Tarnished Beauty (21 page)

The soldiers who were sitting at the tables stood up and the pilgrims who were watching from the periphery closed in. A shadow seemed to fall over the square and suddenly, more swiftly than any eye could capture, the soldier struck a blow with his pistol and Tomas fell to the ground. He stood over Tomas, waiting to see if he would cause him any more trouble. And if need be, he seemed quite prepared to use his weapon properly next time, for he didn't return it to its holster. I took my position between Tomas and the soldier as Rosa fell to her knees behind me to tend to him. His appraisal of me was not quite so cursory. I stood taller than he, and although my shoulders were not as broad, I'm certain the intention he read in my eyes made them appear to fill the square.

“We don't want trouble,” I said quietly.

“It's not trouble I'm after.” He flicked his eyes down at Rosa, who'd managed to help Tomas sit up from his fallen position. “She tells me that she's not married, so I'm offending no one. It is this man who's challenged me,” he said, thrusting his chin out. I understood what he meant, as it was well understood that a woman traveling without a husband, or a male relative to look out for her, was practically advertising her availability. It was amazing that this was the first problem she'd encountered while on her journey.

Where my next words came from, I do not know. It was as though they were spawned on my tongue by an unseen force, and I could only spit them out or swallow them. “She is not married, that's true,” I conceded. “But she is not without family. I trust you'd understand a brother's desire to defend his sister's honor. Even if it involves confronting an obviously superior opponent.”

The soldier's face went blank. “Her brother?”

I spoke loudly to be sure that Tomas and Rosa had heard me. “Yes, they are brother and sister, and as you can see, they are very close.”

Upon hearing our discourse, Rosa's mother fell to the ground to join in on this spontaneous pietà. “Oh, my son, my son. What have you done to my son?” She grabbed Tomas by the shoulders with both hands, and pulled him to her bosom as though he were a suckling infant.

Disgusted by the scene at his feet, the soldier returned the gun to its holster and spun away to join his companions. We sat on opposite ends of the square during lunch, but his eyes never left Rosa's face.

J
AMILET HAD JUST FINISHED
her work and was making her way down the hill when she saw Eddie leaning against the hospital fence, with his hands stuffed into his pockets, and his head hanging. Even with his back turned to her, Jamilet knew it was him. There was no mistaking the dark hair just slightly wavy at the neckline, the length of his arms, and the breadth of his back. Her heart raced, and instinctively she scanned the street to see if Pearly was anywhere in sight. But Pearly would still be at work. She didn't get home until well past six and it was barely five.

Jamilet had obeyed her aunt's directive. It had been a month since the attack and, aside from his wavering image in her peripheral vision when she walked into her house, that was the last time she'd seen him. She was kneeling on the grass looking up at him as though she'd been caught defecating in public. She remembered the way he'd kept telling Pearly to calm down and relax, his voice like a velvet whisper. Jamilet had heard men talk like this when breaking wild horses, and it seemed to work pretty well on Pearly too, even as her nostrils flared while he pulled her away.

Jamilet's insides grew hot and tight as she remembered. To see Eddie here was almost a miracle, but she didn't want to feel the shame again. She stopped in her tracks and considered ducking into the trees. In forty minutes or so, he'd have to leave if he was going to be at Pearly's in time. Suddenly, as though sensing her presence, he turned around and saw her. He took hold of the fence, and indicated, with a flick of his head, that she should come closer. She had no choice—her legs kicked back into gear and began moving toward him without her consent.

When they stood close enough to speak, Jamilet could think of nothing to say. It occurred to her that maybe he wasn't waiting for her at all, but had decided to stand in that spot only to admire the trees and the fading light between their branches. Perhaps she should just pass through the gate and keep walking, but she stood where she was and tried hard not to drown in his nearness. But she had to breathe, and when she did, she inhaled the scent of soap and mint toothpaste, and died just a little.

He cleared his throat. “How are the nutcases doing?”

Jamilet tried to match his easy smile. “Fine,” she said.

“You're still not scared working in that freaky place?”

Jamilet crossed her arms and uncrossed them, while shaking her head and smiling sheepishly.

Eddie nodded and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. The smile had left him. “About the other day. I wanted you to know that it was Pearly's sister who told her, not me,” he said. “I guess she saw us at the library or something. And, I'm sorry if she hurt you 'cause I know she throws a mean punch.”

