Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  Too upset to eat, she attempted to calm herself with the habits of normalcy, and proceeded with her bedtime ritual. She went to the front window, and stood there until she felt as still and inanimate as the furniture in the room. Then, ever so slowly, she raised her hand and shifted the curtain to one side. They were there as always, gazing out at the traffic. With every passing car Eddie’s hand traveled farther up Pearly’s thigh, but on this night Jamilet couldn’t watch them anymore, so she went to her room. Light-headed and dizzy, she tried to sleep, but when she closed her eyes, all she could see were her precious documents lying on the floor outside Señor Peregrino’s room, unfolding like a flower, and revealing her true identity to whomever passed by.

  Having slept uneasily if at all, Jamilet’s eyes flew open at the first light of dawn, and she wondered how early she could report for work without arousing suspicion. She dressed quickly and dispensed with breakfast. Her stomach was tight as a knot, and the only thing that provided any relief for her anxiety was the thought of getting to the hospital as quickly as she could.

  She clocked in a half hour early, but attracted no attention from the nurses and other staff who were scurrying about in the midst of the morning shift change. With heart pounding she ascended the staircase to the fifth floor, and entered the corridor where she hoped to find her documents. Even if they were lying in a pool of blood, or torn up in a corner, she would’ve been overjoyed to see them. She slowly paced the corridor, but after the second pass knew she had no choice but to enter Señor Peregrino’s room and attempt a search before he woke for his morning shower. Perhaps he’d found them and set them on his desk without realizing what they were. He must have been exhausted after his confrontation with Richard.

  She stood outside his door, calming her breath. She removed her shoes, then opened the door, holding the handle so that it wouldn’t click, and slipped in. He was still sleeping, just as she’d expected. She padded silently across the room, toward his desk, and peered down at his papers, fingers hovering over them while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  “What are you searching for?” Señor Peregrino asked calmly, as though he’d been waiting for her.

  She turned to see him, sitting up in bed. “I just thought I’d get started early today, Señor.”

  He appeared amused, and gave up a beleaguered sigh. “You’re not a very good liar, are you…Jamilet?”

  She gasped when she heard him speak her true name.

  “I must say, ‘Jamilet’ is a definite improvement. Although your assumed name, bland as it is, suits you better.” He studied her for a few seconds, his black eyes shiny as marbles. He appeared troubled, but not nearly so troubled as Jamilet.

  “I need those papers,” she said. “They were a gift from my aunt and I can’t work without them…Señor. I mean, can I please have them back, please?”

  At this Señor Peregrino yawned, and stretched his great arms. “Desperation can drive certain people to civility if they’re not careful,” he said.

  “I’ve always been civil to you.”

  Señor Peregrino nodded and his eyebrows flickered to acknowledge as much. “Is it civility that you owe me? Or perhaps something more…?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I never know what you mean when you talk like that.” She wavered on her feet. “I will not dishonor myself for my papers if that’s what you mean.”

  Señor Peregrino’s hand that lay idly on his lap constricted and then relaxed. “I don’t esteem you enough to be offended by such a remark. If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” he said severely, “it’s that, aside from the cheap entertainment they sometimes provide, fools are of little use to me. I certainly don’t take their prattle seriously.”

  “Then what is it that I owe you, Señor?”

  He appraised her like a disappointed teacher, and all of a sudden she knew exactly what he meant. “I didn’t thank you for helping me yesterday, is that it?”

  “Helping you? I believe it more accurate to say that I saved your miserable hide from becoming even more miserable.”

  Jamilet nodded, feeling not only foolish, but contrite. “Forgive me for not thanking you before.”

  “Very well. I accept your apology.” He shooed her to the door with both hands. “Now you may leave. It’s far too early for this sort of thing.”

  But Jamilet didn’t move from her spot. “And my papers?”

  Señor Peregrino became suddenly preoccupied with the arrangement of his blankets, and began smoothing out the layers one at a time. “Are you referring to the illegal documents you used to obtain employment here?”

  “Yes I am,” was Jamilet’s soft reply.

  Señor Peregrino was almost jovial. “Well, I do have them. And I’ll return them if you’re willing to entertain a certain proposition. Honorable, of course.” He paused to consider his phrasing. “I realize that you’ve been directed to avoid all unnecessary conversation with me, but I ask that, from time to time, you…you listen as I tell you my story from beginning to end. When I have finished, I will return your illegal documents to you and say nothing to anyone of their existence.”

  Jamilet stared at him in disbelief. “You want me to listen to your story?”

  “Yes, it will fully explain the reason I’m here,” he said, settling back onto his pillows and closing his eyes.

  “How long will it take, this story of yours?”

  With eyes still closed, he answered, “It will take as long as it takes.” And without another word, he yawned, turned on his side, and fell soundly asleep.

  10

  AFTER ENJOYING A HEARTY LUNCH, and proclaiming that the roast chicken was especially delicious, Señor Peregrino took his usual nap. Every afternoon at this time, Jamilet quickly removed his lunch tray from the room without disturbing him, but on this day she stood for a long while watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He appeared so peaceful, so completely unaware of her presence.

