Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  I had never before felt capable of striking a woman, but in that instant it took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from slapping Jenny soundly. Tomas sat impassively in his chair, as though stripped of his identity and worth as a human being. And Rosa, as always, was impossible to read. She watched Andres walk off as though she could read the future across the breadth of his shoulders, but what that future might be was not revealed in her expression.

  Moments later, musicians began assembling in the square. Tables were cleared and the weary clamor of the pilgrims was transformed into the boisterous and cheerful noise of a celebration. Feet that had been pounding the path for miles, swollen with blisters and aching with pain, began tapping to the sounds of instruments warming up. Music such as this, from the highlands of Spain, had the power to cause the dust of the road to fall away from those of us who were called by it, and to fill us with a surge of fresh energy as brisk as the mountain air. Although I was angry with Jenny, I couldn’t help but feel it too and my heart began to skip along with the spirit of the moment.

  Tomas tapped my shoulder and pointed toward Andres, who stood in the very center of the square shuffling his feet to the strains of the music. He was an imposing figure of a man, and standing alone as he was he looked rather like a military statue that had come to life. A sudden sweep of melodious wind filled the square and Andres began to dance in earnest. I knew this jig. It was a difficult one and best performed by men who possessed both athleticism and grace. He was doing a fine job, although his execution was a bit stiff. Nevertheless, it was rare to encounter anyone who could dance in such a fashion and the crowd was clearly impressed. Men gathered round to watch and applaud and before long one or two other young men were also dancing, but not with Andres’s strength, and control. Next to him they looked like shadowy figures created by the dust of his boots.

  More wine flowed and many pilgrims indulged beyond what their budgets would normally allow. To my surprise, Tomas raised his arm and called for the girl to bring us another pitcher as well, and our glasses were filled in an instant. Tomas was quivering with elation and relief as he brought his glass to his lips. He was convinced that Andres had made light of our little game, and that we needn’t worry about further trouble. After all, could an angry man dance with such abandon? Could his mind be twisting with murderous designs while his body relented to participate in such frivolity? I should have told Tomas to stop drinking and keep his wits about him, that the danger had not yet passed, but I only kept quiet and watched.

  When Andres had finished, many glasses were raised to him, but he bowed to our table alone, his eyes fixed upon Rosa, who nodded politely. He looked bereft as he stood there oblivious of the adulation bombarding him from all the wrong places. Then he turned his attention to me and held out his arm.

  “He wants you to join him,” Jenny said.

  “I am in no mood to dance tonight,” I returned blandly. “I’m rather tired.”

  “Tired from what? We didn’t walk today. Some of those young men who were dancing just arrived and had barely a chance to sit down and—” But Jenny became silent when she heard Andres addressing the crowd and pointing in my direction, and gasped with delight when she caught the content of his speech.

  “I have it on good authority,” he said, “that in our midst is a wonderful dancer. Perhaps we can persuade him to share his talents with us.” The crowd murmured its approval and looked about to see who this mysterious dancer might be.

  “I’m sorry, Antonio,” Rosa said, her face a portrait of regret. “I shouldn’t have told him what a wonderful dancer you are. Perhaps I was wrong, and you are not so wonderful after all.”

  I hesitated to acknowledge Andres’s request, but the crowd too was calling me out and challenging me. I stood and removed my coat, smoothing out my shirt as best I could, hoping the other pilgrims gathered would forgive the dirt on my shoes, and my wrinkled clothing. Standing in the center of the square, I painted a very different picture from Andres in his immaculate uniform and polished boots. Nevertheless, I closed my eyes and waited. The sounds of the square were silenced, and I heard only echoes from the mountains and a chorus of wind singing with a pure and lovely voice. The infectious rhythm of the tambourine prompted me to move the tip of my toe and find the ghostly pattern beneath the melody, the heart of my dance. The music soared and the musicians joined me as we searched for the union of body and spirit that is music and dance. We moved together, and I felt the music coursing through my legs, my arms, yet my control served as my abandon, and it was the precision and timing that inspired every move. I cried out with joy, and heard others calling out with me and clapping to the beat of my dance. When I chanced to open my eyes, I saw the wonder on their faces that they saw in mine, and we were all at once in love with the moment and the life that we knew. So long as the dance was alive, and the music played, and our voices rose above the stillness of the night, it felt as though we had conquered even death.

