Tarnished Beauty (33 page)

“And what about Jenny? What happened to her?” Jamilet asked, all at once remembering the janitor's story about how the fifth-floor patient had cut up his wife into a thousand little pieces. After hearing all of this, it seemed a likely outcome. “Did you kill her, Señor? Is…is that how you ended up here?”

Señor Peregrino placed the Bible back in the drawer, and clasped his hands together. “I cannot deny that the thought crossed my mind once or twice, but no, I didn't kill Jenny. She continues to pursue me, and finds it impossible to leave me in peace even now as I live my hermit's life.”

“But I'm the only one who comes here, Señor.”

“Yes, that's true, but Jenny is never far away. You see, my dear,” Señor Peregrino said, gathering his letters together and putting them back in the drawer, “Jenny and Nurse B. are one and the same.”

I
T WAS THE FIRST MORNING
since the incident at the park that Jamilet awoke without thinking about Eddie. She did not remember to renew her vow to hate him, nor did she painfully relive their tender moments together at the fence when she passed by it on her way to work. When she walked through the gate and up the path to the main entrance of the hospital, she heard the singing again, sweetly rising and lingering about the treetops. She stopped to listen more intently, and admire the mystical tones. It was an ancient song, yet as familiar to her as a lullaby. She resumed her walk, stepping softly, as she imagined the pilgrims had done when reaching the crest of a steep hill, contemplating the journey that lay ahead, and the miles they'd already traveled. She didn't understand the words of the chant, but they twisted melodically and found their place in her soul, deciphering their own meaning, and gnawing at the edges of her hopes and fears.

Jamilet entered the hospital as always, punched in her time card, and proceeded up the five stories to her post. Now that the story was finished, she felt as though she were on the threshold of something extraordinary, and hesitated outside Señor Peregrino's door, feeling almost as she had on her first day. She knocked, and entered after he acknowledged her. She found him still in bed, his eyes shimmering and a faint smile hovering about his lips. It was then that she saw the open suitcase on his desk, and the neat piles of clothing on the chair. His shoes were lined up against the wall, and the drawers of his wardrobe were open and nearly empty. Noting her confusion, he said, “As interminable as my stay here has been, it now seems to have passed so quickly. Time can be as moody and petulant as a spoiled child, I'm afraid.”

Jamilet's face was blank. “Where are you going, Señor?”

He blinked once. “The appointed hour has arrived. I'm going to Spain, to Santiago de Compostela, as I've been planning to do all along.”

Upon hearing his words, Jamilet felt an unexpected sadness descend upon her. It was so strong that she immediately found an excuse to interrupt their discussion, and in a semi-bewildered state went about her usual duties in the bathroom. She didn't want Señor Peregrino to see the tears that kept welling up in her eyes, and she needed time to compose herself. She reported to the kitchen at the normal hour for his breakfast, and when she returned she felt better. But she noticed that Señor Peregrino was behaving a bit oddly as well. She'd never seen him smile in such a secretive manner. He asked her to sit and share a cup of coffee with him, as these moments would soon end. But he said this strangely too, as though stifling giggles.

“It looks like you're almost packed,” Jamilet observed between sips of coffee. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“And what is the weather like in Santiago?” she asked, trying to sound casual, hoping that this would keep her strong emotions at bay.

“You wouldn't be asking me that if you'd listened carefully to my story, Jamilet.”

She became flustered, and her cup rattled on its saucer. “Well, I know there's plenty of rain and mist, but it's summertime. Does it rain in the summer too?”

“Perhaps,” he said, watching her closely. “But enough talk about weather. I'm ready for my breakfast now.” He raised his arms and Jamilet took the tray to him, positioning it carefully on his lap. She lifted the dome off the plate, and sat in her chair as he ate. He appeared to have a fine appetite, with little concern about the adventure that awaited him.

“Why are you leaving now, Señor?”

He nodded, and swallowed. “This coming Sunday is the twenty-fifth of July, the holiest day of the year in Santiago, and if I leave tomorrow night I'll make it just in time.” When he was finished with his breakfast, he raised his arms again so that Jamilet could remove the tray. Then he pushed back the covers and swung his legs out of the bed. His feet were searching for his slippers, but then he became still, and locked his eyes on Jamilet's face. “Some months ago you asked me if my story were true or pretend. Do you remember what I said to you then?”

