Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

  His expression stiffened. “This is a miracle, Jamilet. Make no mistake about that.”

  “How can it be, Señor? A miracle is like when the doctor tells you that you’re going to die and nothing will save you, and then suddenly you’re cured. Or…or like when you don’t have enough money to pay the rent, and you find an envelope stuffed with just what you need on the sidewalk. Miracles happen like magic.”

  “And who says that miracles happen like magic? Who invented that rule? Was it you?”

  “No. Everybody just knows that’s how it is.”

  “And what I know is that we make our own miracles.” He held out his hands to her. “Come here, child.” She stepped in closer to give him her hands and he pressed them into his own. “Magic is for weak-hearted fools, whereas miracles are born of faith, and nothing else. You are my granddaughter because I will it with all of who I am.”

  Inspired by the strength of his words and the warmth of his touch, Jamilet understood for the first time exactly what he meant. “Just because we say it’s true, it becomes true.”

  “That’s right, and you must choose your stories, and believe in them with all your heart, and all your soul—your entire being. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jamilet?”

  “I think so.”

  He released her hands, and cleared his throat. “I’m aware of the fact that I’m not the most patient man. I can be moody at times, even difficult by some accounts, but I’m basically a simple and good-hearted soul, and relatively well educated. Under my tutelage you’ll apply your capabilities in an honorable fashion.” He addressed her as sincerely as he ever had. “Will you have me for your grandfather, Jamilet?”

  “Señor, anyone would be lucky to have you as their grandfather.”

  “Then you accept my proposal?”

  “I…I guess…”

  “Guessing isn’t good enough, my dear.”

  Jamilet gathered her conviction and poured it into every word. “I accept you as my grandfather, Señor, with all of my heart.”

  Satisfied by the sincerity of her declaration, he opened the first drawer of his desk to retrieve Rosa’s small leather Bible, cracked and worn with the years. He asked Jamilet to place her hand upon it, and he did the same. His voice took on a singsong quality, and he strung out the words all on the same note as they echoed softly in the room. “By the power of this holy book, and by the love and will of our eternal souls, I hereby declare that you, Jamilet, and I, Antonio, are from this moment and forevermore to be known as granddaughter and grandfather. And may the truth of our relationship be known to any and all who care to hear of it.”

  He placed the Bible back in the drawer and cleared a space on his desk. He looked up, bright-eyed and resolved. “Now then, we have many things to plan for our trip, but first I believe we should have some lunch.”

  28

  THE BEER CAN slipped out of Carmen’s hand and hit the floor. “You what?” she asked, her eyes round with disbelief.

  Jamilet swallowed hard. “I’m going to Spain tomorrow night with Señor Peregrino,” she said.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Carmen tried to force a smile, but she knew her niece wasn’t the type to joke around.

  “No, Tía. We became grandfather and granddaughter,” Jamilet said, dreading the revelation, but knowing there’d be no better test for her conviction than this. “We vowed with our hands on the Bible and everything. He said—”

  “He’s a goddamned pervert! I knew it the first day you told me about him. Didn’t I warn you?” Carmen bounded over to the phone, nearly slipping on the beer that had spilled on the floor. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “He hasn’t done anything wrong, Tía. He’s just a nice old man who wants to believe in miracles. It would all make sense to you if you heard his story. He walked for hundreds of miles to Santiago—”

  “Let me tell you a story,” Carmen said with one hand on the phone. “Once upon a time there was this dirty old man who thought to himself, gee wouldn’t it be nice if I had myself a young piece of ass? I think I’ll make up a crazy story only a stupid girl would believe, and get myself some. If she’s really stupid, I’ll convince her she’s my granddaughter and take her away somewhere. And if she’s a total retard, I’ll tell her she has to blow on my thingy or the plane will fall out of the sky.”

  “He’d never say that. You don’t understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand what comes next, but he won’t tell you that part of the story until you’re all alone…”

  “We’ve been alone.”

