Almost Never A Novel

31


Let’s pause for a moment. We have reached a point we deem fitting for the elucidation of an assortment of worn-out ideas, to wit: the five basic allocutions Doña Luisa imposed on her daughters to ensure they’d behave properly with their suitors. The first had to do with not looking their beaus directly in the eyes, for that would be a sign of flirtatious impertinence. The second concerned the filthy nature of all things carnal, meaning that the beau should never dare kiss any part of the beloved’s body, for kisses in general led to the worst of perversities. The third was more radical: it involved failing every once in a while to keep a promise: if, say, they agreed to meet on a certain day at a certain time, the girl should not show up. The beau’s misgivings would establish a pattern for judging just how interested he was. Any forthcoming reproaches, especially angry ones, would prove the aforementioned’s lack of self-control and mean that a breakup was advisable. The fourth regarded the timing of trysts, which should be strictly limited and held within sight of the mother. Like, for example, on a bench in the main plaza, directly in front of the house. To run off elsewhere, to hide, well, that would be a dangerous decision and, needless to say, injurious. The fifth, and final, and most thoroughly outlandish one was the most difficult to follow, because, in order to prove the extent of the subject’s love, it would help at one point or other, to say, for example: “What you did is not okay, so I don’t want to see you again,” or even: “You are a scoundrel,” or “You are a pervert,” or “I thought you were a gentleman,” or something similar that would be insulting and, as a result, bring about a definitive break. Nor should the beau’s immediate apology suffice. He must be required to apologize over and over again (first and foremost, over an extended period of time); his failure to do so showing clearly that his love was in no wise true. There were other maternal pronouncements but the essence of the advice was constant, so any different interpretation … No other! … That is, about fifteen years before Doña Luisa had written this short but substantial list on a piece of sky-blue cardboard. The handwriting was, let us say, quasiperfect, in part because she used an indelible India ink, a special one that in spite of the passage of time continued to shine … who knows if the daughters, having memorized this advice, became faithful adherents. The mother informed each one in turn that this was how she had conducted herself with their father before she had gotten married. Courtship with a host of restrictions, but a happy and joyous marriage, where never—and she crossed her fingers to swear to it—did anyone shout, much less show any sign of disrespect: naturally, she never tired of repeating this refrain: You have witnessed our union for many years. I want something similar for you, because if marriage is suffering, it’s not worth getting married. Then she would assert that the bond between her parents had been similarly wonderful, without any signs of emotional to-dos, adding moreover that her mother had given her similar advice when she had reached a marriageable age: she had not drawn up a list, but she did abound in similar verbal inculcations, because likewise she had an exemplary relationship and because, turning to the grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, and beyond, she knew they had all been entirely happy: this her duty, to be thus perennially, or even better, emotional security without any ups and downs. All of Sacramento was like that—unscathed?: almost-almost: unique customs, as discreet as they were grandiose. And now to the particulars: the first daughter, Mercedes, followed the script to the letter and triumphed, though—was she still triumphant out there in La Terquedad, that hamlet in Coahuila where she lived?; the second daughter, Ernestina, the same; the third daughter, Glendelia, the same; but the fourth, Torcuata, well, she had been a bit of a rebel: once she went with her sweetheart to the hills; some children, accompanied by an adult, saw her kissing her mustachioed beau on the edge of a cornfield: they exchanged incredibly tongue-y kisses and some quite passionate fondling in diverse places, though never beneath their clothing. In any case the witnesses spread the word, and it was the father who decided that Torcuata would not marry that mustachioed man, but he, who really did love her, persisted for almost four years until he managed to lead her to the altar. What we’re getting at here is that ever since, they’d lived in Morelia and were very happy, though, looking at it with a more dispassionate eye—how certain can we be?, and moreover—how certain can one be of the everlasting good fortune of all four? The fact was that the four sisters didn’t come to Sacramento on a yearly basis, nor did they write their mother a continuous stream of letters, or rather—what about it? invisible happinesses; scant information; no complaints but to tell the honest truth—where? in what intimate terrain? Perhaps they’d rather take pleasure in or suffer their relationships than remain near the harsh nucleus here: right in the marrow of such corrosive decency: ergo: where the fifth daughter, Renata, was stuck, confused, crying her eyes out every night: how much? just a little or how much, really: with her guilt in gradations of regret that by now, the what if, the what if instead, the what if she had strayed from the script … let’s see … and instead of saying to Demetrio what she had said, she had thanked him for the kiss on the back of her hand and his salacious licking, but—honest?! affectionate?! No limits, no disengagement. Until she herself came to the conclusion: the kiss yes, the lick no. A painful assessment, going against the grain, though … The lick, no … Disgusting. Aggressive … In the past few months Doña Luisa and Renata had been harmoniously in contact with their local kin. As word of the amorous split spread like wildfire, there were various conjectures and fabrications, some quite alarming, others inoffensive enough, though most implicated the mother’s unfortunate intervention when with her verbal theatricality she had insulted the outlander, who had done nothing inappropriate: a kiss on the hand, admittedly extended, but to make such a scandal, such an unexpected commotion. Renata, to begin with, was guilty—for making such a nuance manifest? turning it into a capital offense with her violent disengagement and her tears and her flight and the wrath of her mother, who had not had the prudence to manage a situation that in others’ views and judgment meant nothing and, well—why had such an insult risen to her lips? After digging deeply into the matter during those afternoon teas, the arguments always crumbled to the rhythm of the sipping of café con leche and the dunking of sweet rolls, and the conclusion finally had to come: she saddled her mother with the blame, at least for her sudden irrational outburst: her response lacking proportion and instead … It is known that the actions of third parties in a conflict are always valuable to the degree that they exercise a calming influence, but … let’s see … Doña Luisa did not acknowledge the accusation: no! what for?! never!; hence the coarse words an uncle spoke, words that came nowise as a surprise: The problem is that you don’t want Renata to get married. You are afraid of being alone, isn’t that so? Her mother had to admit that said uncle was correct. He had so much harm stored inside him that were we to follow him we would easily predict him saying something like this: that old age is a symptom of inevitable frustration, however it comes about, and from there even more malice so why even mention it … Solutions, therefore—conscientious ones?: which ones?: one, at least, that would seep in deep. It was a supreme comfort for Doña Luisa to hear that her relatives would not leave her alone. Several of them offered her their homes and a few swore they’d be willing to live with her in her house. Hence her freedom of choice should Renata get married continued to be reaffirmed and spelled out—though would she get married? Let it be known that she remained silent throughout these emotionally strained meetings. If someone inquired about the kiss on her hand (for this was the core of the commotion and the crux of the gossip), she had recourse to her viral reasoning: the kiss yes, but the lick no. Upon hearing for the first time that nasty conclusion, the mother exploded: He licked your hand, didn’t he? He’s a scoundrel! Then: a further increase of indignation: from her alone. Inductive tyranny, emanating from disgust, nothing more, as far as Renata was concerned, who, in this particular case, had ceased to let herself be influenced by those maternal allocutions. The tyranny of her rigorous decorum, which, after being made public, became doubly painful. The tyranny of the rupture. The tyranny of disrepute, even though her mother’s insult still hovered, heard by—whom? That “Get out of here, you scoundrel!” sensed in the bewilderment that still echoed throughout the plaza. So, their discussions included the issue of who was more guilty: 40 percent to the daughter and 60 percent to the mother … the arithmetic wasn’t precise, but it didn’t matter, after all … Now, as far as regrets were concerned—who had more? Renata began to consider writing Demetrio a letter: five pages of—fastidious?—exonerations, but her mother stayed her: Wait, dear, it’s not for you to ask for forgiveness … You can be absolutely certain of that. It was that salacious smacker who should be struggling. For if not, what was the point of trying to change the course of an affection. Be that as it may, Renata began to write in secret. Her theme: her helplessness, in the wake of that stupid interpretation of a kiss that was perhaps legitimate, but—why the lick? What was the goal? Oppressive slowness, so slow due to the lack of even one convincing, or at least persuasive, notion. In fact, all words seemed hostile: and: the writing was awful because she didn’t know what was underneath, how deep it went, how, that’s it: how to justify such a violent rejection, which her mother, in turn, had amplified. The amorous collapse was insurmountable—or was it? and how to help it arise from … Hence her attempts to write, and the immediate and complete erasures. Days and nights of darkness and again playing with words and again nothing, only disconnecting and coarse calamities continuing to accumulate, whereby one wrong word distorted all the others, whereby: better wait for later: when feelings and intuitions grew clearer: Renata, the more she faced this ambiguity, the more paralyzed she became. Patience, therefore, and natural vision and yearning: hopefully soon!

