Señor Peregrino pressed both palms to his eyes, and shook his head as though reacting to a severe and sudden headache. “Over the years, I managed to delude myself into believing that my deep love for Rosa had been a mere obsession fueled by nothing other than youthful lust. As I resigned myself to a life with Jenny, I learned how to appreciate her many talents. She was undoubtedly a clever woman, and if nothing else, we proved to be good business partners. I grew to love not the woman at my side so much as the life that we’d made together—a life dedicated to the acquisition of wealth and the power that goes along with it. Although still young, Jenny and I decided not to have children, but to vigorously pursue our chosen professions, and we acquired numerous businesses over the years, including a chain of hospitals and asylums, Braewood among them.”
“You own this hospital?” Jamilet asked, incredulous.
Señor Peregrino nodded, as though guilty of the fact, and lowered his hands from his face. “I was able to put everything behind me. I suppose you could even say that I made peace with the fact that Rosa had chosen a life of wealth with Tomas over a humble shepherd’s life with me. And whenever I thought of her, which was less and less as time passed, I hoped that she was as comfortable with him as I was with Jenny.” He opened his desk drawer and took out the letters he incessantly studied, spreading them over the top of his desk. “But when I found these letters, everything changed.”
“Why, Señor?”
He chuckled bitterly. “Betrayal reveals itself in the most insidious ways, my dear. It’s a snake that slithers through the years undetected, then quite suddenly you find that it’s been hiding in your bed all along, ready to devour you in your sleep.” He snatched the letter closest to him and dangled it in front of Jamilet’s eyes. “These were written when I was still a young man, but I first laid eyes on them only three years ago. I found them while searching for an old set of golf clubs in the attic. They had been stashed away in a shoe box that quite literally fell on my head while I was moving things around. I can’t imagine why Jenny kept them, perhaps because she thought she might need them if legal complications arose, and Jenny has always worried so about legalities. Sometimes I wish that she’d thrown them out, and that I’d never found them.” Señor Peregrino’s eyes began to fade once again.
“Why? Who wrote them?” Jamilet asked.
Señor Peregrino answered, “Tomas, of course, and it was shocking to see how many he’d written and the mysterious invoices that accompanied his letters. But even more so to put this puzzle together piece by piece until the dreadful scene was complete.” He tossed the letter he held back onto his desk with the others. “What I learned was that when Andres challenged Tomas and me to the duel, Rosa secretly begged Jenny to help her put an end to it. While we agonized on that night we thought might be our last, they schemed and then bargained with Andres, who finally agreed to give up the duel and Rosa as well if Jenny made the payments for a prime piece of grazing land he’d had his eye on in the northwest of Spain. So long as Jenny made the payments, he’d leave Tomas and me alone. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Before the deal was struck, Jenny told Rosa that she would go along with it only if Rosa also agreed to leave me to her, and Rosa consented.
With head held high, Señor Peregrino declared, “I was right. Rosa did not turn away from my love for money and other worldly comforts. She did so to save my life. That’s why she was so desperate to keep our love a secret. Had Jenny found out that Rosa had violated their agreement, she would have ceased the payments, and Andres would have come after me as he’d promised—he was not the sort of man who’d ever forgive and forget.” Señor Peregrino sighed wearily. “I suppose that as the journey neared its end Rosa hoped that we might find a way to escape, but both Jenny and Tomas, who was by then involved in the scheme as well, were successful in convincing her that there was no escape, and that Andres would hunt me down and kill me whether I was married to her or not. But if she had told me the truth, I know we would have found our miracle.” His eyes glittered for an instant. “My only comfort was in learning that the marriage certificate Jenny had produced was a fake and that Rosa never truly married Tomas. She left Santiago soon after and didn’t contact him again until some years later.”
