Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  In this state I even lost interest in my obsession and no longer fantasized about how it would be to hold a young woman in my arms. I had energy only to stay alive, attend to my studies, eat what little food I could keep down, and find my way into bed at the end of the day. I drifted off to sleep many a night hoping never to wake.

  Up to that time, I had rarely spoken to my father, and only when he spoke to me first. The few questions he directed my way were meant not to inquire, but to strengthen my responsibilities, and my direction in life. Thankfully, however, he listened carefully to my answers.

  “Did you find the ewe we lost last week, Antonio?”

  “Yes, Papa. I found her in the glen where she always likes to hide.”

  “How many books did you read last week, Antonio?”

  “Three, Papa, including the one from the widow Robledo.”

  “Do you want to be a priest, Antonio?”

  “I don’t know, Papa. I doubt that I’ll live long enough to find out.”

  The pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela is an ancient journey for the faithful and the faithless alike. It winds through the north of Spain, following the milky way of stars above, and culminating at the venerated Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, the very place where the apostle James is buried. Walking the path is meant to clear the mind and cleanse the soul. This is how it has been for almost a thousand years, since the saint’s body mysteriously appeared on the Galician shores. And so it was decided by the priests and elders of the village that I should make this pilgrimage as soon as the worst of winter had passed. Tomas was to accompany me, and he was to remain vigilant and tend to my vulnerable disposition. Upon my return, it was hoped that all matters would be resolved.

  I felt as if new life had been breathed into my body. My appetite returned stronger than before and I resumed my previous healthy state. With the possibility of a different life before me, my obsession moderated to a balanced interest that no longer gnawed mercilessly at my senses. I was feeling like myself again and I awaited the return of spring as never before.

  One brilliant morning in early May, Tomas and I set off from our village for Puente la Reina, almost six hundred kilometers from our destination in Santiago. We were to undertake the entire journey on foot. We had enough cheese, bread, and wine to last only a few days, knowing that we’d find food and drink at the refugios along the way, but I tell you that I had enough hope in my heart to last for a thousand years.

  11

  THE MEAL WAS PREPARED with exceptional care. The chicken was stewed slowly, until the meat fell off the bone. Nothing but homemade tortillas would do, and the sauce was enriched with a double dose of tomatoes and peppers. Jamilet hid two of her freshly prepared enchiladas in the refrigerator, behind the milk and eggs, as Carmen didn’t like to leave food uneaten, and chicken enchiladas were her favorite.

  For almost a week, Señor Peregrino had refused to continue with his story, saying that he wasn’t in the mood to go on with it, and when he was he’d let her know. She tried to disguise her impatience, and knew she’d be wiser to appear uninterested; then perhaps he wouldn’t enjoy withholding as much as he did. Nevertheless, if her chicken enchiladas were able to sweeten Carmen’s mood after the end of a hard day, Jamilet suspected they’d have a similar effect on Señor Peregrino.

  The next morning, she placed the tray on his lap, as she always did, and cleared her throat, announcing that she’d cooked something special for him to try with his breakfast. “I think you must get bored eating the same thing all the time. And…I’m a good cook,” she concluded.

  He removed the dome over his plate and stared at the enchiladas for several seconds. For an instant, his face flashed a grateful expression, and then settled back into a scowl. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?” He gave Jamilet such a leering look that it was almost comical.

  She was flustered by such an unexpected accusation as this. “I…I wouldn’t poison you, Señor.”

  “Oh, but I think you would,” he said while pushing the plate away with the very tips of his fingers. Then he crossed his arms and glared at the new food, as if expecting it to speak, and betray its maker.

  Jamilet stood idly by until she could no longer keep quiet. “Señor, if I poisoned you, I’d never get my papers back, as I have no idea where you’ve hidden them.”

  “You must be fairly certain they’re somewhere in this room. Once I succumb to the toxin, you’ll be free to look anywhere you please.”

  It was Jamilet’s turn to cross her arms and shake her head. “You don’t have to eat it, then. I’ll take it back home to my aunt. My chicken enchiladas are her favorite.”

  It was as if Señor Peregrino hadn’t heard her at all. Then he suddenly took up his fork, and held it out to her. “They do look delicious. Why not have one now?” He said, forcing a gracious smile.

  “No thank you. I had plenty of breakfast.”

  His eyebrows flickered. “Isn’t that convenient?”

  Jamilet sighed, and arranged a far too generous portion on her fork. It was a challenge to keep it all in her mouth, and as she chewed dribbles of salsa escaped from the corners of her lips.

  “For God’s sake, have you no manners?” Señor Peregrino grabbed his napkin and waved it at her while turning his face away.

  “I’m just trying—”

  “Enough! I’ll lose my appetite entirely if you force me to look upon that mastication you insist on displaying.”

  Jamilet swallowed hard and wiped her mouth with the napkin. “I’m sorry, Señor, I only wanted to prove to you that it’s not poisoned.” Immediately after uttering her apologies, she felt like stamping her foot. Why should she be apologizing to him? Once again, she felt every bit the fool he accused her of being.

