Tarnished Beauty (28 page)

A few months ago, Jamilet would have been overjoyed by such news. But hearing it now, she felt that she was being cheated somehow and for the first time she could remember, it seemed very important that she speak out for justice. “This is unfair, Señor,” she said with surprising forcefulness. “We had an agreement. I was to listen to your story, all of it, until it was finished, and then you'd return my papers, not before.”

Señor Peregrino cocked his head to one side, a quizzical expression playing on his face. “I stole them from you. Don't you remember?” He shrugged. “Perhaps ‘found them' is more accurate, but I forced you into this arrangement. There's no denying that.”

“But…but that doesn't matter now.” Jamilet talked very quickly, as though to keep herself from thinking too much.

“And why not, child?” He peered at her steadily, trying to see beyond the youthful sheen of her face.

“I just…I want to hear the rest of your story. I
need
to hear it because…because I don't have my own stories anymore.”

“Your own stories?”

She nodded emphatically. “I used to make up stories all the time, but since I started hearing yours, I can't pretend anymore.”

“I see,” he said, slightly dismayed. “Once again you accuse me of pretending.”

“Aren't you pretending at least some of the time?” Jamilet asked cautiously.

Señor Peregrino's gaze turned inward as he thought about how to answer her. Then he straightened in his chair and his eyes brightened. “What I have learned is that we're always pretending, Jamilet. From the moment we wake up in the morning to the moment we close our eyes at night. From the day we're born to the day we die—everything around us is an illusion. Reality emerges over time from those experiences in our lives that we choose to believe in.”

Jamilet fastened her mind on his glittering eyes and tried to grasp his meaning. As usual, it eluded her, but she felt inspired nonetheless. She stood up, straightened her shoulders, and proclaimed, “Then I choose to believe in your story, Señor. It's my reality and it's wrong for you to take it from me.”

He chuckled and then sobered, his cheeks quivering with emotion. “You're an amazing child, Jamilet. And it is my constant entertainment to be witness to that fact.”

“Then it's only fair that you provide me with some entertainment in return.”

“Well, I don't know about that…”

“And you can't possibly stop when you're at the most exciting part of the story, even though there have been many exciting parts.”

“Yes, that's true,” he said, getting caught up in her enthusiasm in spite of himself.

“There was the time when you first saw Rosa, and when you stood up to Andres, and the time Rosa saved you and Tomas from the duel, but this last part was the best of them all.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Oh yes. But I have to tell you that I knew right from the beginning that Rosa was going to fall in love with you.”

“How could you be so sure?” he asked, clearly delighted by her prediction.

“Because if she hadn't, there'd be no reason for you to tell me your story.”

Señor Peregrino smiled while crossing his arms across his chest and appraising his student with newfound admiration. Later that afternoon, his story resumed.

 

In an instant, my world forever changed. What did it matter if night followed day, if it was necessary to eat when hungry, and sleep when fatigued? I was overcome by a whirling ecstasy that all at once rearranged everything I understood to be important in life. Rosa loved me, and there was nothing else that mattered next to that. I felt as unworthy as a worm plucked out of the dirt, and placed upon a golden throne. And, while I considered everything about my angel to be perfect, I wondered if she might not be a bit foolish to love me when she could have chosen from any number of wealthy and accomplished men. But this thought I pushed away from my mind whenever it arose. The love I felt in my heart overcame all of my doubts.

I wanted to declare my love for Rosa to the world, but she convinced me that it would be disastrous if Jenny and Tomas knew at this stage of the journey. Upon our arrival in Santiago, we would tell them both the truth. We had no doubt that the miraculous power of Santiago's love and healing would ease their pain, and our anxieties as well. Until then, we vowed to keep our love and our plan to marry a secret.