  The roar of applause and cheering broke the trance, and I stood breathless in the center of the square before walking back through the crowd amid great praise. When I arrived at my table, the mood was not so jubilant. Although Jenny was nearly faint with wonder and took every opportunity to show her appreciation by taking my arm and even pressing my leg when I sat down, Rosa was clearly upset, and after a hasty compliment excused herself from the table with tears in her eyes.

  Jenny explained to us as we watched Rosa weave her way through the crowd toward the women’s dormitory, “She wasn’t feeling well and wanted to get a good night’s sleep before setting off tomorrow.” Then she proceeded to pour herself another glass of wine. “But I’m enjoying myself immensely. I could stay up for hours. Perhaps I won’t sleep at all,” she concluded with a devilish smile. Then her face softened, and she addressed someone standing behind me. “Ah, Señor Andres,” she said, “allow me to congratulate you on your dancing skill. For a moment I thought the very ground would shatter beneath you.”

  Andres was not alone. Standing next to him was a junior officer who held a small leather case. After Andres accepted Jenny’s compliment with a dismissive nod, he focused his attention on me. “The lovely Rosa was correct. I must admit that your skill surpasses even mine.” He nodded to his companion, who placed the leather case he held on the table between Tomas and me. “Whichever of you is more man than dog will open this case and understand what is implied by its contents,” he said.

  Tomas’s shoulders jerked as though he’d been speared in the heart, and his eyes accosted me with a furious fear that appeared to have left him paralyzed. I had reached for the case with every intention of opening it when Tomas slapped my hand away and opened it himself with such bluster and force that it nearly fell to the floor. Andres and the younger man sniggered when they saw Tomas’s eyes water, and his mouth drop open at the sight of a long-barreled pistol nestled in black velvet.

  “What is the meaning of this?” I asked.

  “I am not accustomed to speaking with dogs, but in this case I will make an exception,” Andres responded with a bow. “Your friend has accepted my challenge and I expect him to meet me tomorrow at dawn in the field beyond town.”

  “He has accepted nothing, and you know as well as I that dueling is illegal.”

  The young soldier laughed, but Andres silenced him with a scowl and spoke in a low and simmering growl. “My honor does not submit to trivial legalities. If he is not prepared and present tomorrow, as I request, I will hunt him down and shoot him in broad daylight if necessary. And I know this country like the back of my hand. There is no place he can hide.”

  I stood up. “Then I ask to take his place. He’s never shot a pistol in his life; it would hardly be a fair match.”

  Andres appraised me with a serious eye, as he no doubt wondered whether I might be as good with a pistol as I was on the dance floor. But he needn’t have worried. I’d held a gun only once or twice in my life, as it was never thought I’d have need of su
ch a skill in the priesthood.

  “I will have my satisfaction either way. Do as you wish,” he said.

  Andres left and we sat in silence for some time. Even Jenny appeared somber and reflective, but she couldn’t resist running her fingertips along the sharp edges of the leather case on the table between us.

  I could no longer contain myself. “It is your foolish and willful nature that has caused this,” I said, fully hating her.

  She didn’t recoil, but remained pensive. “If the only way you can protect a woman’s honor is by lying, then I feel very sorry for you both. And I’m sure Rosa feels the same.”

  The dagger in her words met its mark and I felt my pride warp and retire in the face of her judgment. Tomas was sputtering next to me, but in the end, we could say nothing, and she left us to our despair.