Jamilet nodded. “You said that everything in life is an illusion and that truth is only what we choose to believe.”

“That's correct. And now I must ask you, do you believe that my story is true, or a delusion?”

Jamilet was stunned by his question, and wondered why Señor Peregrino, as certain as he was of his own truth, would care what she thought. Even so, she had to admit that from the beginning she was drawn to his story, and to the power of his convictions, but she didn't know enough about the art of deception to be sure of much else. Did truth, even in its crudest form, draw you in, like the warmth of the sun? Could it claim itself to be by its mere presence? She felt incapable of answering such questions; nevertheless, she knew that she believed in him. She couldn't find the words to describe this feeling so essential to her being. She simply knew that she believed, like she did in the sky above, although she'd never touched it and couldn't prove to herself or anyone that the expanse of nothingness was indeed the sky and not an illusion.

“I believe that your story is true, Señor,” she said.

He smiled in response and, still looking at her intently, said, “I've been waiting for the right time to tell you that some weeks ago, I experienced a revelation. It came to me at the point when sleep had begun to creep into my brain, but it was so powerful that I was unable to close my eyes for some time afterward.” He shuddered, as though a remnant of this experience were still afflicting him. “I heard a voice, as strong as thunder, yet tender enough to suspend all of my fears. The voice told me that while I would never find the child I was searching for, I should no longer despair, because my grandchild had found me.” He clasped his hands together. “And you, my dear, are that grandchild.”

Jamilet stood up abruptly. “Señor!”

He stood as well, and shuffled along to the bathroom, unperturbed. “It's only right that you should accompany me to Spain so that we may honor your grandmother Rosa and express our gratitude to Santiago together. And you needn't worry about the expense or any details. I've already made the necessary arrangements.”

“This isn't a revelation, Señor. You…you made it all up!”

He was almost to the bathroom door when Jamilet ran in front of him, blocking the entrance. “Señor, I am not your granddaughter,” she said, with rigid arms down at her sides and fists clenched. “I don't believe that part of your story—not at all!”

“That may be, but I'm certain that I believe you are my granddaughter more than you believe you're not. Now, if you'll kindly step away…”

He had started to move past her when Jamilet blurted out, “My mother was born in a brothel. Her mother was a prostitute. It's well-known by everyone in the village. She sold her body for money, and probably died from some horrible disease that comes from doing too much of whatever it was she did. Was Rosa a prostitute, Señor? Is that what we should believe?” The startled expression on Señor Peregrino's face encouraged her to continue. “And my mother wasn't her first child. Tía Carmen came first, and looking at her anyone would know that neither you nor Rosa could have been her parent.”

Señor Peregrino hung his head and appeared distressed. Then he raised it slowly, his eyes sparkling with fresh resolve. “I can't concern myself with such details now. How my daughter ended up in a Mexican brothel, I'll never know. Perhaps that is where Jenny put her, God only knows what treachery she's capable of. Or, perhaps it isn't your mother we should consider, but your father…”

“He was a rapist and a drunk, Señor! I swear it!”

Señor Peregrino closed the door without another word, and promptly opened the faucets, which squealed and moaned before releasing a rush of water that effectively drowned out all other sounds.

Jamilet squeezed her face into the doorjamb and yelled, “I'll get proof, Señor, and you'll see that what you're saying is crazy.”

She listened for a moment or two with her ear pressed against the door, but there was no response from him, only the gushing sound of the shower. A few moments later she heard chanting, soft and reverent, yet bright enough to lift the heaviest fog.

 

Dressed in a white linen shirt and dark slacks, Señor Peregrino was waiting at his desk when Jamilet returned later that day with his lunch tray. He slid a sealed envelope toward the edge of the desk, and said nothing, but it was clear that he meant for her to take it.

