Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  Jamilet bent down for the empty beer can. “I don’t know, Tía,” she said. “Maybe we should wait and see what happens.”

  Carmen exhaled, and her chin dropped to her chest. “We can wait until my hair turns white, but it won’t change a thing. It’s over.”

  The call from the police came while Jamilet was getting dinner in the oven—chicken enchiladas that she hoped would brighten her aunt’s mood. She still held the oven mitt as the officer explained that, while Carmen was being released under her own recognizance, she was in no condition to drive home and someone should come for her. Jamilet ran the entire four blocks to the station without stopping, and found her aunt sprawled on a wooden bench, her purse and its contents spilled out on the floor, near her feet. The officer behind the window handed Jamilet Carmen’s car keys and driver’s license while Carmen glared at her niece as if she were somehow responsible for her predicament.

  They walked the first couple of blocks in silence. Jamilet was anxious to hear her aunt’s version of the story, although the officer who called had already told her some of what had happened. The police were called to break up a fight at Chabelito’s Bar. When they arrived they found Carmen with another woman’s head in the crook of her arm. All the witnesses reported that Carmen threw the first punch, although she’d had to endure plenty of verbal abuse before she did. “If she’d backed off when we got there,” the officer explained on the phone, “we might’ve let her go right then and there. But it took two of us to restrain her.”

  With black hair exploding from her skull, and one broken heel causing her to limp, they attracted quite a few stares as they made their way down the street, but Carmen didn’t notice. She kept her gaze focused on the sidewalk, leaning on Jamilet once or twice when she felt unsteady on her bilevel heels. She mumbled something.

  “What did you say, Tía?”

  “I said,” she repeated in a grizzly voice, “she should’ve known better than to bring up Louis.”

  “Is that what made you mad?”

  Carmen turned to glare at her niece for a second time, and stumbled in the process. “Wouldn’t you be mad if someone told you that your man had another girlfriend?”

  Jamilet was silent.

  “The bitch,” Carmen muttered. “I know it’s not true. I have my spies, and they say he hasn’t left the house to do anything but go to work. She just said that to make me mad.”

  “Well, I guess it worked,” Jamilet said, and she even managed to chuckle, but the tension didn’t lighten and she felt ridiculous for trying.

  “I never been to jail before, Jami,” Carmen said, her voice soft with revelation. “You probably don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

  “I believe you, Tía.”

  “I just kept drinking and trying to swallow all this shit I feel inside, but it got worse. This time my anger swallowed me up instead of the other way around.”

  “I worry about you, Tía.”

  “Well, here’s something else for you to worry about. I’m going to have to go to court in a few weeks and the judge might decide to send me to jail for a long time, maybe a couple of years.”

  They walked another half block in silence. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Jami,” Carmen said. “Now it feels like my life is really over. Even if Louis came back to me, I don’t think it would help.”

  Jamilet took hold of her aunt’s arm to steady her, and Carmen began to weep softly. “I feel like a piece of shit,” she said, tears running into her mouth. “No, shit is too good for me, too real…you can still see it and touch it. I’m more like a fart, a big silent killer of a fart, a smelly ghost.”

  “Let’s get home,” Jamilet said, straining under the weight of her aunt’s misery. “You’ll feel better after you get some rest.”

  “Yeah, let’s go home,” she said. “I want to sleep and never wake up.”

  Although Jamilet had never cared for the taste of coffee, by the time she finished her first cup, she had definitely changed her mind. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Señor Peregrino had prepared it for her himself, while muttering that he was certain she’d prefer hers with plenty of cream and sugar, as most children do, and that it didn’t do for a person from the Hispanias to dislike coffee, when it could easily be considered one of their greatest contributions to the whole of civilization. “It clears the mind and strengthens the constitution,” he declared. “People who don’t drink coffee are weak and feeble-minded; they usually don’t have opinions about anything, but if they do, they’re afraid to formulate them into words and speak out.”