Señor Peregrino began searching frantically for a specific letter among the collection before him. And when he found it, he tenderly kissed the corner of the yellowed page and pressed it to his heart. “When I read this letter, it was no longer possible to put things out of my mind, as I had been able to do for so many years.” He turned to Jamilet, his eyes gleaming. “You see, my dear, on the last night that Rosa and I were together, she became pregnant with our child. She never planned to let me know of it and was prepared to raise the child alone. But when she grew deathly ill a few years later, she contacted Tomas for fear that our child, still so young and vulnerable, would be orphaned. Tomas then wrote to Jenny, and…” He sighed bitterly, placed the letter down, and retrieved a small leather Bible from his desk, staring longingly at it. “I don’t know what happened after that. The letters revealed nothing more, and when I confronted Jenny, she denied knowing anything about it, and said that I had misinterpreted everything. She even accused me of writing the letters myself in order to torture her with painful memories of the past. Such a cold hatred grew between us that I could barely look at her without wishing to destroy her.
“The only feeling within me stronger than my hate for Jenny was my desire to find my child. I made endless inquiries with authorities here and abroad. In my business dealings, I’d acquired friends in high places, and I asked them for favors that might help me in my quest. I even enlisted the assistance of a private detective, the most expensive one I could find, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find the nameless child of a woman who died so long ago. I didn’t even know if our child was a boy or a girl.
“When I had no choice but to accept that I’d failed, I began to falter. For weeks, I didn’t speak to anyone. I refused to eat, hardly slept, and was unable even to work. Eventually, I refused to set foot out of my front door. Everyone believed that I’d gone mad, and if I should try to explain what was fueling my madness, Jenny was always nearby to explain how years of hard work and stress had finally caught up with me. There was no way of convincing anyone of the truth. Even good friends, who were once in a position to help, began to doubt me. I was stripped of all hope and dignity, and before long, I stopped caring about anything at all.”
“And what about Jenny? What happened to her?” Jamilet asked, all at once remembering the janitor’s story about how the fifth-floor patient had cut up his wife into a thousand little pieces. After hearing all of this, it seemed a likely outcome. “Did you kill her, Señor? Is…is that how you ended up here?”
Señor Peregrino placed the Bible back in the drawer, and clasped his hands together. “I cannot deny that the thought crossed my mind once or twice, but no, I didn’t kill Jenny. She continues to pursue me, and finds it impossible to leave me in peace even now as I live my hermit’s life.”
“But I’m the only one who comes here, Señor.”
“Yes, that’s true, but Jenny is never far away. You see, my dear,” Señor Peregrino said, gathering his letters together and putting them back in the drawer, “Jenny and Nurse B. are one and the same.”
27
IT WAS THE FIRST MORNING since the incident at the park that Jamilet awoke without thinking about Eddie. She did not remember to renew her vow to hate him, nor did she painfully relive their tender moments together at the fence when she passed by it on her way to work. When she walked through the gate and up the path to the main entrance of the hospital, she heard the singing again, sweetly rising and lingering about the treetops. She stopped to listen more intently, and admire the mystical tones. It was an ancient song, yet as familiar to her as a lullaby. She resumed her walk, stepping softly, as she imagined the pilgrims had done when reaching the crest of a steep hill, contemplating the journey that lay ahead, and
the miles they’d already traveled. She didn’t understand the words of the chant, but they twisted melodically and found their place in her soul, deciphering their own meaning, and gnawing at the edges of her hopes and fears.
Jamilet entered the hospital as always, punched in her time card, and proceeded up the five stories to her post. Now that the story was finished, she felt as though she were on the threshold of something extraordinary, and hesitated outside Señor Peregrino’s door, feeling almost as she had on her first day. She knocked, and entered after he acknowledged her. She found him still in bed, his eyes shimmering and a faint smile hovering about his lips. It was then that she saw the open suitcase on his desk, and the neat piles of clothing on the chair. His shoes were lined up against the wall, and the drawers of his wardrobe were open and nearly empty. Noting her confusion, he said, “As interminable as my stay here has been, it now seems to have passed so quickly. Time can be as moody and petulant as a spoiled child, I’m afraid.”
