Almost Never A Novel

28


Filling up the tank. Benigno offered his assistance to the manager. The children witnessed the action, but not Bartola. Demetrio, of course, said it would be a routine trip to Sabinas and Nueva Rosita. He would take three dead goats and two live lambs to the butchers: what do you know! a special order, which he should have filled three days earlier, but we know why that didn’t happen. Likewise we know—and it shouldn’t be painful—the (not heartrending) fact that he was going to leave forever. May the damned be damned! Not he. He was a calculating man. For many years now he had had his sights set on getting ahead: more and more society to obtain thousands of subtle solaces and millions of extravagant, though ultimately cheerful, burdens! The pulse of life in a vortex is never dull … If it could be in that dream city, the one with the tall buildings … The condition: companionship. Renata and her eternal love: win her in order to sate her. We could say she was a tiny phoenix waiting in the wings. She and he would rise together. And …

Demetrio left La Mena after saying to Benigno: I’ll be back by noon, as usual. But the peon, who was quite intuitive, suspected something quite bitter, though to what reasonable extent … He said nothing—why should he? A suspicion is never more than a thin slice, just a question of catching and tossing it: it won’t go very far … As soon as Benigno saw the pickup drive away, he went to the manager’s quarters. Proof: the aforementioned had not taken his suitcases. Fleeing with the shirt on his back: an implausible layering of garments. Fleeing with a wad of bills: of course, for in Sabinas and Nueva Rosita you needed money. Hence the considered conclusion: There’s no longer any doubt; the manager is not returning. Though this unhappy judgment: I gave him the go-ahead to leave. Causality … unintentional. However that may be. worth placing a period here.

The purchase of a suitcase and clothes in Monclova: on the road Demetrio was already fleshing out a plan that contained cynical elements, which must have excited him through and through. Whatever else, he had to consider the long-standing relationship between Don Delfín and Doña Zulema, which restrained him like a brake of contingency, creating a dilemma that was limiting if not downright narrow. The limitation was that he couldn’t steal the pickup: a matchless venue. Stealing would mean driving to Sacramento in the vehicle: indeed! the skillful and arrogant driver. In fact, he presumed that the wide dirt road that connected Monclova to Ocampo and passed through Sacramento and other towns was ready, time to give it a go, and herewith a microhistorical fact: around the middle of March 1947—finally! (stated with jubilation, though better not to exaggerate) … The weird thing would be for him to arrive smugger than ever at his second mother’s house. But he couldn’t lie to Doña Zulema: that he’d bought the vehicle out of necessity; with his savings—no way, José! that was stealing, whereby Don Delfín, once he’d discovered Demetrio’s as well as the vehicle’s absence, would go complain to his lifelong friend: Your nephew is a thief and with all due respect, a son of a bitch. Then he would add emphatically: Why did you recommend him? And his second mother would be hauled over the coals when … Further fairly probable torments weighed heavily on Demetrio’s mind as he drove, an entire tense crisis that, in the end, led him to the inevitable: to leave the pickup there in Monclova, half a block from Don Delfín’s house. A rash act at midnight. The thing was to find out if … he didn’t really remember the exact location of the house, just that it didn’t have a front porch; the front door opened right onto the street: a paved street—of course! and then he remembered some useless details: there was a large store in front of, and a eucalyptus tree on the verge of a broken sidewalk—yes? perhaps?—and a movie theater without a roof, with posters for Mexican movies stuck on the white plastered facade: more or less the image Demetrio had formed of the street when he had been there; other vague details: ones he would not see at midnight, for even if he reached Monclova during the day he’d have to wait for total nocturnal calm (urban, dangerous, or so Demetrio imagined). His plan: to rent a hotel room for a few hours so he could lie low. Anyway. Then, as he refined his strategy, he considered the benefits of the door: oh, to slip a message under it: a plot synthesis … et cetera! … to wit: a telegraphic missive in which he would outline his primordial motive for quitting his job. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wrote, among other things, that it was impossible to work as a manager without a woman by his side; the gentleman would understand—wouldn’t he? He himself had recommended that he bring one—remember? Find a pen and some paper. Later. The first obstacle: to take his money out of the bank. Then board the train for the usual trip to La Polka. Then the crossing on the boat and the horse-drawn carriage. Then the final one-two punch: invest in a business in Sacramento: a grocery store—what else?

The agronomist was so utterly absorbed in his plan that he passed right by Sabinas, as if he were on the moon. He didn’t ask anybody how to find the main road to Monclova. As he was already quite familiar with the city it was not difficult for him to find what he was looking for.

