Tarnished Beauty (31 page)

“You can run fast, girl,” he said, and his face moved in closer, as though he might kiss her. “What could be so bad to make you run like that?”

He wasn't expecting an answer, so perplexed was he by her sudden transformation. She looked eerily beautiful to him, like a fragile bird, easy to scare into submission, but if he let go for just a second, she'd disappear again.

Jamilet moved her head from side to side, looking past him, toward the sky, as she tried again to find the words. She'd never spoken about the mark to anyone who didn't already know about it. Revealing it to the uninitiated was like trying to describe love in three or four words. It was beyond her, and yet it was the essence of who she was, and why she was.

But when she refocused on his face, his eyes were intent on the curve of her neck beyond the strap of her shirt. During their tussle, her clothes had shifted, and he could see the fine edges of the mark for himself, like delicate fingers curling around her throat. He sat up, still straddling her, his eyes unwavering and steady on the mark.

“What's that on your neck?” he asked, concerned that he might have hurt her. He loosened his grip on her wrists, and she flung her arms free. In one smooth movement she pushed him off and onto his back. She scrambled to her feet in a flash, but before she could take another step, Eddie grabbed her foot, knocking her off balance, and she fell hard, on her stomach. He was on top of her again, and she felt her sweater coming off and her new shirt pulled up so that most of the mark was visible. Her hands grabbed fists full of dirt as she waited. The smell of the earth and the fresh air on her skin created such a peaceful sensation that she wondered if she might be dying. She closed her eyes, as though to let death know that she accepted its arrival.

She imagined his face, round startled eyes, mouth slightly open in shock. He had momentarily lost the ability to speak, but she felt much better nonetheless. This she had lived before. She knew what would come next, and how the scene would unfold, as it had so many times before.

“It's a birthmark,” she said, spitting out dirt as she spoke. “And it doesn't hurt.”

He was breathing hard, as he hadn't had the sense to look away. She thought of warning him that the more he looked at the mark, the worse it would get, but she remained quiet. It was almost over.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he finally asked, but he sounded different, as though humbled by something he couldn't understand.

“I never tell anyone,” Jamilet answered. She felt Eddie's weight lift off her, and he stood up. She stood as well, brushing the dirt from her pants, her stomach, her arms, and her hair, and then giving herself a good shake.

Eddie watched her, surprised by her ability to move normally after what he'd just seen. “Is it there like…I mean, can you get rid of it?”

Jamilet felt strangely powerful when she saw the wonder and the fear in his eyes. She could have told him of her plans to see a doctor, and the stash of money she had in her room, but she would sound like a silly child, as though announcing that one day she planned to be a famous movie star. “There's nothing I can do,” she said, and as she heard herself say these words, for the first time in her life she accepted their truth. Her grandmother had known it. Her aunt in her own way had tried to tell her, and even Dr. Martinez knew, but it was only then, while staring into Eddie's shrinking face, that she knew she'd live with the mark until the day she died.

Neither of them made any attempt to leave, although it was almost dark. Eddie started to look around and stomp his feet like a restless horse. He grew still and asked, “Do you want me to walk you home?”

The tenderness in his eyes fought with his desire to break out in a full run, and get as far away from her as he could. She knew it, as well as the fact that she could hold him for only a moment or two longer in this unsettled trance born of disgust and pity. “I know the way,” she said, and then she released him.

 

Later that night, while she lay in bed exhausted, Jamilet decided that it felt good to hate. The feelings packed up inside her made her feel dense and strong, and no longer like the flimsy creature she'd known herself to be who could be carried off by the wind, or shaken by a good cough. And while she was thinking about it, she hated her weak-minded foolishness too, and the wimpy way she agreed with everybody all the time—this cowardice masquerading as kindness made her sick to her stomach. And she hated where she came from and who she was, and the fact that her life was small enough to fit into a shoe box. She was lulled to sleep by her steely resolve to hate. Perhaps hate would put a little meat on her bones.