Jamilet’s face was blank. “Where are you going, Señor?”
He blinked once. “The appointed hour has arrived. I’m going to Spain, to Santiago de Compostela, as I’ve been planning to do all along.”
Upon hearing his words, Jamilet felt an unexpected sadness descend upon her. It was so strong that she immediately found an excuse to interrupt their discussion, and in a semi-bewildered state went about her usual duties in the bathroom. She didn’t want Señor Peregrino to see the tears that kept welling up in her eyes, and she needed time to compose herself. She reported to the kitchen at the normal hour for his breakfast, and when she returned she felt better. But she noticed that Señor Peregrino was behaving a bit oddly as well. She’d never seen him smile in such a secretive manner. He asked her to sit and share a cup of coffee with him, as these moments would soon end. But he said this strangely too, as though stifling giggles.
“It looks like you’re almost packed,” Jamilet observed between sips of coffee. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
“And what is the weather like in Santiago?” she asked, trying to sound casual, hoping that this would keep her strong emotions at bay.
“You wouldn’t be asking me that if you’d listened carefully to my story, Jamilet.”
She became flustered, and her cup rattled on its saucer. “Well, I know there’s plenty of rain and mist, but it’s summertime. Does it rain in the summer too?”
“Perhaps,” he said, watching her closely. “But enough talk about weather. I’m ready for my breakfast now.” He raised his arms and Jamilet took the tray to him, positioning it carefully on his lap. She lifted the dome off the plate, and sat in her chair as he ate. He appeared to have a fine appetite, with little concern about the adventure that awaited him.
“Why are you leaving now, Señor?”
He nodded, and swallowed. “This coming Sunday is the twenty-fifth of July, the holiest day of the year in Santiago, and if I leave tomorrow night I’ll make it just in time.” When he was finished with his breakfast, he raised his arms again so that Jamilet could remove the tray. Then he pushed back the covers and swung his legs out of the bed. His feet were searching for his slippers, but then he became still, and locked his eyes on Jamilet’s face. “Some months ago you asked me if my story were true or pretend. Do you remember what I said to you then?”
Jamilet nodded. “You said that everything in life is an illusion and that truth is only what we choose to believe.”
“That’s correct. And now I must ask you, do you believe that my story is true, or a delusion?”
Jamilet was stunned by his question, and wondered why Señor Peregrino, as certain as he was of his own truth, would care what she thought. Even so, she had to admit that from the beginning she was drawn to his story, and to the power of his convictions, but she didn’t know enough about the art of deception to be sure of much else. Did truth, even in its crudest form, draw you in, like the warmth of the sun? Could it claim itself to be by its mere presence? She felt incapable of answering such questions; nevertheless, she knew that she believed in him. She couldn’t find the words to describe this feeling so essential to her being. She simply knew that she believed, like she did in the sky above, although she’d never touched it and couldn’t prove to herself or anyone that the expanse of nothingness was indeed the sky and not an illusion.
“I believe that your story is true, Señor,” she said.
He smiled in response and, still looking at her intently, said, “I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you that some weeks ago, I experienced a revelation. It came to me at the point when sleep had begun to creep into my brain, but it was so powerful that I was unable to close my eyes for some time afterward.” He shuddered, as though a remnant of this experience were still afflicting him. “I heard a voice, as strong as thunder, yet tender enough to suspend all of my fears. The voice told me that while I would never find the child I was searching for, I should no longer despair, because my grandchild had found me.” He clasped his hands together. “And you, my dear, are that grandchild.”
Jamilet stood up abruptly. “Señor!”
He stood as well, and shuffled along to the bathroom, unperturbed. “It’s only right that you should accompany me to Spain so that we may honor your grandmother Rosa and express our gratitude to Santiago together. And you needn’t worry about the expense or any details. I’ve already made the necessary arrangements.”
“This isn’t a revelation, Señor. You…you made it all up!”