We marched on through villages with thatched-roof houses surrounded by green fields dotted by sheep and cattle. As we ascended higher along the lonely ridges, my love and imagination flourished with the heather, and broom, and wild thyme surrounding us. I pictured my homecoming, with Rosa on my arm. The road to my village was rough, and not unlike the one upon which we traveled. The first thing one sees is the old church with its weathered stone gate and tower. The bells would be ringing, of course, and my neighbors would be seen peeking out of their windows, toothless old ladies gaping at the sight, and children looking up from their chores to admire the dark angel, too stunning for words. My parents, already aware of my decision to leave the clergy, know it is because of a woman and are ashamed that their son should be as vulnerable to human need as their neighbor boys. They've already decided that no woman could possibly justify such a decision. But when they see her, their criticisms are silenced. When they hear her voice and come to learn the workings of her sweet mind, they are convinced of her worthiness, and the infallibility of my decision, as surely as if Santiago himself had appeared before them to bless the union. The cold reception they planned is instantly transformed into a celebration for the new couple.

The hours on the road passed quickly when I occupied my mind with such thoughts, and the pain in my feet was easy to endure when I stole glances at my exquisite prize. But it was impossible to envisage a homecoming without thinking of Tomas. He would be there too, and when I tried to imagine him happy by our side, sharing in the joy of our love, my vision grew hazy and when the clouds parted, I saw his limp body hanging from a tree, eye sockets empty and bleeding from the incessant picking of birds. These thoughts too I pushed out of my mind by reminding myself that in Santiago, miracles awaited.

We arrived at Foncebadon as weary as we'd ever been, yet we agreed to walk a few more kilometers to the next town. We'd heard that there we'd find a hostel that, for a nominal fee, provided pilgrims with a tub of hot water in which they could submerge their entire bodies. The cost of this experience depended upon the number of people willing to make use of the same tub of water.

We walked the last few kilometers with renewed vigor as we anticipated this uncommon luxury. I had no doubt that Tomas was thinking, as I was, how to ensure that he was next in the bath after Rosa, for there was no doubt that this heavenly soup would satisfy any man for an eternity. I glanced at Tomas. He was watching Rosa with eyes blazing. He'd spoken little to me in the past several days, but there were precious few days left and I had no doubt that he'd attempt to speak with Rosa about his feelings for her soon, something best avoided if we were to keep our own love a secret.

When we arrived at the hostel, the bath was prepared in a small room off the kitchen. In this way it was easier for the attendant to carry buckets of hot water, one after the other, until the deep metal tub was filled. Once this was done, there was no need to question who would be first to bathe. Jenny sprang to her feet instantly, and disappeared without a word into the closet. Meanwhile, the three of us took in a bit of the rare Galician sun. The mist that hung low and thick for most of the day suddenly parted to reveal a world that seemed to have been magically colorized. Rosa sat at the edge of the field dozing before a vivid backdrop of green, her cheeks warm with the heat of the sun. I found a sharp stick to poke at the hardened mud encrusted on the bottom of my boots, and it fell to the ground in large chunks.

Tomas cleared his throat. “Rosa, I was hoping to speak with you after the meal tonight…”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, if you don't mind.”

Rosa shrugged. “Why don't we talk here, right now?”

Tomas looked at me as though to implore me to leave, but I pretended to be far too absorbed with the matter of removing the mud from my shoes to notice.

“I believe there's a heavy brush in the kitchen that would do very well for that, my friend,” he said, trying to sound jovial and offhanded in his attempt to get rid of me.

“This is working quite well, actually,” I responded as I managed to wedge off another giant clump that disintegrated the moment it hit the ground.

Tomas stood and sighed, looking out toward the meadow, glistening with sunlight. A pleasant path wound its way through the field as it headed toward the foothills. He would ask Rosa to join him on a walk along this path, I was sure of it; and he was gathering the courage to do so when Jenny emerged from the kitchen amid a cloud of steam, wearing a rosy smile. Never before had I been so happy to see her.

“I feel human again,” she announced. “I must weigh ten pounds less than I did before the bath.”

Rosa giggled nervously, as relieved as I that, for the moment, the conversation with Tomas had been stalled. She left quickly, with excuses that she didn't want the water to get cold. Jenny also left, saying that she was ready for a long nap.

Once we were alone, Tomas sat down next to me, obviously annoyed. “I've never seen you take such an interest in the condition of your shoes, Antonio.”

I held my stick out to him. “I can do yours next. I'm almost finished with mine.”

He ignored my offer, and watched me closely, as though trying to read my mind. When he spoke, I heard that all too familiar tone of resignation in his voice. “You needn't worry about me, Antonio. If she doesn't return my love, I'll know what to do.”

