Tarnished Beauty (13 page)

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

Jamilet stood to attention, her mind a blur.

“Should I take your silence to mean that you've failed at your task?”

Jamilet blurted out the first thing she could think of. “Your name is not Señor Peregrino.”

He turned around in his chair, obviously intrigued. “Really?”

Jamilet tried not to look at him as she spoke. “It's Antonio Calderon.” She glanced at him briefly. “Señor Calderon,” she corrected.

He crossed his arms. “What else?”

Jamilet dropped her eyes to the floor, and became aware of a quivering sensation about her knees that was spreading very quickly.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and her eyes shot up to his. “What else did you learn?”

“You've been here for three years, you haven't left your room, you're rich. And that…that…” Her tongue felt like jelly. “You killed your wife, and cut her up into a thousand pieces.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”

Jamilet hesitated to answer. “The janitor. He says he knows everything that goes on around here.”

He looked away for a moment, a worried scowl cutting across his face. “You're quite young, and perhaps too young to understand the ways of…” He scratched his chin as he searched for the proper words. “…certain men.”

Jamilet's back stiffened as she stepped toward the door. She'd never felt personally threatened by Señor Peregrino. He'd never so much as glanced at her in a suggestive way, but Richard had warned her, and Señor Peregrino hadn't denied what the janitor revealed about him. Perhaps he was correct about the old man on the fifth floor and his lecherous ways.

Jamilet's nervousness sharpened her tongue. “I may be young, but I'm not a fool, Señor.”

He was not moved. “But of course you are, my dear. You are a fool in the same way all young and pretty girls are fools. Even more so in that you don't have your vanity to protect you.”

“I don't understand what you're saying, Señor.”

He sighed and turned to his papers. “I don't know why I waste my breath with you. Nevertheless, you've earned your reprieve. Aside from any essential communication, I won't direct a word to you for the remainder of the month.”

 

It was late in the afternoon when Jamilet left the office to collect the lunch tray. Señor Peregrino was easiest to manage at this time of day, as he usually napped after his afternoon meal. Now she couldn't help but wonder and worry if he'd truly been sleeping. Perhaps he was pretending, only to catch her unaware at the moment he decided to strike.

She entered the hallway, and was at the door of his room when she heard someone coming up the stairs. Moments later, Richard appeared in the corridor, wearing a grim smile and carrying the ever present mop.

“Came to change the bulbs,” he said, propping the mop against the wall. “Maybe a little more light will make things less spooky up here.”

Jamilet felt a wave of relief spread over her, and hoped Richard would stay until she was safely back out with the tray. He was a small man compared to Señor Peregrino, but between the two of them they'd be able to subdue him if he decided to try anything.

Richard hadn't yet moved to change the bulbs. “You okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” Jamilet said.

“Are you happy to see me then?” His sleepy eyes suddenly widened, as though he'd been prodded with a sharp stick.

At that moment, his mop slipped down the wall, landing at Jamilet's feet, and when she bent down to retrieve it for him, he leaped on top of her, pushing her to the floor with all of his weight, one hand groping and clutching between her thighs, under her skirt, as the other clamped tight over her mouth and nose so she couldn't scream or breathe. His own breath was thick in her ear when he said, “You sure are a pretty thing. Why'd they stick you up here where no one can see you?”

Gasping for breath, Jamilet inhaled the harsh smell of cleaning solution on his hand. His knee was pressing on her back, and he'd worked it down toward her buttocks, and almost had it wedged between her legs, when she bit down on the flesh of his palm with all her strength. He yelped and snatched his hand back.

Jamilet flipped over and began fighting him off, kicking and striking out with her fists in a furious volley, but every time she managed to make contact, he laughed wildly, as though he were engaged in a boisterous game, and she was overcome by his breath, foul with the stench of cigarettes and the decaying teeth that she clearly saw in his gaping mouth when he laughed. But in the end he was quicker than she, and when he'd had enough of the game, he grabbed her wrists and held them down on either side of her head. She writhed underneath him, but with amazing strength the skinny man was able to pry open her legs with his knees, while holding both of her hands in one of his own and deftly unbuckling his belt with the other.

Jamilet wretched with the realization of what was about to happen, and let go an unholy scream. It seemed to emanate from somewhere deep in her bowels, and now all she could do was close her eyes and disappear somewhere into the furthest and darkest corners of her mind.