  Ever so quietly, she approached his bedside and reached out her hand until it floated directly over him. It trembled slightly as she inched closer, while bending at the waist. A few inches more and her fingertips were just touching the rim of his shirt pocket. He mumbled something in his sleep, and she froze, but she held her position, hardly breathing, eyes closed lest the heat of her gaze upon his face awaken him. Slowly she opened one eye to find that his were still closed, and, ever so carefully, she reached into his pocket. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, and she jumped back several feet.

  When Señor Peregrino realized what Jamilet was up to, he frowned. “You said you wouldn’t dishonor yourself for your papers and I believe that you’re doing just that,” he growled.

  Flustered and shocked, Jamilet almost choked on her response. “I thought you were asleep, Señor.”

  “My state of consciousness does not excuse your behavior.”

  “I was only trying to get back what is mine. There’s no dishonor in that,” Jamilet said, upset now for having attempted such a foolish thing.

  Señor Peregrino lifted himself up on one elbow with considerable effort. “What, then, do you consider the honorable thing for me to do under the circumstances?”

  “Return my papers, of course.”

  He dropped his head to his chest for a moment, so that only the snowy crown of his head was visible. He raised it slowly, bitterness tracing the line of his smile. “And not to report the illegal nature of your employment to the authorities? You are, after all, committing a federal crime. The hospital could be fined severely, perhaps even shut down if you were discovered. What would happen to the patients if the hospital were forced to close its doors?”

  Jamilet could say nothing. Instead, she turned to take his tray and then thought better of it. “You said you’d return my papers if I listened to your story, Señor.”

  He muttered something to himself and it seemed he might drop back to sleep, but Jamilet was surprised to hear him speak with a different voice, one that lacked its usual
harshness.

  “Where should I begin?” he asked. “It is always troublesome, this question.”

  Jamilet searched herself for an answer that would get the whole thing rolling. The sooner he got started, the sooner it would end, and the sooner she’d have her papers back. She plopped down in the chair nearest him, and leaned forward. “Perhaps you should begin at the place where the story gets interesting,” she offered.

  Señor Peregrino nodded wisely, as though acknowledging a great and undeniable truth. “Yes, that would be the best place to start, and also the best place to end this wicked business.” He took a deep breath.

  Jamilet nodded eagerly in order to demonstrate her cooperation, but she soon realized that he was paying her no attention whatsoever. He was reaching beyond the moment for something more, and it seemed to take all of his concentration, and all of his will, to find it. Weary, and without his anger to defend him, he appeared as flustered as an old stork that has lost its way while on a long migratory flight. Jamilet stayed quiet and soon his voice found its strength and filled the room.

  There are spirits that sing, Jamilet. They sing beyond the spaces where the firmament of heaven conceals them, filling the chambers of our universe, and creating a most lovely echo that only some can hear. I was ten years old when I heard them, as well as the whisperings of the saints and angels around me. I saw spirits peeking out from behind the trees too as they watched us go about our lives. When I told this to my mother and father and to the other people in the village, they paid me little attention and thought I was a most imaginative boy. As time went on, however, it became unsettling for them to hear of my stories about spirits, and the mysteries of life and death that they shared with me. The amusing smiles I at first received turned into patronizing grins, to be followed by stony countenances and the occasional scowl.

  My father was a patient man, and slow to anger. But one day, not knowing what else to do, he beat me with a switch after I told him another one of my fantastic stories. I knew it was fear and not anger that motivated him to behave in this way, for in those days, fear was a shadow one could never escape. It was most commonly challenged not with understanding, but with a greater fear, however inspired. In this case my father was hoping that fear of the switch would cure my foolishness.

  Mind you, all I knew about the world was what life in a rural village in Spain could teach a young boy. But when I had my visions, I felt as though I were being carried along on a great river more splendid and more powerful than anything I’d ever known. Sometimes late in the afternoon, after I’d finished tending the sheep, I’d watch the sun settle right on the crest of the mountain, as liquid gold streamed down upon us in warm shafts, filling the bowl of the valley. At these times I was moved to singing alone, religious songs because that’s all I knew. I was overheard by many, and because of my singing, combined with my unique sensibilities, my fate for the holy life was eventually sealed. In other words, it was decided by everyone who knew me, and most especially my parents, that I should become a priest.

  I was not, as you might imagine a young boy to be, frightened by the prospect of such a life. My family was poor, and the priests in my village were highly regarded and enjoyed as much respect as the wealthiest of men. They lived in better homes, with polished wooden floors, near the quiet of the churchyard. They wore elaborate vestments during mass over their well-tailored clothes, and their shoes rarely showed traces of mud or wear.

  My good friend Tomas was directed to a holy life as well, but for different reasons. Aside from being born to the wealthiest family in the region, he had a weak disposition and one leg slightly shorter than the other, so that he didn’t exactly limp, but he swayed a bit, as though he couldn’t decide whether to walk to the left or to the right. Every family of standing was expected to have a son or daughter dedicated to the church, and it made sense that for Tomas’s family he be the chosen one.

