Tarnished Beauty (17 page)

“You found it, didn't you?” Jamilet asked after almost five minutes had elapsed.

He nodded and turned the page like the older lady had done, as if time were hovering, and space had opened up to make the mind forget itself and flounder happily in a newfound dimension.

Jamilet stayed quiet, although she sensed the thrill of his discovery and yearned for it as well. Eddie was able to read about the place in Señor Peregrino's story. He was able to learn about this distant world because he knew how to transform those strange and beautiful little squiggled symbols into something meaningful. It was a wondrous thing, and he was all the more beautiful in her eyes because of it. She gazed openly at him, feasting upon this moment that she knew would pass too quickly. She noticed that his lips twitched slightly while he read and that there was a softness in his eyes that eased in along with the mysterious knowledge he was gaining. She wished to touch her fingers to his forehead and sweep aside a lock of the thick brown hair that seemed to impede his vision, but she kept her hands folded on her lap and waited. Finally, when she could no longer keep quiet, she asked, “Can you read it to me?”

Eddie raised his head and shook it slightly. “Nah, I don't read too good like that.” But his earlier apprehension was gone. Jamilet waited a bit more and watched as the expression in his eyes shifted from wonderment to concern and then back to wonderment again. “It's a real place; all right,” he said, looking for a strong foothold to begin. “It's old too, like nine hundred years or something…” He reached for the book again, as though to check his figures, and then thought better of it. “People started walking to this big church…a cathedral, because they believed that Saint James was buried there. You know,” he said, searching for confirmation in Jamilet's eyes, “he was one of those saintly guys that hung out with Jesus, at church and in the Bible, and stuff.” He turned a bright shade of red. “I can't believe I'm talking about this.”

“Where did people start walking from?” Jamilet asked, ignoring his discomfort.

He gave a resigned sigh. “From all over Europe mostly. Some walked more than a thousand miles to get there. And this was back in the days when they didn't have good shoes or sunglasses or nothing like that. And there were bandits, too.” Eddie's eyes began to sparkle. This part seemed to have especially captivated him. “They hid behind trees, like you did the other day, and waited for pilgrims to walk by so they could”—he threw her a cold stare—“ruin their lives. The lucky ones were shot in the head.”

Jamilet ignored this. “Why did they go if it was so dangerous?”

“Hell, I don't know,” he said. “In those days people believed a lot in miracles and stuff. They believed in all kinds of crazy shit that people don't believe in anymore.”

“Like what?”

Irritation started to nip at Eddie's heals. “How should I know? Crazy stuff. Like…believing you'll get rid of your warts if you splash holy water on them. Or, that you'll be able to walk even if you've been a cripple all your life, or that your mom won't die if you say a few lousy prayers even when the doctors say she will.” Eddie stared hard at nothing for a long moment and then pushed the books away as he prepared to leave. Jamilet would have tried to say or do something to delay him, but she was transfixed by his last comment and was trying desperately to remember if she'd ever said anything to him about her mother's death. She was almost certain that she hadn't.

“Fair's fair,” Eddie said, standing up. “I did what you wanted, and now you have to promise to keep your mouth shut.”

Looking up at him, Jamilet put on a serious face, like she did when she haggled for chickens at the market near her village. “You didn't tell me a lot and I have more questions, but…” She smiled cleverly. “I guess you kept your end of the bargain.”

“I don't think you can call it a bargain, exactly. And don't pull this on me again or I might be the one to tell Pearly some stuff. She won't mind calling you out.”

“Calling me out?”

“Yeah, she'll jump you if she thinks you're trying to mess with her man,” Eddie said with a gleam in his eye.

Jamilet was far too intrigued with the idea that a girl would fight another girl over a boy to react to the threat right away, and Eddie was eager to leave. He mumbled a word or two to announce his departure, not sure that the moment merited much more, and walked away as Jamilet remained still and reflective in her seat. Eddie was almost to the exit when she pushed herself away from the table and ran in the direction he'd gone. She caught up to him at the main entrance and pulled on his shirtsleeve as though she were a child.

He whirled around to face her. “What is it now?”

Jamilet was breathless. “I can't explain it, but I know something about you. I just know.” She tried to compose herself. “Your mother's sick, and you're afraid she's going to die and leave you alone.”

Upon hearing this, Eddie's face melted before her eyes, and his posture weakened, as though he'd lost his breath and forgotten who he was and where he was going, all at once. “You got to leave me alone, Jamilet,” he finally said.