Suddenly, she heard a door open and a dazed and perplexed Richard was lifted up from on top of her as though he were not a man, but a marionette, his arms and legs loose and flailing about. He went flying through the air, and his head made a sickening flat sound as it hit the wall opposite her, causing him to bite his tongue. When he lifted his head, drool and blood were dribbling from his lips.

Jamilet didn't move from where she lay, staring up at Señor Peregrino, who stood between her and the bleeding janitor with clenched fists. Richard began to laugh again, unaware, it seemed, of the red fluid that was now flowing freely out of his mouth and cascading over his chin.

“Are you hurt?” Señor Peregrino asked Jamilet, never taking his eyes away from Richard.

“I…I don't think so.”

“Get up and go home then,” he commanded.

Jamilet scrambled to her feet and ran as fast as she could, stumbling down the hall as she rearranged her blouse and skirt. Richard's horrible laughter followed her down the stairs, away from the hospital and into the streets. It rang so loudly in her ears that she couldn't hear the roar of the traffic or the pounding of her feet on the pavement, or the howling of her own breath. She didn't even return Eddie's greeting when she passed him, although she saw him sitting there on the porch waiting for Pearly. In her state, she couldn't conceive of how to return a greeting that would make any sense, and briefly it passed through her mind that Eddie would have no doubt now that she was thoroughly insane.

She burst into the house, breathless, and grateful that Carmen wasn't home. She froze as her brain struggled to discern what day it was—Wednesday. Carmen would be meeting Louis at the bowling alley after work. She went straight to the bathroom and prepared her bath, stripping off her clothes and stepping into it before it was ready. She sank in below her shoulders, concentrating on the liquid warmth that reached beyond all the places Richard had violated. She felt the thick skin of the mark on her buttocks and shivered again with the reassuring loneliness of her secret. Perhaps it would be better if people knew she was different. Then they'd understand the constant torment that set her apart and excused her from ordinary suffering. She already possessed the mark—that should be enough for anybody.

J
AMILET COULDN'T BE SURE
how long she'd been asleep in the bath, only that the water was cold and judging by the darkness in the room, that it was already night. She felt remarkably calm and confident that she might even be able to forget the vicious attack of a few hours ago. Perhaps it was nothing more than a horrible dream. With this thought, she stepped out of the tub and dried herself with a towel. She flicked on the lights and, as was her habit, attended to her underclothes first in order to carefully unfasten the pinned documents, and ready them for the next day. But they weren't in their usual place. She quickly searched through the rest of her clothing, and then searched again, more frantically this time, tossing her things about the room in such a manner that her bra ended up floating in the bathtub, but the papers were nowhere to be found.

Wrapped in a towel, she rushed out of the bathroom and into the living room, her horror refreshed by the thought that she'd somehow lost her documents. The little card with the nine numbers, along with her birth certificate, could be somewhere on the street or at the hospital. She didn't know which was worse, and concluded that either circumstance could easily destroy her life. She collapsed onto the sofa and tried to think. She'd run from the hospital so quickly, and was so upset, that she couldn't remember if she'd seen anything on the floor, or if she'd felt the documents slipping out. All she remembered was Señor Peregrino looming over Richard, and commanding her to leave. For all she knew, Richard was at this very moment squashed against the wall like a fly and her documents were soaking in his blood. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that they had to be somewhere on the fifth floor. As Richard groped at her they'd become unpinned, and she'd been too terrified to notice. Señor Peregrino couldn't be bothered to retrieve his own napkin; how likely was he to concern himself with papers on the floor? The documents were there. They had to be. Her first thought was to rush to the hospital immediately to begin her search. But if she were to run into one of the charge nurses, or Nurse B., God forbid, they would demand to know why she was there at such a late hour. And should Tía Carmen get home and find the house empty, she'd also demand an explanation, and Jamilet was certain that her anxiety would give her away. She'd have to wait until the next morning to look for her papers.

Too upset to eat, she attempted to calm herself with the habits of normalcy, and proceeded with her bedtime ritual. She went to the front window, and stood there until she felt as still and inanimate as the furniture in the room. Then, ever so slowly, she raised her hand and shifted the curtain to one side. They were there as always, gazing out at the traffic. With every passing car Eddie's hand traveled farther up Pearly's thigh, but on this night Jamilet couldn't watch them anymore, so she went to her room. Light-headed and dizzy, she tried to sleep, but when she closed her eyes, all she could see were her precious documents lying on the floor outside Señor Peregrino's room, unfolding like a flower, and revealing her true identity to whomever passed by.