  For the first time in our lives, Tomas and I argued heatedly about what to do and about who should face Andres the next morning. At the outset, Tomas insisted that this was his opportunity to demonstrate his courage, and that God had presented him with it for the purpose of winning Rosa’s love, and he accused me of selfish cruelty for trying to rob him of it. Just at the point when I was prepared to concede, he succumbed to a violent fit of trembling that extended to his arms and legs, and it did not subside until I convinced him that it was preposterous for him to face Andres. Clearly, I had the better chance of survival, if for no other reason than I was not prone to such trembling fits.

  As the night wore on, our thoughts took off in many desperate directions. We briefly considered the possibility of escape and concluded that Andres would eventually find us, as he’d promised, and that the life of a hunted fugitive would be intolerable. We reasoned that there might be a slight chance that Andres would miss his mark, or that his shot would result in wounding rather than killing me, and we discussed what action to take with each and every eventuality. Finally, once we had exhausted discussing all the practical matters that we could think of, we inspected the pistol carefully until we were satisfied that it was in good working order. Then, with only a couple of hours until daybreak, we rested our heads on the table and closed our eyes.

  When the faint glow of dawn appeared in the window, I’d been awake for some time, listening to Tomas’s hollow breathing. I shook him gently, and he woke with a start. The innocence of sleep was immediately supplanted by an anxious grimace when he remembered our dreadful circumstances.

  “It’s time to go,” I said, taking up the pistol case. I felt unexpected relief in knowing that, if nothing else, the worst night of my life had finally ended. We washed our faces with the frigid water from the kitchen bucket before making our way out to the square. The stone buildings were black against the pale sky, and it was just possible to make out the path leading to the field beyond. There, I pictured the circle of trees that would obscure us from any observers who might happen by. The sound of gunfire wouldn’t alarm or arouse anyone. This could be easily explained by the knowledge that hunters often ventured out in the early morning hours.

  I was leaning on Tomas while retying my boots when I heard a door open and close across the square. The outline of two figures could be seen lingering in the doorway of the inn, but it was impossible to see them clearly through the mist and the darkness. One of them, a woman, began walking toward us and Tomas gasped faintly. It was Rosa. She wore the red shawl over her head, like a mantle, and her shoulders were hunched forward against the cold. She approached us, and held out her hand to me. “There will be no duel,” she said. “Please, Antonio, give me the pistol.” By this time, the other figure had also walked across the square. Andres stood next to her with his coat unbuttoned, and his bare chest visible underneath.

  A seething anger burned in my throat. “What have you done, Rosa?”

  “It is not what it seems,” she said. “But I had to do something.” Her hand remained extended, but I couldn’t find it within me to give her the case.

  Andres stepped forward. His voice had lost its bravado, and he sounded only tired and anxious to return to his bed. “Do as she says, I recant my earlier challenge…to you both,” he said. “I will not trouble the lady again, and this will be the last day you see me. But I ask that you return the pistol, as it is one of a set and quite valuable to me.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I handed Rosa the case, and watched as she gave it to Andres. He glanced at her briefly. Gone was his adoring contemplation, although her face shone like a blessing in the gray light of morning.

  We pressed her for an explanation as we made our way back to the refugio, but she shook her head, and smiled sadly, assuring us that she hadn’t violated her honor and that that was all that mattered. I for one was convinced of the truth of this, for I couldn’t conceive of any man releasing her so easily after he’d known the sublime pleasure of her company. But something extraordinary had happened between them, there was no doubt of that, and I suspected that this woman possessed a secret power even greater than her beauty. Later that morning, we heard the welcome sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones as Andres left the village with his men. And as he had promised, from that day forward we never saw him again.

  21

  SOMETHING ABOUT LOUIS had changed. He visited almost every night and was just as doting as ever, gushing about how sexy Carmen was, how delightful her voice and provocative her girth, but there was a difference, and it made Jamilet shiver just a little despite the warmth in the kitchen. She didn’t like to think about it, but when she did she imagined that there was a little clock ticking away in his head, counting out the seconds and minutes and reminding him that every moment he was with Carmen, he wasn’t where he should be. It made him jumpy and strange. Sometimes he didn’t listen as Carmen told him funny stories that would normally have launched them both into a ruin of laughter, especially if they’d already had a few beers. And that was another thing—Louis hardly drank anymore. He’d force down a beer or two to play the part whenever Carmen scowled or asked him if he was planning on becoming the next pope. At these times, he’d smile sheepishly and explain that he didn’t want to drink too much and get too tired because he was working extra hours to save the money he needed to bring his family back, and make things right.

