Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  Following the lesson, Señor Peregrino often found himself in the mood to continue with his story, just as he did after the first lesson, and Jamilet was grateful for the opportunity to rest her mind, and relax for a while.

  His eyes grew soft as they focused on the far corner of the ceiling. “Let’s see now, where was I?” he said. “Oh yes, the place where you found the agony of two young men so amusing.”

  “I did apologize, Señor.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, waving the whole issue away. He was trying his best to remember where he’d left off.

  Jamilet moved her chair closer. “Tomas couldn’t sleep,” she said. “You told him that whatever the cost, you had to stay in control, and not lose your composure.”

  “Ah,” he said, clearly impressed. “The infallible memory of youth.”

  With each day that passed, Rosa grew lovelier in our eyes. I’d awaken every morning thanking God that he’d given me another day to gaze upon her, perhaps to exchange a glance or a word or two in greeting. When she was near, I felt a pleasant and peaceful sensation within me, but no longer did I believe that there was an invisible quivering string connecting her soul to mine.

  Tomas, however, was as tormented as ever. If Rosa should pass by to fill her canteen at the well, he’d almost stop breathing in an effort to resist her. I couldn’t help but laugh at those moments. “You have cured me, my friend,” I said as we walked side by side. “You have become the mirror I sorely needed, and I see now that there is no reason for such lovesickness.”

  I started singing again, and many walked with us during the long miles in order to hear my musical veneration for all pilgrims, each with a singular purpose for walking the same path worn and hardened by pilgrims for nearly a thousand years. As we approached the midpoint of our journey, we were astounded by the immense flatness of the Castilian Meseta before us, and could see the land dotted by red-tile roofs that grew more numerous as we journeyed closer to the large and prosperous city of Burgos.

  “The miles go by quickly when you sing,” Rodolfo said. He was no longer as big as he’d been when he started. The walk had taken at least thirty pounds from him, but his arms were still thick and able and his neck the size of most people’s thighs. Rosa lingered nearby as well. I know she liked my singing, but if I noticed her stepping in accord with the cadence of my song, my heart did not beat any stronger because of it. I thanked God for the freedom I felt. I could gaze upon her and, unlike Tomas, still remember my name and the place to which we were headed.

  Everywhere we stopped to rest the pilgrim group changed. Some pilgrims lagged behind due to injury or simple exhaustion. Others shortened their rest to join our group, wishing to be part of the joyful atmosphere we exuded. Sometimes young men studied the female pilgrims who passed, for reasons that had little to do with religious piety, and everything to do with their youthful lust, enflamed by the loneliness of the road. Fortunately for us, Rosa dressed modestly. With her red shawl over her head, these opportunists hadn’t a clue to the rare jewel in our midst.

  But one afternoon the sun beat down so vigorously upon us that she was forced to carry her shawl slung low on her hips. I daresay that even the birds flew more slowly over us as though to appreciate the uncommon perfection of our species. At midday, when the heat of the sun was at its strongest, we arrived at Burgos. Despite our thirst and fatigue, we made our way through the labyrinth of the city toward its famous cathedral, larger and grander than anything we had ever seen. We refreshed ourselves at a nearby fountain intended for pilgrims, as indicated by the relief of scallop shells at its base.

  At first, we didn’t notice the soldiers idling in the shadows on the cathedral steps, but when we saw them our little band instinctively closed in around Rosa, like a herd protecting its young. but we weren’t quick enough. Almost instantly they started to stir, nudging each other, and glancing our way. They were hungry lions, conspiring and evaluating the herd before the attack. It didn’t take long for them to strike.

  Moments later the sound of heavy boots could be heard pounding across the square. Their gray uniforms were soiled from the road, but the pistols and swords that hung from their belts shone brilliantly. Three of them made their way toward the fountain, their eyes riveted upon the prize, while dismissing the rest of us much like fodder to be kicked aside. Tomas was nearly trembling when the apparent leader, a tall blond man with shoulders as wide as a bull’s horns, approached her first. Some of the soldiers stood behind, chuckling, while others retreated to a nearby café, poised and ready to watch the spectacle from their tables.

