Almost Never A Novel

18


As soon as Demetrio walked away, a bouquet of lilies—given to him at the last minute by Doña Zulema—in one hand and his money-filled suitcase in the other, he felt awful. Glances and giggles surrounded him. It was his implausible height, like a walking beanpole, as well as his seditious shirt and those schoolboy trousers … It was his ridiculous composure … It was—how could it be?, and the more the town’s malice grew, the shorter the big guy made his stride. His arrival at the trysting bench and from there his shout for Renata to come out and meet him would be a genuine spectacle for the critical gawkers. Increased surveillance and a crescendo of laughter would subsequently affect his sweetheart much more than him; such was his supposition, so he made a full stop, sat down on the first bench he came to in the main plaza (the central and grandiose plaza, and the only one); disheartened, wishing to hide, he decided not to find out what was going on just a little ways away; yes, as bad as it seemed, he considered giving up, postponing the visit till the following day and going first to Monclova to buy some clothes that fit, something more presentable, because in Sacramento you could probably find nothing but cowboy pants. Hence a whole day wasted going there and back. His course of action was clear. He had only to take a quick look at himself … How embarrassing … Especially because he had noticed nothing upon leaving Parras. Nobody had poked fun at him during the trip … Nonetheless—here it was! a gathering scandal that he alone could stanch … The problems were the trousers, the bright glimpses of sock, less noticeable was the shirt’s roominess. In any case, he turned upon himself the most severe self-criticism and—what could he do! He’d have to return to Doña Zulema’s house. An unpleasant retreat: ceaseless ugly jeers—was he required to ask for forgiveness? From anyone in particular? Sorry, sir, sorry, ma’am—nobody? That is, nobody confronted him up close, just as nobody approached him as he left for Monclova early the next morning … Jeers from afar, but a nuisance nonetheless … True, he was no longer carrying the bouquet of lilies, only the vexing valise. Perhaps the fault-finding multitudes believed that he wouldn’t show his face there again, but …

A radical difference.

Extravagance on a Thursday afternoon.

Elegance can be intimidating if viewed in detail. The outfit as well as the overall effect, the heat notwithstanding; hence, quite conspicuous, for nobody in Sacramento ever dressed like that.

Demetrio went irresolutely toward his destination, but weak thoughts arose, one by one. To begin with, he had to make several stops. He placed the bouquet of lilies and the suitcase down in the dust of the street so he could remove a white handkerchief from the outside pocket of his jacket and delicately wipe off trickles of sweat: face, neck, and hands, and this thankless task awakened doubts, one of which was whether or not he should present himself sweaty to Renata—how sweaty were the hairs on his chest … covered though they were? Very, because his personal rivulet was tickling him under there. Even his hair, so well groomed, would soon come undone: irremediably dissolute head, deserving of some distant chortle that he may hear later … nor did he have a comb handy to put the humid chaos to rights … and his elegant appearance (in principle) was getting complicated … But he could not put off meeting his sweetheart another day. We will see, therefore, his stubborn lunacy, his audacity in the face of the worst possible censure. In his defense a great excuse he hoped he would not need to assemble on the spur of the moment. Anyway, he was already fleshing it out. The idea was that elegance was a pretense in a village where it was as uncommon as a swanky new car. And he reached the trysting bench and did not sit down. His (sweaty) elegance precluded him from hurling even one cry into the air, not so much as a whistle, much less shouting out the name of his beloved and telling her, moreover, that he had arrived on a whim. To wait, then, standing up: obstinate, tall, silent, flamboyant (he had to be). It was five in the afternoon and there in the constricted space of the stationery store Demetrio descried Renata’s subtle figure: she was conducting business; likewise, the buxom figure of her mother, who was moving her lips—uncontrollably? Was she speaking … or was it all just futile action? Renata abruptly stepped out into the street. She was not gussied up, and one could surmise her astonishment from her somewhat stalking step. She drew nearer and—the last straw! words scattered on the ground, her words, for after glancing at him fleetingly, she lowered her head and:

“I’m very happy you’ve come, but I can’t see you now. I am not presentable. Come tomorrow at the same time, if you can.”

