Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  When she returned he had not moved. “You think yourself to be very clever, don’t you?” he said.

  “How could someone who doesn’t read or write be clever?”

  Señor Peregrino’s lips flickered with a smile in spite of his desire to remain severe. “I’m curious,” he said. “Don’t you wonder why I’m up here, why it is that I don’t have a file like every other patient in this hospital? Not that you could read it if I did, but I would think that you would have asked a few questions by now.”

  “I don’t know why you’re here, Señor.” Jamilet shifted her weight onto her other leg. She wanted anything but to be engaged in a guessing game with him, one that he could twist and turn about her throat until he strangled her with his vile humor. But she knew that she must indulge him, or suffer his disagreeable moods later. “People are here because they’re crazy. So, I guess you must be crazy too.”

  Señor Peregrino clapped his great hands together, and then bowed his head with exaggerated humility. “You certainly pushed your mind beyond its limits to arrive at that conclusion. Bravo!”

  Jamilet allowed herself a rare moment to look fully into his eyes. “But you don’t seem like the others downstairs.” She shook him out of her eyes, and muttered, “I don’t know…” Señor Peregrino’s own eyes widened and in the corners there appeared a momentary softness, a veil of tears remembered and withheld. “Those poor souls you see writhing around in their own excrement below are the lucky ones. Nevertheless,” he said, “I’ll make it worth your while if you’re able to find out something about me—why I’m here.”

  “I don’t understand, Señor.”

  His face hardened. “Open your mouth for once and ask questions.”

  Jamilet lifted her chin and tightened her arms around the laundry. “That’s not my job, Señor. Why should I do this?”

  “Because…because if you manage to make any accurate discoveries before the end of the week, I promise I will not speak a word to you until you’ve completed your month’s tenure. Then you’ll most certainly have earned your raise, and as paltry as it must be, I’m sure you’d be delighted by the extra pennies in your wallet.”

  “The end of the week is tomorrow, Señor…”

  “Then you haven’t much time, have you?”

  “And I’m assigned up here. I’m not supposed to leave.”

  “That does make things more difficult, but a clever girl like you would be resourceful.”

  Jamilet hated being manipulated in this way, but the possibility of making it to the end of the month without having to endure his constant barrage of insults was too tempting to pass up. Perhaps when the month was over, after she’d received her raise and proved her worth as an employee, she could request a transfer to another department. And even if she had to continue attending to Señor Peregrino, at least she’d be able to save the money she needed more quickly.

  Jamilet decided to begin her inquiries with the kitchen worker who prepared Señor Peregrino’s meals. He was a young blond-haired man with a red, ruddy face that made his eyes stand out like bright blue beads. “They don’t tell us anything down here,” he said, wiping his chapped hands on his apron. “All I know is, he gets whatever he wants. The only other time that happened was a while back when this rich lady came in. But she died after a couple of weeks. That old man’s been here…” He looked up to the ceiling as he made his mental calculations. “It’s been about three years.”

  She next approached the charge nurse on the fourth floor, a perpetually flustered woman with thick glasses that were constantly slipping down her nose as she scribbled in one of a pile of charts on her desk. She squinted at Jamilet as if seeing her for the first time. She had in fact spoken to her on two previous occasions, and each time appeared just as bewildered as she did at this moment. “You want to know about Señor who?” she asked, shoving her glasses up her nose.

  Jamilet bit her lip. “Señor Peregrino…”

  “Who’s Señor Pere…whatever you said,” she stated.

  “The patient…on the fifth floor.”

  “That’s not his name, for goodness sake,” the charge nurse said, and then she reached for the clipboard underneath her desk, and began running her finger down the names on the list. She jabbed at the spot with her finger when she found it, and showed it to Jamilet for good measure. “See here? His name is Antonio Calderon.”

  Jamilet studied the place where she pointed, feigning the thoughtful gaze appropriate to reading. “Yes, of course, but he thinks his name is Señor Peregrino.”

  The charge nurse seized this opportunity to instruct and criticize with relish. “You should never encourage patients in their delusions.” She pointed to a thin man scuffling by in his robe and slippers as he muttered unintelligibly to himself. “On some days, that patient you see there believes he’s Gandhi. Do you think I go around saying, ‘Come and get your medication, Gandhi’ or ‘Have you showered today, Gandhi?’ She stared at Jamilet with her unblinking fish eyes. “Of course I don’t. That would only confuse him all the more.” She slapped her chart down, causing a minor avalanche on her desk.

  Jamilet was heading back up the stairs to her post when a low, muffled voice prompted her to turn and peer into the darkened corner behind her. “You want to know about the old man on the fifth floor?” it asked.

  Jamilet turned around with a start and found herself looking into the gray face of Richard the janitor, who was as thin and bedraggled as the mop that was his constant companion. She’d seen him around, slinking through the corridors, and leaving his watery trail where ever he went, although he never went up to the fifth floor. She alone was expected to perform any and all cleaning services that pertained to her patient.

  “You know my patient?” Jamilet asked.

  He lifted his ashen hand and circled it haphazardly before it flopped back down to his side. “I know ’em all.” He glanced down the hall and lowered his voice, so that Jamilet had to lean toward him to hear. “I know ’em better than the nurses and the docs,” he said, smiling secretively. “You know Charlie, the one you’re always sneaking food to?”

  Jamilet was shocked that he’d seen her do this. “Only once in a while,” she muttered.

  “Nope,” he said. “I’ve been watching you, and I seen that you give him stuff every day. It was chocolate pudding yesterday, and today you gave him two extra rolls. I saw you pull ’em right out of your pocket. Anyway,” he continued, once he believed Jamilet to be sufficiently impressed with his observational skills, “the reason Charlie’s so bald is because every morning, and every night, he spends hours in front of the mirror pulling out his own hair. He keeps the nails on his right hand long so he can use ’em like tweezers. And sometimes he wears a towel like a diaper, and walks around sucking his thumb. It’s a sight to see,” he said, chuckling.

  “But why is my patient here?” Jamilet asked, “The one on the fifth floor.”

  The janitor pursed his lips for a moment, as if savoring a delicious candy. “I heard the doctors say that he killed his wife. Just went berserk one day and chopped her up into a thousand pieces.” Reacting to Jamilet’s incredulous expression, he raised both hands, almost dropping his mop in the process. “I swear to God. They found him curled up like a baby in his mother’s womb after he did it. Wouldn’t leave his house, and didn’t talk for months. You know he’s never left his room since he came here?” He examined Jamilet with a certain concern. “You should be careful with him, young and pretty as you are. He has a taste for young blood too, I hear. Why do you think nobody ever lasts up there with him?”

  With the lunch tray balanced expertly on her forearm, Jamilet softly knocked on the door and waited until she heard his permission to enter. He was at his desk, as he almost always was, reading through the same papers over and over, as if he’d never seen them before. He did not acknowledge her as she set his lunch tray down, and she walked lightly to the door, hoping that he’d forgotten the challenge he’d posed to her earlier.
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  “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.

  9

  JAMILET 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.