Almost Never A Novel

29


“What’s happened now? Why are you here? Did you already quit your job?”

“Yes, I quit, it didn’t suit me at all.”

“I knew it … and, well … Welcome, my son! … but … what are your plans?”

First the obligatory embrace. Doña Zulema was jubilant, perhaps because this was a surprise she had somehow expected. You can surely predict a coming recurrence, but even if this memory fails you altogether, because that happens sometimes, let’s just say that the flavor of the conversation emerged at the table. Another recurrence: the hill of rolls—conchas, plomos, and pelonas—washed down bit by bit with cafés con leche (everything landed in their bellies in the end), and in the meantime there was a jumble of distorted facts, no more than 20 percent of which corresponded to real events: Demetrio astonished Doña Zulema with his nearly six-month-long saga of ranch life: inconvenience as the principal premise and conclusion, inconveniences that made the old maid laugh with her mouth wide open and her tongue hanging out. She, celebratory. He, a blowhard of such extravagant lies that he himself began to give way to laughter. Then both succumbed to relentless guffaws: distressing rather than joyous, for Demetrio had only to utter two words and immediately there followed a burst of jocularity, and her response was equally alarming: an unstoppable attack of spluttering. Even when they drank they coughed, so: phew! they quieted down so that they could catch their breath. The amusing tale had sated them.

His account of killing goats and lambs, of milking cows and occasionally pasturing a mixture of livestock just before sunset, all described so piquantly that the truth seemed more like a tale of a grotesque paradox than the accretion of daily suffering. The same goes for the trips to Sabinas and Nueva Rosita, upon which Demetrio placed a ratifying emphasis: ergo: rattling along with dead meat bouncing about in the truck bed: just picture it and—ecchh! What a peculiar kind of elegance! and hahahah: so: a joint sigh underpinning the unspoken though perfunctory goal of gently returning to serious issues. Such as his plans. Back to Doña Zulema’s question, regarding the store.

“Well, as I said, I’m loaded with money and thinking about starting a business here in Sacramento.”

“What kind of business?”

“I don’t know, but that’s what I’m thinking about.”

“You could help me expand my shop.”

“Yes, I could.”

“Take your time to consider my proposal. All I can say is that if we work together we’ll have the number-one grocery store in town. But take your time, I mean: till tomorrow. What do you think?”

“Seems like a good idea, but first I have to discuss it with Renata. I want to know what she thinks.”

Wash again. Get decked out in clothes that fit well … then … Now we come to a domestic innovation: Doña Zulema had bought a huge cedar barrel that looked like a round bathtub, into which, butt first and by minimally contorting his folded body, the big guy fit like a charm. On his first try. Though before that came a disconcerting event: ambulatory adult nudity, only his—what’s the big deal? as he was the apocryphal son, he could do this and much more: and therefore: a moment of precarious delicacy: reflections paving the way toward the prospect of a local business that hopefully would … Water up to the chest. Overflowing, one could say, with warmth and many hours of sudsy sluggishness. Demetrio had never taken such a relaxing bath, and he felt—because he was enjoying the outdoor chill—like a rhizome, his thoughts vertical and all in a row, all the while observed, out of the corner of her eye, discreetly and despite comings and goings, by … Doña Zulema took advantage of her beloved guest’s stupor to tell him that they had come to her house selling these huge tubs; a couple of men from San Buenaventura (a town near Sacramento): modern traveling salesmen, drivers of a truck with a stake bed full of tubs. This wood artifact was the fruit of a fertile concept: the master bath. And—indeed! a person could remain submerged in the water for hours. Hence to bid farewell to the nuisance of buckets. Now bathing was, indeed, an unparalleled pleasure, as much as shitting or making love … the sensible pleasures of modernity: more and more inventions to come … And the aunt’s comments: Ever since they opened that road, many salesmen have been driving their trucks to Sacramento. On the one hand this is a good thing, but on the other … Well, what I mean is that my sales have gone down. His aunt had taken the correct tack for laying out her plans. Folded and soaped up as he was inside the barrel, Demetrio held forth about the benefits of expanding the grocery store: products, renovations, shams, changing people’s tastes in order to create new motivations for consumption. Their competitors would be those on the road, now in automotive vehicles, and after lavish commentary he managed to spit out a fundamental sentence: I urgently need to buy a truck. This established him firmly on her side, and she flung up her fists in a gesture of victory; verbal flingings followed, along with delectable wordplay, syntactic inversions, a few of which we will spell out: we will live together; we will grow together; jests and largesse, but so many threads must be tied up: which the naked man did when he said that this ambitious project depended (here he goes!) on Renata’s opinion, because knowing that she, as well as her mother, were standing on their last legs with their stationery store, still to determine what could be arranged: to help out there, for instance: that inflated circumstance we know about: ergo: anxiety here: Demetrio: fickle, unsure, frankly lacking clarity … And the elucidating meeting still to come. His sweetheart: a Solomonic judge?

