Tarnished Beauty (19 page)

A number of us arrived at Santo Domingo de la Calzada before noon. We washed our hands and feet at the well outside the village, forgoing a more thorough cleansing as we were eager to be nearer to the music in the square. The sound of the pipes urged us on and put us all in the mood for a celebration. Although I'd attended many such festivals before, my insides were tight with anticipation. I might have convinced myself that it was my love for dance and music that provoked such a state, but I was not so easily deceived. It had everything to do with her. In such a setting, I'd have plenty of opportunities to look upon her and not be concerned with what Tomas or anybody else thought of me. And what's more, I'd concluded that my previous strategy had been all wrong. In denying myself the pleasure of looking at her, I was actually enflaming my senses with greater desire. Perhaps it was wiser to get up close and examine her imperfections, the dirt beneath her nails, and the stench of her body after a long march. Surely then I'd be cured of my obsession.

Once in the square, we ate and drank wine until we were no longer aware of our aching feet. Tomas was careful never to leave my side, but he needn't have worried. I was absorbed by the dancers who spun together in the center of the square, their feet stomping to the infectious rhythm of the
jota.
It had been weeks since I'd danced and my feet began to tap along. All the while my eyes searched constantly for Rosa, but never found her. The next thing I knew, I was pulled into the circle of dancers, spinning and leaping to the sound of the pipe and drum, until I closed my eyes and became lost in the music. But the
jota
is not to be danced alone, and before long I felt a small, soft hand slip into mine. Delicate as it was, I imagined it to be Rosa's hand. I dared not open my eyes, as we danced splendidly, our bodies flowing together as if we'd been born of the same musical spirit. When the music stopped, we stood, still facing each other, catching our breath, and that is when I opened my eyes. Rosa's face, only inches from mine, began to melt away, until it was not into her eyes that I gazed, but into the twinkling eyes of one of the sisters from France. She giggled and whispered that she'd once been a wonderful dancer. I smiled back and assured her that she still was.

I was unable to sleep that night. Even the moonlight that slipped through the window tormented me. That, and the knowledge that perhaps only a few feet away, on the same slat of wood upon which I rested, she rested as well, for this
refugio
was large enough to accommodate separate sleeping quarters for men and women.

Tomas fell asleep almost instantly. I tried to follow the rhythm of his slumber to find my own rest, but tossed and turned for a long while. It didn't help that the chamber was alive with snorts and snores and whistles in every key, a grumbling symphony of exhaustion for a frustrated audience of one. I slipped out of the room with my blanket wrapped around my shoulders, and made my way to the outer courtyard where it was bright with the blue light of the moon. I was drawn toward the small church across the square. The moon shadows created by the rough-carved statues of saints and the pilgrim saint himself seemed to beckon me. He looked down upon me from his concave perch with his staff held high, as though he might knock me over the head with it. I welcomed the beating if it would earn me a moment's peace.

The night was cold, but rather than entering the church, I chose to go around back to the graveyard. I sat on a large flat stone and prayed. I prayed for God to give me the courage to pluck the very eyes out of my head if it would help me regain my strength and purpose in life. As I prayed, the night grew strangely warm and comforting, as though I were being gathered into a mysterious embrace. I shrugged off my blanket, and was preparing to remove my shirt as well when I saw a lone figure at the edge of the graveyard. Instantly, I recognized her, and as she approached, the hem of her skirt whispered with the dry leaves it swept over the tombs. Her eyes glowed a soft and misty color, and they held me so powerfully that when she stopped before me, only inches away, I didn't have the presence of mind to stand, as I knew I should.

“You're perspiring,” she said. “Are you ill as well?”

The whole of my being shuddered. Had I been honest, I would have told her that I was sick with love for her and was very likely near the point of death, but somehow I managed a coherent if banal reply. “The night is warm. That is all.”

