Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  Jamilet captured her grandmother’s broom and set it aside. She took hold of her hands, pressing them into her own. “I never told you this before, Abuela, but God spoke to me too. When I was deep in prayer as Mama was dying, He told me I should go north and there I would find the cure.” Jamilet waited for her revelation to take effect.

  “How did He sound?” Gabriela asked, intrigued and moved that her granddaughter could have had a religious experience when she usually couldn’t be bothered to say Grace before a meal.

  Jamilet looked directly into her grandmother’s eyes with some regret, for she wasn’t comfortable telling tales about that which her grandmother held so dear. “It wasn’t like the voice of a person. It was more like soft thunder, holding back its strength so you’ll listen and know that it’s God without feeling afraid.”

  “Soft thunder,” Gabriela repeated twice. “That’s how he sounded for me too.”

  The twelve-hour bus ride was the only rest Jamilet would get for several days. She tried her best to sleep, but was so exhilarated that she couldn’t keep her eyes closed for more than a minute or two. She studied the words on the paper that she knew to be her aunt’s address in Los Angeles, and tried to recall the woman she’d last seen, over ten years ago. Everyone always said that they’d never known two sisters to be more different. Jamilet pictured her mother sitting quietly in the corner, observing the world through large dark eyes and offering a hesitant smile if circumstances required. Carmen liked to laugh out loud at her own jokes, and she was always looking for a reason to fill her enormous lungs with air and bellow out her good humor or anger—whichever the case might be, as if breathing like everybody else wasn’t interesting enough.

  Jamilet watched the Mexican desert sweep past her window, smudges of tan and green layering over each other and blurring into the panorama of endless horizons as the rhythmic sounds of the engine and wheels became an anxious lullaby, more appropriate to bouncing than rocking, but soothing nonetheless. In this hypnotic repose she clearly remembered her aunt sitting at the kitchen table, feet propped up like the man of the house, unconcerned that her broad thighs and buttocks were partially visible to whoever was present.

  “Lower your legs,” Gabriela would say. “Do you have to show all the world your business?”

  “The world? Do you see the world in here, Jami?”

  Jamilet looked around the room, eager to demonstrate how well she was able to follow directions, and then shook her head in agreement. But if the world should happen to appear in the form of Pepe from down the road, offering a plate of his mother’s tamales in exchange for a bag of chilies, or the milkman with his weekly delivery, Carmen didn’t lower her legs, or adjust her skirt, not even an inch. Instead, she’d smile wickedly and watch to see if they stole a glance at her generous behind, which they always did. Then she’d laugh, as if she’d just proven something very important to herself, although Jamilet couldn’t imagine what it was, but she laughed along just the same, and returned her aunt’s triumphant wink when the show was over.

  The truth was that Jamilet agreed to most things her aunt proposed, and Carmen was prone to sharing her opinion on a wide variety of topics: the need for a cold beer first thing in the morning to clear the mind; the energy wasted on too much courtesy; the secret arrogance that lived in the hearts of the overly modest, just to name a few. But for Jamilet, the important thing was to be in Tía Carmen’s good graces, and to bask in her laughter when it filled the house like a party of twenty or more.

  When Lorena turned up her nose at her sister’s foul language or when Gabriela gave up an irritable plea for the Lord to guide her lost soul, Jamilet was quiet, and in the stillness of her thoughts, at the very center of her cautious admiration, she cheered. How could she harbor criticism in her heart for Tía Carmen, the only person she knew who wasn’t afraid of the mark? In fact, Carmen didn’t pay it much attention at all and wasn’t spooked or bothered by the idea of curses and punishments from God. Jamilet knew that Carmen would teach her how to be strong and how to face the world with her chin up and shoulders back. She’d undoubtedly approve of Jamilet’s manly disguise and they’d laugh until they were rolling on the floor like drunken horse hands. She could imagine every detail of their exchange, and clearly heard her aunt’s voice booming above the droning motor of the bus…

  “And you can forget about all those dainty rules your mother and grandmother fed you since you were a baby. They won’t do you a damn bit of good here.”

