Almost Never A Novel

30


More and more cars and trucks. A teeming trough. A miracle of motorized and motile phantoms. To tell the truth, and looking at the phenomenon from a different angle, the production of intractable tractors grew in dribs and drabs; whereas bicycle production—a minor news item—appeared to be, by all accounts, incalculable, even though burros were still exceedingly useful. Just think of carrying cargo, which bicycles obviously couldn’t do. Given the foregoing, we really must assert that in 1947 the Mexican automotive industry was at its apogee. Cars, trucks, and tractors were being assembled as quickly as toys, and the demand was growing constantly, in no small part due to the excellent conditions the automotive companies were offering for the purchase of said conveyances.

Not counting the use of tractors (not yet), let’s take Sacramento as an example (and place ourselves smack in the middle of 1947): one could count six cars and eight pickups, whereas at the end of 1946 there had been only two pickups. Let’s also take Parras (much more populous than all the other towns in Coahuila), where there were twenty vehicles at the beginning of the year in question and thirty by the middle of the same year; a tripling, then, because in December 1946 there had been only twelve. We needn’t do a breakdown of cars versus trucks, for all we have to know is that there were three tractors. All this said, let us betake ourselves to Parras, that universal cultural center superior to, let us say, Tegucigalpa, or—what was the previous comparison? anyway, that’s where we are in virtue of the fact that Demetrio was living at his mother’s house; he, whom ill fortune had dogged throughout the central region of Coahuila, arrived and told Doña Telma that life had dealt him a few bad hands, though as yet no blows that had felled him fully … That ranch job had turned out to be a fiasco … He didn’t tell his mother anything, at first, about what had happened with Renata, he simply said that in order for him to live for any length of time in Parras he would need to buy a pickup truck. The mother was happy to help in any way she could, though her son’s savings sufficed (ha!): he bought one in a jiffy (a bit used and without a stake bed) in Torreón, he wouldn’t go to Saltillo even if his life depended on it, and now, indeed: Demetrio’s truck could be counted among the vehicles in Parras. He still had enough money for some boring investment or other. In the meantime let’s imagine him as unemployed by choice. Indecisive and smug or, if you prefer, a perpetual seeker in pursuit of not employment but rather new horizons; the search for plots in outlying areas where he might plant an orchard, that is, when the blessed new beginning … Months passed and there came no decisive move toward either investment or employment.

Be that as it may, Demetrio was up late every night, for a very ad hoc club had opened in that huge town, a place for diversion—a miniature hell whose name lent itself to a thousand interpretations: Centro Social Parrense—but that in essence served as a cantina and a place to play dominoes and billiards into the early hours of the morn. Above all else, decency, for neither women nor children were allowed in, soldiers likewise, though anyway there never were any in the vicinity. Playing relieved tension. The joint, very roomy though quite dark, opened at five in the afternoon and closed at one in the morning; and—careful now!—only four alcoholic drinks per person were allowed. Whether a defense of decency or merely a sham, you still couldn’t get drunk: hence the club’s success, for it had public, as well as municipal, approval, such as it was. In this respect it must be said that the mayor of Parras occasionally went there to spend a few congenial hours shooting pool and dealing dominoes. Also, by the way, it is fitting here to add that the Centro Social Parrense was for members only. That is, one had to pay a rather hefty fee to join, as well as modest monthly dues. By the middle of 1947 it had forty members. Although the monthly dues drove some away, others were always on hand to replace them. Hence a steady number: a few more, a few less: ergo: may more players come, and we’ll see if they last … We mention endurance because soon the under-the-table bets began. Demetrio fell headlong into this so-called trap and began to realize fabulous winnings. He rarely lost. Once, he won two thousand pesos in a week: that was a huge sum in 1947, and with minimal effort. We emphasize the obvious: gaming, especially playing dominoes, was turning into an insurmountable source of income and he, therefore, into a fearsome player, who, undefeated, challenged many: which many took him up on—good thing! let’s play!—whether as trembling contenders or devoted clientele, they never came out ahead. The result: a rather sordid fortune. And now, returning to the quotidian, let’s take a look at his cohabitation with his mother, who never tired of asking him about Renata, to which he responded: My love life is fine. Or: We’re taking a break to think things over. Her mother doesn’t want us to get married. She’s afraid of being left alone. Or: The mother is the obstacle. Or: I promised to go see her in September. By then I’ll know what she’s decided. Or: I’ve written her three letters and she hasn’t answered any of them. Or: It will all be resolved by September, but I think our love is on the right path. Or: Believe me, please. I never give up. Credible pretexts piling up or applied like a poultice that would soon become excessively soggy, for Demetrio showed neither signs of affliction nor the least urgency to travel thither, despite his pickup truck. The truth, awkward because so inexplicable, or rather the mistake of that accursed kiss on the back of her hand, would not be recounted until his mother, with her dose of adult and feminine intuition, would apply sweetly insistent pressure, which she was on the verge of doing, but …

His mother was endeavoring to not upset him. She dared not tell him that it was about time he invested his money if he had no intention of getting a job. Nor did she suggest even subtly that he was depleting his savings. Instead, she indulged his every whim, her only goal to make his stay in Parras pleasant and thereby obviate any absurd notion of him abandoning her anytime soon. A mother’s love—with a dose of humility? Let us admire her fortitude in the face of his lassitude, for once he told her: You know? I am making a lot of money at the club. In just a short while I’ve become the best dominoes player in Parras … To which she only penciled in: Do as you wish, but be careful. And, in fact, he did exactly as he wished. Every week he went to Torreón, to the cathouses: there were four classy ones, the place was teeming with beautiful whores. So, go for more than one!, though—he knew all too well—he wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall in love with any of them. Moreover, the distance, understood as infinitely reckless, even though by 1947 there was an excellent dirt road from Parras to the junction of Paila and from there a flourishing highway to Torreón, but no; there and back week after week … with nauseating faith, certainly derived from confusion … Hmm, may the past rot: a thick stew whose defiled dregs will molder: a lingering scruple with an unbearable stench … Nonetheless, Renata: that breath of a future life … Sure, it was on the verge of collapse, but …

Traces of regret …

At one point his mother told him that if he did decide to invest in something, she would like to participate, for she still had a lot of money … You still have a lot? I can’t believe it … In response came a spontaneous and affectionate, because snug, hug, and that was all.