She said nothing more, but turned away to walk among the tombs. She headed down the darkened path that led to an open field that earlier that day in the bright sunlight I'd seen alive with wildflowers and bees. She held her arms out to keep her balance on the stones, but made no sound, as though she were not a girl, but a spirit rising from the earth. I felt compelled to follow her, and stopped at the edge of the field to watch as she picked wildflowers and collected them in her shawl. She motioned that I should come nearer, as her shawl was beginning to overflow. I couldn't breathe for the pounding of my heart, which propelled the blood through my veins with the force of a cannon. I didn't see an innocent young girl picking flowers. She was a seductress, naked and expectant beneath her clothes, kneeling on the bed of the earth, teasing me with her physical perfection like a cruel baker tempts the hungry with fresh-baked bread. Quivering and sullen, I swallowed the desire that surged like bile in my throat. This girl, with her green eyes and pink lips, had the power to make me into a monster. She could skin the life off my bones by slipping her hand down the length of her hip and thigh as if searching for nothing more than a coin between the folds of her skirts.

Suddenly Tomas's warnings came roaring back into my head. It took every ounce of strength I possessed to turn away and return to the church. The night became cold again, and when I arrived at the
refugio,
I was shivering although sweat poured down my back. I don't believe I was ever more afraid in all my life.

L
OUIS HAD BEEN STAYING
over almost every night, and Carmen was giddy with happiness because of it. She was in such a good mood that occasionally she was moved to helping Jamilet with the evening meal. It was while peeling potatoes at the sink that she told her about Louis's wife, who had gone back to Mexico to look after her sick mother, taking her three daughters with her. She doubled over the sink and lowered her voice so Louis, who'd been dozing on the couch, wouldn't hear. “I hope she catches whatever disease the old lady has and dies herself,” she said, and a slow grin stretched across her face as she fully appreciated the possibility.

Jamilet took the potato from her aunt's clenched fist. She'd been fingering it while chatting, and had made little progress. “What about Louis's daughters? If their mother died, Louis would have to be both father and mother to them.”

Carmen's grin twisted and fell. She quickly grabbed a nearby dish towel and began to dry her hands, pulling on each finger as though she were trying to remove a number of rings that were too small. “Oh God, I don't know.” She tossed the dish towel back on the counter. “You always make things so goddamned serious, Jamilet. Is it so bad to dream a little?”

Jamilet shrugged. “I guess not.”

“I guess not,” Carmen mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “You got a way about you, girl,” she said, no longer bothering to moderate her voice for Louis's sake. “You take the fun out of everything, you know that?”

“I'm sorry, Tía. I don't mean to.”

The scowl eased off Carmen's face. “I know you don't,” she said with a sigh. “Your mother was just the same.” She retreated to her bedroom without another word. She and Louis were planning to go out dancing for the night, and Carmen would need an hour or more to get ready. Her hair took her the most time. She liked to wear it high for special occasions, and pull curls down around her face. This way, she said, she looked taller and thinner. Jamilet thought it looked as if she had a hairy volcano on her head, but Louis loved it and told her she looked like a movie star, and every time a different one.

As Jamilet proceeded to peel and chop the onion, she didn't notice Louis get up from the couch and come into the kitchen. “I love it when your aunt's happy like this,” he said leaning on the counter. “I feel like a young man again when she's so happy. I don't know what it is, but there's no one who can make me feel like she does.”

Jamilet nodded and smiled. There was no arguing about Carmen's ability to change the weather with her moods. For the last couple of weeks they'd been graced with sunny skies and light breezes, without a cloud in sight. And Louis's presence made things all the better. With his easygoing manner and way of smiling past all upset, he diluted Tía's intensity to a lingering sweetness with just enough zing to make it interesting. When Louis was in the house, Jamilet could relax, and trust that things would always work out somehow. She wondered if that was the reason women liked having a man around, although she was certain that not all men were like Louis.

“Your aunt told me what happened the other day,” he said, flicking his head toward the window. “With that girl.” His eyes were pained, and he tugged at his mustache in an effort to get more of it in his mouth.

Jamilet colored visibly and continued chopping the onions with a steady hand. She inhaled and her eyes stung. “It was nothing,” she said.

