor Peregrino, at least she'd be able to save the money she needed more quickly.

Jamilet decided to begin her inquiries with the kitchen worker who prepared Señor Peregrino's meals. He was a young blond-haired man with a red, ruddy face that made his eyes stand out like bright blue beads. “They don't tell us anything down here,” he said, wiping his chapped hands on his apron. “All I know is, he gets whatever he wants. The only other time that happened was a while back when this rich lady came in. But she died after a couple of weeks. That old man's been here…” He looked up to the ceiling as he made his mental calculations. “It's been about three years.”

She next approached the charge nurse on the fourth floor, a perpetually flustered woman with thick glasses that were constantly slipping down her nose as she scribbled in one of a pile of charts on her desk. She squinted at Jamilet as if seeing her for the first time. She had in fact spoken to her on two previous occasions, and each time appeared just as bewildered as she did at this moment. “You want to know about Señor who?” she asked, shoving her glasses up her nose.

Jamilet bit her lip. “Señor Peregrino…”

“Who's Señor Pere…whatever you said,” she stated.

“The patient…on the fifth floor.”

“That's not his name, for goodness sake,” the charge nurse said, and then she reached for the clipboard underneath her desk, and began running her finger down the names on the list. She jabbed at the spot with her finger when she found it, and showed it to Jamilet for good measure. “See here? His name is Antonio Calderon.”

Jamilet studied the place where she pointed, feigning the thoughtful gaze appropriate to reading. “Yes, of course, but he
thinks
his name is Señor Peregrino.”

The charge nurse seized this opportunity to instruct and criticize with relish. “You should never encourage patients in their delusions.” She pointed to a thin man scuffling by in his robe and slippers as he muttered unintelligibly to himself. “On some days, that patient you see there believes he's Gandhi. Do you think I go around saying, ‘Come and get your medication, Gandhi' or ‘Have you showered today, Gandhi?' She stared at Jamilet with her unblinking fish eyes. “Of course I don't. That would only confuse him all the more.” She slapped her chart down, causing a minor avalanche on her desk.

Jamilet was heading back up the stairs to her post when a low, muffled voice prompted her to turn and peer into the darkened corner behind her. “You want to know about the old man on the fifth floor?” it asked.

Jamilet turned around with a start and found herself looking into the gray face of Richard the janitor, who was as thin and bedraggled as the mop that was his constant companion. She'd seen him around, slinking through the corridors, and leaving his watery trail where ever he went, although he never went up to the fifth floor. She alone was expected to perform any and all cleaning services that pertained to her patient.

“You know my patient?” Jamilet asked.

He lifted his ashen hand and circled it haphazardly before it flopped back down to his side. “I know 'em all.” He glanced down the hall and lowered his voice, so that Jamilet had to lean toward him to hear. “I know 'em better than the nurses and the docs,” he said, smiling secretively. “You know Charlie, the one you're always sneaking food to?”

Jamilet was shocked that he'd seen her do this. “Only once in a while,” she muttered.

“Nope,” he said. “I've been watching you, and I seen that you give him stuff every day. It was chocolate pudding yesterday, and today you gave him two extra rolls. I saw you pull 'em right out of your pocket. Anyway,” he continued, once he believed Jamilet to be sufficiently impressed with his observational skills, “the reason Charlie's so bald is because every morning, and every night, he spends hours in front of the mirror pulling out his own hair. He keeps the nails on his right hand long so he can use 'em like tweezers. And sometimes he wears a towel like a diaper, and walks around sucking his thumb. It's a sight to see,” he said, chuckling.

“But why is
my
patient here?” Jamilet asked, “The one on the fifth floor.”

The janitor pursed his lips for a moment, as if savoring a delicious candy. “I heard the doctors say that he killed his wife. Just went berserk one day and chopped her up into a thousand pieces.” Reacting to Jamilet's incredulous expression, he raised both hands, almost dropping his mop in the process. “I swear to God. They found him curled up like a baby in his mother's womb after he did it. Wouldn't leave his house, and didn't talk for months. You know he's never left his room since he came here?” He examined Jamilet with a certain concern. “You should be careful with him, young and pretty as you are. He has a taste for young blood too, I hear. Why do you think nobody ever lasts up there with him?”

 

With the lunch tray balanced expertly on her forearm, Jamilet softly knocked on the door and waited until she heard his permission to enter. He was at his desk, as he almost always was, reading through the same papers over and over, as if he'd never seen them before. He did not acknowledge her as she set his lunch tray down, and she walked lightly to the door, hoping that he'd forgotten the challenge he'd posed to her earlier.