Demetrio’s impeccable attire did not help one bit: snow-white long-sleeved shirt, gray cashmere pants, patent-leather shoes, and an arabesque-style hairdo with loads of pomade. He stood next to the usual bench: he never sat down! Three messenger boys walked by, one of whom he hired for the mission. Finally!: Renata, soldierlike, had to present herself; her commanding lover had summoned her. Beautiful afternoon, with a great deal of glancing at trees, as if to emphasize the surprise. Renata: the obedient automaton stood some seven steps away from her Prince Charming and said in a bittersweet voice:

“I’m very glad you have come, but I cannot visit with you. I am not presentable. Come tomorrow at the same time, if you can.”

“Yes, I can, my love … See you tomorrow.”

Scripted? Recycled? The same excuse as the other time he showed up like that; the exact words; a play or a movie: oh! from then on Demetrio had to dispel any hint of surprise. It was nonsense, unless he wanted to hear some pretentious prattle … Which wouldn’t be bad … But wouldn’t be good … To begin with: a warning, or, on the contrary, a beefing up of intransigence, though without ruling out that the third time would be different: the extraordinary beauty might not show up; she might tell him through the messenger boy that he should stop courting her … In that case! so as not to run an experiment using smoke and mirrors, plagued by conjectures and paradox, it behooves us to add here a second scene from a different angle, but with Demetrio in a similar position: left hand touching the back of the bench, standing—of course! without turning his head in either direction, he told a messenger boy that blahblahblah … Before Renata’s resplendent entrance (hopefully she won’t be long, thought her suitor), we can report that he now wore an olive-green lamé shirt and gray astrakhan pants; likewise we’ll add that he had taken a three-hour bath (one hour longer than the day before) in the comfort of that cedar tub, and he knew word for word what he would say to his beloved. Now with the spoken phrasing partially specified, we can fully recount one part of the conversation they held as they sat contentedly on the bench and sucked the words from each other’s lips. We will dispense with the explanation Demetrio gave (let’s imagine her interjections as chatty questions) as to why he’d quit his job: here goes: the limitations of ranch life; the unbelievable amount of work; the impossibility of writing letters; the blocks, yes, the lack of ideas, even though, in Sabinas and Nueva Rosita, there were post offices, but the “overwhelming obstacle”: the open and professed indolence—made obsolete by doubt? Anyway, we can deduce the plethora of questions: her gravitas, her turn now, how much she suffered because she’d heard nothing from him, and—herewith the essential!, because now we are at the most important part, maybe a bit before, but …

“Renata, my love, in addition to the pleasure seeing you gives me, because I truly love you, one of the reasons for this visit is to tell you that I have saved a large amount of money and I’m thinking of investing in a business here in Sacramento.”

“You want to come live here?”

“Yes, because I want to see you every day … That way it will be easier for me to lead you to the altar.”

For the first time Renata lifted her face and looked straight into her lover’s eyes: blessed splendor: and: a dubious pleasure that began to gain boldness and confidence. To look at each other, to know each other: enormous green eyes: feminine magnetism mingling with tiny brown eyes, very virile, and thereby the subtle amalgam of visual ecstasy and the fluttering of lids that accentuated the connection and the tightening of the sensual knot and all the time Demetrio, underhandedly, caressing (clawing) that divine hand: the steely left, for the pulsations were so strong they could be felt even in that hasty caress (bad, good; bad, good), which was soon joined to the verbal, when her jumbled words emerged:

“Demetrio, I don’t want you to live here.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get away from my mother, just like my sisters did when they got married.”

“What will your mother do on her own?”

“God only knows.”

“I’d venture to guess that she won’t let you marry me.”

“Here in town we have many relatives once or twice removed. There are others throughout the region … Somebody will look after her.”

“You think she’ll want to live with relatives?”

“We’ve already talked about it, but she still hasn’t agreed.”

“I guess she won’t let you get married as long as she’s alive.”

“So it seems. She doesn’t like you because she knows the day will come when you will ask me to marry you.”