He was almost to the bathroom door when Jamilet ran in front of him, blocking the entrance. “Señor, I am not your granddaughter,” she said, with rigid arms down at her sides and fists clenched. “I don’t believe that part of your story—not at all!”
“That may be, but I’m certain that I believe you are my granddaughter more than you believe you’re not. Now, if you’ll kindly step away…”
He had started to move past her when Jamilet blurted out, “My mother was born in a brothel. Her mother was a prostitute. It’s well-known by everyone in the village. She sold her body for money, and probably died from some horrible disease that comes from doing too much of whatever it was she did. Was Rosa a prostitute, Señor? Is that what we should believe?” The startled expression on Señor Peregrino’s face encouraged her to continue. “And my mother wasn’t her first child. Tía Carmen came first, and looking at her anyone would know that neither you nor Rosa could have been her parent.”
Señor Peregrino hung his head and appeared distressed. Then he raised it slowly, his eyes sparkling with fresh resolve. “I can’t concern myself with such details now. How my daughter ended up in a Mexican brothel, I’ll never know. Perhaps that is where Jenny put her, God only knows what treachery she’s capable of. Or, perhaps it isn’t your mother we should consider, but your father…”
“He was a rapist and a drunk, Señor! I swear it!”
Señor Peregrino closed the door without another word, and promptly opened the faucets, which squealed and moaned before releasing a rush of water that effectively drowned out all other sounds.
Jamilet squeezed her face into the doorjamb and yelled, “I’ll get proof, Señor, and you’ll see that what you’re saying is crazy.”
She listened for a moment or two with her ear pressed against the door, but there was no response from him, only the gushing sound of the shower. A few moments later she heard chanting, soft and reverent, yet bright enough to lift the heaviest fog.
Dressed in a white linen shirt and dark slacks, Señor Peregrino was waiting at his desk when Jamilet returned later that day with his lunch tray. He slid a sealed envelope toward the edge of the desk, and said nothing, but it was clear that he meant for her to take it.
Jamilet approached cautiously. After she’d left him to his shower that morning, she’d retreated to the adjacent office, praying that his earlier insanity would lift so that when she returned, all would be back to normal. But whenever she thought about the fact that Se�
�or Peregrino actually wanted her to be his granddaughter, her good sense was interrupted by an unexpected warm fluttering in the pit of her stomach. It made her feel as though she might float out of the window, to frolic in the treetops and enjoy this balmy weather born of hope.
It was in the afterglow of this state of mind that she opened the envelope. There she found her original documents, just as she remembered them, her birth certificate and the identification card Carmen had bought for her downtown. But there was something else, and she studied it more closely. It was another card with nine digits stamped across the front, like the one Carmen had given her, but this one had her true name.
Señor Peregrino leaned back in his chair with arms folded across his chest, apparently quite pleased with himself. “I have friends in immigration, and enough money to be bold with the favors I ask,” he said slyly.
“I don’t understand, Señor.”
He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward in his chair. “You can throw that false Social Security card your aunt gave you away. This one is legal—it’s the real thing.”
Overwhelmed, Jamilet asked, “Why did you do this, Señor?”
His eyes wandered the ceiling and he scratched his chin as he thought about it. “I asked myself that very question months ago when I began this whole process. I didn’t know the answer then, but if nothing else, I’ve learned that it’s a wise man who obeys the dictates of his heart. Anyway,” he said, with practical cheer, “it’s quite difficult to travel abroad without proper identification and a passport, at least not by plane.”
Jamilet stared at the new document and allowed herself to entertain the vision she’d been resisting all morning. She’s onboard a plane bound for Spain, with Señor Peregrino sitting beside her. As the plane flies across the Atlantic, they happily peer out of the small windows and watch the clouds drift by while sipping coffee and sharing stories. Then, all at once, Jamilet shook the fog from her head and returned the documents to their envelope. “Señor, I don’t want to disappoint you, but I can’t force myself to believe something I know isn’t true. We both know that I’m not your real granddaughter. Maybe you just decided that you needed a miracle, and that this was it.”
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