Louis sucked on his mustache for a while and carefully traced one nail under his other nine fingernails, flicking the residue onto the counter with every swipe. When he spoke there was such tenderness in his words that Jamilet felt compelled to set down her knife and face him. “I have three girls,” he said. “And I watch out for them pretty good most of the time. They don't get in too much trouble with me around.” He crossed his arms and glanced away nervously when he realized he had Jamilet's undivided attention. “I tell them to watch what they wear. I don't like my girls to go out looking like streetwalkers.” He appraised Jamilet kindly, her long white blouse and the baggy sweats she exchanged for a navy skirt when she went to work. “I'm gonna tell you something different from what I tell my girls. I'm gonna tell you that you should fix yourself up a bit, okay? You're pretty and all, but if you want that boy across the street or any boy to notice you…” He shut his mouth tight, rethinking what he'd just said, and frowned. “You know what I mean?” he asked weakly.

Jamilet nodded as she knew she should, but hopelessness welled up inside. She felt suddenly sick, as if Pearly had taken an open kick at her belly and knocked the wind out of her all over again.

“Don't take it wrong,” Louis said. “There's nothing wrong with you…”

“It's okay,” Jamilet said, and she even attempted a smile.

“Carmen can take you shopping downtown.”

“I'll ask her,” she quickly responded.

Louis hung his head, then brightly snapped his fingers, pointing at Jamilet's face. “I know what,” he said. “My girls have clothes they don't wear anymore. They're about your size. I'll bring some by for you.” His eyes were watering with pity for her, and Jamilet felt the upset in her stomach ease a bit. How could he know that she was different from his daughters? That she couldn't waste time and energy on the normal concerns girls her age had about clothes and makeup and other things?

“Next time I come I'll bring the clothes,” he said, and he placed a warm hand on her shoulder, right on the edge of the mark where the deep purple turned to red and then faded into a crisscross of tiny veins.

 

A couple of days later a paper bag appeared next to Jamilet's bedroom door. She emptied it on her bed and found several sleek little shirts in all colors, with stripes and gold piping. There was a short hot pink skirt she liked best, and a pair of high-heeled shoes similar to the ones Pearly wore except that these were white and had a black buckle when there was no need for a buckle. It was just for show.

Jamilet kicked off her loafers and tried the shoes on first. They were slightly too big, but she was able to adjust the straps and walk in them just fine. She looked down on herself and liked the way her ankle appeared, so slim and feminine. Next she stepped out of her navy skirt and slipped into the hot pink number. Again a little big, but a decent fit. Filled with excitement, she unbuttoned her blouse, almost popping a few buttons in the process, and selected a top with capped sleeves that slipped off the shoulders in an alluring slump. She'd seen Pearly wear shirts like this before. She was always pulling up at the sleeves just to let them fall again, mesmerizing Eddie with the smooth flesh of her shoulders that was covered and uncovered all the time. The shirt fit perfectly, snug and secure over her torso, the way it should. She could feel her hair just brush her bare shoulders, and imagined this was how it would feel if Eddie were kissing her there.

Even though she knew Carmen and Louis wouldn't be home for another hour or two, she peeked out of her bedroom door just to make sure, and ran as fast as her three-inch heels would allow her, down the hall and into the bathroom, where she closed and locked the door behind her.

She admired her reflection in the semidarkened room. In the gray light, the contour of her form, although somewhat thin, appeared well proportioned, the shape and length of her limbs graceful and pleasing to the eye. She struck a variety of poses, then imagined herself walking down the street as she collected admiring glances and catcalls from all the men who saw her, young and old alike. She continued to stare at her reflection from every angle until the encroaching darkness made it impossible for her to see anything but a sinewy outline against the white tile of the wall behind her.

When she was barely able to see even her hand in front of her face, she flipped on the switch and the bathroom was flooded with the cruel fluorescent light, forcing her eyes closed, until slowly she was able to open them again. Licks of red flesh reached over her shoulders like evil fingers. She need only turn a quarter of the way around and the burning stamp on the back of her legs was clearly visible. Down her arms and down her back it glowed and pulsated like a separate living thing, with its own will and its own mind. Sometimes Jamilet wondered what the mark would say if it could talk. She imagined it weeping and groaning most of the time. When it did manage to speak, it would say that it was as strong as it was ugly and for that reason alone it deserved to live. When that didn't convince her, it would say that it had rescued her from vanity, and the meaninglessness of an ordinary life. Without it, she'd undoubtedly be living in the village where she was born, married to a drunkard who'd saddled her with five children to feed, maybe more.