I threw my stick to the ground. “You're behaving like a fool! No woman is worth your sanity, let alone your life.”

“And why not?” he retorted. “Doesn't the Bible instruct men to leave their parents and cling to their wives and to love them more than their own lives? I'd gladly go to my death if, in dying, Rosa understood how much I loved her.”

I didn't know how to respond to this strangely transformed Tomas. I wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him to his senses. A few months earlier, he would have responded with laughter and a playful shove in return. Now I had no doubt that he'd consider such an action to be an attack and would retaliate like an injured animal.

And so, I was careful with what I said. “Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until you arrive at Santiago. There I believe we'll all find the strength to accept what we must. And we can continue our lives with renewed hope.”

Tomas turned to me, his expression as resolved as I'd ever seen it. “That may work very well for you, Antonio. But for me, there is no longer hope or faithlessness, misery or joy. There is only Rosa.”

F
OR SEVERAL WEEKS
, Jamilet avoided looking at the mark. And when she bathed, she didn't run her hands along her shoulders and down the back of her thighs as she usually did. At these times she preferred to imagine Eddie touching the smooth, normal skin on her throat and breasts, as she wondered if true love was powerful enough to make miracles happen. Every evening that she prepared to go meet Eddie, she convinced herself that the world was full of miracles—that they were as plentiful as the stars.

They'd been meeting at the park every Wednesday evening, after Carmen and Louis went out. One time Eddie even took her to his mother's graveside, and told her that he hadn't been there with anyone else. Frequently, they held hands, as they had on that first night, but these occurrences were as fleeting as they were tender. Jamilet knew that the inevitable would follow.

During their last visit it had been a particularly warm night, and as they were walking back to the tree, Eddie asked, “Why do you always wear long sleeves and keep yourself so covered up?”

Jamilet should have been well prepared with an answer. But with all the potential scenes she'd been playing over and over again in her mind, with all the strategies she'd devised in order to gently fend him off without discouraging him, the possibility that he should begin with such a simple question had never occurred to her. The various ways she might answer rattled about in her brain—there were so many ill-formed lies to choose from, and each one seemed just as foolish as the next. She took a deep breath and came out with the first idea she could articulate. “My aunt doesn't want me to have a baby right now,” she blurted out, quite shocked by her own pronouncement, and not at all certain about where it would lead. Nevertheless, she stumbled on. “She
makes
me wear this kind of clothing to keep the guys away.” Jamilet left it at that, certain that her lie was preposterous enough to be funny.

But Eddie wasn't laughing. Instead, he appeared confused, and even slightly annoyed. “With the crazy stuff she wears?” he asked. “Why should she care if you show a little skin?”

Jamilet shrugged, and even managed a bit of annoyance of her own. “I know, that's what I say, but as long as I live in her house I have to do what she says.”

“All the girls I know wouldn't care what anyone else thought, they'd just wear what they wanted, but I guess you're different…not like a normal girl.”

And those words tormented Jamilet more than anything—
not like a normal girl
—because they were truer than Eddie could ever imagine.

 

Spring's mild temperatures gave way to the relentless heat of summer, and at times Señor Peregrino's fifth-floor room became unbearably hot. On some days it seemed that steam was rising from the floorboards, and the water from the cold-water faucet ran warm no matter how long Jamilet let it run. She wondered how Señor Peregrino was able to concentrate so intently on his letters when she was barely able to think. She took a break from her reading, and opened the window as far as she could, staring out at the still haze of the afternoon. Even the birds were resting and quiet, and the only sound was the drone of distant traffic, so constant as to be just another layer of silence. The occasional tinkling of the ice-cream truck could be heard, but it never ventured up the drive leading to the hospital. If it had, Jamilet would have run down the stairs and purchased ice cream for the two of them.

“You're daydreaming,” Señor Peregrino observed. “Or perhaps you're indulging in one of your make-believe stories.”

“I'm only thinking about how nice it would be to have an ice cream right now, it's so hot.”

He nodded and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “I believe it is the hottest day of the year, but it'll get hotter still, I'm afraid.”

“How can you stand it, Señor? Why don't we go down to the garden and enjoy the breeze? We can read down there.”