  “No,” Carmen said, her face contorting, “I mean alone…away from the hospital, away from everything, you stupid girl.”

  Jamilet had never risked any kind of confrontation with her aunt before, yet she was prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect Señor Peregrino and their relational oath. The blood raced through her veins, and she felt short of breath when she said, “Put down the phone, Tía.”

  “Yeah, right.” Carmen started dialing. “I’ll ask for the pervert department,” she said, punching the numbers with enough force to splinter the fingers of an ordinary hand. “Do you expect me to allow my dead sister’s daughter to go off with a fucking pervert?”

  “Put down the phone, Tía.”

  Watching Jamilet approach, she said, “You take another step and I’ll kick your ass all the way to Spain and save the old man the airfare.”

  Jamilet stood still. What she said next was the worst thing she could think of saying, yet she felt she had no choice. She had to say it for the sake of believing beyond all doubt and making the miracle happen, just like Señor Peregrino said it would. She took a deep breath and expelled the content of her lungs along with the words, “You don’t care about me. All you care about is not having someone around to do your cooking, and cleaning, and laundry, and to…to keep the rats out.”

  Carmen held the phone away from her ear and stared at her niece. “What did you say?”

  “Admit it, Tía. All you’re worried about is losing your slave.”

  It took a moment or two for Carmen to recover from the shock, and when she did she began to seethe as her fingers curled into fists. “After all I’ve done for you, you have the fucking balls to tell me that?” She fumed and trembled and scrunched her toes. She threw the phone off the table as Jamilet sprang back against the couch, almost toppling over the side, but she regained her balance soon enough to get away from Carmen, who was shoving furniture, lunging about like a bull, and ranting at the top of her lungs. “And you think everyone’s supposed to feel sorry for you ’cause of that thing on your back!” she screamed. “Well I don’t, okay? I don’t feel one fuckin’ bit sorry for you!” Just then, Louis walked in through the front door, and everyone froze. The couch was diagonal across the living room, the pillows were on the floor, and the table blocked the kitchen entrance. With fists raised, Carmen’s eyes were still intent on Jamilet, who stood cornered at the other end of the room.

  “What’s going on?” Louis asked, his eyes flitting nervously between them. “Carmen, talk to me.”

  She shook her head, too angry to speak, tears blurring her vision.

  “Jamilet?”

  Jamilet explained, wincing internally at her shorthand explanation. It sounded even more preposterous than the version she’d given her aunt, but she had little energy to spare on credibility.

  Louis raised his hands, dedicating one to each of them. “Okay now, Jamilet, you believe this old guy at the hospital is your grandfather, or you want to believe it. He says he wants you to go to Spain with him for something…I didn’t get that part too good.” He turned to Carmen. “And you think the old man’s a pervert, and you’re mad at Jamilet for saying you treat her like a slave.” He turned bug eyes on both of them. “Is that right?”

  Carmen’s voice eased out of her throat like black tar. “Close enough. And she can find somewhere else to call home if she’s going to be such a bitch.”

  Louis turned
both hands toward Carmen, palms massaging the air between them as if he were some kind of snake charmer, but Carmen didn’t back down. “I told you the first day you came here, little girl—I don’t like people lying to me.”

  Jamilet tried to concentrate on her aunt’s words and the sight of her familiar face, but she felt as though she were standing on a flat, desolate plain with nothing but the path of the camino ahead of her. And it was only Señor Peregrino whom she recognized, and only his chanting that she heard. She was walking beside him now, and realized that she had been for some time. Nothing but their journey was real to her anymore.

  Louis was still rattling off one rationalization after another, assuming a false calm. He hoped to inspire something of the like in Carmen, but she shoved him aside with an undignified sweep of her arm, causing him to teeter on one foot. “All right already, I didn’t say she had to leave right this minute and spend the night under the bridge or anything.” She stuck out her chin at Jamilet. “Maybe your grandpapa will take you in. I’m sure he can find room for you at the looney bin—that’s where you belong, if you ask me.”

