Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  “Stop talking in riddles, Tomas,” I said, trying to lace my voice with good humor.

  He took a long swallow of wine, emptying the glass, his eyes gleaming with emotion. “You don’t love Rosa, and I do. My heart and soul are devoted to her. Give her the opportunity to love me.” He pushed the glass aside. “Promise me that you’ll leave her to me.”

  I’d never seen him so desperate. “My promises cannot move a woman’s heart,” I finally said.

  “I realize that, but I also know that if Rosa is not distracted by you, I’ll have a chance with her.”

  “We’re both wasting our breath, Tomas. You know as well as I that she has shown a preference for no man. I do believe her heart and mind must be otherwise engaged.”

  Tomas raked anxious fingers through his hair. “Perhaps, but I see how you look at her. She is only another beautiful woman to you, whereas for me there is only one…only Rosa.”

  Tomas was watching me intently, and I knew there was no use in arguing with him anymore. “Very well. I promise to leave her to you,” I said with a weary sigh. It seemed to me that the pilgrimage had finally managed to drain Tomas of every ounce of patience he’d once possessed, filling him with a stubbornness that threatened to overflow from his ears.

  I awoke early the next day, fortified myself with three cups of strong coffee, and left with a day’s ration of food in my rucksack, knowing that Tomas would wait for Rosa no matter how long it took, or how much of her mother he’d have to endure. I traveled some miles along a stretch of Roman road, knee high in the mist that clung to the earth at such an early hour. As the sun rose over the windswept steppes, I caught up with a smaller group of pilgrims. There were several young ladies among them who I surmised were not from Spain. At least three of them spoke English, although it was evident that they had a more than cursory understanding of Spanish.

  The most handsome of the three was blond and as spritely as a new chick. Her Spanish was near perfect, and her chatter appealing enough. She walked with such a bounce to her step that I wondered how her feet didn’t swell painfully after half a mile. She kept glancing back at me, and her smile left no doubt in my mind that she found me pleasing. But I didn’t smile in return. I’d learned to acknowledge such attention with unblinking eyes that were more persuasive than any smile.

  At midday we took our rest near a healthy stream that fed the River Esla. The three ladies took turns balancing on smooth stones in order to cross the stream and reach the wildflowers that bloomed on the other side of the bank. I pretended to take little notice of them as I ate my lunch, but out of the corner of my eye I watched the wavering form of the blond girl, which appeared to be not that of a girl, but of a mountain goat, stocky and sure footed as any I’d seen in the highlands. But then quite suddenly, her foot slipped and she screamed, toppling into the stream. Seconds later, I too had plunged into the stream, and was attempting to lead her out by the hand, but she was continually slipping from my grip and appeared near fainting, leaving me no choice but to carry her out onto the muddy bank, where we were met with more guffaws and giggles than concern.

  We were both heavy with water, and cold, and somebody set about making a fire. The girl’s name was Jenny, and when she removed her thick wool skirt, her two companions placed it near the fire. I stood near as well, as my trousers were all that needed drying but I couldn’t very well remove them. So I took off my boots and socks and set them on a rock near the fire to dry. Jenny discarded the blanket she was given, and hovered about quite comfortably in her white cotton slip, asking many questions about my reason for making the pilgrimage, where I came from and with whom I traveled. I answered her questions, providing little detail, which seemed to frustrate her considerably.

  All the while, her friends were busy tending to the fire and checking her skirt and adjusting it every few minutes, without concern for our conversation. When I commented on their attentive dispositions, Jenny explained that they were servants who’d been assigned to look after her en route and report any problems to her parents in America, who permitted her to do the pilgrimage because it was considered more of a religious exercise than a holiday. Her proficiency in Spanish was due to her family’s successful businesses in Mexico, and the fact that she had lived there for much of her childhood.

