Almost Never A Novel

25


To learn to drive. Demetrio nearly started panting when he heard these words from Don Delfín’s lips as the principal requirement for the optimal administration and supervision of the three ranches. Daily trips in the pickup first thing in the morning except Sundays, supposedly his day off. We should say that he was supposed to finish his rounds shortly after midday. In Monclova there had been mention of these duties, and the exciting news began to sparkle the moment Demetrio heard he would have use of a pickup sui generis, brown, quite used, that was waiting for him at La Mena Ranch, though here’s the obviously surly part: the roads in that region were not uniform: they tilted, they narrowed, sometimes they seemed to vanish only to pick up again who knows where. All this seen on the way, for Don Delfín was taking the new employee north, where: first La Mena, and then whatever comes next … Rough riding, in the meantime, in a pickup, jet black, latest model … In 1946, on the stretch between Monclova and Sabinas, there were only twenty miles of pavement on what would later be called the Carretera Central. The rest, sixty miles perhaps, was gravel, a wide grade but uneven and, therefore, dangerous. Especially dangerous was a detour right next to a gigantic huisache tree, like an expressive and watchful ornament, from which hung abandoned blackbird nests. An unmistakable point of reference, as was the fifteen-foot drop the boss-driver accomplished with true dexterity, which led onto a dirt road straight to La Mena; still to go was a long stretch, many curves, and much fatigue.

The field for driving practice, a perfectly unproblematic plain to swerve about on: first, second, third, reverse, almost never fourth: the roads didn’t allow for such speeds. Don Delfín told Demetrio that there were three barrels of gasoline at the first ranch; one more at El Origen and another, if needed, at La Igualdad. And here, all aquiver, is another bit of information: at every ranch Demetrio would find peons dexterous in the automotive arts. Practical wise men, with basic knowledge of whatever they needed to know. Because breakdowns … no precautions taken ever end up being a good bet. One lovely obstacle after another, spread about this territory beyond the reach of Mexico’s industrialization. Abiding life, almost like in the Stone Age: a matter of adjusting to the purely primitive with the single solid idea of somehow enjoying it, well, now to return … Among the many responsibilities assigned to the agronomist—once and for all let’s set some clear boundaries: we call him “agronomist” to stress that these were livestock ranches and that they wouldn’t plant a fig, not a seed or a tree to save their lives; hence all Demetrio’s agronomic baggage was utterly useless—and now, yes, to return to the evolving story, we wish to point out that his primary responsibility was to transport supplies, the most urgent ones, as requested by the peons on both ranches: El Origen was to the northeast of La Mena, whereas La Igualdad was to the southeast: at a slightly veiled diagonal. And the daily dust storms kicked up by the pickup: a romantic image for those (very few) who took the trouble to watch the arrivals and departures. By the same token we must say that Don Delfín had a hard time holding on to driver-managers, but we’ll get to the deeper reason for that later. In the meantime, one of the many chores involved the transport of goats and lambs, and once in a while a cow or a bull; breeding animals who were treated like kings, or slabs of meat to be sold in Sabinas and Nueva Rosita; there were other job-related oddities there’s no point in enumerating. We simply want to mention that the peons managed the full range of information. Though really: imagine once and for all the endless hustle and bustle, and—on the other hand, what an avalanche of difficulties awaited Demetrio! The fact is, the more his boss talked during the trip, the more paralyzed he became. So many particulars, so many unknowns, yes, of course! because of x or z.