Once this blarney was over, she turned on her heel and ran away. Her mother was waiting with her hands on her waist as if to say: Well done! He was left standing with outstretched arms: the bouquet of lilies: void, useless, tomorrow another one. Bah! the amorous proposal snapped back as if it had been stretched out too far, and now, yes, the discordant giggles from afar embellished the retreat of the gallant, whose dandyism had done him no good. Laughter like barbs. Each step a gasp. Shame flaming from the lilies he still carried. As for the suitcase, what more can be said about it. Of course, the suitor longed to hide the bouquet under his jacket, but that would embarrass him even more. Circular then spiraling resilience. He refused to rid himself of that pleasant prodigy (throwing it—where?) because it would be proof of a frustration that tomorrow, at five in the afternoon, would be turned on its head, and, with a sharp pang, he wondered if the bouquet, especially because his aunt had given it to him, had brought him bad luck. When he arrived, she hugged him. She said nothing. She divined the course of events (rejection resulting from the surprise) and … A cry, meek, from her—of course! while he, with a knot in his throat, let her caress his disheveled head. Interior scene, so warm, in the kitchen rather than the grocery store, where the señora prepared café con leche; there was also a basket full of rolls, those familiar conchas, plomos, and pelonas for him to savor slowly. Bites as pauses. Words, all difficult and somewhat virile, rows of sweet relief. There must have been few: his: so-called sputum; though hers …

“I warned you, that’s how women from Sacramento are, but I think it’s worth your while to be patient.”

“You know what, Auntie, I don’t want to hear about it anymore. Renata and I agreed to see each other tomorrow. Now I want to be alone. I want to take a walk through town, climb a hill, I don’t know, watch the sunset, and then see what stars come out at night; I think it will do me good to look at the moon for a good long while. I want to think, understand, because I am starting to despair.”

“Do whatever you want. I’m going to give you a copy of the key to the house, and as you know, you can come back whenever you feel like it.”

The moon. The scrublands. The gray and luminous hills. The desert ground to sleep on, as he had done days before, the suitcase: O pillow! O companion! Resolve. Apathy. Desire. But first, to dress appropriately: a short-sleeved shirt for wandering around, a T-shirt, in fact, a trifle bought just in case, or just because. In Monclova he had also bought a new suitcase for his new clothes, which, without a second thought, he had left at Doña Zulema’s house. And where to next? Wheresoever to gird himself, to build up resistance against his circumstantial sorrow, but alone, absorb some kind of new and suggestive blessedness. So he ambled, dined in a tavern—a mendacious plate—then resumed his deliberate aimlessness. No dearth of onlookers watched him depart: hie to the hills, to hell with it all! The moon: light from a waning crescent (no trace of a path), and onward he trudged, trying to find his way. He wished that the night would silence all sounds then awaken his grief and sorrow with a tenuous tinkling. One footstep after another along the path to purification. It was not long before he found a small rise. There he sat. The sparse and far-off lights of Sacramento were also his own sparse flashes, already embossed upon the darkness. Drifting distances; he, extraneous: a fleeing spirit unable to glimpse a center or a refuge along the edges or a place beyond. His ideas failed to flow, but his soul … what weight? Barely any: a formless mass that would never be shaped. A hefty mass of flesh, a medley of legs, breasts, asses, and two faces: Renata’s and Mireya’s: heaven and hell, sanctity and sin, eternal and circumstantial, ruthless struggle and mere toy, but only one really deep intersection, an arid depth, and therein the absurd. If Demetrio kept thinking, he’d turn bright red and break out in tears, because any and every choice might prove fatal. Be that as it may, he had now firmly settled into the enigma of true love, love that placed the most impossible obstacles in the way, and to what end: to reach a cloud? the peak of a mountain? a star? Desire submerged in another desire and hence legions and thereby diminished, until ultimately it wouldn’t know what it was or could be.

There perchance to sleep, sunk in abstractions.