He turned back to his papers. “You go. I'll wait here for you.”

Jamilet's physical discomfort prompted her to speak bluntly. “You're allowed to go outside, Señor. Nurse B. told me so herself, and she's in charge of this whole hospital. Why don't you ever leave your room, or walk in the grounds like the other patients?”

Señor Peregrino looked away, his eyes shadowed with a strange and bitter reverie. “Because I'm not like the other patients, make no mistake about that! And what's more, your Nurse B., as you call her, is not in charge of me! I'll leave my room at the appointed hour, and not when you or Nurse B. or anyone else thinks I should.”

Jamilet hadn't the faintest idea how to respond whenever he spoke from that secret hate-filled space in his heart. So she said nothing, but when she dared look back at him she saw that his mouth was set in that familiar stubborn frown. She imagined that if he were to smile at that moment, his nose, eyes, and ears would very likely drop off his face. But to her surprise, his sour mood passed quickly, and an hour or so later he invited her to sit and listen to his story until the worst of the heat had passed. The hard lines on his face so secure in their downcast orientation a moment ago were lifted by their roots like dying branches summoned by a new day.

 

“I'm afraid,” Rosa whispered to me early one morning in the dining room just before we set off. “But I don't know exactly what it is that I fear.”

I tried to understand her meaning and the source of this fear. But my thinking was confused by my longing, and my overwhelming desire to protect her and spare her any pain.

“Put your mind at ease, my love,” I said while softly stroking her hand. “I won't let anything happen to you.”

We heard the latch on the door, and my hand quickly left hers. Tomas entered with an expression glazed by sleep and worry. He took in the sight of Rosa for his breakfast, as he did every morning, and found the strength to strap on his pack along with the burden of his love for her. For several days he'd eaten very little, and every night I heard the sounds of his tormented dreams. I tried to wake him once or twice, but it was no longer possible for me to comfort him.

Jenny joined us a moment or so later with her usual exuberance and talk about her plans for the day, how far she wanted to walk, what she'd determined to be the best destination, and the best places to rest along the way. One day Rosa said to me, “Jenny has the heart of a lion and the cunning of a fox. I wish I could be more like her, Antonio.”

“Please, no,” I said, exaggerating my distress in the hope of winning her precious laughter. “That's like saying you want to paint a mustache on the
Mona Lisa
or attach falcon wings on a pig to make it fly.” But Rosa's eyes still glistened at the thought of becoming more like Jenny and I'm afraid that this overwhelmed her appreciation of my humor.

To the west we caught our first glimpse of the wild mountains of Galicia. The flutter of the pilgrims' excitement increased as we approached our destination, now only a week or two away. The words on every pilgrim's lips had something to do with the glory of the Santiago cathedral and the many miracles attributed to its saint. With my miracle secured, my only prayer now was for Tomas. He walked up ahead of the rest, turning every now and then to be assured of Rosa's presence. She was usually with Jenny, as we made it a point to never walk together.

As much as I anticipated my union with Rosa and taking her home as my bride, a strange sadness possessed me when I realized that our adventure was almost at an end. On the
camino,
my heart and mind had, along with the plodding of my feet, found a peaceful rhythm. Life's irrelevant distractions were gone. We had all that we needed, and every moment was complete in the present knowing of ourselves and our companions. Back in the world, I knew this would change. Even with Rosa at my side, it would change.

I doubled my step and caught up to Tomas in a couple of strides. He was mumbling to himself and his eyes were half closed. I wondered that he didn't trip, but his feet were sure and steady on the path. Aware that I was next to him, he raised his head and removed his hood, but he didn't smile kindly, the way he had before we began the
camino.
He simply stared at me with vacant eyes.

“You look tired today, my friend,” I said, feeling guilty for my casual overture when my heart was weighed with the knowledge of what awaited him.

“And you look full of life, as though you were at the beginning of your journey and not at the end.”

Afraid that the flush of my face would betray me, I stumbled on a loose stone. “I suppose it's my anticipation of seeing the cathedral that gives me renewed strength, and helps me think about something other than my aching feet.”

