Almost Never A Novel

10


“Go ahead! You mustn’t wait.”

“But if I do it … I don’t know … It might be a mistake in the long run.”

“Go ahead! Get pregnant! What are you afraid of? A child will bring you good luck.”

Mireya wasn’t quite as alone as she claimed. Once in a while she was able to shoot the breeze with a neighbor who had an abundance of work—thank God! She was a first-rate washerwoman, her name was Luz Irene, and she had a ten-year-old son who was in fourth grade (also thanks to God). A fact worth noting because it indicates a growing joy. Certainly we should picture a hovel of a room crammed with furniture, in the middle of which was a powerful radio … quite an achievement! On the other hand, the contiguous and ultra-run-down room next door—believe it or not—belonged to Mireya, who in spite of screwing so much (and with so many) still couldn’t afford to buy an apparatus as showy as her neighbor’s, not even a normal one, nothing, nor any furniture as shiny as that of the exemplary washerwoman, whose knowledge of life was vast, somewhat harsh, but quite judicious. A not-very-cheerful philosopher, or a dour woman well versed in the most elemental aspects of causes and effects. Or rather, Mireya should thank God she had her as a neighbor. They had spoken many times about the prospect of the tart’s pregnancy. The harshest and most oft-recycled advice Luz Irene offered was none other than: The child is what matters, not the father, and the second, from a different angle: We are human beings, but we are also animals. The animalistic, held up like a key, opened doors onto all sorts of tender mercies. One could profit from people taking greater pity on a mother than on a single woman. At another point in the conversation Luz Irene, who with good humor scrubbed in her sink the soiled underpants of ladies and gentlemen, maintained that, as opposed to what most people thought (that is to say, “all the chumps”), a child never was and never would be a burden; that ever since she had become a mother she had been flooded with work, both from that concrete and unavoidable responsibility and from …

“But I believe in love, and even if it sounds weird, I believe in the couple.”

“Love is a gift from God; He knows who gets it and who doesn’t, just like He decides who is rich and who is poor, who ugly and who beautiful.”

“Do you think a woman like me deserves to get married, have a family?”

“Only God knows … But you might as well try.”

A wild and crazy imbroglio, the suggestion of fabricating evidence, a bubble that fate can pop or leave intact, especially regarding the birth of a child; once the outcome is there to see, that’s to be seen … Who would take on the role of father … an archangel or an animal? Backward reasoning that led straight to numbing sorrow. For no matter what, the woman was the loser, this the premise and the conclusion. Another more telling premise, but also darker, was that Mireya slept with many men. Out of necessity, needless to say! but still …

“If I get pregnant, they’ll throw me out of the brothel.”

“That’s the best thing that could happen to you.”

“What?!”

“I can get you work as a washerwoman. To tell you the truth, I can’t keep up with all I’ve got.”

“It’s a lot of scrubbing.”

“Just look how well I’m doing. Any day now I’m going to open a grocery store. I’m already saving up. What’s more, touch me. I’m strong. Touch me!”

To timidly touch that feminine musculature. To engage with the other’s energy so fully, she could almost feel real sparks. Hence, vibrations whose emanations, indeed … Each vibration helped form a thought. A thread, too many threads: while Mireya was touching her, the request for a favor (that process) was forming in her mind, a brilliant and teeming favor: depraved and fortuitous, thus fragile. By the time the tart finally removed her hands from those imposing arms she had already formulated a plan she would now reveal: the request for a sacrifice of merely a few hours; this, her sentimental impudence: she asked Luz Irene to accompany her to the Presunción brothel, preferably on a weeknight; to remain outside watching, waiting, until Demetrio—the man in question—left. She belabored her description of him: tall and thin, young, about thirty years old, or a bit more. Nobody was quite like him, such an alluring presence. In other words, she’d hang around outside. It would be quite easy to distinguish what looked like a beanpole made of skin and bones though little of both, leaving the brothel, of course, and impressive—indeed! given that the Oaxacan world was peopled by the rather short statured, right? Then, after identifying him, to follow him, find out where he lived; the street, the address, the neighborhood—such vital information! A huge favor—she reiterated. And, the response? Luz Irene was mum. It was difficult to follow the wagging of her head, covered in an orange scarf: the horizon, the ground, her glances left and right, never eye-to-eye, or not yet, and in the meantime still not a peep. Finally, Luz Irene played around with the thorny problem of whom to leave her son with; someone trustworthy: but whom? A favor that incurs another favor and so on only to be subsequently settled: whom? She had a relative living in a wooded though squalid suburb of Oaxaca. Far out. Though it had been a long while since she’d visited her. She was a kind and generous person, hence: the language of persuasion: a manageable performance. Nevertheless, she went to see her to ask … Well, the favor couldn’t be granted too soon. That was the first thing she expressed. An entire prior explanation that led to, Yes, I’ll help you. Though …

“I think it’s good for you to fight for what you want. I’m just not sure Demetrio will recognize the child and agree to be the father.”

“Every time I see him he swears that he really loves me and that I give him what no other woman has ever given him.”

“That’s great, I just hope everything turns out the way you want it to.”

The longed-for day arrived. With great prudence, the washerwoman took with her two bills of large denomination, suspecting that this favor might incur a hefty expense. There was a food stand outside the brothel that served pork belly with almost tenderized vegetables: a dish she hardly ever felt like eating. Its acrid smell like an ass widespread … What she did imbibe slowly were three bottles of cola. As she came upon the deplorable red-light district, she repeated under her breath: Poor old hags, and kept pitying the most unexpected details, thereby exalting herself in minor increments; she even spit out in a stentorian voice: I am worth much more than all of this. Anybody hearing her would have thought she was crazy.