Jamilet gazed at him through the fence with wide and vulnerable eyes. In his awkward attempt to apologize and explain what had happened, she considered him to be beyond beautiful. It filled her completely, and the warmth that surrounded them felt safe and separate from the rest of the world. And in this perfect space of time she hoped she might clear something up. “Why is Pearly so jealous?” she asked. “I didn't think girls like her were ever jealous.”

“All girls are jealous.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know lots of girls and they're all jealous, especially if the girl they think is after their man is good looking, then they're crazy jealous, and they do crazy things like punch people they don't know in the middle of the street.”

Eddie glanced left and then right. He shuffled his feet as though distracted, or searching for a way to end the conversation. Then he became still and his eyes burned bright with the fear that lurked behind them. “How'd you know?” he asked. “How'd you know my mom is sick?”

Jamilet couldn't find a way to explain how the knowing had come upon her that afternoon in the library, or how it was that over the years she'd learned how to read the expressions on people's faces in the way most people read books. It was simply a feeling that filled her in the same way she was filled with his torment at that very moment. “I just knew,” she said after several moments of silence.

He nodded, his need to speak more profound than his need to understand. “She has cancer. It's in a place where they can't take it out…in her liver.”

“That's too bad,” Jamilet said, feeling stupid and inept. Nothing she could think of to say seemed right for the moment.

“Yeah, that's what I think,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “That's just too fucking bad.” He shrugged, mumbled a hasty good-bye, and walked away, his shoulders hunched forward as though braving a chilling storm. Jamilet waited until he was halfway down the street to begin her own walk home. She watched his shirttail floating behind him with every step, the way he pushed the traffic-light button with his elbow so he didn't have to bother removing his hands from his pockets.

When she lost sight of him, she replayed the scene over and over again in her mind, mostly to convince herself that it was real and not one of her own creations. When she thought of sweet beautiful Eddie suffering as he was, the sadness she felt gouged deep wells into a heart already weakened by its recent encounter, and the agony was so sublime, it was almost intolerable. Several times she stumbled, and imagined herself on the edge of a cliff ready to jump into the depths of something she couldn't understand. And then the glorious and unbelievable truth struck her—Eddie thought she was “good looking.” Good looking enough to make someone “crazy jealous.” She was almost sure of it. She rubbed her jaw with her thumb in search of the dull ache that had only recently subsided in order to convince herself that it was true. And as she confirmed it, she was absolutely certain that she'd never been happier and more miserable in all her life.

 

Included with Señor Peregrino's breakfast one morning was an envelope that Ms. Clark herself gave Jamilet to deliver. And when he saw it, he opened it immediately and read it three or four times before taking another breath. Then his head dropped back on the pillow and he quickly mumbled what seemed like a prayer, his eyes glassy with tears.

“I hope it's good news, Señor,” Jamilet said, mostly to remind him that she was still in the room.

Slowly he turned to her, joy beaming from his eyes, his entire being awash in wonder. He straightened up in his bed and refolded the letter carefully. “Do you believe in miracles, Jamilet?”

“Do you mean like magic?”

“What I mean,” he said, the muscles of his face twitching, “are happenings, unexplained and wonderful, beyond your dreams, challenging your meaning of life, and your purpose within it.”

She answered meekly, “I never really thought about it that way, Señor.”

“Well, think about it,” he said, as though ready to succumb to a mad gale of laughter. “What else have you to think about? What else has anybody to think about?”

Jamilet tried to appear pensive while keeping a wary eye on Señor Peregrino, who was acting strangely enough to cause her concern. The only thing that came to mind when she thought about miracles was the mark, and her hope beyond all others to someday be rid of it. “I think,” she said cautiously, “that I would like to believe in miracles, Señor.”

“You'd like to believe in miracles, would you? Well, let me tell you that in order for my eyes to open every morning, and look upon the world, I
must
believe.”

Jamilet nodded as if these words made perfect sense to her.

He blinked happily. “What if I were to say to you that I'd found you a miracle?”

Jamilet was dumbfounded. “I…I don't know, Señor. I suppose that I'd thank you.”

He chuckled and waved a hand at her. “Oh, you just think I'm just a crazy old man, but soon, when the appointed hour arrives, you will see that I am not so crazy after all.” He sighed and refolded the letter, carefully placing it back into the envelope, his eyes glittering mysteriously. “I believe that I'll continue with my story now,” he said. “Your lesson can wait until later. Sit. Sit,” he commanded, and she obeyed, feeling somewhat relieved that this strange discussion had ended.

“Well,” he said. “Where were we?”