And he headed that way almost subconsciously. His lucky star (his assistant) was again shining, though—let’s take a look: he forgot that he was carrying two live lambs and three dead goats in the truck bed. He remembered only a bit farther on: when he’d already been driving for half an hour on the magnificent road where, obviously, there was little traffic: one or another daring semitrailer: yes!; maybe a four-door sedan, with a visor over the windshield: of course!; as an aside we might mention the occasional person on horseback; a truck; another pickup …

A tentative return to Sabinas to sell the stock: no! now that he was buoyantly on his way to total freedom (more his than ever) he could not stand to think of returning for the sole purpose of getting rid of what would cause him so many complications in Monclova.

To avoid such a fix he found a different fix and injected it with a dose of mischief, if you like, an impetuous solution: place the dead goats in a row—skinned, as was only right—by the side of the dirt road; and the hides in another row (three and three, yes): finders keepers: the charm of well-calibrated irresponsibility; not forgetfulness, rather a tangled game …

That’s what he did: O guile! And as for the live lambs: a fate they could fete!: leave them to their own devices: let them run off into a very spacious and wild happiness. Hopefully nobody would claim them. A future without corrals. Hopefully!

Bargain-basement compassion for the sake of a positive portent: to watch those children of God walk away, together, like brothers who love one another and always give each other mutual support. Good-bye, lambs. Demetrio crossed himself and—let’s go!

When he reached Monclova—where’s the bank? Quickly found: cash in hand: withdraw the money in its entirety, which when combined with what he already had: congratulations!, modest wealth: independence; a cinch because he had no trouble getting the (sorrowful) bank employees to give him the noteworthy wad. The bad part was figuring out where to stash it all. His trouser pockets were not big enough: and: he asked for an opaque bag. They gave him a cloth one, solid and of goodly size, which he placed in the glove compartment of the truck. He would lock the cab when he finally got out, to wit: as soon as he had parked it. His most pressing wish was that Don Delfín would not be strolling about the city, so that he wouldn’t see … et cetera!

Straight off to rent a hotel room: an unproblematic step … luckily or because of the brilliance of his star (in the sense of twinkling) … A circumstantial rest, after finally showering under a stream: ah!

Demetrio was living the wonders of this metropolis, not much of a metropolis, to tell the truth, but …

With sprightly step he then wandered around downtown Monclova. He had to buy some good clothes and a suitcase with lock and key. Immediate success.

When he got back to his hotel he asked the receptionist to lend him a pen and a blank piece of paper, unlined—eh? That’s it! Everything was working out perfectly. The text: a kooky substance reduced to its conceptual essence: let’s take a look, for it was charming:

Dear Don Delfín:

Along with this note I am leaving you the keys to the pickup truck, which is parked half a block from your house. I just want to say that I got unbearably bored at the ranch. My work as a manager was very interesting, but as I could never bring a woman there, it’s better for me to leave. I am grateful for all your efforts and your trust in me.

Demetrio Sordo.

The note could have been more concise, but that’s how it came out, and that was that.

Certainly no previous manager had had as extensive an imagination as he. Undoubtedly they’d all fled on foot from La Mena, surely toward Sabinas, and, though honorable men, they were also pitifully decent fools! Demetrio, on the contrary—judge for yourself—wanted to be decent—saintly?, yes or no?, only in a more original, hence more effective, way.

For now, we really must end this with the act announced in the note written in a rather showy hand. Let us evoke (illustrious!) midnight as if it were echoing all around: surround sound—whirring because warped—which tended to provoke terror whose decanting eased said maneuver: leave, leave, leave, flee without running, back to the hotel, once the mischief had been made. Somewhat neglected sense of safety entrusted to the aplomb of his stomping footsteps. Another chapter was beginning. So he should start off with historic relief (smiling with the knowledge that his face would have an aquiline appearance, the same he viewed at length in an oval mirror) between four walls that smelled of florific glory, and, well, tomorrow would be the day of the joyous flight.

Once again the figure of the big guy carrying a bulging suitcase that just fit all his belongings. He looked almost vintage, almost unreal, almost toast.

The Monclova train station wasn’t as crowded as it had been on other occasions, hence the reasonable assumption: I guess they’re already running a lot of buses along the new dirt road … Little by little people will stop using the train … How could he be wrong? But the train went much farther than Ocampo and company. It took the route to Sierra Mojada, so—would the trip be pleasanter?

Demetrio felt like a traveling prince. Empty seats. Oh joy. The few passengers had the pleasure of being able to partially stretch out on the cushioned … The slowness of the train didn’t matter, rather …

What to say about marvelous sleep.

What to say about the unusual smell in the car: almost encapsulated, almost anesthetic.