She felt the warmth gushing forth from her heart. She wanted nothing more than to connect with him, and ease his pain somehow. “When my mother died, everyone believed I didn't love her, because I didn't cry at her funeral, but that isn't my way. I just don't cry the same way other girls do.” She blinked hard, afraid she might prove herself a liar at that moment, she was so overcome with emotion.

Eddie took several steps back. “Like I said, you got to leave me alone. If you know what's good for you,” he added before turning and walking away.

Jamilet watched him for a while. The sun had begun to set, and it appeared as though he were wavering in an ocean of orange light as he made his way to the corner, then turned toward Pearly's house.

“You're good for me, Eddie,” she whispered.

 

After a satisfying supper of chilies rellenos, Carmen relaxed on the couch, nursing her third beer. She was watching
The Price Is Right,
the program she endured until her favorite show came on,
Wheel of Fortune.
Jamilet thought this would be a good time, a perfect time, in fact.

She eased herself down on the couch next to her aunt. “Tía Carmen?”

“Yes,
mi hija.
”

“Do you love Louis?”

It took a few moments for her aunt to digest the question. “That old bastard?” she said, her lips curling into a smile. On this night Louis hadn't come over because he wanted to watch his daughter's softball playoffs at Lucas Park. They'd had some words over it earlier and Carmen had slammed the phone down, as was her custom when they argued. But Jamilet had no doubt he'd be by later, after the game, and she'd be awakened in the middle of the night by their reconciliatory ardor.

“I guess I love him,” Carmen said.

“How do you know it's love?”

“God, I don't know. How does anybody know?” Carmen swished a mouthful of beer like she was gargling, and swallowed. “I guess it's because when I'm with him I feel so good, I just want to die. And other times I feel so bad, I just want to die.” She poked Jamilet's shoulder. “Or kill him. Whichever comes first.” She turned to face her niece. “Why you asking? You got something going on with somebody?”

“No, Tía.”

“Because I don't need you coming home pregnant. If you're going to have babies, you'll have to find somewhere else to live. You can come back when the kid's about thirteen.”

“I'm not having a baby, Tía.”

Carmen eyed her suspiciously. “It's that boy across the street you keep looking at through the window, isn't it?”

Jamilet was shocked that her aunt had noticed when she thought she was being so sly. “I don't look out the window.” But her voice was weak and unconvincing.

“Right. And I'm a size-six petite.” She cackled and looked hard at Jamilet. “Besides, you could do worse. He looks pretty good to me. I think he looks good to his girlfriend too,” she concluded with an all-knowing nod. Carmen turned back to the TV when she heard the music that announced her program. Jamilet stood and hovered about with two empty beer cans ready for the trash. They were just introducing the contestants, and in a few moments the games would begin and the opportunity would be lost.

“Do you think she's pretty?” Jamilet asked suddenly.

Carmen shook her head so her jowls jiggled against the collar of her shirt. “I don't understand all the fuss over Vanna. She's a bleached blonde with a big nose.”

“I don't mean the girl on TV. I mean Eddie's girlfriend. The one across the street.”

Carmen appeared to seriously consider this question. She cocked her head to one side and momentarily closed her eyes. Then she turned herself fully around to face her niece, looking as though she were about to burst with a secret so tantalizing that she required Jamilet to sit down on the couch to receive it. She tossed the empty beer cans that Jamilet held onto the table, and took Jamilet's hands into her own enormous fleshy palms. “Now listen good, because I'm gonna tell you something some girls learn early and some never learn at all.”

Jamilet was speechless. Never had her aunt spoken to her with such compassion. She nodded, her eyes riveted on her aunt's expressive face.

“First I need to ask you something.” Jamilet nodded. “Do you think I'm pretty? Be honest, 'cause you know I'll be pissed if you lie.”

Jamilet didn't sense one of her aunt's jokes about to rescue her from responding, and pressure was building up in her chest. “I think…” She hesitated, feeling her aunt's grip tighten. “I think when you fix yourself up, you look really nice.”

Carmen's gaze grew narrow and hot as she repeated, “But, do you think I'm pretty?”

Jamilet's fingers felt sweaty in Carmen's grip. “I…I guess not…not in the usual way people think of prettiness.”