  Jamilet accepted a second cup, shaken somewhat by the fact that he was doing the serving, but she continued to relate the events of the previous evening just the same. Until three in the morning she’d been attending to her aunt, who was so despondent after her arrest that she threatened to go to the First Street Bridge in her pajamas and jump into the L.A. River. When she wasn’t contemplating the various ways she might end her life, she wept over the misery of her loneliness, and the humiliation of having been raised with the beautiful and perfect Lorena. “I know Mama wished I had died instead of her,” she’d wailed. Jamilet had attempted to sooth her aunt’s agony with herbal teas and sensible talk, but she was overwhelmed beyond her capacity to understand and do anything but acknowledge the enormity of her pain.

  Although moved by Carmen’s piteous condition, Señor Peregrino was far more concerned with Jamilet’s obvious fatigue. “It’s a love affair that’s doomed to fail,” he said. “And I don’t think you should lose another night’s sleep over it; there’s only so much coffee a person can drink.” Nevertheless, he proceeded to talk more about the wonders of caffeine. That civilization undoubtedly owed many of its achievements to the stir it created in the veins, and that the Old World was indebted to the New World for its discovery and transmission. He suggested that perhaps the coffee her aunt was drinking wasn’t strong enough.

  “She seems to like it,” Jamilet said. “She drinks three cups, one right after the other, and doesn’t bother with cream and sugar.” She took a small sip while peeking up at him. “Besides, Tía Carmen has no problem speaking her mind, Señor.”

  When she was finished, she proceeded to organize his breakfast tray, and thanked him for the coffee.

  “You may leave that for later,” he said. “I wish to continue my story.” And his eyes grew misty with the strain of remembering.

  Jamilet sat on the edge of her chair. “Señor, you were—”

  His hand shot up. “Hush for a moment. I can’t hear myself think.” He closed his eyes, as though to shut out everything that might interfere with his remembering, but still there was no indication that the story was about to resume. He opened his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Where did I leave off?”

  Jamilet was so eager to answer that her chair scraped across the floor. “Jenny told you that Rosa was as beautiful as she was poor, and that Doña Gloria was planning the wedding.” She hesitated for a moment. “You were upset with Jenny, even though she let Rosa and her mother have her room at the inn.”

  “That’s true. I’ve never known anyone with so much talent for upsetting me.” He set his coffee cup aside and began.

  Doña Gloria awoke with her feet so enflamed that she was unable to get out of bed for breakfast. Rosa was distraught and asked us to join her at her mother’s bedside so that we could help her decide what to do. Jenny came along, saying that she had experience with home remedies because her childhood nanny had a gift for healing and had taught her everything she knew. She chattered on with fantastic self-glorifying tales as we made our way to the inn.

  We found Doña Gloria in bed propped up against her pillows, her mouth stuffed with biscuits and honey. She seemed quite comfortable, but when she pulled back the blanket to show us her feet, every one of us stifled a gasp. In the course of one night, her feet had swollen to twice their normal size. It seemed they would burst at any moment, and no one ventured to get any closer for a better look
. No one, that is, except Jenny. She appeared more curious than aghast, and mumbled to herself while pressing down on the soles of Doña Gloria’s feet, which were as shiny as pig tripe stretched and overstuffed with sausage meat.

  “I’m afraid this doesn’t look good,” she said to Rosa. “There’s no ointment that can help because the problem has to do with the way blood is flowing through her feet.”

  Rosa’s voice wavered slightly as she asked for Jenny’s advice on what to do. It seemed that my and Tomas’s opinions were not so important anymore, but Tomas took the opportunity to make his thoughts known before Jenny could answer. “Surely if the problem is lack of rest, we should stay together and wait until Doña Gloria is well enough to continue,” he said with inflated authority.

  Jenny shook her head, not the least bit impressed with his apparent conviction on the matter. “I’m afraid she won’t be able to resume walking in a few days. Maybe not even in a few weeks.”

  Tomas puffed up a bit, but he could think of nothing else, short of carrying Doña Gloria all the way to Santiago on his back.