  “We leave tomorrow,” Jamilet said. “Can I stay until then?”

  “Whatever,” Carmen said, and then she flashed her niece a sarcastic grin. “And while you’re in Spain pick me up some castanets, ’cause I’ve decided that I’m gonna quit my job and become a flamenco dancer. That’s my secret dream, you know.” She pushed her belly out and raised her arms over her head. “Don’t you think I’d make a good dancer?” she said, sticking out one foot, and bending at the knees like a sumo wrestler. “Open the window, Louis,” she commanded while striking another pose that made her look even more ridiculous. “When the talent agent from the Folkloric Ballet de Mexico walks by, I want to make sure he gets a good look at me. I’m sure he’ll want to sign me up right away.”

  In spite of his effort to remain serious, Louis coughed to cover up his laughter, but Carmen didn’t miss it. “What? You don’t think he’s gonna come?” She shoved his arm and then resumed her dramatic pose. “Don’t you know there’s magic in the air? You should rub my belly and make a wish.”

  Unable to resist, Louis gingerly patted her belly and closed his eyes tight, so that the creases around his eyes became dimples. “I wish I was rich enough to make things right for my Carmencita.” He opened one eye to see how this had gone over. “I’ll build her a castle and every room will have a TV and—”

  Carmen slapped his hand away. “I don’t want none of that crap,” she said. “I just want to live an honest life.” She released her pose, and pointed a thick finger at Jamilet. “That should be enough for anybody.”

  That evening Jamilet packed the few belongings she planned to take in a grocery bag, and waited until she heard the water running in the tub. Knowing that Carmen would be occupied with her evening bath, she tucked her shoe box full of money under her arm, and went to the living room where Louis was dozing on the couch. She placed the shoe box on the coffee table in front of him, and he woke with a start. When he saw Jamilet kneeling before him he pressed a shaky finger over his lip, and motioned for her to go back to her room. “She’ll be over it by tomorrow,” he whispered. “But I think it’s better if you stay out of sight tonight.”

  “I want to give you something, Louis—”

  “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” he repeated. “She’ll be pissed as hell if she knows we’re talking right now.”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow.”

  Louis sucked in his mustache. “You know she’d never kick you out. It’s just her anger talking.”

  “I know it is, and I know it sounds crazy, but I really am going to Spain with Señor Peregrino tomorrow.” She pushed the shoe box to the edge of the table, toward Louis. “I’ve been saving this money, and the only reason I could save so much was because Tía never let me pay for rent or food. I think it’s enough to get your wife and kids over the border. And then you can live an honest life.” Jamilet put the box on his knees. “Tía will like that.”

  “I can’t take your money,” he said, glancing at the bathroom door for fear he’d spoken too loudly.

  “You’re not taking it—I’m giving it to you. It’s no good having money without a purpose for it. So, it’s better for me if you take it.”

  She stopped talking when they heard the water start to drain from the tub. Louis hastily shoved the shoe box under the couch. “Get back in your room. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  “All I ask is that you make things right, Louis,” Jamilet said, and then she tiptoed down the hall to her room.

  Jamilet left for work the next morning at the usual hour, walking slowly in honor of the fact that this would be the last time. Already feeling a bit nostalgic, she realized that she’d miss the routine of her days—making the morning coffee, walking to work, attending to Señor Peregrino, returning home for her evening duties, and then spending time with Carmen and Louis. She wondered if she’d be putting in a full day before they left for the airport. Señor Peregrino said they’d be leaving in the evening, but hadn’t mentioned the exact time.

  She’d had difficulty sleeping the night before, her mind alive with the adventure that awaited her. Every time she closed her eyes she saw herself standing before the grandeur of the cathedral at Santiago and feeling like one drop in the river of life, as Señor Peregrino had described. Undoubtedly it would change her life forever, and maybe there was even the chance for a miracle…the only miracle she had ever hoped for.