The breeze that came down from the mountains suddenly whipped up, prompting us to pull our hoods over our heads. Rosa and Jenny were still walking arm in arm behind us, their scarves wrapped snugly against the cold. The wind began to stir the trees into a frenzy, and we heard the whining of cattle searching for shelter. Overhead a thick blanket of black clouds was drifting toward us at an uncanny speed. I spotted a shelter for cattle, thankfully unoccupied, and motioned in that direction. I was sure the storm would be upon us in a matter of seconds.

We huddled close under the crude thatched awning, watching the spectacle unfold. The sky darkened to a fearsome gray, frothing as the wind howled. Thunder reverberated across the sky in a shuddering roar, causing every creature, and even the stones, to tremble in its wake. We became one with the frogs and birds and beetles that scrambled for cover under our feet. The air was infused with a chilling cold as solid as the mountains in the distance, and we felt the pressure of it upon our chests. Soon the rain assaulted the land in thick sheets of ice and frost. It pounded the thatched roof above our heads and mutilated the foliage around us.

I moved nearer Rosa, who was staring out at the storm with green eyes like heavenly embers. The cold left me instantly at the sight of her, and my head swam with the ecstasy provoked by all that is beautiful and good in life. Careful that Jenny and Tomas couldn't see me, I searched for her hand beneath the confusion of all our capes and packs, and our fingers embraced as the storm raged on. My heart pounded louder than the thunder overhead as she caressed my palm, stroking each finger with exquisite tenderness. I returned the gesture and took my time exploring each soft finger from base to tip, my caresses interrupted only by a ring on her third finger. As Tomas shivered next to me, reciting the rosary, imploring God to spare us from certain doom, I perspired with ardor. I might have gone screaming out into the storm to cool off, but shuddered instead, and withdrew my hand for fear that I might lose my composure altogether and give our secret away.

When the worst of the storm had passed, Jenny was the first to speak. “I'm frozen from the inside out,” she muttered, slightly breathless. “I need something warm in my stomach before I go on.”

“There's a village just at the base of this hill,” I offered.

Tomas returned his rosary to its leather pouch and was the first to leave the shelter to assess the strength of the wind. It had quieted to a soft purr and the rain was misting in fine gusts around us. Standing in the middle of the road, he held out his arms like a toreador taunting a bull. He glanced at Rosa and seemed quite pleased to see her watching him with certain interest.

“It's safe to go on,” he proclaimed, as though he and the storm were on intimate terms. “But I caution you to watch your step, as the ground is slippery with mud and puddles. Follow me, Rosa, and I'll show you the best path to take.”

The rest of us ventured out from under the shelter as if we'd been hibernating all winter. My muscles were stiff, but I felt reborn. Rosa's cheeks were emblazoned and her lips curled in a small smile as she watched Tomas meander along the path, skipping over puddles. I have to admit that I felt a slight pang of jealousy from seeing how amused she was, but I quickly comforted myself with reminders that her feelings for me went far beyond amusement.

Jenny shook herself from head to toe with the exuberance of one engaging in spring cleaning. “I for one can find my own way,” she said, with a nod that let us know she was miffed by Tomas's oversight.

“Of course I'll help you as well,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. He held his hand out to her for good measure, but she waved it away and proceeded to adjust her shawl with exaggerated care.

“We ladies can fend for ourselves. Isn't that true, Rosa?” she said, extending her arm so that they could continue walking as they had been before the storm. “Perhaps you boys should walk up ahead and find a proper café where we might redeem our humanity.”

“I believe it would be wiser,” Rosa said as she patted Jenny's arm in a warm and friendly manner, “if we stayed together.”

Behind Jenny's yellow-gray eyes, sparks flew. “Nonsense,” she returned, enunciating each word hard against her teeth, as if she might spit were she not such a lady. “We'll be perfectly safe. I can protect you better than either of these two,” she said, coloring at her own remark.

She fumed in the mist, appearing to turn orange against the somber green of the darkened field. At that moment a glittery flash of light prompted me to look at her hands. My knees weakened as though I'd been kicked from behind by a horse, for on her third finger Jenny wore a ring—two golden snakes twisting into each other and crowned by a pair of wings. It was undoubtedly the ring I'd encountered moments earlier. Rosa was wearing no ring at all.