Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  Although it had been only a few days since she’d last seen him sitting on Pearly’s front porch, they hadn’t spoken since Carmen swallowed the pills, and it felt like an eternity of time, lengthened by worries and fears she could barely grasp, let alone manage. This was the first opportunity she’d had to thank him for helping her with Carmen.

  As she approached, she realized she hadn’t combed her hair very well that morning. She’d been so preoccupied with looking for her aunt’s keys that she couldn’t remember if she’d even washed the sleep from her eyes. She quickly passed a hand across her face, as though to make sure that her nose and mouth were more or less where they should be. Eddie pushed himself off the fence when he saw her.

  They didn’t greet each other, but Jamilet stood near enough to feel the warmth of his presence, and it moved her to the point of breathlessness. She waited for him to speak, hoping that if he didn’t, she’d find words to justify the moment and lengthen it into something more than a chance encounter.

  “How’s your aunt?” he asked, as though the obvious way to start had just knocked him over the head.

  Jamilet responded breathlessly, “Fine, she’s doing really well. I…I didn’t get a chance to thank you for helping her…”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I saw you on the porch, but I didn’t want—”

  “I understand,” he said weakly. The conversation could have ended right there. Both Jamilet and Eddie waited for its natural conclusion to summon them, but they stayed where they were, watching the steam of their breath mingle and disappear. She looked more closely at him and noticed that his eyes were swollen, and dull. Men often looked like this when they’d been out drinking the night before, but in Eddie’s case, she wondered.

  He reached out and took hold of the fence to steady himself. His face was strained with something he didn’t seem to know how to say. He opened his mouth and closed it, then opened it again. “I…uh…I know you have to get to work. I don’t want to make you late.”

  “I don’t mind,” Jamilet said, almost before he could finish his sentence.

  “I just started walking this morning. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing, and I ended up here, I don’t know why.” His face softened momentarily and was then seized with an expression of grief, raw and achingly tender.

  Instinctively Jamilet reached out and placed her hand on his arm. Her touch prompted him to speak and the words dropped from his mouth one after the other. “I guess it’s because you knew she was sick, you know?” Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. Jamilet kept her hand on his forearm, and said nothing. “I was pissed though.” He chuckled while shaking his head, as though trying to make sense of a bad joke. “I didn’t want to talk about it.” He looked at her accusingly, and grew still. He lowered his head and his tears became streams of warmth between her fingers, still resting on his arm.

  After several seconds of silence, Jamilet asked, “When did she die?”

  Eddie lifted his free arm, wiped his sleeve across his nose, and sniffed. “Last night,” he said.

  It was nearly impossible for Jamilet to keep her mind on the lesson. She listened with half an ear as Señor Peregrino reviewed the errors she’d made on her last assignment. She managed to respond somewhat coherently, but her mind wandered, like a kite that was constantly being teased off the ground. It was ready to lift off and soar into the sky, but there was Señor Peregrino, pulling on the string and forcing her back down to earth again and again with his insistence that she learn the difference between “knight” and “night,” “hair” and “hare.”

  How could she concentrate on what Señor Peregrino was saying when she knew that that very evening she’d be meeting Eddie outside, by their tree, as they had the first night? It was his idea, and he offered it without hesitation, saying, “Meet me tonight, and we’ll go for a walk or something…okay?” A smile found its way to his lips and Jamilet could only nod and agree to be there at whatever hour he asked, under whatever circumstances he wanted. It seemed that all at once, her life had a new purpose beyond itself, and she felt the irrational desire to laugh and cry and stare into space just to contemplate this miraculous turn of events.

  Somehow she made it to lunch without appearing too distracted, although Señor Peregrino had been watching her with a certain curiosity. And when he pushed the chair by the desk out with his foot and asked her to sit while he continued his story, she promptly sat and waited for him to begin.

  “Well,” he said. “Where did I leave off?”

  Jamilet flicked her attention to him, as she’d been studying the pastel blue of his sheets, wondering what she should wear that evening, for she’d already decided that her hair was long enough to wear loose. “I’m sorry, Señor…?”

  “My story,” he repeated. “Where did I leave off?” He watched her squirm for an answer, and then leaned forward in his chair. “So, your memory isn’t as good as you thought.”

  “I’m afraid not, Señor.”

  He sat back, somewhat self-satisfied. “Well, luckily for us both, I remember very well.”

  The higher we climbed into the mountains that guarded the entrance to El Bierzo and Galicia itself, the deeper we walked into her forests, and the more we encountered the rain. But unlike the others, I welcomed the rain because it encouraged long hours of introspection that I sorely needed. And it was while I stood on the riverbank one morning, watching Rosa find her footing on a slippery bridge, that many thoughts came to me at once: the humble manner in which she carried herself, and her patience with Jenny’s constant prattle and airs. I thought of Tomas, whose pathetic countenance she met at every turn with kindness, always sensitive to his agony over her, of which she was undoubtedly aware. And then I thought of the mysterious way she’d saved our lives. This was truly an extraordinary woman.