Many of her relatives told her that her duty was to get her sweetheart back; the question was how. Others, much like her mother, recommended waiting, caution, in order to establish an effectual new arrangement, in the sense of her acknowledging how much she was willing to compromise. Others, fewer in number, suggested she forget the whole thing; at which point Renata would express herself in stentorian fashion: It’s not so easy to destroy what I have built. Ah. Fortunately chance provided a counterpoint, just when it was most essential: the incentive to make a hefty profit out of the stationery store. With the beginning of the academic year upon them, the sales of school supplies skyrocketed. The palliative consequences of this circumstance. An exorbitant amount of work. The trips to Monclova (now by bus, which meant the trip was quick) for enormous amounts of merchandise to stock up on here, where people were waiting in line: morning, afternoon, and even some at night! Work piled on top of work, even on weekends. Satisfaction, midst the rough wear and tear, surely enhanced by the boundless bustle. The avalanche of sales continued into the middle of October—of course!, then a gradual easing, but still … The evidence was that the beau gave no sign throughout that entire period of celerity: not even one miserable (tantalizing) letter nor a fleeting appearance on the aforementioned bench. Nor did it occur to Renata to go visit Doña Zulema, only to be distressed by some bit of news: that Demetrio was engaged to another (where?) or had taken to drink due to his sorrows; but the letter still to write … When Renata finally did pay a visit to Doña Zulema, the latter confessed that Demetrio had cursed Sacramento as he left. The unforgettable final sentence was: This puritanical town horrifies me! He didn’t say where he was going. Nevertheless, his aunt did drop a hint: If you want to write him, send the letter to Parras. At least you can be sure his mother will get it and keep it. Renata wasted no time before responding with: And what if she opens the letter and reads it and then hides it? The aunt smiled as if a ghost were tickling her arid armpit: How many dirty things are you going to write? If you speak to him of love and even indirectly bring up the idea of getting married, he just might change his tune … In a somewhat insulting, though gentle and even syllabicated voice, his aunt said she was willing to intervene on their behalf, as she needed to talk to Doña Luisa anyway: I would be very diplomatic or, how can I put it?, quite tolerant, or, well, not at all argumentative … The one thing I do know is that this relationship can still be saved. Salvation from the bottom up, tread by tread, about three hundred in all, like climbing to the top of a pyramid. Renata squeezed the waistband of her skirt and asked Doña Zulema to give her the address in Parras—wow! she knew it by heart, so: the process of writing it down on a slip of paper; then she left: grinning at first then subsequently sort of sad: her cheeks sagged: her fine-lipped mouth almost like the tip of an arrow: the slight elevation against the double descent (lovesick): blackness below and above a vitreous brilliance (a flourish?). Smoldering ember: of sorts, enough to notice that she still didn’t know what to write. Never grant a full pardon, because … the premise … The kiss yes, the lick no … That sentence could come at the beginning … Let it serve as a refrain throughout the rather twisted discourse. Leave the writing for later, right? because writing was like laying down a foundation in a straight line, avoid having to hang a strong roof—solid? how? The only solidity would consist of a blunt proposition of marriage, then children: many: a baseball team (ha) with a few on the bench (ha), but … the foundation and the urgency, a combination that would strengthen the undertow of a, perhaps foolish, desire: the pleading sweetheart: Oh, on her knees … hypothetically?!, and thus a lifetime of disadvantage; though the other path would be, perhaps, the mistaken one of pride … if only there were others … Better the ruse of patience, until it became an enormous (though not daunting) question, something that would collapse on its own, and then …