Carmen loosened her grip and her eyes relaxed with intelligent regret, as though she'd been reminded yet again that not only had she not won the lottery, but that her ticket had none of the winning numbers. But she wasn't finished. “Do you think Louis thinks I'm pretty?”

Jamilet thought of the way Louis fawned over Carmen every time he saw her. His eyes ate up every inch of her when she wore one of her revealing dancing dresses, and Jamilet often thought he'd die a happy man if he could just dive in and drown in her cleavage. “He thinks you're beautiful. I know he does. He looks at you the way Eddie looks at Pearly, like he can't remember what day it is or even his own name.”

Tía Carmen dropped Jamilet's hands and nodded knowingly, as if she wouldn't have expected anything less. Then she pointed to her own head, still nodding. “It's all in the brains, Jamilet. Don't matter one bit what you look like.”

“I don't understand, Tía.”

Carmen turned back to her TV show. “Look. You asked me if I thought Eddie's girlfriend was pretty. The fact is, she
thinks
she's the most goddamn beautiful girl on earth, and that makes her boyfriend believe it too.” She waved a pudgy finger toward Jamilet. “And that's all that matters.”

 

Jamilet applied a heavy slathering of her aunt's beauty cream all over her face that night before bed, and dabbed a small amount on the back of her neck where the mark could be seen, like the tip of Africa floating hot and red beneath her shirt. She had to sleep on her back so the pillow wouldn't get sticky with the stuff, but it smelled so good, she closed her eyes and inhaled the sweet fragrance that lingered like hope strung along the darkness on a thin wire.

T
HE RECEPTIONIST
, Ms. Clark, was waiting and called out as Jamilet whisked through the front office on her way to the fifth floor. Ms. Clark had to repeat herself, as Jamilet had become unaccustomed to being called “Monica” ever since Señor Peregrino had discovered her true name.

“Nurse B. would like a word with you,” Ms. Clark said, her lips flattening as though she tasted something sour. “Go on.”

Jamilet hadn't spoken to her employer since her first day on the job, and the few times she had seen her it was only to receive one of the many stiff nods she distributed among the workers she happened to pass during her inspections of the lower floors. She hadn't ventured back up to the fifth floor since the day Jamilet began.

Nurse B. sat at her desk, with hands resting on the surface and fingers taut. She indicated that Jamilet should take a seat in the same chair she'd occupied during her initial interview. “Today,” Nurse B. said, looking not pleased, but poised on the verge of irritation, “marks exactly one month since you began your employment. And as promised, I'm prepared to offer you a raise.” She shuffled through the papers on her desk, hardly looking at them. When she found the form she wanted, she tossed it across the desk at Jamilet. “I need you to sign here for me if you could and…” She looked up, her expression sharpened. “Are you aware that Richard Mentz quit his job?”

“Richard Mentz?”

“The janitor. He's been here for over ten years, and his resignation was quite unexpected.” Her hands continued to shuffle aimlessly through the papers on her desk while she studied Jamilet's reaction to the news. “He says he was attacked by the fifth-floor patient while changing a lightbulb. We're not equipped to manage combative patients in this hospital, and I may need to transfer him unless you have any additional information—”

“No, it…it wasn't his fault,” she blurted out. “The janitor attacked me first.”

Nurse B.'s hands became still. “Where exactly did this happen?”

“Up on the fifth floor. Señor Peregrino came out of his room when he heard me screaming. I didn't think a man as old as he could be so strong, but he lifted Richard off me and threw him against the wall. He saved me,” Jamilet said, and then dropped her eyes to the unsigned document on the desk.

The color had drained from Nurse B.'s face, and she seemed at a loss for words. “Are you telling me that your patient actually left his room without trembling in fear?”

Jamilet nodded. “I think he was too angry to be afraid.”

“How far did he get?”

“I…I'm not sure. Just a few steps out of his room, I guess.”

“Well, that hardly counts,” she muttered to herself, then turned back to her employee. “And why didn't you tell me about this incident, when you were instructed to report any and all problems to me immediately?”

“I…I don't know. Señor Peregrino told me to run away and go home, and I was scared.”

Nurse B. took the document back from her and paused to think. “You are to refer to the patient by his real name. If you continue to indulge him in his fantasy, you'll only further confuse and upset him. If it weren't for the fact that he seems to tolerate you, I'd dismiss you immediately for your poor judgment on both these matters; is that clear?”

Jamilet lowered her head. “Yes, Nurse B. It's just that he doesn't respond to any other name.”

