Tarnished Beauty (26 page)

“What is the meaning of this?” I asked.

“I am not accustomed to speaking with dogs, but in this case I will make an exception,” Andres responded with a bow. “Your friend has accepted my challenge and I expect him to meet me tomorrow at dawn in the field beyond town.”

“He has accepted nothing, and you know as well as I that dueling is illegal.”

The young soldier laughed, but Andres silenced him with a scowl and spoke in a low and simmering growl. “My honor does not submit to trivial legalities. If he is not prepared and present tomorrow, as I request, I will hunt him down and shoot him in broad daylight if necessary. And I know this country like the back of my hand. There is no place he can hide.”

I stood up. “Then I ask to take his place. He's never shot a pistol in his life; it would hardly be a fair match.”

Andres appraised me with a serious eye, as he no doubt wondered whether I might be as good with a pistol as I was on the dance floor. But he needn't have worried. I'd held a gun only once or twice in my life, as it was never thought I'd have need of such a skill in the priesthood.

“I will have my satisfaction either way. Do as you wish,” he said.

Andres left and we sat in silence for some time. Even Jenny appeared somber and reflective, but she couldn't resist running her fingertips along the sharp edges of the leather case on the table between us.

I could no longer contain myself. “It is your foolish and willful nature that has caused this,” I said, fully hating her.

She didn't recoil, but remained pensive. “If the only way you can protect a woman's honor is by lying, then I feel very sorry for you both. And I'm sure Rosa feels the same.”

The dagger in her words met its mark and I felt my pride warp and retire in the face of her judgment. Tomas was sputtering next to me, but in the end, we could say nothing, and she left us to our despair.

For the first time in our lives, Tomas and I argued heatedly about what to do and about who should face Andres the next morning. At the outset, Tomas insisted that this was his opportunity to demonstrate his courage, and that God had presented him with it for the purpose of winning Rosa's love, and he accused me of selfish cruelty for trying to rob him of it. Just at the point when I was prepared to concede, he succumbed to a violent fit of trembling that extended to his arms and legs, and it did not subside until I convinced him that it was preposterous for him to face Andres. Clearly, I had the better chance of survival, if for no other reason than I was not prone to such trembling fits.

As the night wore on, our thoughts took off in many desperate directions. We briefly considered the possibility of escape and concluded that Andres would eventually find us, as he'd promised, and that the life of a hunted fugitive would be intolerable. We reasoned that there might be a slight chance that Andres would miss his mark, or that his shot would result in wounding rather than killing me, and we discussed what action to take with each and every eventuality. Finally, once we had exhausted discussing all the practical matters that we could think of, we inspected the pistol carefully until we were satisfied that it was in good working order. Then, with only a couple of hours until daybreak, we rested our heads on the table and closed our eyes.

When the faint glow of dawn appeared in the window, I'd been awake for some time, listening to Tomas's hollow breathing. I shook him gently, and he woke with a start. The innocence of sleep was immediately supplanted by an anxious grimace when he remembered our dreadful circumstances.

“It's time to go,” I said, taking up the pistol case. I felt unexpected relief in knowing that, if nothing else, the worst night of my life had finally ended. We washed our faces with the frigid water from the kitchen bucket before making our way out to the square. The stone buildings were black against the pale sky, and it was just possible to make out the path leading to the field beyond. There, I pictured the circle of trees that would obscure us from any observers who might happen by. The sound of gunfire wouldn't alarm or arouse anyone. This could be easily explained by the knowledge that hunters often ventured out in the early morning hours.

I was leaning on Tomas while retying my boots when I heard a door open and close across the square. The outline of two figures could be seen lingering in the doorway of the inn, but it was impossible to see them clearly through the mist and the darkness. One of them, a woman, began walking toward us and Tomas gasped faintly. It was Rosa. She wore the red shawl over her head, like a mantle, and her shoulders were hunched forward against the cold. She approached us, and held out her hand to me. “There will be no duel,” she said. “Please, Antonio, give me the pistol.” By this time, the other figure had also walked across the square. Andres stood next to her with his coat unbuttoned, and his bare chest visible underneath.

A seething anger burned in my throat. “What have you done, Rosa?”

“It is not what it seems,” she said. “But I had to do something.” Her hand remained extended, but I couldn't find it within me to give her the case.

Andres stepped forward. His voice had lost its bravado, and he sounded only tired and anxious to return to his bed. “Do as she says, I recant my earlier challenge…to you both,” he said. “I will not trouble the lady again, and this will be the last day you see me. But I ask that you return the pistol, as it is one of a set and quite valuable to me.”

Not knowing what else to do, I handed Rosa the case, and watched as she gave it to Andres. He glanced at her briefly. Gone was his adoring contemplation, although her face shone like a blessing in the gray light of morning.