  Señor Peregrino assembled a more civilized portion of chicken enchilada on his fork. He chewed slowly, and his eyes grew soft, as they had on the day he’d begun telling his story. “You are indeed a very good cook…” He stopped himself and collected his unspoken emotions into a heavy sigh before taking another bite. “You’re trying to bribe me for your papers, is that it?”

  “Maybe I just wanted to do something nice for you, Señor. Because I like your story.”

  “Ah, but if I gave you back your papers today, I believe you’d be looking for a new position tomorrow. My story hasn’t captivated you so much as to change that truth. And only the best stories are able to change the truth.”

  He finished every bit of the enchiladas, leaving the rest of his breakfast untouched. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee, and continued.

  The first part of our journey from our little corner of Spain to Puente la Reina took us several days, although it felt that we were not walking, but floating, as we could hardly believe that we had embarked upon such an adventure. I hadn’t in all my life traveled farther than ten miles from my place of birth. Sometimes, for no reason at all, I would break out in laughter, startling poor Tomas. I was only trying to expel the anxious joy I felt accumulating within my breast and keep myself from bursting altogether. Tomas, in spite of his desire to remain stoic, would find himself caught up in my energy and laughed along, so that, rather than serious pilgrims, we must’ve appeared more like two happy madmen making their way down the road.

  In this way, we passed through countless villages that looked like charming clusters of mushrooms that had sprung up between the folds of the mountains. These mountains grew more and more imposing each day we traveled, and our narrow path eventually led us through a series of thick forests where the wind howled between the black shadows deep within, chilling us to the bone. Eventually, our weariness began to overcome our good humor, as we’d been sleeping only a few hours each night in barns near the roadside when we could, and under the stars when this wasn’t possible.

  It was almost dark when we saw the lights of Puente la Reina up ahead. Tomas had wanted to stop and rest earlier that afternoon, but I had persuaded him to continue the march until we reached our destination.
And he was glad that I had, for after we crossed the bridge over the River Arga, we found ourselves in an impressive town with fine stone buildings several stories high, and many fountains. The main via was teaming with pilgrims from throughout Spain and Europe. There were even some from as far away as Greece. It was exhilarating to hear so many languages mixing about like a delicious stew, its aroma delighting our senses at every turn.

  Feeling truly free for the first time in my life, I longed to sing out with the whole of my heart in the middle of the square. But I refrained from making a spectacle of myself and waited until we were safely tucked away for the night in our refugio, which was adjacent to a small chapel. Earlier we had followed the sound of the church bell that we were told rang to announce its presence to pilgrims in need. This, like many other lodgings we encountered on our journey, was a simple and clean establishment near the main pilgrim route, offering modest lodgings in exchange for a small donation or a prayer. Few things were considered more sacred than a pilgrim’s prayer. So Tomas and I, along with twenty or so others, were offered a meal of bread and cheese, and were then permitted to lay our blankets on the wooden floor of the chapel for the night. All had succumbed to the exhaustion of a full day when I began to sing softly to myself, as was my custom. I suppose that I must have sung more loudly than I intended, for when I stopped almost everyone in the room was watching me with wide eyes reflecting the moonlight that shone through a small stained-glass window above our heads.

  A large man with an overgrown beard and a thick Basque accent asked, “Why did you stop? When I hear you sing like that, I’m reminded of the reason I will torture myself with this journey. Please continue.”

  There were many murmurs of agreement, and I was grateful for the semidarkness that hid my embarrassment. Although, I was pleased to be admired by strangers from so many different countries and traditions. I believe that an old man such as I has earned the privilege to delight in his past accomplishments without being accused of indulging in excessive vanity, so let me say that I sang quite beautifully that night and continued to sing until every soul within the sound of my voice had fallen into a deep and restful sleep.

  From that day forward, I was regarded by all as the singing pilgrim—one who possessed a voice capable of easing the hardships of the journey. Tomas and I were never without company because of it. This was distinction enough, as we had already agreed to keep secret the fact that we were seminarians. If the purpose of my journey was to discover the true life I was meant to lead, why should I predispose myself and those around me to a foregone conclusion?

  We were a colorful and noisy group. Among others, our band of traveling companions included three merchant brothers from the north of France, two middle-aged Italian nuns, and three convicted thieves from the Basque country whose sentences would be commuted if they could prove to the courts that they’d completed the pilgrimage. Our day typically began before sunrise when, after a quick wash at the well, we’d begin walking after a small piece of cheese and bread for our breakfast. When the weather was agreeable, and the path not too steep, we were able to cover more than ten miles before noon, at which point we’d reward ourselves with a well-earned rest and a more substantial meal. This was the favorite time of day for most of the pilgrims, but I was most fond of the mornings. The Spanish sunrise contained within its light the ancient lore of the land. It was as though time began while we witnessed this miracle with the sleep still in our eyes. At those moments I was renewed in my faith and conviction to serve the Church. God revealed Himself to me in the wavering gold of dawn’s light. I heard His voice in the tender silence of the morning, and felt His love in the mist that embraced the land.

  Tomas awoke in the middle of the night, when we’d been almost a week on the road, and leaned on my arm, whispering softly, “Any inspiration so far?” he asked.