Back in her room, she examined the rest of the clothes carefully, concluding that with the exception of a purple shirt with long sleeves and a scoop neck, every piece would reveal significant portions of the mark. She would wear the purple one when she had an opportunity, and never forget to serve Louis his dinner with the chopped cilantro on the side, as he preferred to eat the green herb before it had wilted. Not that he complained. Louis never complained.

 

The heavily starched shirts had been hung neatly in the closet, long sleeves on the left and short sleeves on the right. The fine leather shoes were organized from dark to light, and Jamilet liked to arrange socks that matched, tucking them inside the shoes the way she saw them do in the windows of the fancy department stores. She often wondered why he bothered with shoes when he never ventured outside.

“You're proving to be quite a reliable worker,” he said, glancing up from his papers.

“Thank you, Señor.”

Jamilet proceeded to go about her duties, tidying up the bed-sheets, wiping the counters in the bathroom, and emptying the trash. She knew that when Señor Peregrino was at his desk, she wasn't likely to hear any more of his story until later that same afternoon, if she was lucky. Sometimes several days might pass before he was prompted back into that unique reverie from which his story emerged.

Jamilet came in from the bathroom with an armload of clothes she planned to take to the laundry after returning his lunch tray later that afternoon. She dropped the bundle of clothes on the floor and knelt to separate the darks from the lights.

“Yes, indeed,” Señor Peregrino said. “You are an excellent worker, and one day I will reward you for your good work.”

Jamilet's thoughts instantly went to her documents, which were undoubtedly hidden somewhere in the room, perhaps in the same drawer where he kept his papers. She was tempted to tell him that returning her documents was the only payment she'd ever want, but bit her tongue. “I'm paid fairly for my work here, Señor,” she said, and then brightened. “But, perhaps if you continue with your story…”

He smiled with the satisfaction of an elder statesman reconfirmed to office. “Ah yes. I believe you've grown fond of my little tale.”

Jamilet stood up and brushed off her knees. Concern shadowed her small face. “It's a very good story, Señor, but is it all true?”

He appeared affronted, and puffed up a bit. “Of course it's true, every word or may God strike me dead at this very moment.” To punctuate his challenge, he held out his arms as though ready to receive the deadly thunderbolt. Then, his arms dropped down to his sides, and a drowsy smile emerged on his face. He was anticipating the delicate feast that his memory offered him. He enjoyed traveling nimbly through corners already turned, skipping over rocks that had once caused him to stumble.

Jamilet needed no invitation to sit, and started him off, as it was becoming her habit to do. “You thought Rosa was the devil,” she said with the confidence of one who'd been there herself. “You said you were never more afraid in your life.”

 

When I closed my eyes to sleep that night, I couldn't rid my mind of the image of this woman at once so beautiful and so terrifying, the perfect trap to ensnare me. I thought of her still out in the field with her nightshirt open at the throat. What was she doing picking flowers in the night? Who ever heard of such foolishness? I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. My close brush with evil seemed to have caused a momentary insanity.

I woke Tomas with my laughter, and told him of my encounter in the graveyard. Together we prayed into the night, beseeching our fatigue to leave us, lest she come into our very beds and take us both, for Tomas readily confessed that he had dreamed of her as well. In his dream her dress fell from her shoulders to reveal her breasts, like two white doves fluttering their wings and blinding him with their beauty. He longed to touch their feathery softness, but just at the moment he reached out his hand, the wind blew so violently about them, that the clothing was torn from both of their bodies, and they stood naked before each other. Tomas said he felt the wickedness inside him like a wild beast he was unable to tame. “The devil has visited us both,” he said.

We vowed not to look her way during the remainder of our journey. Our plan was to wake very early, before the rest of the group, in order to assure ourselves that she would be nowhere near us. We barely spoke to each other as we marched on the next morning. We passed through green fields glistening with dew, each drop capturing the sunrise like a tiny prism, but we hardly noticed, so solemn were we in our resolve, so shaken by the events of the previous night. We stopped only once for a hasty meal of bread and cheese, but I sensed her behind us on the trail, and as much as I tried to control my thoughts, I pictured her among the other pilgrims, that creamy oval face embedded with emeralds. She would be walking as she always did, with her mother on her arm, for the older woman appeared to be weakening from the journey.