“The soldier,” Jamilet blurted out, happy to offer something useful. “The blond soldier was in love with Rosa.”

“In love?” Señor Peregrino asked, raising his eyebrows.

Jamilet persisted. “He couldn't stop looking at her from across the square. He couldn't take his eyes off her.”

“Is that love, Jamilet?”

She thought about this earnestly. “Maybe it's more like a seed. If it gets water and light, it can grow into love,” she offered shyly.

“Interesting, I've never heard it explained quite that way before,” he said, his black eyes flashing with every word. And then the Spanish day grew around them.

 

It seemed that the plains of wheat, waving their golden limbs up to the sky as they whispered their secrets to the weary pilgrims who passed, had grown eternal. The miles passed one after the other with little variation, save the occasional church perched upon an almost imperceptible knoll, or the appearance of dovecotes in the fields and dense flocks of doves as we neared the villages. While the monotony of our surroundings lulled most of us into a trance, Tomas embraced the role of protective brother with increasing enthusiasm, and Rosa's mother was ever so grateful to have acquired a son. She prattled on incessantly about it, and I do believe that even Tomas's boundless patience was tested.

Spending time with them as we did, it wasn't hard to understand why Rosa was such a quiet girl. No doubt she'd had to wait for days, even weeks, for an opportunity to interject a word or two of her own. Yet, she tolerated her mother graciously. One would never guess she felt the slightest irritation when commanded to cover her face against the dust of the road, to steady her walk over loose stones, to drink slowly lest her belly ache. Her mother fired these warnings and many others at her daughter, and Rosa wordlessly obeyed, her face always placid, betraying almost no emotion. It was impossible to know what she was thinking at any moment, and absurd to consider that she might have any feelings at all for me other than the same gentle friendliness she showed to everyone.

Once or twice, she caught me watching her and I became momentarily flustered, but soon regained my composure by asking her if she would like me to sing. The only time Rosa's mother ceased talking was when she slept or I sang. And so it was that the four of us were seldom seen walking the path one without the other. Tomas, with his new family, and I, the able friend who watched over them.

Before long, Tomas's obsession with Rosa grew into adoration. No more did he mention his dedication to the church, and I could swear that he was beginning to gain a bit of weight. And the timbre in his voice had deepened somewhat, so that once or twice I didn't recognize him when he spoke. He liked telling Rosa about his life in our village back home, and the vast stretches of land his family owned, the fine embroidered tablecloth they used even for plainer meals that never failed to include meat. Rosa listened, while nodding politely, but she didn't appear to be impressed.

Her mother, however, was practically salivating and more than willing to give Tomas control of the conversation whenever it pertained to the subject of his family's holdings. She'd tuck his arm inside hers and laugh at something he said that was not necessarily intended to be funny. “You're such a clever young man,” she'd say merrily. “I've always said that a man with muscle in the head is much more interesting, don't you agree, Rosa?”

As always, Rosa responded to her mother with reasoned caution. “I do appreciate thoughtfulness, Mother, in men and women both.”

Doña Gloria cackled, and she quickened her step. “It's almost as though you were meant to be my son, Tomas.”

More than once Doña Gloria spoke to me during those rare occasions when Rosa and Tomas couldn't possibly hear us. One time I remember clearly; I was waiting to fill my canteen at the well when she came up from behind and startled me. “Is it true what Tomas says about his family and their position?” she asked, her mouth twisted, as though we were partners in crime.

I couldn't suppress my indignation. “I assure you, Doña Gloria, that rich or poor, Tomas is an honest man.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, attempting to soothe me with her motherly tone. “But I'm sure you understand that a mother must watch out for her daughter, especially if her daughter is as beautiful as Rosa. You have no idea the fantastic stories I've heard. It's as if men take one look at her and suddenly become liars of the worst kind.” She laughed, and covered her mouth with enough force to knock out a few teeth; and she hadn't many to spare. Feeling more composed, she whispered, “For many years I've been planning her destiny.”

I was tempted to inform her that destiny could be determined only by God, but I had no desire to enter into a philosophical argument. I filled my canteen, and remained silent.

“I tried talking Rosa out of this foolish journey by telling her that God listens to her prayers no matter where she offers them, but she would have come with or without my approval. Oh yes, she's headstrong,” she said, responding to my raised eyebrows, for I was surprised to hear that Rosa was anything but obedient. “She may appear meek and agreeable most of the time, but believe me, when she decides on something, nobody can stop her.”