“That is not the point,” she said, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Do you remember any of your other instructions?”

“I'm to look after his needs, and I'm…I'm not supposed to talk with him.”

Nurse B. pushed the document over toward Jamilet once again, and leaned across the desk. “The fewer the words that pass between you the better, but he'll try to engage you, believe me he'll try. Perhaps he already has?”

Jamilet reached for a pen and signed the document. She sensed Nurse B.'s growing agitation as the false words slipped over her tongue far too easily this time. “Not yet, but if he does, I'll let you know.”

Nurse B. relaxed considerably and leaned back in her chair, her eyes still darting this way and that as she considered other matters. “And if anything else out of the ordinary should happen, you're to tell me immediately. Is that clear?”

Jamilet glanced at the clock. She was several minutes late in delivering Señor Peregrino's breakfast. She could picture him at his desk, wearing a scowl that could frighten a vampire, as he'd made it well known that he didn't appreciate tardiness.

“Excuse me,” Jamilet ventured. “But I'm late, and his breakfast will be cold…”

Nurse B. understood Jamilet's concern, and waved her out of the room. “Don't forget your instructions, Monica. I guarantee you that I won't be so understanding if this should happen a second time.”

 

Señor Peregrino was sitting at his desk, and he didn't look up from his papers when Jamilet entered the room. She placed the breakfast tray on his bedside table, and waited a moment to see if he would take it in bed, but still, he did not acknowledge her presence.

Jamilet cleared her throat. “I'm sorry I'm late, Señor. Nurse B. wanted to speak with me. I tried to leave as soon as I could.”

He swirled around in a flash, his eyes glaring. “What did she want?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but Señor Peregrino cut her off with an agitated wave of his hand. “Don't bother, I already know. She wanted to inform you of Richard's sudden departure, and remind you of the rules regarding my care. Furthermore, she's considered having me transferred to another hospital. Am I right?”

Jamilet nodded, impressed and intrigued by his accuracy.

Señor Peregrino grew weary as he continued to recount the remaining details as surely as if he'd been there. “What's more, she doesn't want you to entertain me in any of my
delusional
talk.” He crossed his arms and appraised Jamilet plainly. “And you,” he said with a flick of his head, “how did you respond?”

“You don't know?” Jamilet asked, not sarcastic, but genuinely surprised.

“Although I believe that I've almost completely figured you out, there may still be room for error and I'm not in the mood for a guessing game, so won't you please tell me?”

Jamilet proceeded to recount every detail of her response, denying that there'd been any unnecessary conversation, and her commitment to inform Nurse B. of anything else that happened.

“Well done,” he said, clearly pleased. “Should I take this to mean that you're learning how to lie?”

Jamilet's eyes felt scratchy and dry, as if she hadn't blinked in several minutes. “I don't know, Señor. But I think she believed me.”

“Good.” Señor Peregrino went to his bed and sat up against the pillows, as he did when he was ready to receive his tray. Jamilet brought it to him and placed it on his extended legs. “I'm not advocating dishonesty, and I know you're very high-minded about honor.” He lifted the cover of his breakfast, and frowned. The eggs were cold and overcooked, but on this morning he didn't complain. “There are times, however, when it is not only advisable, but absolutely necessary, to lie.” That said, he stabbed a sausage with his fork and popped it into his mouth, chewing pensively. “I've learned this over the years, and they've been painful lessons.”

Basking in their new complicity, Jamilet indulged herself with a question she'd been wanting to ask for some time. “Why do you want me to call you ‘Señor Peregrino' if it isn't your real name, Señor?”

He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and pushed his tray away. “You assumed another name in order to deceive, whereas I have chosen my name in order to reveal the truth about who I am and my purpose here.” He stroked his chin, while his eyes wandered up toward the ceiling. “I'm not quite sure where I left off with my story. It's been several days…”

“You were singing on the steps of the church, and you saw the woman with the red shawl,” Jamilet said. “And then you were lost.”

Señor Peregrino held up his hand to silence her, his eyes widening as the recollection entranced him once again. “Oh yes,” he whispered. “How could I forget? Although often, more than anything else, I have wanted to forget that moment.”

 

Who can deny the beauty of the first days of spring, when tender buds begin to yield their secrets, and the sun spreads its glory across the land with unparalleled brilliance? I suppose there are some who when confronted with such beauty are not affected by it. The very same who happen upon the most spectacular of sunsets and continue their daily routines with little more than a glance. I am the sort who stops in my tracks to consider each subtle phase, every errant beam of light that dances across the sky. I am spellbound until the end, and so I was with Rosa.