 

Having slept uneasily if at all, Jamilet's eyes flew open at the first light of dawn, and she wondered how early she could report for work without arousing suspicion. She dressed quickly and dispensed with breakfast. Her stomach was tight as a knot, and the only thing that provided any relief for her anxiety was the thought of getting to the hospital as quickly as she could.

She clocked in a half hour early, but attracted no attention from the nurses and other staff who were scurrying about in the midst of the morning shift change. With heart pounding she ascended the staircase to the fifth floor, and entered the corridor where she hoped to find her documents. Even if they were lying in a pool of blood, or torn up in a corner, she would've been overjoyed to see them. She slowly paced the corridor, but after the second pass knew she had no choice but to enter Señor Peregrino's room and attempt a search before he woke for his morning shower. Perhaps he'd found them and set them on his desk without realizing what they were. He must have been exhausted after his confrontation with Richard.

She stood outside his door, calming her breath. She removed her shoes, then opened the door, holding the handle so that it wouldn't click, and slipped in. He was still sleeping, just as she'd expected. She padded silently across the room, toward his desk, and peered down at his papers, fingers hovering over them while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

“What are you searching for?” Señor Peregrino asked calmly, as though he'd been waiting for her.

She turned to see him, sitting up in bed. “I just thought I'd get started early today, Señor.”

He appeared amused, and gave up a beleaguered sigh. “You're not a very good liar, are you…Jamilet?”

She gasped when she heard him speak her true name.

“I must say, ‘Jamilet' is a definite improvement. Although your assumed name, bland as it is, suits you better.” He studied her for a few seconds, his black eyes shiny as marbles. He appeared troubled, but not nearly so troubled as Jamilet.

“I need those papers,” she said. “They were a gift from my aunt and I can't work without them…Señor. I mean, can I please have them back, please?”

At this Señor Peregrino yawned, and stretched his great arms. “Desperation can drive certain people to civility if they're not careful,” he said.

“I've always been civil to you.”

Señor Peregrino nodded and his eyebrows flickered to acknowledge as much. “Is it civility that you owe me? Or perhaps something more…?”

“I don't know what you mean. I never know what you mean when you talk like that.” She wavered on her feet. “I will not dishonor myself for my papers if that's what you mean.”

Señor Peregrino's hand that lay idly on his lap constricted and then relaxed. “I don't esteem you enough to be offended by such a remark. If there's one thing I've learned,” he said severely, “it's that, aside from the cheap entertainment they sometimes provide, fools are of little use to me. I certainly don't take their prattle seriously.”

“Then what is it that I owe you, Señor?”

He appraised her like a disappointed teacher, and all of a sudden she knew exactly what he meant. “I didn't thank you for helping me yesterday, is that it?”

“Helping you? I believe it more accurate to say that I saved your miserable hide from becoming even more miserable.”

Jamilet nodded, feeling not only foolish, but contrite. “Forgive me for not thanking you before.”

“Very well. I accept your apology.” He shooed her to the door with both hands. “Now you may leave. It's far too early for this sort of thing.”

But Jamilet didn't move from her spot. “And my papers?”

Señor Peregrino became suddenly preoccupied with the arrangement of his blankets, and began smoothing out the layers one at a time. “Are you referring to the illegal documents you used to obtain employment here?”

“Yes I am,” was Jamilet's soft reply.

Señor Peregrino was almost jovial. “Well, I do have them. And I'll return them if you're willing to entertain a certain proposition. Honorable, of course.” He paused to consider his phrasing. “I realize that you've been directed to avoid all unnecessary conversation with me, but I ask that, from time to time, you…you listen as I tell you my story from beginning to end. When I have finished, I will return your illegal documents to you and say nothing to anyone of their existence.”

Jamilet stared at him in disbelief. “You want me to listen to your story?”

“Yes, it will fully explain the reason I'm here,” he said, settling back onto his pillows and closing his eyes.

“How long will it take, this story of yours?”

With eyes still closed, he answered, “It will take as long as it takes.” And without another word, he yawned, turned on his side, and fell soundly asleep.