  “I’ll forget everything, Tía,” Jamilet says, smiling. “I’ll even forget my own name if you want me to.”

  Carmen stares at her quizzically. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she says.

  Together, they walk out into the city. The ground beneath their feet is polished marble, like the floor leading to the altar at church. The buildings surrounding them are a multitude of angular shapes and colors that reach beyond the clouds. Tía looks around, and even she, who’s never been too impressed by anything other than a good-looking man’s backside, is momentarily reverent.

  “There’s no dirt on the ground here,” she says. “And look up.” She points to the uppermost edge of the city, where concrete and glass give way to open sky as blue as any ever seen. “These are the kinds of miracles you can believe in here.”

  In less than two days, Jamilet was crossing the desert, her path illuminated only by the light of the stars because flashlights might attract unwanted attention. It was more dangerous to attempt crossing without an experienced coyote to guide them, since coyotes knew the passes through the canyons, and the bandits who roamed the border looking for Mexicans to rob. But Jamilet had joined six others near the border who, like her, had no way of securing the money for such a luxury. They’d decided to brave the crossing on their own. They’d be safer, and traverse many more miles walking through the desert during the cooler nights. In three days’ time, if all went according to plan, they’d cross the Rio Grande at a calm, shallow stretch of river and emerge on the other side where all was prosperity and hope—the North.

  Jamilet felt a nervous kind of elation at the prospect of being so close to her goal. The journey had been easier than expected. She had been prepared to devote days, and even weeks, to the crossing, well aware that many were caught and returned to the border only to attempt it again the very next day. This could go on for weeks, and often the more stubborn were detained and incarcerated for months. But here she was, taking part in a plan as simple for her to understand and execute as any of her household chores.

  Juan, a soft-spoken man with an easy smile, was the only member of the group Jamilet trusted. When some complained that the scrawny boy was slowing them down, or not collecting his share of the firewood when it was time to set up camp, Juan reminded them that they’d be wise to conserve their energy for the Rio Grande, and that the bandits were always on the prowl, so bright, burning fires were a bad idea anyway. Jamilet made certain to walk no more than a few paces away from him, and when it came time to rest, she always lay as near him as she could.

  Juan appraised his young traveling companion with increasing suspicion. He was familiar with the degradations of the north, of the open prostitution and of the men who dressed like women and danced nearly naked in the clubs located in the seedier parts of the big cities. Surely Jaime was headed for such a place. In Juan’s village, his sort were hung from trees and flogged until the priest could be assured that the evil had been beaten out of them. Juan took note of Jaime’s delicate wrists. This one had never been hung from a tree, and such tender skin wouldn’t survive too many lashings of the whip. Feeling more pity than disgust, he prodded Jamilet on the shoulder, more roughly than necessary, aware that the others were watching, and told her that his brother was to meet him across the border and take him on to Los Angeles. With his fair share of money for gas, Jaime was welcome to join them, he said.

  Incredulous and tearful when confronted with such good fortune, Jamilet reached for the money she kept
stuffed in her sock, and gave it all to him before he could change his mind. She was now penniless, but she trusted her skill at discerning character, and she had no doubt that Juan was a good man who wouldn’t harm or deceive her.

  The night before they were due to cross the river, it was so close that they could hear the thundering chorus of water that passed swiftly between the land of the north and the land of the south. Jamilet imagined the sound to be the voice of God, not so different from the false description she’d given her grandmother days before, although it felt like a lifetime ago. She closed her eyes, and tried to decipher the meaning of it all. Was the message an ominous or a hopeful one? She couldn’t be sure, but she had no doubt that there was a message for her there. Before sleep claimed her thoughts, she lifted her eyes to the night sky, and promised upon the light of every star in the heavens that if she wasn’t rid of the mark in two years time, she would end her life. She wouldn’t wait for God to take it from her as her mother had done. She’d simply climb to the top of the tallest building in the city and jump to her death. She found comfort in the thought that it would be impossible to distinguish the mark from the bloody mess that would be left of her. Anyone who jumped from such a high place would look exactly the same, and in this way at least, she would have succeeded.