  Most of the time, Carmen was calmed by the thought that Louis was staying true to his promise to her, but at other times she leveled eyes at him that were boiling with suspicion. With every word he spoke, he seemed to shrink a little bit, and tenderize under the heat of her glare until his bones fell out of their sockets and he became a slithering mess, a pot of human flesh stewing in his own guilt. “It’ll be different when the old lady gets back, Carmencita,” he’d say, his palms outstretched to her.

  “Yeah, right,” she’d respond, flipping her head, and crossing her arms and legs so that all of her was twisted away from him, like a giant pretzel. She wouldn’t even glance at him for the rest of the evening, and occupied herself with painting her toenails and laughing at things on television that she normally wouldn’t consider funny. But laughter had always made Carmen feel strong, as if she could flip her upset on its head and make it dance for her awhile.

  Nevertheless, he’d stay next to her on the couch, and even force himself to drink another beer. When Jamilet collected the empty cans, she noticed that the creases of his face had deepened, and he’d lost weight that he couldn’t afford to lose, so that even his shoes were loose on his feet. But when he turned to look at Carmen, even if she was behaving badly, he was radiant with the glow of good health, and incapable, it seemed, of feeling anything but bliss.

  One evening while she was doing the dishes, Jamilet managed to ask him when he thought his wife would be returning. Carmen was too proud to ask directly. She’d resort to making snide comments about never thinking she’d look forward to the old bitch coming back and the like, but nothing else.

  Louis ran jittery fingers over his mustache and glanced at Carmen, who was sitting on the couch and happily munching her way through a giant bag of c
heese puffs. “It’s going to take a while longer than I thought,” he said. “I got to send them money while they’re there too. It makes saving real slow.”

  Jamilet wanted to be encouraging, but she feared that her aunt’s nerves were fraying, and the next time she snapped it would be worse. “If you want, I can show them the way I came through the river. It wasn’t so hard,” she said, surprised by the desperation in her own voice.

  “That’s real nice of you, Jamilet, but my old lady’s really old…like me. She can’t be crossing rivers like a young girl.”

  Carmen shouted from the living room, “Louis, get your ass over here. You know I hate explaining the beginning of a movie to you.”

  “I’ll be right there, Carmencita.” He turned to Jamilet and whispered, “I think the real problem is…I got more woman than I can handle.”

  She wasn’t sure if over the noise of the TV and the running water in the sink she’d heard him say “women” or “woman,” but in either case, she could only agree.

  For the second time in one week, Carmen couldn’t find her car keys just as she was leaving for work in the morning. Jamilet helped to search for them while there was a barrage of accusations from Carmen, about being an obsessive “neat freak,” as her aunt liked to call it, although on this morning her tone was devoid of its usual affection. After they turned the house upside down, the keys turned up in the laundry basket, tucked in the pocket of the trousers that Carmen had left on the bathroom floor the night before. Two days earlier they’d turned up in the refrigerator, and wouldn’t have been found if Jamilet hadn’t thought to defrost some chicken for dinner that evening.

  “You see?” Carmen said, pointing the keys at Jamilet’s face. “Just leave stuff where you find it.” She rushed out to her car, leaving Jamilet to lock the front door.

  Jamilet hated being late. Señor Peregrino would be disappointed and this would delay her reading lessons. He wouldn’t sacrifice any time for that, and would be much more likely to postpone another installment of his story until the next day. Jamilet ran the first few blocks, but the stitch in her side forced her to slow down to a half run, and then to a brisk walk. When she saw Eddie leaning against the fence outside the hospital, she stopped completely. This time she had no doubt he was waiting for her.