W
ITH BREAKFAST TRAY
held high, Jamilet knocked once, then entered before hearing Señor Peregrino give his permission. He was still in bed, which wasn't surprising because she had arrived earlier than usual. He preferred his breakfast after his shower, but Jamilet decided that it was unreasonable for him to expect her to go up to the fifth floor first thing in the morning, back down, and then up again, just because he liked his coffee hot enough to scald the feathers off a chicken. He'd have to settle for coffee hot enough to dissolve a teaspoon or two of sugar.

She set the tray on his desk with a thud, and turned to see if the sound had disturbed him, but he hadn't stirred. She lifted the tray, set it down again, and then dropped the coffee spoon into the cup, but still, no sign that he'd heard her. She proceeded to the bathroom next. Señor Peregrino had always directed her to tidy the bath
after
he'd showered, as the lingering steam resulted in mold, and this disgusted him. But Jamilet decided that she'd clean the bathroom while he slept. Why wait until later when the heat of the day would be at its worst?

She'd already started to wipe down the shower door when she heard him calling for her, his voice confused and still gruff with sleep. Jamilet quickly went to his bedside, her expression set, with chin up and eyes clear. “Yes, Señor?” she said, practically standing at attention.

“What are you doing here so early?” he asked as he propped himself up on his pillows, his hair standing on end like an enormous white flame.

“I'm doing my job, Señor. That should be obvious.” She glanced at him to see if her curt reply had produced sufficient shock, and quickly looked away before she could appreciate it in full bloom.

“Do excuse my feeble mind,” he retorted.

Jamilet pushed her shoulders back. “And I've decided that it's much more convenient that I bring your breakfast up first thing in the morning instead of waiting until after you shower. It would save me going up and down the stairs so often, which I
hate.”

Señor Peregrino flinched at the word “hate,” not only because she'd never used it before but because of the way she'd said it, as if she wasn't talking, but was spitting. He sat up more fully to get a better look at her. “You don't even look like yourself this morning,” he said, squinting. “Did you cut your hair?”

“I like it short. It's easier for me.”

“Turn around,” he commanded. She hesitated, but then did as she was told. “It looks like you chopped it off without looking, as if you did it in the dark.”

Jamilet hung her head and said nothing. Señor Peregrino got out of bed to get the breakfast tray himself and brought it back to his bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his bare feet shuffling across the floor and back to his bed again. She heard him preparing his coffee and the coarse sound of a buttered knife move across the toast. “I know what you're doing,” he said. “You're punishing yourself, hoping that self-cruelty will inspire you somehow, and discourage the world.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Señor.”

“Oh, yes you do, my dear.” He took a bite of his toast, and spoke before he had completely swallowed, causing him to cough a little. “And only matters of the heart can provoke such drama. I would venture to guess that the young man for whom you suffered a swollen jaw not long ago is at the heart of this.”

She sighed and felt unexpectedly relieved. “I decided that I hate him, Señor.”

“Have you? Well, you should know by now that you can't choose to hate any more than you can choose to love.”

Jamilet spun around in a flash, her fists tight at her sides. “Oh, yes you can, Señor. Just like I can choose to get up before dawn, even though my body and mind are telling me to keep sleeping. Before long I'm not tired anymore, and I don't even think about going back to bed. I can choose to love and to hate in the same way.”

“Perhaps.” Señor Peregrino sipped his coffee. “But you have to fool yourself into believing that will alone defines reality, beyond experience, and even beyond the wildest hopes of your heart. You must deny your heart, your mind, and your body all at once.”

Jamilet reached around to feel the stubble on the back of her neck. She'd cut her hair so short that it was necessary to wear her collar up or else risk revealing the mark.

“Sit down and have some coffee with me,” Señor Peregrino said.

She sat and accepted the cup, allowing the warmth of it to reach through her fingers and palms, up to her arms, until her shoulders were as round and sluggish as she felt. After a shared breakfast of coffee and toast with jam, the story resumed.