“And what do you say?”

“I love her and I love you … To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to do.”

“I think it’s better to have a plan that would make her happy … You’ll see, we’ll find a perfect solution.”

“You think so?”

“You’ll see, I promise you … By tomorrow, when we meet, I will have thought of two or three options.”

“I hope none of them means you want my mother to live with us.”

“No … Not that.”

Cut!: the impertinent messenger boy. Interruption at the acme, just when they were getting to the really good part: and: Your mother says … et cetera. The celebratory moment would come in twenty-four hours: condense all the proposals and the finding of a solution into the space of an hour: worthwhile moments weighted down so they can then be lightened: it wouldn’t be easy, but … You can already imagine Renata’s parting shot: Let’s meet here tomorrow at the same time. And a sharp edge appeared, one that prodded Demetrio and pushed him, one (rather blunt one) that from that moment on would lead him to the sublime muddle of matrimony toward which, as if accidentally on purpose, he was slipping, slipping as he sank, but which made him feel neither hot nor cold. He struggled with handicaps; initial stupor because as the gallant and Don Juan he knew himself to be, he had always assumed it was his duty to take the initiative, as in: Do you want to be my sweetheart, and then the magnificent one: Do you want to marry me. But Renata’s indirect step forward: what role did that leave for him? considering that not even a tentative “yes” had been forthcoming from either, nor a date for the wedding, nor, well, only the nebulous—vaguely strategic?—groping. Perhaps Renata stepped into that amorous purview because of her sweetheart’s long absence after that other absence: not even one letter, however brief, and now some assurance: obliquely … Or it was her subconscious on every level … Or it was an accidental detour … Demetrio, in any case, had to confide in his second mother; the opinion of a veteran would reestablish the guidelines of that surprise; love was rising from a depth that, because transparent, was partially contaminated.

Problems, itsy-bitsy problems, great big problems: substance that arises and clarifies little.

Now let’s see: his aunt was already scheming—ultraobvious in her wowed face—when she saw Demetrio enter her house; he was scratching his head (odd): an unusual beginning. They spoke, he unloaded, as if he’d been carrying three sacks of beans on his back: reality with detours and provisions, the “pros”, let’s say, of endlessly serpentine love, and the “cons”, let’s say, snipped to bits. This time there wasn’t any café con leche or bread. Only cold water, soothing at least, because Demetrio was determined to be as sincere as possible, a confession without prevarications was painful, like exposing one’s guts, all red and inflamed. On the one hand, the antecedents to marriage: on track, whiteness, sentimental bluntness; on the other, the impossibility of living in Sacramento (bye-bye to the buoyant investment: the one he suggested from the tub), Renata’s reasons for which, put forth as obstacles, had to be pecked at, a large spread-out shroud whose edges extended (not far off) to her mother; both their aspirations ended (or should have ended) in her: such expansiveness was definitively circumscribed by her refusal to remain alone; maybe her relatives could take care of her: bugger!; the worst getting worse, and in the meantime the bewildered beau presented one gigantic serious circumstance after another—all his own speculations—thus prolonging what should be a happy conclusion of everything under consideration, while Doña Zulema began to cleverly shape a somewhat objective solution, not a solution of every problem from a to z; should she say it, interrupt, let tedium overwhelm her apocryphal son, one minute, three, four, and at an opportune moment, she burst out with it:

“Look, son, if you end up marrying Renata and you decide to live elsewhere, I’m willing to speak with Doña Luisa. I can propose that we live together, either she can come live in my house or I can go live in hers; and instead of having two stores we’ll make one: school supplies and groceries—what do you think? both of them would grow.”

Spectacular idea, even more so because his aunt kept adding details, or plasters, if you wish, so that good fortune would stop and shine down upon their union, ah. Finally something solid—appealing?!, instead of a solution that—would it still take long to come? Let’s see, the mere fact that she suggested something that sounded practical meant that decisive explanations would be forthcoming. That’s when Demetrio, in a semijocular tone, said:

“It wouldn’t be such a bad idea for me to go to Parras and try to persuade my mother to come live in Sacramento …”