When the boss and the new manager arrived at the aforementioned ranch—let’s call it the “head” ranch—the former let flow an endless stream of declarations; the points he made were incisive and parsimonious, and unfailingly incriminating; herewith the most resounding: You should bring a woman to live with you here. And then: A place like this can be lonely and tough. And then: I want you to enjoy yourself, in spite of the hard work, though without a woman, who knows what you’ll have to come up with: that last touch, on the heels of other similar ones, must have really struck the new employee. A collection of bitter juices churned in his gut: Renata; marriage? bring her here! if she would agree, needless to say; but, darn, the monstrously tempestuous; the ill effects of accelerating, and not; in the meantime, and for a good while longer, strategic patience, knowing that in such a place, one day had the dimensions of one week, and one week seemed like one month, and one month, one year, solitude under these circumstances as spiritual elevation that would keep rising to who knows what heights: more and more purified severity: white and unscathed … from a lack thereof, but also from a guise of servitude … Okay now, let’s move on to what we can discern. La Mena consisted of three adobe structures, a corral, and a windmill; a scattering of roosters, hens, chickens, and one or another naked child roaming around. The goats and lambs prisoners in … Demetrio wanted to know as soon as possible where he would reside, but Don Delfín (diviner) told him he should first pay a visit to the other ranches so he could memorize the day’s run on the roads, with the understanding that any detour on any of the many side roads that branched off from the main road would get him lost. There are only three curves from here to El Origen, and all three turn to the right, whereas on the way to La Igualdad there will be six curves, two to the right and four to the left … Remember that the roads to both places are wider than the many side roads … Be careful! In training, from the start! little by little, of course (trifles upon trifles), and off they went to El Origen. First they answered the peons’ greetings—stick figures and busy bodies—by raising one hand, as they had done. It’s six miles from La Mena to El Origen and eight from La Mena to La Igualdad. The heat increased (we are in the aforementioned October). There was no defense other than to constantly swab forehead, cheeks, and chin (this last the most drippy, wouldn’t you say?). Here you will sweat as you never have before … I recommend you carry at least three handkerchiefs in your trouser pockets. Upon hearing such nonsense Demetrio asked: And who is going to do my laundry? And a smiling Don Delfín answered: The wife of my peon at La Mena. Her name is Bartola and he is Benigno. I’ll introduce you to them soon. They will be very important to you. And now, so as not to drag this out, we hereby present a summation: El Origen had one adobe structure, no windmill, an insignificant corral (a smallness that evoked compassion), whereas La Igualdad was nothing but two adobe buildings (meager progress), also no wind-mill, though a cheerful corral, larger than the one at La Mena—what for? with more heads of cattle—my, my! They went through the introductions: lightning fast, as if by the way, for the deepening of mutual acquaintance would go hand in hand with the working relationship; learn each other’s names: as an initial requirement and, here comes another of Don Delfín Guajardo’s declarations: We’ll see how you do when it gets cold. It gets pretty bad around here. I’m warning you. Uneasiness? Misgivings? You be the judge.

Hence, what’s already been stated: he finally learned how to drive: at first the apparently obscure, and then—off he went! Yet to see if student and master quarreled under the murderous sun (let this then be the emphatic beginning of a briny life), both bathed in sweat, Demetrio more than Don Delfín. The good part was that the agronomist quickly learned the ins and outs of driving that pickup that had been sitting at La Mena for a month. It’s also worth mentioning that the peons knew a lot about automotive mechanics but nothing about driving—unheard of! Because the boss stubbornly refused to teach them. Inexplicable waning notions, beyond which let’s make clear that the powerful old man had an expression on his face of permanent disapproval: one that was scary, for nobody could divine his hidden reasons. The peons knew—just as Demetrio soon would too—that this grand gentleman was the owner of fifteen ranches (a dying empire), and this was the extent of what his mysterious expression revealed … Anyway, we were talking about the agronomist learning how to drive the pickup truck in only a few hours. By the afternoon—take a look at him! Alone, without a copilot—come on! Crepuscular applause, somewhat lackluster, but fortuitous. Uncommonly talented, that one: nobody like him in years, none of the previous managers, who’d learned their brakings and accelerations there, as well as the great problem of pacing, not a single one like Demetrio, who needed only a little practice. Next: to view the quarters where he’d make old bones; he beheld cramped discomfort and meager furnishings. A stage set consisting of a bare cot, a washbasin, a table, a few dishes, and a crystal radio the size of an adobe brick, which required two fat batteries. A novel private world and forced appreciation. And now for Don Delfín’s agreeable good-bye. He left feeling quite proud and not before handing a great big wad of bills to the new manager, who was astonished as he watched his departure, while in an alternate register amazed at having in his hands a quite uncanny quantity of cash, which Demetrio stuffed into his suitcase at once; he had no choice.

Being the manager meant he was in charge. Up to Demetrio when he’d issue the first order, just as the sun was setting … Also, the useful relationship with Bartola and Benigno, the only inhabitants of La Mena apart from an unknown number of snot-nosed kids … So he roused himself to go see what he should see, and in order to smugly tell them to make him something to eat. He acted too hastily, because the chubby little woman was about to bring a plate of beans to his quarters. In any case, his arrival inside, where the family sphere had all the comforts of domesticity de occultis: ergo: no tantrums in the background from the naked children (there were three, he discovered), only a few sounds from them moving about. The adults’ terseness was noticeable, for they did not initiate any conversation. Boundaries, hermetism, and the sudden gravity of two captivating words: Drink, eat: a reverse order, issued by Benigno, and that was all the encouragement the manager needed to set things in motion, like this:

“I don’t understand why Don Delfín gave me so much money … You saw the size of that roll … I think it’s too much.”

“He gave you that much because he probably won’t pay you again for months. Maybe not till December, or even later,” Benigno said.

“What?”

“That’s what he does with us.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because money’s no good for anything out here on the ranch … It’s his way of keeping us enslaved. Once a month he brings us sacks of beans, oats, and flour.”