  “I’ve been walking in the clouds since we began,” I responded, hoping he would leave it at that.

  “I gather that since you haven’t been walking in the company of a young lady, you’re back on the right path.”

  No doubt Tomas had noticed my eyes drifting toward the lovely ladies we encountered in the villages through which we passed, as well as the attention I received in return. A few nights before, the innkeeper’s daughter had made it a point to place the wine and food nearest me, and she smiled so sweetly that someone in the group asked me if I knew her. But I managed to politely discourage her attention without feeling those familiar spurs digging into my sides.

  Still, I hesitated in answering Tomas too soon. We had weeks, perhaps even months of the pilgrimage ahead of us if the weather proved difficult, and with all of the kindhearted patience he displayed toward others, with his best friend he could be quite impatient.

  I turned away from him so he wouldn’t see the slight smile on my face as I answered. “Whatever my path turns out to be, I’m not running, but walking slowly to make sure I don’t miss anything along the way.”

  “But you must have some idea where you’re headed, Antonio, and I think it wise that you tell me so I can guide you.”

  Upon hearing this, my smile threatened to burst into laughter. Tomas fancied himself my moral and spiritual superior, and I indulged him in this. “You can guide me best, dear friend, by your gracious works. The kindness and sensitivity you showed Renato is the best inspiration that I or anyone else can hope for.” I was referring to the young man Tomas had befriended a few days before. Renato had a sallow complexion and eyes the color of weak tea. He did not walk, but flapped and slithered and dragged himself across the Spanish landscape like a broken insect. We were told that he rarely spoke, and had made his way from the French border to Pamplona without uttering a single word. All believed that he wasn’t long for this world, but I suspected that Tomas, blessed as he was with the patience of a saint, would draw him out. And sure enough, one fine afternoon, while sitting under the shade of a giant olive tree, we saw the first hint of a smile on Renato’s pale face, followed by a tentative yet clearly discernible request for water. All had agreed that Tomas’s kind attention had been the reason, and I knew that a reminder of this would keep Tomas quiet for the rest of the night. I was right.

  I awoke the next morning eager to resume our journey. On that day, we were due to reach the larger town of Logroño, and in this place was the Church of Santiago el Real, a most beautiful sanctuary and a favorite for many pilgrims. I knew that if we began walking before sunrise, and made good time, we’d be there by midmorning. Luckily, the others were of similar mind, and after a quick breakfast, we donned our packs and were on the road just as the first hint of dawn touched the sky.

  The landscape changed considerably as we made our way out of Navarra, and descended into the region of Rioja. The green, mountainous terrain we’d been traversing for days softened into lush rolling hills more suitable for farming, and this offered us a welcome respite. As we continued on our way, the dark, rich soil beneath our feet became red and sandy, and on either side of the path could be seen vast stretches of yellow wheat fields that seemed to go on and on, as far as the eye could see. When we neared the Ebro River, we were delighted to find that the water flowing there was clean and sweet, as some other rivers we’d encountered were bitter, and rumored to be poisonous to people and horses alike. We filled our canteens and drank without concern until we were quite satiated. Hovering above the fields we beheld the delicate spires of countless churches and monasteries. So many that we soon lost count. I would have liked to have seen them all, and to have offered a prayer to Santiago while kneeling upon every altar, but we tended to stop not when inspired by the beauty of the facades or the charm of the villages we encountered, but when directed by the condition of our feet, which urged us to go on while they still felt fresh.

  Upon our arrival at Logroño several hours later, we were exhausted but delighted to have arrived only an hour or so behind schedule. Some members of our group went to inquire after lodgings, as it appeared that foul weather
would impede further travel on that day, but Tomas and I went directly to the Church of Santiago el Real. When we entered we were immediately embraced by the comforting hush of prayer and the sweet fragrance of incense. We made our way down the central aisle toward the knave, and stood in awe before the altar, which appeared to us like an enormous and intricate network of fine vines twisting and looping over each other, reaching up and up until it culminated in a single shining star that shone throughout the interior of the church and upon all who worshipped there. We felt as though we were standing at the entrance to heaven, like archangels preparing to enlist in God’s army, rather than humble pilgrims, darkened by the dust of the road. After our prayers, we crossed ourselves with holy water before emerging onto a sunlit square that was overflowing with pilgrims, most of whom we hadn’t seen before. They must have arrived soon after we had, eager to find shelter before the storm hit. Already, billows of white clouds were blowing across the sky, leaving us in shadows one moment and bright sunlight the next.

  “Sing for us,” Rodolfo, my Basque companion implored me, his wine flask quite empty. “Sing so that we may better understand God’s glory as we rest in His shadow.”

  I turned and allowed my gaze to wander up among the sculptures and intricate carvings that reached toward heaven. That the human mind could conceive of such beauty, and human hands create it, was incomprehensible to a simple shepherd boy such as myself, but there I was, preparing to sing to God’s glory while humbled by the artistry born of it. My throat became suddenly tight at the prospect, and I yearned to escape into the quiet sanctuary I’d just visited. But how could I disappoint my companions, and God, who was watching from beyond this majesty of stone and glass?