  Rosa covered her mother’s feet, for which we were all grateful. “What do you propose then?” she asked, looking once again to Jenny.

  “Your mother will have to abandon the pilgrimage if she ever hopes to walk again.”

  Doña Gloria ceased chewing on her biscuit and began to whimper. Rosa patted her mother’s shoulder. “And she should see a doctor…?”

  “Oh yes, definitely,” Jenny agreed enthusiastically. “As soon as possible, but he’ll only tell you the same thing.”

  “I’ll inquire at the desk,” Tomas said, and he rushed out of the room, hopeful, no doubt, that the doctor would disagree with Jenny’s assessment. He was back in less than a minute, beaming triumphantly. “We’re in luck,” he said. “There happens to be a doctor of medicine staying right here. The innkeeper is talking with him now to see if he’ll oblige us with a consultation.”

  Jenny turned to Rosa. “You mustn’t worry about your mother; she’ll be fine as long as she rests. Staying away from sweets and alcohol wouldn’t hurt either.”

  The doctor arrived with traces of marmalade glistening on the tip of his gray mustache. He took a bit more time with his examination than Jenny had, although he seemed eager to distance himself from his patient, who insisted on expressing her distress like a baying mule. “I’m afraid she’ll have to stay off those feet,” he said, looking around, not at all clear about whom he should address. “It’s a circulatory problem, and a pretty bad case from what I can tell. If it doesn’t abate, it can become gangrenous and then well…she could lose her feet.”

  Doña Gloria began to wail with renewed vigor and Rosa tried to comfort her, to no avail.

  “She should get home as soon as possible for proper treatment,” the doctor continued, wincing at the screeches coming from the bed. “And, madam,” he said, speaking with enough authority to prompt her total silence, “may I suggest that you refrain from indulging in sweets and that extra glass of Jerez after your meal.” With that, he clicked his heels and left.

  Arrangements began immediately for Doña Gloria and Rosa’s return home. The innkeeper, eager to be rid of the infirm guest, was very solicitous and informed us of the various trains leaving for Barcelona. Rosa and Jenny went to make the arrangements and were gone most of the morning. Later, when Tomas asked where Rosa was, I felt only slightly guilty when telling him I didn’t know, although I’d seen her enter the chapel with Jenny not ten minutes earlier.

  The other pilgrims had left hours ago for León, and all was quiet. Tomas and I sat together watching as pigeons gathered at the fountain for a brisk bath. And then they started to flutter and hover about with a synchronized purpose, much like a swarm of bees. Before my eyes, they shaped themselves into a white, undulating form that evolved, stretching and condensing until I clearly saw the image of Santiago himself floating over the fountain while pointing his staff toward the road, urging us to leave the square immediately.

  “Do you see what I see, Tomas—over the fountain?”

  “I see a strange haze. It’s hard to make out…”

  “It’s Santiago. He wants us to go, leave this place right now.”

  “And leave Rosa? I won’t do it, Antonio, not even to appease Santiago.”

  At that moment, Rosa and Jenny emerged from the chapel, arm in arm and smiling broadly. Rosa was no less than jubilant when she dclared, “My mother has allowed me to go on without her.” She turned to Jenny. “As long as I remain with Miss Jenny and her servants are able to attend to my mother on her trip home.”

  “What a blessing to us all!” Tomas cried, so loudly that the birds exploded with a splash from the fountain and flew back to their roosts under the eaves of the chapel.

  “Yes, it is a blessing,” Rosa agreed, taking hold of Tomas’s outstretched hand, and for a moment I thought the two of them might take to dancing a jig in the center of the square. Never had I seen Rosa so expressive, but it was Jenny I watched with curiosity while she gazed at Rosa and Tomas as though she were admiring her own personal puppets on a string. Rosa excused herself, explaining that she needed to attend to her mother’s final wishes before she left, and Tomas insisted on helping her, leaving Jenny and me to ponder this sudden change of circumstances on our own.