“That’s all you eat?”

“Sometimes lamb or goat meat, but only when he gives the okay to slaughter one … That happens at least once a year.”

From there they went on to the grisly, or bellowing—we could say—details, for anything extra they ingested was restricted to snake or rabbit meat (an abundance of which could be found in this desolate wasteland, according to the peon), and soon the topic at hand did an about-face, for the big guy was an urban creature and liked to constantly change the subject: dissipation galore, or deliberate disconcentration. The question arose whether they had ever considered living in a town or city, and the immediate response was—never! a word both deep and euphonic that also contained a shred of logic both definitive and conclusive: If we lived in town we wouldn’t know how to use money … That scares us because we don’t know anything about numbers. In the face of such a well-conscribed truth it seemed futile to push the peon past who knows what boundary to give further explanations, and no, only the weight of the hardened squaring, congealed, as well as the discomfort if … hmm … How to clear things up? Somehow they let Demetrio know that they had no desire to prolong the conversation, that their routine determined their terseness: early to bed and that’s that. Rising at dawn was more pleasurable than anything else. But there was one more volley: a tidbit of information dropped in passing that broached the most shameful deficiency: neither Bartola nor Benigno knew how to read or write, whatever existed outside this rustic scope of their life was and would be very difficult: obstacles like too-sharp thorns, so much so that any unplanned movement created an upheaval, and anyway—why? oh fie! Why try to join a society that is so unforgiving? The confession was hesitant, so how to interpret what only barely, or what almost; one could affirm that illiteracy was synonymous with fixed deep-rootedness, or merely a roughshod philosophy born and bred and dead in the opacity of a small, almost unpopulated world, an—enough!, and—phew!, the guest (of sorts) understood grudgingly after consulting his wristwatch. It was eight p.m. So late! Horrors! And this: a watchword: get used to not enjoying what nights can bring: the relief of—socializing! damn, which was also the (spiritual) relaxation so necessary to make space for the doldrums of the day: no way! not here! and no way to order the peons to stay awake; an indication of future problems … with the boss—when he came? The radio was a consolation to help the newcomer relax, to listen in irremediable solitude to songs and news that really did seem more alien than ever, faraway clutter, which would no doubt become less and less appealing, though for now … Well—good night! and so let’s appreciate his urge to go and fiddle with the volume and tuning knobs. Salvation radio, night after night … the project of slowly falling asleep. A partial victory, in the end, but … In 1946 the only radio station that was broadcast nationally was XEW, the Voice of Latin America. However, there was no shortage of clamorous crackling and hissing that interfered to a point of ruining the original broadcast. An important thing to know because plenty of nights an English-language station would cross paths, then take over, and that’s what Demetrio suffered almost daily; we say “almost daily” because we are evaluating a stretch of time characterized by a fastidious routine. Nonetheless, clarifications are in order. Which is why we must find a temporal counterpoint. Therefore let us turn to Monclova, when Don Delfín and Demetrio were just coming to terms. The transcription should have fallen squarely into a notebook in which the new manager was writing down every step he would need to take once he got settled at the ranch; one of those, very important, was the list, with names (for social reasons) and addresses, of the eight butchers in Sabinas and the four in Nueva Rosita. The distribution of the butchered: one lamb per week, as well as three she-goats. Meat on the move. A sure sale, in any case. A lot of money to keep—where?, nowhere, therefore—in the suitcase? The shining advantage resided in Don Delfín’s coming to the ranch every week: on Fridays: an essential habit in order to, among other things, collect the cash from the weekly sales: that’s it: let’s repeat that this is an advantage because otherwise Demetrio’s mangy quarters would soon become an absurdity, to wit, a warehouse crammed with bills. Manifold futility at the mercy of an arbitrary windstorm—and what conjecture would become reality if a storm swept the bills away? The loneliness of the ranch lent itself to such imaginings, for already the utterly unusual was making incursions: fortunes flying over the desert: when? never?

The first time Demetrio went to Sabinas he asked Benigno to accompany him. He wanted to be sure not to lose his way along the supposed fifteen miles from one point to the other, for the moment he started the truck the peon warned him about the large number of forks off the main road, hence: Come with me. You can help me find the butchers. Unfortunately, Benigno didn’t remember the precise location of those establishments. It’s just that, trying to find your way in that urban muddle … In fact, the peon had been only four times to Sabinas and only once to Nueva Rosita … In 1946 Sabinas had a population of approximately thirty thousand inhabitants, whereas Nueva Rosita was a town of fifteen thousand, or perhaps fewer. But both places had spectacular commercial activity.