I didn't speak to her the first day I saw her. I only managed to nod, and smile nervously before looking away. Even so, I remember precisely the way in which her hair reflected the sun like a dark glossy river and I followed its soft light until she disappeared into the crowd. By this time Tomas had found me and his voice implored me, much as a mother's does when waking her child from a dream. “There's a storm approaching,” he said. “And if we don't take our lunch quickly and find lodging, it will surely catch us, and we'll have no choice but to sleep in the rain like dogs.” Not getting a response, Tomas stood up on the step above mine so we were at eye level. “Do you hear me, Antonio? Or am I speaking to a deaf-mute as well as a fool?”

“Don't be cross with me, Tomas. I prefer your tender assurances to your admonitions.”

He lowered his eyes briefly before fixing them back on to my face. “Look around you, Antonio. Look at this work of men inspired by God. Don't you want to be part of this glory?”

Again, I gazed up at the stones of the church that reached to the heavens, twisting as though from the human agony that yearns for divine understanding. And then all at once, I detected a mild breeze that had found its way into the square, as it meandered about the cafés and open windows above the marketplaces along the periphery of the square, carrying with it the aroma of roasting meat and onions.

My stomach grumbled as I clasped Tomas's shoulder, grateful for his friendship and perseverance. “Thank you, my brother. I will not fail, I promise you that. And I will discipline my mind and my body to strengthen itself against life's temptations. Even the greatest of the saints were tempted, weren't they? Even Santiago himself, I would think.”

“They all were,” Tomas said, exhaling his relief. “And their temptations only served to humble them.”

“We're in good company then.”

I decided that I would have nothing to do with the beautiful girl in the square, and hoped that she was perhaps an angel who'd alighted from a cloud, only to return to the paradise that had spawned her. At the very least, I suspected that with the throngs of pilgrims everywhere, and the great multitude of walking groups that had already formed their alliances, she wouldn't turn up again. Perhaps she wasn't even a pilgrim, but a local village girl taking a break from her daily routines in order to enjoy the diversion of a song.

But as providence would have it, I soon learned that she was indeed a pilgrim. And it took little investigative work to learn that her name was Rosa and that she was traveling from the south of Spain with her mother, who, like everyone else, was praying for a miracle in Santiago. When I turned away from one group talking about the beauty traveling with her mother, I'd collide with yet another.

It was rumored that they were gypsies and that the girl's green eyes were a gift from a Nordic soldier who'd visited her mother years earlier. Others said she was a spirit, and not at all human, for they'd never seen a mere mortal with skin of such porcelain perfection. Several of the men surmised that if she were a gypsy, then perhaps they could pay her to dance for them, and that if they weren't walking for a holy purpose they might consider paying her for something else.

To my dismay, Rosa's mother befriended Rodolfo when she lanced a nasty blister on his heel, and she and her daughter were invited by the ever grateful Basque giant to join our little group. It was then that Tomas took to watching me out of the corner of his eye, even as we followed the Najerilla River, passing through prime farmland that rivaled that of his family's holdings. While vast stretches of vineyards flanked us on the right and left, he watched me with obvious concern, ignoring what would normally have prompted his animated commentary. The vineyards gave way to fields lined with countless rows of golden haystacks drying in the sun. We knelt and prayed at almost every cross that we encountered, and afterward placed a stone at its base. In some places there could be seen small hills, more like mounds, alongside the road. When we got closer, we could see that these hills were actually piles of stones that pilgrims over the ages had left as a testament to their journey.

Days passed in this way, and I hardly spoke, and ate even less. Occasionally it rained, turning the dirt beneath our feet into a sticky quagmire, but still I walked the path more vigorously than anyone and was frequently leading our little band of pilgrims along its route. It wasn't that I enjoyed leading so much, but at the front of the group I wasn't tormented by the sight of Rosa. Even when gazing upon the back of her head under the mantle she wore, it was difficult for me to bear. While the rest of us walked, it seemed to me that she floated. When she gestured with a delicate arm out toward the fields to the left or right, pointing out to her mother something that caught her eye, it became the most sensuous of dances. She was taunting me with her grace, so it was better for me to walk ahead, leaving Tomas and Rosa and everyone else in the dust of my shoes.