  The next morning, Jamilet awoke to see the dusty boots of her companions at eye level, as they stood over her. One or two were laughing nervously, and the others drifted off to begin packing their meager provisions. When she turned to do the same, she was unable to move her hands and feet, and realized they had been tied while she slept.

  Juan, who had been watching and waiting for her to wake, sat near her on his haunches in order to address her privately. “I’m sorry, Jaime,” he said, “If you’d known what else they were planning, you’d thank me. These boys don’t understand your kind, and I guess I don’t either, but that’s no excuse for cruelty, I know…”

  Jamilet struggled to release herself, but the more she pulled, the tighter the ropes dug into the flesh of her wrists and ankles. In minutes she was winded from the effort.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Juan said, shaking his head at the pitiful sight. “I’m an expert when it comes to tying knots.”

  One man kicked dirt in Jamilet’s face as he walked by, and mumbled a curse under his breath. He was clearly glad to be rid of the degenerate young man, and eager to get on with the next phase of the journey before it was too late. As he prepared to cross the river, he proceeded to unfasten his belt, and remove his boots and all of his clothing, until he stood fully naked in the sun. Jamilet had never before in her life seen a naked man, and despite her fear and confusion, she became momentarily transfixed by the sight and the curious patches of hair that grew all over his body, making him look as though he’d been dipped in egg and rolled in batter, some places sticking better than others. Most curious of all was the man’s penis, which reminded her of the deformed and feeble arm of an infant.

  “The joto wants you, Jose,” one of the men shouted when he noticed Jamilet’s gaping interest. “Maybe you should give him a taste.”

  “Leave him alone. It’s bad enough we tied him up like this,” Juan replied.

  “You want him for yourself…,” the troublemaker jeered back, but he was too busy with his own preparations to take it any further.

  “You took my money,” Jamilet said, craning her head around and up to look Juan in the eye.

  He glanced at the other men, and then quickly retrieved the bills she’d given him from his back pocket, and stuffed them into her boot, making it appear as though he was only tightening the ropes. And as he did so, he whispered, “The rope is lightweight. A few strokes across a sharp rock and you’ll be free. Then you should go back home, and pray to God that He forgives you for your perversions. Besides,” he said, glancing toward the river, and shivering at the prospect of what awaited him, “small as you are, you’ll never make it across.”

  As Juan left to join the others at the bank of the river, Jamilet contemplated telling him that they were mistaken about her, but the sight of so many naked men, and the realization that she would have to do the same, led her to conclude that her situation would worsen rather than improve. She kept quiet and watched sullenly as Juan stripped down like the first man, rolled his clothes and provisions into a tight bundle, and then carefully tied it all on top of his head and under his chin with his belt. It was well-known that a group of Mexican men slinking through the fields with their clothes dripping wet was certain to arouse suspicion and a call to la migra. The ranchers who lived near the border could spot them like eagles, and it was rumored that even their wives made calls to the authorities while keeping watch from their kitchen windows as they did the dishes. The illegals were often caught and detained before the dishes had dried. But if they managed to keep their bundles out of the water as they crossed the river, in a matter of seconds they’d be dry and dressed, and dispersing into the adjacent fields, easily blending in with the other ranch hands in the area.

  Soon the men could be heard screaming, blubbering, cursing the frigid water and slippery rocks like wounded cows. Their bellows endured for some time, and several required much coaxing before they felt brave enough to cross. Eventually their boisterous complaints faded into the roar of the river, and Jamilet couldn’t be sure if they’d perished or made it to the other side.

