“You’d like to believe in miracles, would you? Well, let me tell you that in order for my eyes to open every morning, and look upon the world, I must believe.”
Jamilet nodded as if these words made perfect sense to her.
He blinked happily. “What if I were to say to you that I’d found you a miracle?”
Jamilet was dumbfounded. “I…I don’t know, Señor. I suppose that I’d thank you.”
He chuckled and waved a hand at her. “Oh, you just think I’m just a crazy old man, but soon, when the appointed hour arrives, you will see that I am not so crazy after all.” He sighed and refolded the letter, carefully placing it back into the envelope, his eyes glittering mysteriously. “I believe that I’ll continue with my story now,” he said. “Your lesson can wait until later. Sit. Sit,” he commanded, and she obeyed, feeling somewhat relieved that this strange discussion had ended.
“Well,” he said. “Where were we?”
“The soldier,” Jamilet blurted out, happy to offer something useful. “The blond soldier was in love with Rosa.”
“In love?” Señor Peregrino asked, raising his eyebrows.
Jamilet persisted. “He couldn’t stop looking at her from across the square. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.”
“Is that love, Jamilet?”
She thought about this earnestly. “Maybe it’s more like a seed. If it gets water and light, it can grow into love,” she offered shyly.
“Interesting, I’ve never heard it explained quite that way before,” he said, his black eyes flashing with every word. And then the Spanish day grew around them.
It seemed that the plains of wheat, waving their golden limbs up to the sky as they whispered their secrets to the weary pilgrims who passed, had grown eternal. The miles passed one after the other with little variation, save the occasional church perched upon an almost imperceptible knoll, or the appearance of dovecotes in the fields and dense flocks of doves as we neared the villages. While the monotony of our surroundings lulled most of us into a trance, Tomas embraced the role of protective brother with increasing enthusiasm, and Rosa’s mother was ever so grateful to have acquired a son. She prattled on incessantly about it, and I do believe that even Tomas’s boundless patience was tested.
Spending time with them as we did, it wasn’t hard to understand why Rosa was such a quiet girl. No doubt she’d had to wait for days, even weeks, for an opportunity to interject a word or two of her own. Yet, she tolerated her mother graciously. One would never guess she felt the slightest irritation when commanded to cover her face against the dust of the road, to steady her walk over loose stones, to drink slowly lest her belly ache. Her mother fired these warnings and many others at her daughter, and Rosa wordlessly obeyed, her face always placid, betraying almost no emotion. It was impossible to know what she was thinking at any moment, and absurd to consider that she might have any feelings at all for me other than the same gentle friendliness she showed to everyone.
Once or twice, she caught me watching her and I became momentarily flustered, but soon regained my composure by asking her if she would like me to sing. The only time Rosa’s mother ceased talking was when she slept or I sang. And so it was that the four of us were seldom seen walking the path one without the other. Tomas, with his new family, and I, the able friend who watched over them.
Before long, Tomas’s obsession with Rosa grew into adoration. No more did he mention his dedication to the church, and I could swear that he was beginning to gain a bit of weight. And the timbre in his voice had deepened somewhat, so that once or twice I didn’t recognize him when he spoke. He liked telling Rosa about his life in our village back home, and the vast stretches of land his family owned, the fine embroidered tablecloth they used even for plainer meals that never failed to include meat. Rosa listened, while nodding politely, but she didn’t appear to be impressed.
Her mother, however, was practically salivating and more than willing to give Tomas control of the conversation whenever it pertained to the subject of his family’s holdings. She’d tuck his arm inside hers and laugh at something he said that was not necessarily intended to be funny. “You’re such a clever young man,” she’d say merrily. “I’ve always said that a man with muscle in the head is much more interesting, don’t you agree, Rosa?”
As always, Rosa responded to her mother with reasoned caution. “I do appreciate thoughtfulness, Mother, in men and women both.”
Doña Gloria cackled, and she quickened her step. “It’s almost as though you were meant to be my son, Tomas.”
