Tarnished Beauty (22 page)

“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 was 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.

T
HE 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.”

“Stop talking in riddles, Tomas,” I said, trying to lace my voice with good humor.

He took a long swallow of wine, emptying the glass, his eyes gleaming with emotion. “You don't love Rosa, and I do. My heart and soul are devoted to her. Give her the opportunity to love me.” He pushed the glass aside. “Promise me that you'll leave her to me.”

I'd never seen him so desperate. “My promises cannot move a woman's heart,” I finally said.

“I realize that, but I also know that if Rosa is not distracted by you, I'll have a chance with her.”

“We're both wasting our breath, Tomas. You know as well as I that she has shown a preference for no man. I do believe her heart and mind must be otherwise engaged.”

Tomas raked anxious fingers through his hair. “Perhaps, but I see how you look at her. She is only another beautiful woman to you, whereas for me there is only one…only Rosa.”

Tomas was watching me intently, and I knew there was no use in arguing with him anymore. “Very well. I promise to leave her to you,” I said with a weary sigh. It seemed to me that the pilgrimage had finally managed to drain Tomas of every ounce of patience he'd once possessed, filling him with a stubbornness that threatened to overflow from his ears.

I awoke early the next day, fortified myself with three cups of strong coffee, and left with a day's ration of food in my rucksack, knowing that Tomas would wait for Rosa no matter how long it took, or how much of her mother he'd have to endure. I traveled some miles along a stretch of Roman road, knee high in the mist that clung to the earth at such an early hour. As the sun rose over the windswept steppes, I caught up with a smaller group of pilgrims. There were several young ladies among them who I surmised were not from Spain. At least three of them spoke English, although it was evident that they had a more than cursory understanding of Spanish.

The most handsome of the three was blond and as spritely as a new chick. Her Spanish was near perfect, and her chatter appealing enough. She walked with such a bounce to her step that I wondered how her feet didn't swell painfully after half a mile. She kept glancing back at me, and her smile left no doubt in my mind that she found me pleasing. But I didn't smile in return. I'd learned to acknowledge such attention with unblinking eyes that were more persuasive than any smile.

At midday we took our rest near a healthy stream that fed the River Esla. The three ladies took turns balancing on smooth stones in order to cross the stream and reach the wildflowers that bloomed on the other side of the bank. I pretended to take little notice of them as I ate my lunch, but out of the corner of my eye I watched the wavering form of the blond girl, which appeared to be not that of a girl, but of a mountain goat, stocky and sure footed as any I'd seen in the highlands. But then quite suddenly, her foot slipped and she screamed, toppling into the stream. Seconds later, I too had plunged into the stream, and was attempting to lead her out by the hand, but she was continually slipping from my grip and appeared near fainting, leaving me no choice but to carry her out onto the muddy bank, where we were met with more guffaws and giggles than concern.

We were both heavy with water, and cold, and somebody set about making a fire. The girl's name was Jenny, and when she removed her thick wool skirt, her two companions placed it near the fire. I stood near as well, as my trousers were all that needed drying but I couldn't very well remove them. So I took off my boots and socks and set them on a rock near the fire to dry. Jenny discarded the blanket she was given, and hovered about quite comfortably in her white cotton slip, asking many questions about my reason for making the pilgrimage, where I came from and with whom I traveled. I answered her questions, providing little detail, which seemed to frustrate her considerably.

All the while, her friends were busy tending to the fire and checking her skirt and adjusting it every few minutes, without concern for our conversation. When I commented on their attentive dispositions, Jenny explained that they were servants who'd been assigned to look after her en route and report any problems to her parents in America, who permitted her to do the pilgrimage because it was considered more of a religious exercise than a holiday. Her proficiency in Spanish was due to her family's successful businesses in Mexico, and the fact that she had lived there for much of her childhood.