Jamilet approached cautiously. After she'd left him to his shower that morning, she'd retreated to the adjacent office, praying that his earlier insanity would lift so that when she returned, all would be back to normal. But whenever she thought about the fact that Señor Peregrino actually wanted her to be his granddaughter, her good sense was interrupted by an unexpected warm fluttering in the pit of her stomach. It made her feel as though she might float out of the window, to frolic in the treetops and enjoy this balmy weather born of hope.

It was in the afterglow of this state of mind that she opened the envelope. There she found her original documents, just as she remembered them, her birth certificate and the identification card Carmen had bought for her downtown. But there was something else, and she studied it more closely. It was another card with nine digits stamped across the front, like the one Carmen had given her, but this one had her true name.

Señor Peregrino leaned back in his chair with arms folded across his chest, apparently quite pleased with himself. “I have friends in immigration, and enough money to be bold with the favors I ask,” he said slyly.

“I don't understand, Señor.”

He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward in his chair. “You can throw that false Social Security card your aunt gave you away. This one is legal—it's the real thing.”

Overwhelmed, Jamilet asked, “Why did you do this, Señor?”

His eyes wandered the ceiling and he scratched his chin as he thought about it. “I asked myself that very question months ago when I began this whole process. I didn't know the answer then, but if nothing else, I've learned that it's a wise man who obeys the dictates of his heart. Anyway,” he said, with practical cheer, “it's quite difficult to travel abroad without proper identification and a passport, at least not by plane.”

Jamilet stared at the new document and allowed herself to entertain the vision she'd been resisting all morning. She's onboard a plane bound for Spain, with Señor Peregrino sitting beside her. As the plane flies across the Atlantic, they happily peer out of the small windows and watch the clouds drift by while sipping coffee and sharing stories. Then, all at once, Jamilet shook the fog from her head and returned the documents to their envelope. “Señor, I don't want to disappoint you, but I can't force myself to believe something I know isn't true. We both know that I'm not your
real
granddaughter. Maybe you just decided that you needed a miracle, and that this was it.”

His expression stiffened. “This is a miracle, Jamilet. Make no mistake about that.”

“How can it be, Señor? A miracle is like when the doctor tells you that you're going to die and nothing will save you, and then suddenly you're cured. Or…or like when you don't have enough money to pay the rent, and you find an envelope stuffed with just what you need on the sidewalk. Miracles happen like magic.”

“And who says that miracles happen like magic? Who invented that rule? Was it you?”

“No. Everybody just knows that's how it is.”

“And what I know is that we make our own miracles.” He held out his hands to her. “Come here, child.” She stepped in closer to give him her hands and he pressed them into his own. “Magic is for weak-hearted fools, whereas miracles are born of faith, and nothing else. You are my granddaughter because I will it with all of who I am.”

Inspired by the strength of his words and the warmth of his touch, Jamilet understood for the first time exactly what he meant. “Just because we say it's true, it becomes true.”

“That's right, and you must choose your stories, and believe in them with all your heart, and all your soul—your entire being. Do you understand what I'm saying, Jamilet?”

“I think so.”

He released her hands, and cleared his throat. “I'm aware of the fact that I'm not the most patient man. I can be moody at times, even difficult by some accounts, but I'm basically a simple and good-hearted soul, and relatively well educated. Under my tutelage you'll apply your capabilities in an honorable fashion.” He addressed her as sincerely as he ever had. “Will you have me for your grandfather, Jamilet?”

“Señor, anyone would be lucky to have you as their grandfather.”

“Then you accept my proposal?”

“I…I guess…”

“Guessing isn't good enough, my dear.”

Jamilet gathered her conviction and poured it into every word. “I accept you as my grandfather, Señor, with all of my heart.”

Satisfied by the sincerity of her declaration, he opened the first drawer of his desk to retrieve Rosa's small leather Bible, cracked and worn with the years. He asked Jamilet to place her hand upon it, and he did the same. His voice took on a singsong quality, and he strung out the words all on the same note as they echoed softly in the room. “By the power of this holy book, and by the love and will of our eternal souls, I hereby declare that you, Jamilet, and I, Antonio, are from this moment and forevermore to be known as granddaughter and grandfather. And may the truth of our relationship be known to any and all who care to hear of it.”