Almost Never A Novel

13


“Mama, have you ever thought of selling this house and going to live in a city?”

“Is that what you would like to do?”

Two steaming mugs of café con leche awaited the slow delectation of Renata and Doña Luisa, though they, as if afflicted with tics, kept picking at the sweet rolls; most of the crumbs were ultimately ingested, though some remained strewn, like sown sediment, across the tablecloth. In the center of the table stood the basket full of said rolls: plomos, conchas, and pelonas. A warm afternoon repast weighed down with worries.

“It’s just that in the last three days not a single customer has entered the store. There are fewer and fewer people in Sacramento.”

By 1946—the year in which we find ourselves—Mexico was cobbling together the beginnings of systematic industrialization. The working class had emerged, and the exodus to the cities of people with vision had become a daily occurrence. Some areas, previously agricultural yet substantially populated, grew anarchically in a few brief years, as did those already dubbed urban. The phenomenon seemed unstoppable, even though many people still clung to the rural and, even more tightly, to small-town life. In Sacramento, as elsewhere in the region and the nation, hordes of workers flocked to nearby industrial centers, buckled down under rigid schedules, and came and went between their jobs and their quiet hamlets on a daily basis; others, perhaps the majority, resisted, for the simple reason that urban life would drive them mad. One could say that such a shift was akin to a purging, drop by drop: some choosing not to uproot themselves to seek their fortunes, preferring to wrestle with the inherent limitations of village life rather than get enmeshed in the alien concept of urbanization. Be that as it may, the march toward industrialization gave rise to endless job opportunities, and commercial diversification grew like a circulatory system of unpredictable proportions. In the cities and large towns, the demand for labor was outstripping supply. Manpower was in constant demand, but …

“Don’t forget how competitive things are in the city. It won’t be easy for us to get by.”

“It’s just that I think …”

“Remember, we have the only stationery store in Sacramento. It’s the first time people can buy school supplies for their children right here in town. You’ll see, our clientele will grow with time.”

One year or two: how much time does she want? And meanwhile, sales continued to plunge: whole weeks of utter idleness, standing patiently behind the counter without so much as the threat of a mother or child approaching. We should say that mother and daughter adhered to unswerving principles: they would never try to lure in a customer … Their counter was nothing but a table, like any other—an innovative concept? By the same token neither amused herself spinning in circles in the swivel chair designated for the one on duty. The establishment looked drab and forsaken; it exuded an affable, even romantic, rigidity. A set order: necessary: because … Renata and Doña Luisa became caricatures more than characters, for (right from the start) they had established a system of turn-taking: two-hour shifts, tinged with annoyance due to the excessive calm, though the relays were always punctual, right up till closing time: watch in hand, at precisely seven in the evening, never a minute later. Once that was all over, the fun part began: sweeping, mopping, cooking, and, in Renata’s case, in the days following her tryst with Demetrio, shutting herself up in her room to try her hand at penning a letter; at first there were but fragments, snippets of paragraphs, sentences strewn about; not to mention great pains taken over her penmanship. To tell the truth, she embarked on the task of writing Demetrio a long letter, but her corrections were so copious that she was obliged to start over again and again, each time laboring harder than the last, particularly with the explanation Renata presumably owed her sweetheart for having acted like a nun. Turbulent days composing: page after page dedicated to a plotline whose contradictions were exposed by the tiniest mistake. The extra care she took with certain concepts, and the additional aggravation of having time pressing in on her—for come what may she had to relieve her mother—led to a series of inevitable interruptions—watch in hand—just when her inspiration soared … She spent more than two weeks composing the letter (a total of seven two-sided sheets). It was distasteful to have to justify a philosophy of decency when what she most desired was to discuss the sexual arousal that Demetrio, unintentionally, had provoked in her with a light brush of knee against knee during their tryst. But no, not that, better to withhold, understood as the optimal method to achieve victory, and at that moment, a lightbulb went on!: she should go talk to Señora Zulema, Demetrio’s aunt.

At church. On Sunday. Perhaps by happenstance. And if not? That’s when another lightbulb went on: take advantage of her trip to the post office—it was a lot of work to fit her bulky amorous discourse into the envelope—and stop by Zulema’s house. Her calculation: two hours was plenty of time, and this was her opportunity:

“Mama, I’m going to the post office to mail my letter.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t you want to let me read it before you put it in the envelope?”

“Mama, it’s none of your business …”

A crumb of rebellion and—three cheers for her! Which didn’t mean she was in any way loosening her fetters, although Renata was now convinced that continuing to live in Sacramento was like being hurled into a pit of despair, a living death. In the meantime, the letter, the anticipated reply: days, weeks: the slowness, the timeless nature of her solitary chores; in addition, and in passing, she considered herself a pure soul trapped in a huge house and the world beyond it, where she had no chance at all of remaining anonymous. People thereabouts would somehow discover that on a particular date the beautiful (and diminutive) maiden had made her way to the post office to mail a letter to her towering beau and that, in consequence, problems had arisen between her and her mother due to the simple fact that she was in love with a man who still hadn’t shown the stuff he was made of; that the stationery store was a total failure and that at any moment the money from their inheritance would run out; as well as other, more insignificant deductions, at which point, after mailing her letter, Renata betook herself to Doña Zulema’s. She was seen, and hence the psst-pssters—what else!—with lots of loose tongues. Two faces, a single surprise (raised eyebrows and gaping mouths): in the aunt’s grocery store—also customerless—: Aha! The visitor asked three questions, and the sole response worth mentioning is: Don’t worry, Renata. All I need tell you is that my nephew Demetrio was quite eager when he left. You are now, to him, a temptress, and a great ideal. Now, now, just give me a hug, oh, please! A frontal, affectionate, and fulminating embrace, all viewed from afar! Yes, indeed! Ooh! Such a muddle of tenderness … In the end, Zulema was the one who disengaged in the nick of time: well, well, off you go, and may you go in peace. The shorter woman’s puffed-up return. Ambler. Beauty. Dignity on the march: recycling (good judgment worked in her favor) a sentence that had to have been a boon: I am a temptress for him and a great ideal. Half true, half false, but who cares? The essence would keep churning away, way down deep, and the only bad part, of course, would be a long lapse before Demetrio’s response …

In 1946, Sacramento had no telegraph service. How long would it take for this miracle to occur?