More than once Doña Gloria spoke to me during those rare occasions when Rosa and Tomas couldn’t possibly hear us. One time I remember clearly; I was waiting to fill my canteen at the well when she came up from behind and startled me. “Is it true what Tomas says about his family and their position?” she asked, her mouth twisted, as though we were partners in crime.
I couldn’t suppress my indignation. “I assure you, Doña Gloria, that rich or poor, Tomas is an honest man.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, attempting to soothe me with her motherly tone. “But I’m sure you understand that a mother must watch out for her daughter, especially if her daughter is as beautiful as Rosa. You have no idea the fantastic stories I’ve heard. It’s as if men take one look at her and suddenly become liars of the worst kind.” She laughed, and covered her mouth with enough force to knock out a few teeth; and she hadn’t many to spare. Feeling more composed, she whispered, “For many years I’ve been planning her destiny.”
I was tempted to inform her that destiny could be determined only by God, but I had no desire to enter into a philosophical argument. I filled my canteen, and remained silent.
“I tried talking Rosa out of this foolish journey by telling her that God listens to her prayers no matter where she offers them, but she would have come with or without my approval. Oh yes, she’s headstrong,” she said, responding to my raised eyebrows, for I was surprised to hear that Rosa was anything but obedient. “She may appear meek and agreeable most of the time, but believe me, when she decides on something, nobody can stop her.”
“And why is it so important for your daughter to complete the pilgrimage?” I asked.
Doña Gloria puffed up her cheeks and fumbled with her canteen, nearly dropping it. It was the only time I’d seen her at a loss for words. “Why is it important for anybody?” she asked, and left me to finish my chore.
That evening as we arranged our bedding for the night, Tomas was quite literally glowing. Earlier, Rosa had entered the dining hall with her hair still moist from a recent wash. There were several places at the table she could have chosen, including the chair next to mine, but she chose the seat next to Tomas. He recounted the way it happened several times. “Do you think she’s fond of me?” he asked.
“I have no doubt.”
Tomas smiled, unable to contain his delight. “It’s a wonder to me when I remember how we began this journey. You were the one who was lost, and now I’m walking in the very shoes you shod, except…I don’t believe I’ve lost my way at all, Antonio, but found it.”
“I’m not sure I understand, my friend.”
Tomas gazed up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. “It is I who wasn’t meant to be a priest. I was meant to fall in love with Rosa, and she with me.”
Every night he’d gather his blankets up around his chin and speak like a child full of promise, eager for the next day and what it might bring. Then he surprised me with a new theme. “I fear that as much as I love and honor Rosa, I cannot trust myself to be alone with her. I thank God that as we walk together arm in arm, playing the part of brother and sister, we are surrounded by our companions.”
“What do you fear would happen if you were not?” I asked, feeling guilty, for I knew the answer to my question better than he did. I understood the inner fire that burns brighter than rational thought, provoking the will, and the flesh, toward the most intimate of desires.
His voice w
as shaky. “I fear that I will force my touch upon her.”
“And then…,” I said, feeling like the very devil.
“She will relent, and allow me to touch her cheek and hair, caressing her as a true lover. Then she will press her lips against mine and embrace me.”
I stayed quiet, simmering in shame after having heard such fantasies that, to my ears, sounded as pure as any sermon from the pulpit. By comparison, my thoughts were beyond perverse, and as wild as the Galician mountains that awaited us at the culmination of our journey, for in my dreams I’d taken Rosa to my bed countless times. I imagined how the turn of her ankle must lead to the bend of her knee, the exquisite length of her thigh, and the sublime softness beyond. Many an afternoon I placed my weary head upon her welcoming breast and slept as a cherub floating among the clouds, or we became as uninhibited as two snakes writhing in the tall grass. I came to accept my lusty thoughts as I did the sores on my feet and the aching in my legs, as something completely normal for a man of my age and circumstance. I would have to learn to live with it if I were to remain on the camino.