May sleep fix without twisting the purpose.

May sleep strip Renata naked.

To see that saint naked. See her begging for sex.

If only!

Okay, okay, let’s say that happened, that sleep brought him something of the sort. Maybe not the beauty’s full nudity, but how about a sacred hand, offered forth: take hold! pa-leeze take hold! Renata ordered him in a quite implausibly beseeching tone: take hold, my love! And he did so as if it were a phantasmagoric piece of flesh. The more caresses offered the more doubts arose, the more improbable ripening, all for the worst … the entwined hands started to rot. When Demetrio awoke he stood up at attention like a soldier and quickly made his way back to Sacramento.

Maybe Doña Zulema wouldn’t notice his arrival. Not a chance. She, so understanding, wouldn’t dream of daring to ask him where he had spent the night. Surely on a bench in the plaza, or in some vacant lot, or in the hills, or—who knows! In fact, she remained resolutely silent: upon seeing him arrive she gave him a hug and that was all. He did not offer excuses, nor did he explain anything (it was nine in the morning). Though it is true that during the embrace he gave her a few very nice strokes on her head, her arms, her back, and:

“Do you want some breakfast?”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“What are your plans till this afternoon?”

“I want to be alone.”

Alone. To waste time. Demetrio shut himself up in a room jam-packed with statuettes and pictures of saints. Such a moral, recriminating menace: and: what he did was turn all their backs to him. They deserved it! or didn’t they? Their ignorance versus … let’s see … Our lover’s levels of abstract thinking never went very far. Never, definitely, did they take a definite tack. Hence ensued the compensatory masturbation. Action rather than reflection. He fully savored the act and upon feeling the smudge of semen on his fingers he said to himself: I’m becoming a chaos … but I don’t care. He wiped himself off with a corner of the quilt: disgusting!, and he rested—now, finally—and smiled, what a sin onanism was, how peculiar! A sin that consumes itself. Futile fount and for that very reason, extraordinary … and grotesque, and devoid of mystery! which is why later—once again? Thrice Doña Zulema knocked on the door, but only the last time did she ask him the following (take note of the respect, the not-opening, the not-being-offensive):

“Are you going to stay in there? Don’t you want to eat something?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine. Leave me alone!”

He masturbated twice more, though, to tell the truth, these were not as pleasurable as the first. Then, at about three in the afternoon, Demetrio went out. He felt like washing with bucketfuls galore. His aunt filled up four, that was all she had. The nephew, however, remained a long time in the washroom and she took on the task of inspecting, by stealth, the other room. She saw the saints with their backs turned—what now? perversity behind closed doors? really? Her nephew, happy or unhappy, naked … perhaps … but … whatever’s wrong with that? And, making a modest inference, she mused that masturbation … let’s see, let’s see … is natural for a man, as long as he doesn’t take advantage of the privilege—what else could she conclude? Then—oh, darn!—the evidence: the soiled quilt; a whitish stain, which, when looked at up close—oh!: in it Doña Zulema saw the seed of children, grandnephews, but also of less-than-well-corresponded love, or despair, or spiritual sorrow, or—damn! why such a fuss. Three stains on the quilt, that is, three masturbations and—how disgusting! (already said) especially after making up the bed with new sheets and a new quilt. Be that as it may, no reproaches, no obsessing. What’s more, she did not inspect the suitcases. She could have opened them, for both were closed with only a metal clasp, but …

Now we really must betake ourselves to the much-anticipated tryst. Exquisite presentation. Renata wore a quince-colored dress that sparkled with every move she made, and he a jacket and tie and, indeed, a Mediterranean-blue long-sleeved shirt; no, not a new bouquet of lilies—obviously! bad luck—remember?—; but his suitcase, now an inseparable part of him.

“What a shock you gave me. Why have you come at this time of year? I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Guess what? I no longer live and work in Oaxaca. I had a big fight with my boss and I decided to quit and go live with my mother in Parras. I will find work there.”

“So, you didn’t receive my letter.”

“You wrote me a letter?”

“Yes, a very long letter.”