  A peaceful joy surged within me when I realized that what I felt for Rosa was not sinister or wrong. It had evolved into something quite wonderful, for I saw beyond her physical beauty and delighted in the total splendor of her being. I could no longer deny that I loved her more than life. Even so, I realized that telling her how I felt would only cause her to suffer. As always, she seemed concerned with matters beyond that of ordinary men, and I feared that my declarations of love would only add to her burdens. The most loving thing I could do would be to stay silent, and suffer alone with my love for her.

  Late one evening after the others had retired, I was sipping my wine alone by the fire when suddenly I felt a warmth more ardent than the flames. I looked up to find Rosa standing before me.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Antonio,” she said with a slight bow of her head. “I’m finding it difficult to sleep. May I sit with you awhile?”

  I straightened in my chair and reached for another to bring it closer to the flames. “You’re not disturbing me at all. Please sit down. The fire is very pleasant.” I poured her a glass of wine that she accepted with a nod, and I shivered pleasantly when the hem of her cloak brushed my knee as she took her seat.

  Her face was taut with anxiety. “Nothing seems to upset you, Antonio,” she said softly. “You are always so calm and sure of yourself.”

  There was a slight tone of accusation in her voice and I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “To use your words,” I said, “things are not always what they seem.”

  She smiled and turned away, gracing me with her profile, more delicate than the glass she held to her lips. “I would like to tell you a secret, if you care to listen.” The color rose to her cheeks.

  “I would be honored.”

  “I’ve been thinking for a long while about how to say this, and now that we’re so close to reaching our destination, I realize that I must do so now or lose my chance forever.” She put down her glass, and turned to face me. “You must understand that I expect nothing from you. Only that you listen.”

  “I understand,” I said, not understanding at all.

  Her voice was slightly shrill
, like that of a young girl confessing a minor sin. “I have told no other pilgrim until now that the reason I wanted to go to Santiago was to confirm my conviction for the church. My mother was never happy with my plans to become a nun. My family is poor and her desire has always been that I marry the richest man she can find—and I had many suitors,” she said, not bragging, but lamenting the fact. “They came at all hours of the day and night, laden with presents and bursting with proposals, but I turned them all down. My hope and prayer was that the pilgrimage would convince her of my true dedication.”

  I’d been listening to her with my heart in my throat, as I couldn’t believe that her quest was so similar to mine. I wanted to tell her that we harbored the same secret, but I remained silent and listened, as she had asked.

  She gazed at me fully, her eyes pleading for sympathy. “I know that to speak as I am speaking to you now violates all rules of propriety. If my mother were here she would surely cut out my tongue, but I’m praying for a miracle, and I have great faith.” She folded her trembling hands in her lap as tears welled in her eyes. “For you see, rather than strengthen my original intention, my journey has led me to a new one. I am in love with you, Antonio. Since the first day I heard you singing in the square, I have loved you.”

  Try to picture a young man after hearing such a confession from the most beautiful and perfect creature he’s ever been blessed to know. Had I been standing, I would have fallen to my knees. As it was, it took effort for me to breathe and blink and make sure that this wasn’t some kind of bizarre and fantastic hallucination.

  We didn’t speak for some time and she shifted her gaze to admire the fire while I stared at her, fearing that she might vanish into thin air if I dared to move.

  Finally she broke the silence. “You’ve been doing a fine job of listening, Antonio. If you wish to speak now, I…suppose…what I mean is, don’t worry about hurting me. I’ve been preparing myself, as it doesn’t take a brilliant mind to discern your feelings for Jenny.”

  “My feelings for Jenny?” Her insinuation was like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

  Rosa became uncomfortable, as she was now betraying not her own secret, but another’s. “I didn’t mean to say it, it’s just that I’ve seen how the two of you get on together, and under the circumstances I can’t help but be interested.” She managed a small guilty smile.

  “I assure you, dear lady, that I have no special feelings for Jenny, none of the sort you intimate.” Slowly, as though approaching a rare butterfly that might flutter off into the fields, I took her hands into mine and allowed the soft warmth of her touch to fill me. It was almost too much to look at her and touch her at the same time, but I remained composed while inhaling the sweet breath escaping her lungs. To think that she had no idea of my feelings for her caused me to falter for words, but I found them eventually, as any man would who must find his bearings to survive. “Imagine what you feel for me multiplied by a thousand, and you may come close to understanding my feelings for you. Not even I comprehend this love, but I am willing to submit to it completely, as I should have from the beginning.”

  “Don’t tease me, Antonio.” And she held her gaze upon me as though to discern my true heart, which I would gladly have ripped out of my chest to appease her. But she saw what she needed in my eyes, and graced me with a miraculous smile.

  I brought her hands to my lips and from that moment our love was forever sealed.

  Jamilet opened her eyes to find Señor Peregrino with his eyes closed, and a distant smile hovering about his lips. Behind his eyelids she saw the rolling movement, and she had the distinct impression that he was continuing with his story without bothering to tell it out loud.