With our journey more than half complete, I no longer dreamed of standing in the shadow of the great cathedral and kneeling before the golden splendor of the apostle’s crypt. It’s true that I didn’t indulge in the same romantic fantasies involving marriage and children that haunted Tomas, but I had no more conviction for the church because of it. What’s more, I didn’t long for the comforts of home, or the thrill of great adventures abroad. I was more than content to be a pilgrim on the path, taking each day, and each step upon it, as it came to me.
18
THE AROMA OF GARLIC AND ONION cooking in oil had permeated the kitchen when Carmen arrived home a bit earlier than usual. Jamilet was busy pounding away at a slab of meat on the counter with the butt end of an empty beer bottle, and the sound of Carmen’s shoes landing in the corner of the room caused her to stop abruptly, with the bottle in midair.
“I didn’t hear you come in, Tía,” she said.
Carmen was already at the refrigerator. “It’s no wonder with all that racket you’re making.” She gulped down a beer while waving a finger. “Don’t bother with dinner tonight. Louis and I are taking you out for your birthday.”
Jamilet set the bottle down and wiped her hands on a towel. “My birthday was last week.”
“Yeah, so? Haven’t you ever heard of the saying, ‘Better late than never’?”
Jamilet put the meat and vegetables away for tomorrow’s dinner and hovered about the kitchen, somewhat confused, and shaken. She’d never really celebrated her birthday before. Gabriela had always believed that birthday celebrations were an unholy exercise in self-indulgence, not to mention financially impractical. The most anyone received on a birthday in that household was a large piece of sugary-sweet bread they were expected to share four ways.
Not knowing what else to do, Jamilet took the dish towel and started to wipe down the counters as Carmen looked on. “For God’s sake, stop cleaning,” she said. “I told you, we’re taking you out, so find something to wear. We might run into someone I know, and I don’t want them to think my niece is a wetback with no taste.”
With a hesitant smile, Jamilet retreated to her room and changed into the only other thing she had—the purple long-sleeved shirt Louis had given her, and a pair of jeans she wore only on weekends. She washed her face, and brushed her hair, which was now long enough to wear behind her ears, before shuffling back out to the living room, feeling self-conscious and red faced. Louis had just arrived, and raised a beer in greeting when she entered the kitchen.
“She cleans up okay, huh?” Carmen said proudly to Louis, who could only agree with a nod and a wink. He said nothing about the shirt. Carmen began searching through her purse while she mumbled and finally produced a tube of lipstick. Without asking, she took hold of Jamilet’s face. “Do this,” she commanded while puckering her own lips. Jamilet obeyed and closed her eyes, inhaling the waxy perfume of the lipstick as Carmen worked. Then Jamilet pressed her lips together and felt the creamy softness slipping between them. The makeup tasted somewhat bitter, although not unpleasant.
She opened her eyes to find Carmen and Louis studying her, as though they’d never seen her before. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Carmen said to Louis.
He nodded and popped open another beer. “The lipstick looks real nice,” he said.
Carmen took hold of Jamilet’s shoulders and turned her around. “Come on, girl. I’m gonna show you something.” She walked her over to the bathroom mirror, and stood behind her while they both examined her reflection. They looked upon an oval face with smooth honey-colored skin and huge eyes—dark, and enormously sad. Jamilet thought the pink lipstick made her mouth look too big and out of place on a face where all the colors varied somewhere between black and tawny.
“What do you see?” Carmen asked.
“My mother’s sadness,” Jamilet immediately replied.
Carmen shook Jamilet’s shoulders. “You know something? If I had your face and figure, I’d dress myself up every day and go dancing every night. I’d show off what God gave me, until I was too tired to move. Then maybe I’d die young, but I’d die happy.”
“But the mark, Tía—”
“I’m not talking about the mark,” Carmen barked. “I’m talking about you.”