  “You don’t seem at all pleased that Rosa will be continuing with us,” Jenny said as the smile eased away from her face. “I’m surprised.”

  “That you’re surprised by anything is quite a wonder to me, Miss Jenny. Things always seem to go exactly as you plan them.” I was preparing to say more, when soldiers on horseback entered the square. The tall blond soldier from the earlier encounter was among them, leading his lathered and exhausted horse to the watering trough. It was obvious they wouldn’t be riding through.

  “You know them?” Jenny asked. At that moment, the soldier saw me and left his horse to his subordinates. He looked Jenny over thoroughly, impressed with the fine weave of her garments and female form, but the arrested gaze that overcame him when he looked upon Rosa was absent.

  “I trust you are well, sir,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “And that your companion and his sister Rosa are not too fatigued from the journey.”

  “Sister?” Jenny echoed, turning to me, with questioning eyes.

  He extended his gloved hand to Jenny. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Captain Andres Segovia. I’m traveling the pilgrimage route on government business.”

  Jenny took his hand and introduced herself, as the well-bred lady she was. “So I can assume that your inquiry after Miss Rosa is related to government business?”

  Andres blushed, appearing for an instant as though he were all of ten years old, but he quickly recovered. “I’m inquiring after the lovely Miss Rosa because I had occasion to speak with her earlier and found her charming.” He turned swiftly back to me, perturbed by Jenny’s probing stare. “You will give her my regards,” he said. “And to her family, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said with a slight bow of my head.

  At this Jenny spoke up. “Her mother isn’t well, Captain. She’ll be returning to Barcelona by train this very afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Andres said, appearing intrigued. He would have asked more about it, but he was called away by his men. With a stiff bow to both of us, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Jenny dumbfounded. I took advantage of this momentary lapse and made hasty excuses about needing to pack, but she had the nerve to take hold of my elbow, forcing me to stop and face her or risk appearing a mannerless brute.

  She was still and serious, as though trying to read my mind, like a gypsy. “Is she really…? No, it can’t be.” Her expression warmed and her eyes crinkled at the corners from a smile. “It’s all a trick of some sort, but why?”

  I took exquisite pleasure in annoying her by replying, “All things are not meant for you to know, Miss Jenny. And,” I continued, “some questions are be
tter left unasked.”

  20

  AFEW DAYS FOLLOWING HER ARREST, Carmen appeared to be feeling better. She stopped talking about Louis altogether, was up early for work, and came home at the usual hour. She appeared uneasy only when sifting through the day’s mail, and every time she didn’t find the court summons, she heaved a heavy sigh of relief.

  “You know, Jami,” she said after a full two weeks had passed, “I think I’m off the hook.” Carmen settled back on the couch, put her feet up, and managed a healthy cackle besides. “I hear this kind of thing happens all the time. Clerical errors, they call it. Something goes wrong with the computer, and just like that,” she said snapping her fingers, “my case is history.”

  Reassured by the thought that things were getting back to normal, Jamilet stopped at the market on her way home from work one afternoon in order to buy nopales for a special stew she’d been wanting to make. If she hurried, she’d be able to beat Carmen home and get the meal started. With a bag in each hand, Jamilet was hurrying down the street to get home when she saw Eddie, waiting across the street as usual. He nodded a greeting and Jamilet nodded back. This had been the extent of their interaction since the conversation outside the hospital fence, and on this day Jamilet was not quite as content with it. If she hadn’t been late for dinner, she might have lingered outside to see if another conversation might bloom between them.

  As it was, she hurried up the front steps noting that Carmen was already home. Jamilet confirmed it was her aunt’s car parked out front by the soft pink dice that hung from the rearview mirror. Carmen said they reminded her that life was a gamble, and that up to now she’d been lucky. With her appetite back to normal, Jamilet expected to find her impatiently flipping through one of her magazines or channel-surfing with a vengeance. Carmen didn’t like waiting for meals. She didn’t like waiting for anything.