  After the decision was made for me, all was well again, and I felt quite fortunate. My older brother often complained that while my future was assured, he would have to continue proving his worth by the sweat of his brow and the number of healthy off-spring he could produce to help him in his tasks, worries I would never have.

  Mine became a life of rigorous study, for there was much to learn in preparation for the seminary and I was excused from the physically exhausting chores of a poor sheepherder. Tomas and I were quite happy with our books. What little free time we had was spent dreaming about the exceptional future that awaited us. While other boys our age fancied themselves great warriors, Tomas and I prayed in the shadow of the mountains and spoke of one day going to Rome, and exploring the marbled splendor of the Vatican. Already, we were bestowed a certain reverence by the villagers and even by our own families. I was the first child to be served at mealtime, even before my eldest brother. And the same villagers who had scoffed at me before, now asked for my advice about important matters regarding the marriages of their children or the decision to sell a piece of land or build a new house.

  All progressed very well in this way until the age of sixteen, when my visions quite suddenly stopped. The emerging strength of my body seemed to overtake the fortitude of my spirit, so that a strange and unholy discomfort began to plague me, like a warm humming coursing through my veins. I became acutely aware of it on a particular summer night when attending a dance at the village square, as I had every year since my birth. Why anything so remarkable should happen to me in such an unremarkable place made it all the more astounding, but the sensation was undeniable and I can only describe it as this: As I watched the dancers in the square, children, parents, men and women of all ages, I found my eyes drifting toward a certain young lady I’d known all my life. Her name was Matilda, and when we were younger she sat next to me in class, and I remember thinking it very amusing that when she laughed her freckles lit up like tiny lanterns all over her face. I’d make up silly things to say just so she’d laugh, and I could watch the spots burn on her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose. But on this night, I was not the least interested in her freckles. Instead, I was mesmerized by the gentle rhythm of her hips as she danced. Through the many-layered skirt she wore I became aware of the womanly form of her body, and as I watched her, the warm humming intensified and grew hotter and hotter, until it became a monstrous cycle of pleasure and shame that fed itself without my consent. I could not turn away. My eyes were transfixed on her body. And then thoughts began to formulate in my mind, wicked thoughts I’d never entertained before about the truer form that moved beneath the layers of her clothing and the delicacy I might find there.

  It was Tomas who interrupted my tormented reverie. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, my friend,” he said, laughing.

  “Perhaps it is just as well that I look upon my own death.”

  Tomas followed my uninterrupted gaze, for even as he spoke to me I continued to watch her. “She’s grown lovely,” he said. “I never would have thought it possible. She was so ugly as a child.”

  “She’s not a child anymore,” I observed, feeling some relief at being able to speak my mind.

  Tomas remained near until the dance came to an end, and Matilda disappeared into the crowd to join her family. The heat that had accosted me earlier began to dissipate, until I felt only guilty exhaustion in its place. A familiar heaviness fell over us both and we didn’t need to speak a word to know what the other was thinking. As children, the reality of a life without knowing women seemed not like a sacrifice, but a blessing meant to spare us the trouble of dealing with such a messy business. But with the dawning of manhood upon us, it grew into a sacrifice of new proportions. Now I understood the prayers the priests had prayed over us as children when our parents made their intentions for our lives publicly known. Prayers in which they supplicated the Lord to spare us the discomfort of our earthly passions so that the totality of our beings might be devoted to the spiritual. In this way, celibacy would not prove such a heavy cross to bear, but would bec
ome more of a perpetual splinter that might sting from time to time, serving to remind us of our weakness and to ensure our compassion for the ordinary man.

  But as I grew older, it seemed that I bore the full weight of man’s lascivious nature on my shoulders alone. The fact that women were forbidden to me made them all the more alluring, and it didn’t help matters that I was attractive to them as well. My stature was remarked upon, as was the elegance of my profile, so that I was considered by many to appear not the son of a humble herding family but of a nobleman. With my destiny in the church well established, I was also a favorite dancing partner—safe, but handsome and clever all the same. I dare say the young ladies danced all the closer to me because of my disqualified status.

  I was despairing in my deception, and only Tomas knew the truth. He implored me to hold strong to my convictions, for it seemed that I could think of nothing else but that which was denied me. And in the worst of my torment, they all looked beautiful to me. Even the homelier girls with crossed eyes, I would have accepted as a gift from heaven.

  Tomas commiserated with me as a loyal friend would do, but I could see that he was not as tormented as I with this matter. He looked forward to his priestly duties without concern for what he was sacrificing. I envied his composure, the way he accepted the communion wafer so serenely on his tongue, when the host in my mouth seemed to burn.

  There is nothing worse than to live a lie. At eighteen years of age, when we were shortly to enter the seminary, my stomach turned sour. And there is nothing that will concern a mother more than her son’s sudden loss of appetite, so my mother insisted that I see a doctor. After a thorough examination, it was determined that for some mysterious reason I was unable to get enough oxygen into my lungs, and that this had unbalanced my entire organism. The good doctor recommended that I take daily walks, and he prescribed a glass of strong spirits to accompany my meals. Nevertheless, the weight continued to drop off my body, until I appeared much as I do today—a six-foot-three skeleton with eyes as big as plates.