Having gone to bed later than usual after a lovely birthday meal, Jamilet reported to work a few minutes late, and went directly to the kitchen for Señor Peregrino’s breakfast. When she entered his room, she greeted him twice, but he didn’t respond, as he was intently working on something at his desk. She noticed that he’d taken all her work off the wall, an indication that he was preparing to embark on a new challenge. Jamilet sighed. As much as she appreciated his commitment to her education, she wished at times that he wasn’t such an exacting instructor. The previous week, he’d become cross when she couldn’t pronounce the th sound to his liking, and threw his pencil across the room.
Jamilet quietly placed his tray on the bedside table, and went about her duties in the bathroom. She was preparing to leave when he spun around to address her. “What’s this? No ‘good morning’ or ‘how did you sleep’?”
Jamilet nodded and mumbled a hasty, “Good morning, Señor,” before resuming her retreat to the door. On the way, she snagged her skirt on the bed frame and snatched it back with a yank.
“My but you’re irritable this morning,” he said.
Jamilet pushed errant strands of hair away from her eyes and attempted to focus her gaze on him as sincerely as she could. “I’m not irritable, Señor.”
Señor Peregrino widened his eyes and leaned forward in his chair. “Perhaps you prefer not to admit it, but you are and, if I may add…moody.”
“You think I’m moody, Señor?”
“I do indeed.” He waggled a finger at the tray, which meant that he wanted her to prepare his coffee and bring it to him. “The truth is that with you, I never know what to expect from day to day, whether you’ll be cheerful, or positively sour. I daresay there are times when you frighten me with that venomous look in your eyes, and I wonder, as I do at this very moment, whether you might find a way to drench me with hot coffee, accidentally of course.”
Jamilet stopped stirring the sugar abruptly. “You know I’d never…what a silly thing to say!”
“And now you’re calling me a silly old man.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You’d do well to remember your place,” he snapped.
“Of course, Señor.”
“Yes, well…” he said, eyeing her with exaggerated suspicion. “I was going to ask you to join me in a cup of coffee while I continue my story.”
“Thank you, Señor, but I don’t like coffee. It’s far too bitter.”
“It’s seems to me that your mood is even more so.”
Jamilet at first ignored this last comment and brought him his coffee, noting the various exercises he’d prepared for the
day’s lesson. He’d been up late, no doubt, in order to have them ready by morning. “Of course, nothing would sweeten my mood better than to listen to your story,” she said.
Sipping his coffee, his eyes glittered beyond the steam. “It is fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and it helps me forget my problems.”
He waved his hand as though to clear the nonsense between them. “When you have your health and your youth, there are no problems. Now where was I?”
Jamilet took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Tomas told you he was in love with Rosa and that he was afraid to be alone with her because of what he might do. You listened and felt guilty because the thoughts you had about her were much…worse, but you weren’t lost like before. You were a pilgrim on the path, taking each day as it came, and you had no interest in—”
“Yes, yes, I remember now,” Señor Peregrino said while raising a hand to silence her, but his eyes were dancing with good-humored mischief. “And you’d do well to remember that it’s my story, Jamilet.”
“Of course, Señor.”
If the journey into Sahagún had seemed tedious, then the walk beyond that, heading toward León, was utterly desolate. The land was flat and interminable, with nothing to arrest our attention but the wind in the thistles, and the distant tinkling of sheep bells. It seemed that my only companions were the black hawks that circled overhead looking for a meal among the grain. Tomas had stopped sharing his thoughts about Rosa, and I noticed that he often walked more slowly when I sang, and that he and Rosa and Doña Gloria would lag behind, too far away to hear or sing along with me.
One evening while we sat alone near the fire waiting for our supper, I watched him as he sipped his wine and turned the glass in his hands. “I’ve always been satisfied to live in your shadow, Antonio,” he said. “Since we were boys I was content to follow your ways, to wait for you at the base of the tree while you climbed to the highest branch, to clap my hands and stomp my feet while you danced, because I was unable to dance. Perhaps I didn’t bother to learn because I knew I’d never compare with you.” He sighed deeply. “We will return to our village at the end of this journey as changed men, but the difference between you and me will never change.”
Tarnished Beauty Page 20