 

The morning we stood on Monte de Gozo, and saw the cathedral spires as though floating in the distance, the sun was already making its ascent into the pale sky. It was difficult for me to accept that our journey was nearly over. Santiago had grown into much more than a destiny in my mind; it was the culmination of all that it meant to be human, and I feared that my spirit, no more than a wisp on this earth, would evaporate when the clouds decided to part.

The four of us hiked down the mountain toward the city below, and for the first time, I heard Rosa sing, her soft voice dispersing like the mist. I joined her, and together our song spilled out over the hills, as my heart surged with the joyous realization that I was living my destiny—to love this remarkable woman until the day I died, to raise our children with her, and to become lost in our union forever.

Then I felt Rosa's hand slip into mine. No longer concerned that Tomas and Jenny were watching, we walked together toward the cathedral as if it were our wedding day. I turned to see Rosa's face, radiant in the fragile light of morning. She'd flung her hood back and the dew in her hair appeared like a thousand glistening diamonds. Neither of us dared to look back at our companions, but I felt their bitterness, darker than the clouds overhead, a disappointment equal to our joy.

We momentarily lost sight of the cathedral as we made our way through the labyrinth of narrow streets that circled the old city, but then all at once we found ourselves in the main square. The cathedral of Santiago soared up toward the heavens in all its glory. It was grander than I had imagined, and the dark gray stone of the facade seemed to breathe with the life of the countless faithful who'd worshipped at her feet over the ages. And at the very crest of the tallest spire stood the statue of the apostle Santiago, with his pilgrim's staff and wide-brimmed hat, welcoming all who were as he had been—a pilgrim of faith, a courageous and wandering soul, a child of God.

Rosa and I entered the main doors of the sanctuary, feeling as two drops in a vast river of life. Once inside we took our place in line, along with hundreds of other pilgrims, so that we might see Santiago's crypt, touch his cape and embrace him, thus officially completing our pilgrimage. Immediately thereafter, we planned to find a priest who'd marry us, right then and there if necessary. We weren't concerned with shaking the dust of the road from our shoes, we were desperate only to fulfill the destiny we knew belonged to us. Listening to the whispered prayers and the weeping of the pilgrims around us, I realized that with Rosa beside me, I was as close to God as I would ever be. Overcome with emotion I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her with the sacred tenderness reserved for a saint. I kissed her again to let her know I was a man who loved her with all of my soul. And I kissed her a third time because the taste of her lips was exquisite.

And together we mounted the steps that led to the crypt of our saint. If moments in life could be strung like pearls along the chain of our existence, this would have been the most precious jewel of all.

“We must thank Santiago,” Rosa said. “We must thank him as pilgrims, and as two people who will soon be man and wife.”

“Yes,” I agreed enthusiastically. “We must ask him to bless our marriage and the many children we'll have, and the grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” Holding her as I was, I had every intention of getting started with the matter of procreation as quickly as possible.

When we entered the crypt, our eyes squinted at the remarkable sight—the intricacy of gold carvings surrounding us at every turn, from floor to ceiling, inspired awe. And the golden statue of Santiago was the most magnificent of all. He faced out toward the congregation, with his back turned to us. We embraced him together, and our prayers swept across the interior of the cathedral, out through the tinted glass and moss-covered stone, beyond the thickening clouds, escaping into the heavens and reaching the ear of God.

It was difficult to find a priest who'd see us, as they were busy with the duties of their
oficio,
all the more pressing on Sundays. While a pilgrim mass was celebrated daily, on Sundays the ceremony called for the use of the
botafumeiro,
an enormous incense pot that swung from the rafters during the service. And it was not entirely for religious purposes, as it was also known that over the centuries, it had effectively masked the malodorous fumes emanating from those who hadn't seen soap and water in months.