  “My parents believe that it’s time I get married,” she said, eyeing me boldly. “But I prefer to see the world without a husband in tow. And when I do marry, it will be to someone of my own choosing.” She drew a line with her toe in the dirt between us, and I was struck by how different she was from Rosa. One woman had been blessed with incomparable beauty, and an unassuming spirit, while the other, who from this vantage point appeared as plain as any rainy Monday, behaved as though it were she who’d been blessed with the beauty. Fascinated, I allowed her to draw me in for a moment or two.

  “A young woman who doesn’t want to marry,” I mused, impressing my own design in the dirt at my feet. “There is certain danger in that.”

  She laughed and immediately canceled my series of circles with her toe. “And that is the other reason for my pilgrimage,” she said, leaning in closer. “I’m looking for a bit of danger. I imagine you are as well.”

  I stooped down to check on my boots. “No, Miss Jenny,” I said, “I’m hoping to evade danger, if I can.” I proceeded to pull on my socks while she chattered on about her trip, and her refusal to be tamed by it as her parents hoped she would be.

  I collected my pack and strapped it to my back, hoping to make my intention of continuing on alone apparent to her and the rest. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Jenny,” I said, bowing again. “I wish you a safe journey and…many dangerous blessings.”

  She smiled fiercely. “We will see you again, I hope,” she called out as I made my way to the road. “I hear there’s a turbulent river up ahead. I may need you.”

  I laughed and waved to her and the others before resuming my travels alone. At the end of the day, I found the refugio at the far side of town. I couldn’t be sure that the others would join me. It had been a long day’s walk and they might have decided to camp along the road rather than risk the night catching up. Even if alone, I looked forward to a glass of wine, and a hearty lamb stew for my dinner. I chose a small table near the window, where I could keep an eye on the road.

  I heard them before I saw them, Jenny’s laugh above all the clatter as the pilgrims entered the narrow cobblestone road like a flood, filling the spaces with laughter and song and the anticipation of a soft bed and a warm meal. Jenny led the group, like the figurehead of a mighty ship. Her fine clothes were covered in mud, as was her hair, which reminded me of a haystack blown about by a storm and then rained upon relentlessly. But her eyes were alive as she scanned the empty streets in search of the refugio.

  I stood up to get a better look. The group had doubled in size, and I surmised that Tomas and Rosa were likely to be among them. Moments later, the dining hall was filled with pilgrims unloading their packs, inquiring about refreshments, and collapsing into chairs or on the floor when all the seats were taken. I was surrounded by a collective and exuberant fatigue, but still I kept my eyes on the road, not realizing that Jenny had taken the seat next to me and joined me in my vigil, mocking me, it seemed. Rosa and Tomas came into view toward the end of the throng, as I expected, with Doña Gloria limping more than usual. Tomas appeared sullen, and Rosa as stoic as always, her face shimmering and warm about the cheeks, while her eyes remained cool as the darkening sky. I couldn’t help appearing a bit spellbound as I gazed upon her.

  “She’s lovely,” Jenny observed.

  Recovering from the startle of unexpected company, I settled down in my chair and came up with a response. “My friends. I…I was concerned they might not make it this far tonight.”

  “As concerned as you were,” Jenny said, helping herself to a glass of my wine, “I’m surprised you chose to walk up ahead of them.”

  “I prefer to walk alone,” I said, somew
hat taken aback by her boldness. At this, Jenny’s servants approached and informed her that they’d made arrangements at the best inn in the village.

  “I thought I might sleep in the refugio with the others tonight,” she replied, and they fell silent, quite obviously surprised.

  Tomas and Rosa found their way to us, literally dragging Doña Gloria between them. She groaned on and on about the horrors of the day’s walk and the deplorable condition of her blistered feet. I gave her my chair and she collapsed into it, barely interrupting her diatribe of complaints as she did so. Rosa knelt and pulled off her mother’s boots and socks to reveal feet as swollen and red as boiled beets. The soles were covered with blisters, some reaching across the entire span of her heel.

  Jenny placed a comforting hand on Rosa’s shoulder. “I’m afraid she’ll have to rest for a couple of days.”