“No, I didn’t. As soon as I quit my job, I left for Parras because my boss paid me right away.”

“Will you return to Oaxaca?”

“I don’t plan to … But tell me, please, what did you write in your letter?”

“As I said, it was very long. In it I explained some of the reasons I want our courtship to proceed so slowly. I need to be sure this is serious. If you want me to, I can promise that I’ll be yours forever, that you will be the only man of my life, that all my hopes will be placed in you. But, like I said …”

“You told me I would be able to hold your hand on this visit.”

“Yes, hold it, Demetrio, but that’s all, because otherwise I’ll feel terrible.”

“You needn’t worry. I am a gentleman, and you mean too much to me to ruin everything. I long to learn to love you as you want me to.”

“Maybe you think I’m stuck-up, but try to understand that I am a woman of principles.”

“Yes, I can see that, and that’s what I like most about you: your modesty, your sincerity.”

“My mother is watching us! Look to your right, you’ll see.”

Demetrio did as he was told and … indeed.

“But take my hand, my love, here, below.”

“My love.” Where did that expression come from? From her soul or her conscious mind? And to obey and … already culminating in a feat: below. Desire: barely: a punctiliousness that summed up in a split second all the exhausting trips, everything turned topsy-turvy and reduced to a frenzy of initiation! Then crowned by a trembling and fascinated fingering. The concrete that sates, that calms. The here and now so small yet so glorious. Sanctified flesh worth examining eagerly though with restraint, this game of fingers and palms and endless limitations. Silence designed to stir up fervent feelings and promising portents. A moral path strewn with caresses of sluggish though benevolent beginnings, a steady climb, then suddenly:

“And that suitcase?”

“That’s where I keep my money … Do you want me to open it and show you all the money my boss gave me?”

“I don’t know, that’s your affair. I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“There are no banks in Parras … The truth is, I don’t know where to deposit the cash … I was so anxious to see you, I carried it the whole way.”

“Why didn’t you leave the money at your mother’s house? It seems very risky to carry it around.”

“It didn’t occur to me. I was in Parras for only a few hours, then I came here. I didn’t even consider leaving it with my mother.”

“You shouldn’t walk around with that much money.”

“I’ll soon come up with a solution. I can find my way in the world. I have always been a very practical man.”

Renata smiled, as if wanting to change the subject. We must remember that never, except at the wedding dance, had she looked him in the eyes. Decency as a heavenly abstraction yet one with an endless number of perhaps-too-concrete foundations, among which figures flirtation, ergo: head-on or, rather, defenseless insolence: never! what? still to come a long lapse before her eyes could feast upon those of her beloved, which would then mark an abject and absolute surrender: and—ugh! later, later … a later marked by a construct of desires so intricate it formed an impressive honeycomb. Nonetheless, with head downturned, Renata incited him to say pretty things, one after the other, what the hell!, and without improvised creativity, as it were: never would he act the fool and blurt out thoughts that might sound offensive, for being randy; on the contrary, in the end, rather staid sweet nothings, credible, but—how?