  Rosa was helping her mother wash up at the fountain, and as usual, she was unaware of the commotion she caused. Yet we were all concerned to see that the soldier was obviously planning to speak directly to her, for it was not customary for a man to address a woman unless they’d been properly introduced, especially in a public place. The only women who were addressed so casually were women in the business of being…well, in the business.

  His words startled her, and she dropped her red shawl to the ground. The soldier wasted no time in retrieving it. With a click of his heels, he presented it to her, and she accepted it with a nod as her cheeks flushed in a lovely way. Encouraged, he leaned toward her, not knowing which part of her to devour first. He reached out and touched her hair and Tomas groaned. My own stomach bolted, and I was aware of a smoldering deep and quiet within me, untended but ready.

  Rosa stepped back, and her hair slipped out of his hand. He seemed amused by her discomfort and took the opportunity to admire her from this new vantage point. At that moment, Rosa’s mother took hold of her daughter’s arm and pulled her away. But they nearly collided with another soldier who’d been watching and waiting in case his services were needed. Although we were unable to hear their exchange, he had obviously addressed the older woman in a cordial manner, as he bowed his head, and he was successful in engaging Rosa’s mother in conversation, a task not difficult to accomplish. With the mother’s attention diverted, the blond man stepped forward again. He said that his name was Andrés and then pointed to the table his companions had already secured. He wanted her to join him for a glass of wine, perhaps a little lunch. Rosa declined his invitation with a furtive shake of her head. Her back was turned to us, but I could well imagine her face, luminous and polished as the moon, her eyes a flickering green. She could enchant a hermit monk with a half-smile, or a shrug of her dainty shoulders.

  And so it was that the soldier began to melt before our very eyes. His mouth dropped, as though he’d suffered a sudden stroke, and his brow became shiny with perspiration. He trembled in his boots as he listened to her sweet, melodic voice making excuses perhaps, or explaining nervously about needing to remain with her sick mother. Feeling more confident, she maneuvered the red shawl over her shoulders so that her hair became caught in its embrace. Then she lowered her head and walked away. I’d seen her end many a conversation in this manner, and every time the conversant was left pondering his or her recent exchange with an angel. But this young man was not accustomed to having a peasant girl, however beautiful she might be, leave him with his words in his mouth. As she turned he took hold of her shawl and playfully pulled it away. Her eyes flashed as she whirled about.

  Tomas, who’d been quivering and muttering his disapproval over the whole scene, stood up. “We must do something, Antonio,” he said.

  I looked about the square. Every other soldier and pilgrim in sight was watching the dance that ensued between Rosa and the soldier. She reached for her shawl and he reached for her hand. She tried to retrieve it, he stepped closer. She stepped away, he placed his free hand on her elbow. She protested, he laughed.

  Tomas launched himself out into the square, nearly tripping on feet depleted from a twenty-mile hike while he cried out, “That is enough of that!”

  The soldier took a moment to appraise Tomas, and a wry smirk cut across his chiseled face as he calculated that he probably outweighed him by fift
y pounds. I had no doubt he’d kill Tomas if sufficiently provoked. With one blow of his sword, he’d split his skull in two. Nevertheless, I was overwhelmed with admiration for Tomas’s bravery, and moved in to join him.

  The soldiers who were sitting at the tables stood up and the pilgrims who were watching from the periphery closed in. A shadow seemed to fall over the square and suddenly, more swiftly than any eye could capture, the soldier struck a blow with his pistol and Tomas fell to the ground. He stood over Tomas, waiting to see if he would cause him any more trouble. And if need be, he seemed quite prepared to use his weapon properly next time, for he didn’t return it to its holster. I took my position between Tomas and the soldier as Rosa fell to her knees behind me to tend to him. His appraisal of me was not quite so cursory. I stood taller than he, and although my shoulders were not as broad, I’m certain the intention he read in my eyes made them appear to fill the square.