Let’s examine this idea so we can elucidate with fair or foul efficiency what the betrothed was betting on, which he didn’t state at that moment but would if the conversation continued the following day, in the store—right? anyway … The sale of the house in Parras: a fortune—yes siree! Then the three ladies living here together: blessed progress: a whole network of aspirations that helped him espy an always straight path. Doña Luisa’s house was the largest, so the noble triad could be there: a convenient packing in—though for how many years? The last to die would be the winner: aha! All of this laid out with great tact. The store resounded with all that novelty. Further enhanced with elaborate decor (the three old ladies encouraging each other, day after day, and all the other fortuitous adventures): one sensible idea after another: either from the second mother or the apocryphal son: and: the real premise: the three old women strengthening their (gooey) family bonds, to allow for the other: love, no longer a battlefield! … by remote control! yes, yes! yeeeesss! of course! the only thing left was Renata’s opinion and then immediately to carry the idea to the next stage: the mother, that one, that Doña Luisa … with her whims and her wonts …

Let’s go without further delay to the bench, where, after having bathed like never before in the cedar tub, Demetrio now flaunted a satin shirt with tiny polka dots and brown canvas pants. Renata appeared in a diaphanous dress, orange to a fault and with yellowish-gray edges, the fabric—serge or silk?, the thing was she looked so hot she seemed to be on fire. In a trice the handhold, decent as ever; and Demetrio and his full disclosure: his extraordinary proposition, elaborated; then the climax: that Doña Luisa and Doña Zulema would live together, Doña Telma as well, she in Parras—what do you think? because with the assets of all three … It was even possible that none of them would have to work: such lavish wealth—don’t you think? and forward-looking twists and turns, laborious and, of course, quite favorable for a fanciful and always reassuring (triple) flight, as he constantly added elements, until Renata, with a gasp, proclaimed:

“It’s not a bad idea, but it all depends on what my mother decides.”

“If she makes the right decision, we’ll be able to get married soon, I know.”

“I hope so.”

Upon hearing this last sentence, the suitor, already feeling like a husband-to-be, fell into a rapturous state: he lowered his head with sublime ecstasy, and, true to his nature as a bold transgressor, he also—just because—pressed his lips together to form a kissing horn, a bit like a mushroom in full bloom, and—bam! smack onto the back of Renata’s right hand: that most supreme kiss: supermeaty—wow! but in the absence of any saliva to seal the deal he stuck out the tip of his tongue and began to lick with supreme tenderness: the exploit of a pro who was putting his all on the line with this tenacious salivation. Renata watched this enraptured act in shock; she allowed it to continue, hoping that the caracoling tongue action would eventually peter out as it wound round and round; until she yanked her hand away and cried out in horror:

“I thought you were a gentleman … I never want to see you again.”

And off she ran to the stationery store. She was indignant, copiously tearful, like a little girl who’d seen a bogeyman, or somebody even worse. Fear: shooting rays, and her refuge: the arms of her angry and quaking mother. She had come out to meet her daughter as soon as she’d heard the piercing shriek. A sidewalk embrace. Many witnesses: all children. Now we turn to Demetrio, who was still sitting on the (trysting) bench, not understanding a darn thing, as he watched right in front of his eyes, almost like a thawing, the tawny embrace—for it was evening—of mother and daughter: indeed: a minute-long cry in arms; the orange-wrapped sobbing beauty, and then Doña Luisa, turning around, gave the big guy a furious look and spit this out:

“Go away, you scoundrel! You disrespected my daughter! Go away and never come back!”

But of course! and without understanding the extent of the damage done, Demetrio, with dignity, changed his physical position and walked out of the plaza. He was watched critically, as well as with alarm: many saw; many whispered: now children and adults: more and more, while in the stationery store:

“Calm down, dear, calm yourself.”

“Yes, Mama, I will.”

“Now, please, tell me what he did to you.”

“He kissed me and then he licked the back of my right hand.”

“Scoouundrellll!”

Demetrio was able to walk with excessive slowness: his head down—darn right! repentant—no way! But it didn’t even occur to him for—what had he done wrong? Though through his confusion he had to admit: increasing black bile. And: What if I’d stolen a kiss from her lips? he thought. A naked kiss, a quickie …

The ignominious slap …

Spit?

What else?