  It took little more than an hour for Jamilet to release her hands, using the strategy that Juan had suggested. She spent the rest of the day and most of the evening crouched at the bank of the river watching it flow past like an enormous glistening snake, carrying twigs and branches and the occasional plastic bag and tin can along its undulating back. She ate the last of the apple she’d been saving and drank frequently from the river. She listened to the wind whispering through the trees, and even more intently to the stillness that settled itself in between the sounds of nature all around her, hoping to hear the true voice of God somewhere in its midst telling her what to do next. But all she could be sure of was the beating of her own heart, and the breath entering and leaving her body reminding her that she should be grateful to be alive, and nothing more.

  The moon was high in the sky when she removed her clothes and rolled all she carried into a neat bundle. Everything, that is, except her boots; certain, as she remembered the complaints of the men earlier, that she’d be more sure-footed with them on while stepping on the slippery rocks that carpeted the river bottom. With the bundle tied securely to the top of her head, she stepped into the river, and braced herself against the water that swirled about her ankles and up to her knees, her thighs, and filled the warm spaces in her groin with a turbulent cold that was excruciating and terrifying all at once. Although she was panting and trembling violently, she continued to go deeper into the river that surged up to her waist, lapping at her breasts like a hungry sharp-toothed child. She clamped her eyes shut against the pain, gathering as much strength as she could, and before long found herself gazing into the familiar and hideous face of the fear and rejection she’d lived with all her life. If truth be told, the river water was warm by comparison, the sticks and debris that pounded into her body no more threatening than a friendly poke to the ribs.

  And then, when she felt herself on the verge of succumbing to the bitter cold, the river sang to her. “Life without despair is possible,” it sang over and over again within the deepest heart of its roar. “If you can endure…If you can endure…” The voice, more powerful and captivating than the ugliness of her past, plowed a valley through her consciousness, deep to the core of her soul, and she followed its call through the darkness until she heard nothing and felt nothing except for a numb and deathlike peacefulness. She was certain that she’d been taken by the river and that she was floating like a leaf on the surface of the water, spinning and dipping along with the currents, moving with a power that surpassed her most paralyzing fears. And there was nothing she could do but let herself go wherever it led.


  When Jamilet collapsed on the bank of the river, she was unable to move, and hardly even to breathe for a long while, but her mind soared with the joyous realization that she’d made it to the land of miracles. When she was once again able to feel the blood pumping through her arms and legs, and had determined that she hadn’t suffered any serious injuries, she dressed in clothes that she had managed to keep mostly dry, and spent the remainder of the night huddled at the base of a thorny bush that smelled of orange blossoms and mint. And there she slept soundly.

  The next morning, she was awakened by a strange prickly sensation all over her body. She opened her eyes to discover an army of plump black ants. She leaped to her feet, ripped off her clothing in a flash, and jumped into the river without a thought of the horrifying experience of the night before. Back on shore she began to whip every garment she’d been wearing against the trunk of a tree until she was certain that all of the ants were gone. But as she made her way toward what appeared to be a dirt road leading away from the river, she thought she felt one or two surviving ants crawling down her back. They remind me that I’m a survivor too, she thought with satisfaction.

  She hiked for several hours through a forest of willow and cottonwood trees draped dreamily over one another. Although she found the dappled shade of the forest refreshing, she became concerned when she detected no sign of previous travelers. She’d been told that the best trails were littered with trash and human excrement. Because of this, it was said that if you lost your way at night, you need only follow your nose to find it again.

  Her canteen was nearly empty when she spotted a farmhouse less than a mile in the distance. As she got closer, she could see that it was a simple one-story structure with a wide covered porch. A laundry line could be seen in the front yard, off of which hung several pairs of denim jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Judging by their impressive size, it was clear that they belonged to a very tall and stocky man. Jamilet approached cautiously, crouching low as she emerged from the shade and protection of the forest. She decided it was best to follow a thicket leading away from the house, toward the barn where she hoped to rest for no more than a couple of hours. If she was lucky, she might find something edible as well. Animal feed would do, anything to stop the nagging ache in her belly.