  “We don’t want trouble,” I said quietly.

  “It’s not trouble I’m after.” He flicked his eyes down at Rosa, who’d managed to help Tomas sit up from his fallen position. “She tells me that she’s not married, so I’m offending no one. It is this man who’s challenged me,” he said, thrusting his chin out. I understood what he meant, as it was well understood that a woman traveling without a husband, or a male relative to look out for her, was practically advertising her availability. It was amazing that this was the first problem she’d encountered while on her journey.

  Where my next words came from, I do not know. It was as though they were spawned on my tongue by an unseen force, and I could only spit them out or swallow them. “She is not married, that’s true,” I conceded. “But she is not without family. I trust you’d understand a brother’s desire to defend his sister’s honor. Even if it involves confronting an obviously superior opponent.”

  The soldier’s face went blank. “Her brother?”

  I spoke loudly to be sure that Tomas and Rosa had heard me. “Yes, they are brother and sister, and as you can see, they are very close.”

  Upon hearing our discourse, Rosa’s mother fell to the ground to join in on this spontaneous pietà. “Oh, my son, my son. What have you done to my son?” She grabbed Tomas by the shoulders with both hands, and pulled him to her bosom as though he were a suckling infant.

  Disgusted by the scene at his feet, the soldier returned the gun to its holster and spun away to join his companions. We sat on opposite ends of the square during lunch, but his eyes never left Rosa’s face.

  17

  JAMILET HAD JUST FINISHED her work and was making her way down the hill when she saw Eddie leaning against the hospital fence, with his hands stuffed into his pockets, and his head hanging. Even with his back turned to her, Jamilet knew it was him. There was no mistaking the dark hair just slightly wavy at the neckline, the length of his arms, and the breadth of his back. Her heart raced, and instinctively she scanned the street to see if Pearly was anywhere in sight. But Pearly would still be at work. She didn’t get home until well past six and it was barely five.

  Jamilet had obeyed her aunt’s directive. It had been a month since the attack and, aside from his wavering image in her peripheral vision when she walked into her house, that was the last time she’d seen him. She was kneeling on the grass looking up at him as though she’d been caught defecating in public. She remembered the way he’d kept telling Pearly to calm down and relax, his voice like a velvet whisper. Jamilet had heard men talk like this when breaking wild horses, and it seemed to work pretty well on Pearly too, even as her nostrils flared while he pulled her away.

  Jamilet’s insides grew hot and tight as she remembered. To see Eddie here was almost a miracle, but she didn’t want to feel the shame again. She stopped in her tracks and considered ducking into the trees. In forty minutes or so, he’d have to leave if he was going to be at Pearly’s in time. Suddenly, as though sensing her presence, he turned around and saw her. He took hold of the fence, and indicated, with a flick of his head, that she should come closer. She had no choice—her legs kicked back into gear and began moving toward him without her consent.

  When they stood close enough to speak, Jamilet could think of nothing to say. It occurred to her that maybe he wasn’t waiting for her at all, but had decided to stand in that spot only to admire the trees and the fading light between their branches. Perhaps she should just pass through the gate and keep walking, but she stood where she was and tried hard not to drown in his nearness. But she had to breathe, and when she did, she inhaled the scent of soap and mint toothpaste, and died just a little.

  He cleared his throat. “How are the nutcases doing?”

  Jamilet tried to match his easy smile. “Fine,” she said.

  “You’re still not scared working in that freaky place?”

  Jamilet crossed her arms and uncrossed them, while shaking her head and smiling sheepishly.

  Eddie nodded and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. The smile had left him. “About the other day. I wanted you to know that it was Pearly’s sister who told her, not me,” he said. “I guess she saw us at the library or something. And, I’m sorry if she hurt you ’cause I know she throws a mean punch.”