But eventually we encountered a young priest leaving the confessional. Fatigued and diminished by the constant barrage of sins he'd been subjected to absolve, he tried his best to avoid us, but it was Rosa who captivated him with her sweet entreaty. He gazed reverently at her face while she spoke, and when she was finished, agreed to marry us the next morning at eleven for a small fee. I remember how he quickly glanced at her midsection as we left to see if she were with child.

We remained for the mass and watched as the
botafumeiro
swung from the eaves, filling the nave with clouds of sweet smoke. Try as I might to keep my eyes on the altar, I couldn't help but turn and gaze at the woman standing next to me who was so soon to become my wife. All said and told, we'd probably spoken fewer than a hundred words to each other, yet I felt that she was part of my spirit. While the other pilgrims asked God to absolve them of their sins so they could return home with their place in heaven assured, I thanked God for the heaven I'd already found and for the wondrous blessing of Rosa's love. “I'll be good to her, dear Lord,” I vowed. “I'll protect her from all harm, and faithfully provide for our children.”

The mass was concluded with the singing of hymns from all over the world. Voices could be heard singing in French and Italian and Greek and English as all faces turned toward the altar in praise of the apostle Santiago. Then we filed out into the square, which was bathed with a brilliant golden light. The sun had decided to make an appearance, as if persuaded by the ecstatic song that broke out among the pilgrims. We were swept up in the joyfulness of the crowd, laughing and singing along with them, and even sharing in a swallow or two of wine from another pilgrim's wine bag. It was then that I saw Tomas standing at the doorway of the
refugio,
watching us as if we were the only people in the square. Rosa saw him too, but Jenny was nowhere in sight.

I asked Rosa to go inside so that I might speak with Tomas alone. I had decided while in the midst of my prayers during the mass that I would tell Tomas of our plans to marry, before and not after the ceremony as we had planned, and ask him to be our witness. This I hoped would be a decisive step toward the healing of our relationship.

It was the first time Rosa passed by Tomas without drawing his gaze, or prompting a smile. His eyes, somber and grave, stayed affixed to mine.

I drew in my breath, straightened my shoulders, and mustered up the courage for my task. “I haven't been honest with you, my friend—” But he did not allow me to finish.

“I once considered you to be the most noble man I knew. Now I wonder if you might not be the devil himself,” he said.

“Because of Rosa?” I placed my hand on his shoulder.

He immediately shrugged it off. “You promised to leave her to me, and I trusted you.”

“It's true that I broke my promise, but you must forgive me and understand that it was impossible to keep myself from falling in love with Rosa. We're getting married—tomorrow morning, and I'd like you to be at my side when we do.”

“And what about Jenny?” he asked.

“What about her?”

“She's so overcome with grief that she was barely able to make it here even with my help.”

“Jenny will get over her obsession with me, I have no doubt of that.”

He came in closer to me and whispered, “But I will never get over Rosa, and I intend to tell her now how I feel—today. And then we'll see what she decides.”

“Do as you wish, but she won't betray me, Tomas. You're wasting your time.”

“Give me the afternoon to speak with her,” he replied. “At least give me that.”

Reluctantly, I conceded, and entered the building in search of a room and much-needed rest. Later that evening, when I heard the sound of the dinner bell echoing throughout the stone corridors of the
refugio,
I figured that they'd had enough time to talk and set about looking for Rosa. It was only right that we should enjoy this meal together on the eve of our wedding, and it was well known that the meals provided for pilgrims at this hostel were the best on the
camino.
There would be plenty of fresh meat and vegetables, and good-quality wine, all lovingly prepared for those who'd found the strength and inspiration to finish their journey. I looked forward to sharing this experience with Rosa, but as I made my way to the dining room I was unable to rid myself of an anxiety that had settled on my brain like an annoying fly. Could it be that Rosa was actually taking time to seriously consider Tomas's proposal? Jenny's words kept repeating themselves over and over again in my mind: “He is able to give her a life that you never could. They are meant to be together, Antonio, just as we are.” It seemed absurd to think that Rosa would be persuaded by such an argument. And yet, I was unable to put the thought out of my mind.