We pressed her for an explanation as we made our way back to the
refugio,
but she shook her head, and smiled sadly, assuring us that she hadn't violated her honor and that that was all that mattered. I for one was convinced of the truth of this, for I couldn't conceive of any man releasing her so easily after he'd known the sublime pleasure of her company. But something extraordinary had happened between them, there was no doubt of that, and I suspected that this woman possessed a secret power even greater than her beauty. Later that morning, we heard the welcome sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones as Andres left the village with his men. And as he had promised, from that day forward we never saw him again.

S
OMETHING ABOUT
L
OUIS
had changed. He visited almost every night and was just as doting as ever, gushing about how sexy Carmen was, how delightful her voice and provocative her girth, but there was a difference, and it made Jamilet shiver just a little despite the warmth in the kitchen. She didn't like to think about it, but when she did she imagined that there was a little clock ticking away in his head, counting out the seconds and minutes and reminding him that every moment he was with Carmen, he wasn't where he should be. It made him jumpy and strange. Sometimes he didn't listen as Carmen told him funny stories that would normally have launched them both into a ruin of laughter, especially if they'd already had a few beers. And that was another thing—Louis hardly drank anymore. He'd force down a beer or two to play the part whenever Carmen scowled or asked him if he was planning on becoming the next pope. At these times, he'd smile sheepishly and explain that he didn't want to drink too much and get too tired because he was working extra hours to save the money he needed to bring his family back, and make things right.

Most of the time, Carmen was calmed by the thought that Louis was staying true to his promise to her, but at other times she leveled eyes at him that were boiling with suspicion. With every word he spoke, he seemed to shrink a little bit, and tenderize under the heat of her glare until his bones fell out of their sockets and he became a slithering mess, a pot of human flesh stewing in his own guilt. “It'll be different when the old lady gets back, Carmencita,” he'd say, his palms outstretched to her.

“Yeah, right,” she'd respond, flipping her head, and crossing her arms and legs so that all of her was twisted away from him, like a giant pretzel. She wouldn't even glance at him for the rest of the evening, and occupied herself with painting her toenails and laughing at things on television that she normally wouldn't consider funny. But laughter had always made Carmen feel strong, as if she could flip her upset on its head and make it dance for her awhile.

Nevertheless, he'd stay next to her on the couch, and even force himself to drink another beer. When Jamilet collected the empty cans, she noticed that the creases of his face had deepened, and he'd lost weight that he couldn't afford to lose, so that even his shoes were loose on his feet. But when he turned to look at Carmen, even if she was behaving badly, he was radiant with the glow of good health, and incapable, it seemed, of feeling anything but bliss.

One evening while she was doing the dishes, Jamilet managed to ask him when he thought his wife would be returning. Carmen was too proud to ask directly. She'd resort to making snide comments about never thinking she'd look forward to the old bitch coming back and the like, but nothing else.

Louis ran jittery fingers over his mustache and glanced at Carmen, who was sitting on the couch and happily munching her way through a giant bag of cheese puffs. “It's going to take a while longer than I thought,” he said. “I got to send them money while they're there too. It makes saving real slow.”

Jamilet wanted to be encouraging, but she feared that her aunt's nerves were fraying, and the next time she snapped it would be worse. “If you want, I can show them the way I came through the river. It wasn't so hard,” she said, surprised by the desperation in her own voice.

“That's real nice of you, Jamilet, but my old lady's really old…like me. She can't be crossing rivers like a young girl.”

Carmen shouted from the living room, “Louis, get your ass over here. You know I hate explaining the beginning of a movie to you.”

“I'll be right there, Carmencita.” He turned to Jamilet and whispered, “I think the real problem is…I got more woman than I can handle.”

She wasn't sure if over the noise of the TV and the running water in the sink she'd heard him say “women” or “woman,” but in either case, she could only agree.

 

For the second time in one week, Carmen couldn't find her car keys just as she was leaving for work in the morning. Jamilet helped to search for them while there was a barrage of accusations from Carmen, about being an obsessive “neat freak,” as her aunt liked to call it, although on this morning her tone was devoid of its usual affection. After they turned the house upside down, the keys turned up in the laundry basket, tucked in the pocket of the trousers that Carmen had left on the bathroom floor the night before. Two days earlier they'd turned up in the refrigerator, and wouldn't have been found if Jamilet hadn't thought to defrost some chicken for dinner that evening.

“You see?” Carmen said, pointing the keys at Jamilet's face. “Just leave stuff where you find it.” She rushed out to her car, leaving Jamilet to lock the front door.

Jamilet hated being late. Señor Peregrino would be disappointed and this would delay her reading lessons. He wouldn't sacrifice any time for that, and would be much more likely to postpone another installment of his story until the next day. Jamilet ran the first few blocks, but the stitch in her side forced her to slow down to a half run, and then to a brisk walk. When she saw Eddie leaning against the fence outside the hospital, she stopped completely. This time she had no doubt he was waiting for her.

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.”