  Jamilet gazed at him through the fence with wide and vulnerable eyes. In his awkward attempt to apologize and explain what had happened, she considered him to be beyond beautiful. It filled her completely, and the warmth that surrounded them felt safe and separate from the rest of the world. And in this perfect space of time she hoped she might clear something up. “Why is Pearly so jealous?” she asked. “I didn’t think girls like her were ever jealous.”

  “All girls are jealous.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know lots of girls and they’re all jealous, especially if the girl they think is after their man is good looking, then they’re crazy jealous, and they do crazy things like punch people they don’t know in the middle of the street.”

  Eddie glanced left and then right. He shuffled his feet as though distracted, or searching for a way to end the conversation. Then he became still and his eyes burned bright with the fear that lurked behind them. “How’d you know?” he asked. “How’d you know my mom is sick?”

  Jamilet couldn’t find a way to explain how the knowing had come upon her that afternoon in the library, or how it was that over the years she’d learned how to read the expressions on people’s faces in the way most people read books. It was simply a feeling that filled her in the same way she was filled with his torment at that very moment. “I just knew,” she said after several moments of silence.

  He nodded, his need to speak more profound than his need to understand. “She has cancer. It’s in a place where they can’t take it out…in her liver.”

  “That’s too bad,” Jamilet said, feeling stupid and inept. Nothing she could think of to say seemed right for the moment.

  “Yeah, that’s what I think,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “That’s just too fucking bad.” He shrugged, mumbled a hasty good-bye, and walked away, his shoulders hunched forward as though braving a chilling storm. Jamilet waited until he was halfway down the street to begin her own walk home. She watched his shirttail floating behind him with every step, the way he pushed the traffic-light button with his elbow so he didn’t have to bother removing his hands from his pockets.

  When she lost sight of him, she replayed the scene over and over again in her mind, mostly to convince herself that it was real and not one of her own creations. When she thought of sweet beautiful Eddie suffering as he was, the sadness she felt gouged deep wells into a heart already weakened by its recent encounter, and the agony was so sublime, it was almost intolerable. Several times she stumbled, and imagined herself on the edge of a cliff ready to jump into the depths of something she couldn’t understand. And then the glorious and unbelievable truth struck her—Eddie thought she was “good looking.” Good looking enough to make someone “crazy jealous.” She was almost sure of it. She rubb
ed her jaw with her thumb in search of the dull ache that had only recently subsided in order to convince herself that it was true. And as she confirmed it, she was absolutely certain that she’d never been happier and more miserable in all her life.

  Included with Señor Peregrino’s breakfast one morning was an envelope that Ms. Clark herself gave Jamilet to deliver. And when he saw it, he opened it immediately and read it three or four times before taking another breath. Then his head dropped back on the pillow and he quickly mumbled what seemed like a prayer, his eyes glassy with tears.

  “I hope it’s good news, Señor,” Jamilet said, mostly to remind him that she was still in the room.

  Slowly he turned to her, joy beaming from his eyes, his entire being awash in wonder. He straightened up in his bed and refolded the letter carefully. “Do you believe in miracles, Jamilet?”

  “Do you mean like magic?”

  “What I mean,” he said, the muscles of his face twitching, “are happenings, unexplained and wonderful, beyond your dreams, challenging your meaning of life, and your purpose within it.”

  She answered meekly, “I never really thought about it that way, Señor.”

  “Well, think about it,” he said, as though ready to succumb to a mad gale of laughter. “What else have you to think about? What else has anybody to think about?”

  Jamilet tried to appear pensive while keeping a wary eye on Señor Peregrino, who was acting strangely enough to cause her concern. The only thing that came to mind when she thought about miracles was the mark, and her hope beyond all others to someday be rid of it. “I think,” she said cautiously, “that I would like to believe in miracles, Señor.”