This work trip turned out to be a kind of holiday for both. So: Come. Do as I say. Let’s go. And yes, agreed. Yes, flat-out compliance, by virtue of the fact that both would benefit from a temporary disconnect—from what?—the monotony of the ranch, less longed for by Benigno, but the manager: how about it? A different environment; the world, culture—bah!, his presumptions had to be exaggerated …

Of course, before unpacking the knicking and knacking of selling and buying the meat, it’s worth sorting through the core of the sparse exchanges along the way: You might not want to learn anything about numbers, but you should realize that money gives you freedom of movement. Freedom of movement? More dependency, more anxiety, because numbers are limiting. A different kind of servitude, perhaps an even darker one, because of not knowing the true value of things. A reality calibrated to the quantity of coins and bills. Another corral or a different prison, but a much less happy one—or not? and since there was no escape, better to have someone higher up who resolved all the problems: a god, a boss, and therefore further submission to a perfect fit, to stay out of trouble—and uncertainties? In case we have interpreted the peon’s words otherwise: that is to say: harum-scarum, it is worth recording here his conclusion: No matter what, we are slaves to somebody or something, and I prefer to know who it is and what the one who gives me my living is like; as long as he treats me well, right? why dig any deeper? Then, the counterattack: But wouldn’t you like to be like your boss? He is rich and powerful. In the face of such a bold truth there arose a tiny truth: You do realize, sir, that I don’t know how to read or write. A sharp deficiency, the final blow, and a return to silence, not without Demetrio blurting out a crushing commonplace: There’s no doubt about it, we are who we are, would you listen to that! What? Demetrio saying such things. Or rather, once and for all he had to attain a mental toughness that could dispel all sorts of humble arguments. Or rather, his own—how prodigious were they? or rather—what did they settle? So, no further attempts at conceptual largesse, better not to get angry for no reason, but rather to clearly recognize his role: he was nothing more nor less than a masterful manager; he was, therefore, a person who should know about numbers and an infinity of other organizational procedures (what words!) that would put this lackluster ranching business on a firmer footing. Know thyself, in order to fit oneself in and—hey! know that this peon, like those from El Origen and La Igualdad, didn’t count. It’s a matter of language, that’s all, and—what is to be done? None could be his assistant, because none was a problem solver, besides about trifling issues related to provisions. O crass circumstance … so reductive! which also made him feel (now, really) alone—alone! a lonely madman? Unless he had a woman by his side … Renata (fixation), still unattainable … Longing in the ether, damn … Because he was neither a missionary nor an apostle … And the course of that vital truth—put to the test? In fact … it was important for him to know that not even at moments of direst despair should he expose his most mundane thoughts, considering it much more appropriate to emulate the behavior of the peons: their terseness, their lack of expressiveness, their perhaps saintly subjugation.

Blood on his hands: on Benigno’s. Come on. I’m sure there are sinks in Sabinas that have some good soap. And just like that the peon—what a bother!—made the trip. A brute question of haste … Moreover: dawn had barely broken when Benigno began killing animals. In less than two hours he had slaughtered a lamb and three she-goats. Such murderous dexterity put Demetrio on tenterhooks, for he made the following calculations on the side: this ranch hand could kill thirty-two animals in eight hours, as well as slit their bellies, cut them up, and skin them; and if he added up the number the ranch hands at El Origen and La Igualdad could slaughter in the same amount of time … A contest between them, someday, with a prize for the winner, not money but food: an abundant ration of canned goods wouldn’t be so bad; the notion of a feast in the middle of such scarcity; but based on what Don Delfín had said when they were there in Monclova, the sale of meat was by special order, so this time the meat would be sold to the butcher who offered the most; imagine that for a whole month—nothing to sell! ever since the last manager escaped on foot and at night through the desert. Even if there had been orders, there would have been no way to fill them—how? Clearly selling live animals would be more convenient, but the butchers in Sabinas and Nueva Rositas were too lazy to do the slaughtering. So, to return, here we have the meat on this reckless trip, in the sun, of course, because it was daytime, and yes: the carcasses covered with a blue blanket: a subtle way of buying time there in the truck bed … In 1946 there was not even one refrigerated truck anywhere in the length or the breadth of the Mexican territory … Hence the complex aspect of this troublesome situation was to transport the meat packed in ice, oh yes, only from where to where, eh? because to get enough ice: where … And the impossibility (right?) of … Well, anyway, we’ll now close this muddle with a happy fact: Demetrio and Benigno did not have to wander through the ignominious labyrinth of the streets of Sabinas; all they had to do was find x butcher to buy their goods, which had been covered. The transaction in itself was formidable because the butcher (the owner) placed a huge order for the following week: four lambs and eight she-goats—a heavenly delight! or that’s what we would call it.