  “Excuse me, Señor,” she said. “You stopped talking.”

  His eyelids fluttered. “I’m aware of that,” he replied abruptly, but his smile still lingered. Then his eyes flew open, and blinked through the mist of his recollection. “I’m simply reflecting on the most precious moment of my life.” He sharpened his gaze. “It’s a curious thing—you weren’t particularly interested in listening when we began, and now you don’t want me to stop. That shouldn’t surprise me considering your state of mind this morning.”

  “I’m always interested in listening to your story, Señor.”

  “Oh, Jamilet,” he said, folding his arms and cocking his head to one side. “I’m not so easy to fool as you think.” He nodded slowly while watching her, as though he could know everything about her by following the contour of her brow line, the curve of her cheek. Jamilet was prepared to complain, but he held up a hand to silence her and continued, “Your complete preoccupation today leaves no doubt in my mind that you’re either in love or obsessed.”

  Jamilet blushed and fumbled with her hands, but said nothing. Then she began to gather the coffee cups and spoons together, but stopped. “How do you know if it’s love or obsession?” she asked.

  “At first you can’t tell the difference,” he answered. “It takes time to know what you’re dealing with. But everything of true value will stand the test of time. It’s no different with love.”

  “How can I love someone I hardly know?”

  “It happens all the time,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “But be careful, Jamilet. When you’re in this state of mind, things are not always as they appear.”

  22

  AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, Carmen and Louis had made plans to go out to dinner and a movie, ensuring that they’d be gone for several hours. After they left, Jamilet slipped into her aunt’s bedroom and studied the collection of perfumes she kept on her dresser. She selected the one in the twisted bottle that looked as if passion itself had made the glass writhe with the heat and deliberation of love. She dabbed a dot behind her ears and on each wrist as she’d seen her aunt do, but decided to forgo the extra pat on her cleavage. She was confident that the purple long-sleeved shirt Louis had given her would cover her sufficiently, and with a sweatshirt over that, there was no chance that Eddie would see anything she didn’t want him to see.

  She waited beneath the branches of the tree, beyond the light that shone from the streetlamp, breathing in her own scent and feeling a bit light-headed because of it. The perfume was stronger than she had expected. She plucked a moist leaf from overhead and started to rub at her wrists and behind her ears with it. What a fool she was to be dreaming of seduction at a time like this. Eddie wanted to talk about his mother’s death, everything else he could get from Pearly. At this very moment they were probably groping each other on the porch, as they always were, and this image helped Jamilet relax a little. She sniffed at the leaf to determine if she’d succeeded in rubbing off any of her foolishness, but her senses didn’t seem to be working properly. She was surrounded on all sides by an alien buzz that blurred her vision and confounded her hearing. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Eddie would be there any minute. Or maybe he’d forgotten because Pearly was helping him manage his sadness in the best way girls can.

  She heard a soft rustling, and Eddie appeared. “Let’s go,” he whispered, turning around and leading the way down the street, but he wasn’t rushed as he’d been on the night they’d walked to Braewood Asylum. Jamilet had no difficulty keeping up with him, and a few well-timed glances revealed that he was more composed and rested than he’d been that morning. He was lost in his own thoughts, yet seemed to know exactly where he was going. There was purpose in his stride as he turned the corner after they’d walked a few blocks in silence.

  Finally, he asked, “Do you like ducks?”

  “Do you mean…the birds?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, you know. They have flat beaks, and they say ‘quack, quack.’”

  “I guess,” Jamilet said, and she noticed that he carried a plastic bag that swung at his side.

  Jamilet hadn’t known the park existed, although she’d walked through that part of the city on several occasions when going to the market. It was set back from the street, behind a sickly
looking grove of trees choked by the fumes of the constant traffic they were forced to inhale. Once behind the trees, the traffic noise softened into a mild whir, and Jamilet focused on the steady sound of Eddie’s breathing as he made his way along the path that bordered a good-size pond. He was heading toward a bench perched on a slight knoll on the farthest side of the pond. He hopped up and sat on the table, with his feet on the bench seat, leaving plenty of room for Jamilet to do the same. She left two feet or so of space between them, so that when he opened the bag for her, she had to lean in a bit for a handful of bread crumbs.

  He tossed out the first fistful, and they heard the splash of water and the muttering, throaty call of the ducks as they began to stir. In an instant it seemed the entire flock was waddling at their feet. Jamilet threw out another fistful, and the calls grew into little trumpet blasts, for they were not accustomed to such human generosity at this hour. Jamilet threw out another fistful of bread, and felt the urge to tell the ducks to quiet down. The last thing she wanted was for them to be found, because sitting on the park bench and feeding the ducks with Eddie was the closest thing to paradise she’d ever known.

  In less than five minutes the bread crumbs were consumed, and the ducks, complaining and exasperated with such a swift conclusion to their good fortune, waddled back to their watery homes in the tall grasses near the pond’s edge. The silence grew into the darkness again, and Eddie asked, “When did your mother die?”

  Jamilet’s lips trembled as she answered. “About a year ago.”