  “Do you think so?” Rosa said, but she did not appear disappointed.

  “I’m sure of it. Some ointment would do her good as well.” Jenny directed her servant to fetch the ointment, and when she returned, Rosa massaged the foul-smelling grease into her mother’s feet while Doña Gloria prayed for the Lord to release her from her misery. She went on and on about the poor sleep she’d been getting and how impossible it was to sleep in the refugios, so dank and crowded and full of vermin.

  “Then I insist you take my room at the inn, madam,” Jenny said while pouring Doña Gloria a generous glass of wine that she gladly accepted without her usual speech about drinking only on Christmas Day. As far as I could tell, she’d been liberally celebrating the holiday every day since we’d met her.

  “That would be lovely—”

  “We couldn’t take your room, miss,” Rosa responded, interrupting her mother for perhaps the first time in her life. “I’m afraid we can’t pay for it and—”

  “Nonsense. I’ve already paid for it, and this poor woman needs a proper night’s rest without having to worry about vermin.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Rosa said, visibly coloring. “But I assure you we’ve been very comfortable and”—Rosa looked about the bustling room to make sure no one had heard Jenny’s disparaging remark—“my mother is afraid of the rats that sometimes scurry across the floor at night, that is all.”

  Jenny rolled her eyes knowingly. “Well, I was referring to the two-legged kind. They can be so much more dangerous,” she added with a wink.

  Once Jenny had convinced Rosa to accept her offer, she proceeded to order for the table and insisted that we join her. There were meat pies, fresh vegetables, and the best house wine. For dessert we enjoyed an almond tart, still warm from the oven. All the while Jenny told us of her adventures on the road and topped it all off with the story of how I’d saved her life. She embellished it beyond believable proportions, and had me swimming against the turbulent rush of the river to reach her. I reminded her that the water had barely reached up to my knees.

  Upon hearing this, she cocked her head to one side and said to Tomas, “Has your friend always been so humble?”

  “Not always,” Tomas answered, “but I must say that modesty suits him.”

  By the end of the evening, even Doña Gloria’s mood had improved. Rosa was obviously fascinated with Jenny and asked her many questions about her life in America. Jenny answered them, and when faced with the beauty before her, not the slightest trace of the jealousy such as I’d seen in other women was evident in her expression.

  At the conclusion of the meal, our stomachs full and our hearts light, Jenny took my arm as we stood in the doorway watching Rosa and her mother walk across the square to the inn. Doña Gloria’s limp had improved considerably and she was leaning less heavily on Rosa, while Tomas carried their packs, his head low as if in prayer.

  Jenny said, “Your friend has hopelessly lost himself to love. But lucky for him, Rosa is as poor as she is beautiful. I’m sure Doña Gloria is already planning the wedding.”

  I stared at her for some time, waiting for the smile to vanish from her face. How could this woman who’d observed the three of us for no more than a few hours dare to be so bold with her theories?

  I bowed politely. “I wish you a good night’s rest, Miss Jenny. And if I don’t see you in the morning, pleasant travels as well.”

  “And to you,” she said. “But I’m certain you’ll see me.”

  19

  THE SENSATION OF CASH in her hands—soft as fine leather, and the fragrance, slightly acrid and earthy—filled her with satisfaction, and made her feel that she was on the verge of transforming her dreams into reality. She imagined how she’d give the money to the doctor who would cure her. After accepting her payment, he’d produce a shiny instrument much like a gun, but with an intricate array of buttons and attachments that hummed pleasantly while emitting a continuous stream of light as though it were harnessing the power of an unseen force as mysterious as the stars. She would undress, and lie facedown on the examining table to wait. Despite her willingness to endure whatever pain necessary, the laser light treatment would prove no more painful than a near scalding bath. The results, however, would be immediate, and she would be given a mirror to see for herself—clear, unblemished skin from the nape of her neck to the bottom of her knees, only slightly red. The kind doctor would inform her that in a matter of days the redness would subside, and then it would be perfect.