  Jamilet quickened her pace, and made it to the hospital a few minutes early. She proceeded to punch in as she did every morning, but was unable to locate her time card. She tried to calm her nerves while searching down the column of names again, and for a moment feared that she’d forgotten everything Señor Peregrino had taught her. Before long she became aware of Ms. Clark’s glare boring through the back of her head.

  “Nurse B. has your time card,” she mumbled. “You’d better go see her.” She returned to her desk, where an untidy pile of papers awaited her.

  When Jamilet entered Nurse B.’s office, she saw that her employer was not alone. Across from her in the chair that Jamilet usually occupied sat a man Jamilet had never seen before, wearing a crumpled shirt and tie, and horn-rimmed glasses perched on his greasy nose. Normally she would have remained silent while waiting for her superior to set the tone, but she was flustered with not having found her time card, and eager to get upstairs. Jamilet also realized, while staring into those strange yellow-gray eyes, that this was the first time she’d faced Nurse B. while knowing her true identity. Although Nurse B. was decidedly unpleasant, Jamilet had no doubt that Jenny would be even more so.

  “My time card is missing,” Jamilet blurted out. “And…and I’ll be late with Señor Peregrino’s breakfast if I don’t hurry.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with that now, Monica. We have more pressing things to discuss,” she said, flexing her fingers.

  “Is this about Señor Peregrino?” Jamilet asked.

  An impatient huff escaped from Nurse B.’s throat. “I told you not to refer to him that way. But yes, this has to do with your patient, and the fact that his condition has obviously worsened. I was hoping that your longevity, if nothing else, would encourage a better response, but it’s clear that his delusions have only become more involved and—”

  The man coughed and leaned forward in his chair. “This situation doesn’t warrant an unnecessary review of Mr. Calderon’s pathology. I think it best that you proceed with essential information only.”

  Nurse B. considered the man’s advice, and her fingers curled back up into her palms. “You’re right Mr. Simpson,” she said before turning to Jamilet. “I received a call from your aunt early this morning, and she informed me of your ridiculous plan to leave today with your patient. To Spain. I…I believe that’s what she said.”

  Jamilet’s bag of belongings dropped to the floor. “Tía Carmen called you?”

  “She did the right thing,�
�� Nurse B. said. Then she glanced at Mr. Simpson, who was engrossed in organizing his documents on her desk, and continued. “If you recall, when you started your employment here, I informed you that your patient was free to come and go as he wished. You have become quite intimate, I know,” she said in a belittling tone. “So perhaps he informed you that if he didn’t cooperate with his treatment, and demonstrate some sort of improvement by leaving his room on occasion for meals or by taking a stroll in the garden, he would be placed on an involuntary conservatorship. What that means is that at approximately three o clock this afternoon, he will lose the legal right to make decisions for himself. Mr. Simpson,” she said, nodding at the man seated in front of her, “is the attorney who will see to it.”

  Nurse B. went on with eyes half closed, as though reciting the words from a professional journal she had long ago memorized. “Delusional patients like Mr. Calderon can be persuasive, and quite believable. They’re capable of inventing elaborate stories in order to support their delusions. Sometimes,” she said, slowing her speech, as though speaking with an idiot who was also deaf, “they incorporate others into their delusional stories. And sometimes,” she said, slower still, “these others believe the delusion just as much as they do. Among professionals, this is called a ‘folie à deux,’ or a shared delusion. It’s most likely to occur when a close bond has been established between the delusional patient and someone else who may have the need to believe similarly.” A sad and somewhat patronizing smile crept over Nurse B.’s haggard face. “He says the same thing every year—that he’s waiting for the ‘appointed hour,’ and that at the ‘appointed hour’ he’ll leave his room with a suitcase packed, and head off to Spain. Isn’t that right, Mr. Simpson?”