Almost Never A Novel

15


The envelope was fat: special delivery. Doña Rolanda adopted the stance of an enthralled reader, her flashing eyes eagerly trolling each line. Both sides of seven sheets, fourteen pages to enjoy, or a compost of varying moods. A vengeful violation: what she shouldn’t have done: carefully breaking the seal of the envelope to avoid tearing the contents. A complex task. A violation because her boarder had fled without paying her, without offering any excuse, and without giving any indication of his return.

Flight of the evildoer, and with that indecent and profligate woman to boot. His clothes—not even that many—left hanging. The churlishness of the flight was comprehensible, comprehended only a few days before when two policemen and a very fat woman as well as some peasants and a small, very old man who said he was his boss came looking for her giant boarder. To all and sundry the same response: Doña Rolanda was in their same predicament, even though they considered her an accomplice; reason enough for the poor woman to invite them into the fugitive’s room: You may stay here as long as you like. You’ll see he won’t come back. Then she added: You can search the rest of my house to assure yourselves that he’s gone. What’s more: he was here with a woman who looked quite vulgar. I’m certain he left with her and, well, without paying me. More details, more questions: circumstances of great concern. A deeply disgruntled Doña Rolanda informed them that in order to settle things once and for all (hopefully!), they were welcome to watch the house for days, weeks, months, as long as they needed to catch him upon his return, should that come to pass. And thus began a search, a meticulous one, the policemen eyed everything and likewise the very fat woman; similarly, though on a separate occasion, the peasants and the diminutive boss proceeded apace, also posting a guard out front, one on the day shift and one at night. Imagine, if you will, how enormous was their suspicion for them to extend such largesse for three days. Doña Rolanda knew full well that the uniformed men were the guards of an expensive brothel. Tut, tut!

An oddly invigorated and pouty mix: one part depraved leisure and one part hard work: peasants and policemen involved in the same affair. Perhaps they’d eventually become friends, for occasionally they shared jokes with considerable mirth. Finally, the wary watchers became convinced that Demetrio was gone for good, having left only his clothes behind. Everyone understood he would never come back to get them.

The letter arrived afterward, so we can say: in blessed peace. About the violation, we can say: bold, for it compensated Doña Rolanda for the money her boarder had failed to pay. And to read it standing up in the middle of the courtyard, page after folded and creased page, that admirable penmanship profiling everything wholesome and adorable about a distant damsel explaining why she had nixed a normal holding of hands between sweethearts. A perfect facsimile of true love that was expected to perennially nourish desire; well, she didn’t say that in so many words, but something similar, for better or for worse, thanks to her ostentatious candor. The damsel made reference to the many long kisses to come; a profusion of corporeal devotion, also down the road, but only after their union had gained gravity, still years to come: distant blessed perversities. Far-off marriage. Strong bonds or an unbreakable knot, but in the meantime, alack, careful, careful, grow, achieve. Hmm, pitiable decency that always starts down below; pitiable because mostly it fails to achieve its goals, and into this subject the authoress threw herself with passion; as for Doña Rolanda, she noticed one evocative idea: I don’t want to lose you, Demetrio, but be patient with me. That’s how we women from this town are. Remember that I’ll never be able to replace you, not with anybody else. If I lose you, I’ll never be able to love another. There was a lot more recycled honey, even absurd honey, naive, but of a purity that was perfectly poignant. And around page nine Doña Rolanda looked up from her reading because her unflattering conclusions had just about achieved full expression, one in particular (the third) she grumbled out loud: That man doesn’t deserve such a woman. Then, in a lower mumble: That man is a miscreant and an ungrateful wretch, a swine who will hopefully come to a bad end. Whereupon, even lower: How could he possibly have traded such a true woman for such a lowdown whore? Finally—long live decency!, and I needn’t note here the more painful pronouncements. Doña Rolanda was pretty angry and thus wholly convinced that her boarder would never return. God willing he wouldn’t!