  Jamilet sighed as she placed the nearly two thousand dollars she’d saved back into the shoe box. Then she reached around to trace her fingers along the thick ridge of skin on her shoulders, easily discernible beneath the thin cotton of her blouse. She un-tucked her blouse at the waist and traced her fingers along her lower back, simulating the caress of a lover. Once she was free of the mark, this would be the most sensuous place for Eddie to begin his appeal, at the base of her spine, or the back of her neck. If he were as tender and romantic as she suspected, this was where their lovemaking would begin.

  The front door opened then slammed shut. This was followed by the hollow sound of shoes kicked off and hitting the floor one after the other. Carmen wasn’t due home for another couple of hours, and immediately Jamilet sensed that something was wrong. She hastily tucked in her blouse and ventured out into the living room. There she found Carmen collapsed on the couch, arms and legs spread out as though waiting to be executed. She hadn’t even bothered to go to the refrigerator for her first beer of the afternoon. Never had she forgone this part of her routine. Often, she forgot to pull the plug after a bath, or put out the garbage on garbage day, but she never forgot her first beer of the afternoon.

  Jamilet went to the refrigerator herself and placed a cold beer in the center of the coffee table. She waited a moment, but when her aunt didn’t move, she popped open the tab as well, and placed it back on the table, an inch or two closer than she had before. But Carmen’s eyes were glazed over as she relentlessly bit at her bottom lip. She didn’t even seem to know that her niece was there.

  “Your beer’s there, Tía,” Jamilet said.

  Carmen responded with a weak grunt, but she didn’t move a muscle.

  “What’s wrong, Tía?”

  Her eyes cleared slightly, and it seemed as though she might speak when suddenly she thrust out her hand and grabbed the beer like a lioness striking at prey. She downed it in record time, and allowed the empty can to fall out of her hand and roll off the couch and onto the floor.

  “Why did you come home early?” Jamilet asked, fighting the impulse to attend to the can right away.

  Carmen’s bottom lip started to quiver. “Why should I work all day when my life is over?”

  “Did something happen with Louis?”

  She nodded and plunged her head deep into the pillow next to her. Her body began to heave with violent sobs. Jamilet rushed to the bathroom, and returned with several yards of toilet paper that she placed near her aunt’s closed fist. Carmen’s fingers slowly opened and then closed around the enormous wad. She proceeded to wipe at her nose and eyes with the desperation
of one trying to rid the carpet of a stubborn stain. Feeling more composed, she sat up, her face red and bloated. “It doesn’t matter what happened. It’s over,” she said flatly.

  “Things always work themselves out between you two, Tía, you know that.”

  “This time it’s different.”

  “Why?”

  Carmen’s eyes twisted in their sockets. “Because the old lady didn’t have the sense to die in Mexico like she should have. She tried to use her friend’s papers to get back across the border. Any idiot knows you have to memorize birth dates and shit if you’re gonna fool them, but the senile bitch got so nervous, she forgot everything. She couldn’t even remember her friend’s name when they asked her.”

  “That’s too bad,” Jamilet said, knowing that such an event would have resulted in detainment at the border, but she wasn’t sure how this affected Carmen and Louis.

  Carmen stuffed the pillow under her chin and hugged it tight, like a child hugging her teddy bear. “He came by work, when I was finishing my route, and told me he couldn’t see me this weekend and maybe never again ’cause he feels so upset and guilty about his wife and daughters being in jail. He started to slobber and say all this stupid shit to me, so I told him, ‘Hey, do I look like a fucking priest to you?’ You should’ve seen the look on his face, it was sickening.”

  “Did you really say that?”

  Carmen’s eyes widened for an instant. “Do you think it was mean?”

  Jamilet nodded, and Carmen threw the pillow she clutched across the room with all her strength. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? You tell me, if you’re so fucking smart.” Her eyes accosted Jamilet, with fear on the verge of something unfamiliar, but expectant—some semblance of hope.