No, don’t look back, just define it … An impassioned summation … A magicked end … A searing sentence, against him, to bury the death of love …

He came late. First off to rake over his complaints with his aunt, who, upon seeing him arrive such a wreck, offered him water, a jug; water she’d taken out of the well just a half hour before. She had no rolls, neither conchas nor plomos nor pelonas, just sliced bread: she took a loaf from her grocery store and—would you like a slice with some butter and jam? Such imprudence … No! No! Only water: ergo: Doña Zulema was all ears, though: you can well imagine the big guy’s verbal stammers … It was impossible for him to articulate anything coherent. Moreover: maybe she should have reduced him to tears, it would be good for him, but he was so macho … He preferred to keep stuttering as his red face got splotchy and his shaking continued unabated … Under the circumstances Doña Zulema waited for him to settle into the calm, but that: uh-oh …

Is it over? What did you do to her? What did she tell you? Were you disrespectful? Such likely questions would be the immobilized aunt’s foremost observations. Perhaps he was crying inside, for he silently shook his head and at one point brought his fist down upon the counter. Later, he uttered an explanatory sentence, as if with supreme effort: Renata got angry because I kissed the back of her hand! A moment later he added: She said she never wanted to see me again. Most dramatic of all was that Demetrio didn’t wait for Doña Zulema’s reproach but rather, feeling already very much like a scolded child, chose to shut himself into his room and lock the door, and there he remained until the following day. Based on what she could hear, he indulged in mad mutterings: perhaps a corrective soliloquy, incomprehensible to his aunt, who pressed her ear against the door more or less every half hour, and even then. Nor did she dare suggest he come eat supper. Respect overrode fear and, above all, ostentatious suffering. His aunt went to sleep perplexed because she’d heard only the bare bones. In fact, she would have liked to hear the unhappy conclusion: if there’d been a slap or whatnot … No spitting, because Renata was decent … Or—was there only verbal aggression? Venial, though categorical, words … Let’s proceed, then, to the following day: Demetrio left his room in a swoon—was he hungry? A guessing game: silence accompanying his aunt’s robotlike preparation of coffee and the frying of a couple of eggs. A depressing effort: he nibbled slowly. His head forcefully bowed, hence we can presume no glances passed between them, it would be futile to look at each other, better just to say, for example: May I have more café con leche, or to straightaway refer on the spot to … Not a word—understood?—: and after wiping his damned smooching mouth with the napkin, he rushed back to his room. Seclusion. Mumblings. Ideas that didn’t set things straight, though they did take root.

In the afternoon, after bathing neither in the cedar tub nor by the bucketful, though impeccably dressed, he gracefully betook himself to the trysting bench. He wanted to ask Renata for forgiveness, see if maybe. Doña Zulema, immediately and with investigative élan, followed him, closing the store behind her. She maintained a constant distance from each of the big guy’s quick steps: praying to God, all the time, that he wouldn’t turn around, wishing perhaps to gain clarity from the prayers she was sending up, not yet. And now the scene itself. Demetrio asked a child who was playing in the plaza to go tell Renata what you, Doña Zulema, and I can already guess. The child went and returned quickly and:

“Renata says she can’t come out and to please not come again.”

The ultimate definition. As Demetrio carried out his contrite retreat his aunt hid behind a tree and from there saw her nephew returning with his head hung low and his fists clenched. She, prodded on, hastened her step so she could open her shop as quickly as possible: of course!: she would stand behind the counter knowing herself to be, let us call it, an actress: her chin leaning crassly on her theatrical hand and her bare elbow resting upon the aforementioned surface: distinguished stillness in waiting: a wait that didn’t last long, given that soon Demetrio’s figure formed a faded outline: at the door: sadness and rage. Now he really did want to spill his guts:

“It makes no sense for Renata to tell me to go to hell only because I kissed her hand … I don’t think I disrespected her. I don’t feel guilty in the least, my kiss was affectionate, completely affectionate! I could never behave in bad faith with a woman I want to marry. And you know, Auntie, as I told you two days ago, we’ve already spoken about getting married, you were even willing to live with her mother … Anyway! Now everything’s ruined. Now Renata doesn’t want to see me—and why?! why?! I don’t understand … Anyway, she was the first one to bring up getting married, I planned to propose to her much later …”

The big guy’s enraged huffing and puffing put an end to his harangue, and from one of his eyes there sprang an unborn tear, which he didn’t wipe away, despite how macho he was, but his bitter feelings finally betrayed him, the tear rolled, trembling, down his left cheek: no way!, because—really—how shameful! Then Doña Zulema spoke:

“Demetrio, I think you made a mistake …”

“A mistake?! What mistake?! I treated Renata just fine and that’s why I don’t want to stay here one minute longer. This puritanical town horrifies me. I’m leaving!”

Or rather, as it was late evening the aggrieved man would go sleep on the top of the hill. His aunt was unable to stop him. Instead she watched, moments later, as he stuffed his dirty clothes into his suitcase, and after a spirited shutting he grabbed the handle and took off down the street. Why watch as he walked away?