There should be no ripe emoting when one is humble in love, humble if a giant and in the presence of a beautiful woman, almost custom made, though somewhat short of stature; humble intentionally or merely a coward for restricting himself to a lexicon that projects pure sweetness, sweetness and extreme caution, even in his tone of voice. An attempt at emotional constriction would be useful. Like shrinking then growing through words. Demetrio wanted, he said, and then he faltered. To force himself to think about the power of velvets or silk, that’s where it all started: oh, he was so insecure, and in the end he realized that the cadence of his caresses on that saintly hand would set a pattern for him that would allow something important to come out of his mouth. He could, but—was he pretending? He could, he was strutting his stuff, as if he were writing a letter with careful calligraphy; and Renata, though gratified, clammed up even more. There were many limits to the fondling (the border: the wrist; the forearm: never!) as well as verbal limits (never speak about a kiss anywhere; never speak about nudity—right? even indirectly), a careful search through simplicity, a temerity that was simply boring. A slow burn, but effective. A dreadfully proper middle ground—right? For a long time even keeled and stellar, until a boy came to tell Renata that her mother had said her time was up. The abrupt ending was that ugly. Remember the reserves of decency: its benefits understood. Yet, the promise: tomorrow again, there—ah! at five in the afternoon. Agreed. And each to his or her own … downhill, we might say, for both had managed to see, if not a towering peak, at least a small romantic hillock, made unforgettable by the contact, which there certainly was, that premise of hands that love each other. For Demetrio, arriving at his aunt’s house was like arriving at a palace in penumbra, where a gray-haired woman, like a decrepit old housekeeper, came to greet him and insisted on embracing him because she saw him arrive almost with a spring in his step and almost smiling, and he, of course, resisted—leave me alone! don’t touch me!—for this was not the moment to receive a doddering clasp. Doña Zulema froze. She trembled when she said that dinner was ready. No doubt, the aunt’s diligence during her nephew’s last two visits was notable. The ostentatious hostess had, as was only proper, demoted the store to second place and had no qualms about closing it so that she could play the part of the accommodating cook: she prepared café con leche, bought their daily bread, made a stew, and, most significantly: kept the cord of her discretion tied, that is: her efforts to reel in her curiosity, so as not to ask questions about the progress of the courtship nor insist once and for all upon a full explanation of what had gone on in Oaxaca. Regarding this last bit, the most curious part was her nephew’s inexplicable zeal to hold on to the aforementioned suitcase: money? a pistol? what monstrous thing? Could be a question of self-inflicted punishment that resulted in the subtle affability Demetrio was beginning to value. No hint of reproach when the aforesaid decided to spend the entire night out. On the contrary, the tendering of a copy of the house key, the placing of great trust, and the longing for a celebratory embrace each time he returned. Perhaps Doña Zulema wished to see in that great big man the son she never had. Son-king or pampered prince, powerful though absentminded, or a struggling warrior, tender and somewhat inexperienced in everything. Nonetheless, during dinner it was Demetrio who aired a concern related to the future of his love affair:

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to go back to Parras or Oaxaca. I want to find work around here, but I don’t know where to look.”

“You really want to stay here?”

“Yes, because I want to be near Renata.”

“Listen, there’s a very rich gentleman in Monclova who owns, among other things, many ranches. Once in a while he comes here because he has a property near Sacramento that he’s neglected, according to what I’ve heard.”

“And you, how do you know him?”

“I’ve known him since we were children. He was a classmate of mine at school and he always stops by to visit me. He comes to my store for a refreshment, and we talk.”

“Was there ever anything between you?”

“I never wanted him. When we were young he tried, but he finally realized that we were better off as friends and, well, I agreed with him there. He married very well, he has eight children and a ton of grandchildren.”

“Sounds good! How can I get in touch with him?”

“I have his address in Monclova. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to pay him a visit. His name is Delfín Guajardo.”

“I’ll go tomorrow. That way I can also deposit most of my money in a bank there.”

“Money? What money?”

“The money in my suitcase. It’s part of my earnings and my savings.”

The mystery now solved. No further comment. No backhanded reproach about the risk of … never! In response, finally, Demetrio’s impulse: to check his suitcase: to go, to know. He knew. And, as his gratitude remained unmitigated, he took the initiative to embrace his aunt. She was happy. A magnificent hostess, and something else besides: the taking-shape of enduring respect, as opposed to Doña Telma, oh, that meddlesome mother, so insolent. On the contrary … he just wanted to check if the fifteen fat bundles of banknotes inside the suitcase remained intact … Ugh! a crude memory of his accounting: and: the aunt could have taken two while Demetrio was bathing. Careless of him, in fact, at a glance, to have left it: yesterday: oh. Though, all told, he would have forgiven his hostess for swiping five bills or so, why even check? Better to plant a kiss on her cheek, a slightly salivary smack. Which he did: muuuuaaagh! And her delight redoubled; she: squeezed: then surrendered, a cuddled make-believe mother; she: her feelings and her charm abloom.