To prefigure the letter’s voyage: a fantasy: that in transit the ideas would shift, sweeten. That day Renata was ready to write only the opening salvo, but what could she say that wouldn’t sound pleading or pardoning. Maybe even ask her still-sweetheart why the lick or what was behind that surprising smut. Start off by telling him that it had been a mistake … Anyway, that he should come back: right now! hurry! you’ve been forgiven. Virtual rearranging reflections: everyone: her mother, she herself, nearby relatives, all would overlook that stupid misstep, which in the end wasn’t that serious and maybe merely the result of an affectionate and inconsequential overflow.

On the way home Renata kept recalling Doña Zulema’s words: thorns, splinters, twists, and with dismay and displeasure she kept returning to the first: This puritanical town horrifies me! The town is to blame and not—so there!—only Renata and her mother. Therefore, a misunderstanding, which to be understood as it should required a ton of conjectures and explanations in the minutest of detail to be poured into that letter, the only way to avoid defeat by an unfortunate trifle … Explanations, and more explanations: to sum things up, and … Renata did not know how to face the enigmatic blank page. In fact, she let a long time pass, because she also found it unbearable to hold a fountain pen: weeks: three, four, five: November: torturous cold: beginning of December: almost there: almost Christmas Eve; that year of misfortunes was coming to an end and the letter: the beginning: oh, to wish Demetrio all the best for the New Year: that’s it! already written in the green-eyed gal’s head were the message’s opening sentences, but first she wished to inform Doña Luisa of her decision:

“I want to write to Demetrio.”

“What are you going to say?”

“I just want to wish him a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.”

“Don’t even think of making the dumb mistake of asking him for forgiveness; he’s the one who disrespected you.”

“It will be a very short letter.”

“Are you really still interested in that good-for-nothing? Remember, he licked your hand. That’s really disgusting.”

“I don’t think he’s a good-for-nothing. Remember, he returned the next day and said he was sorry and I didn’t come out, I didn’t forgive him … Now I do want to forgive him in writing.”

“I don’t think it’s right … Maybe if he came here, or wrote you, but he hasn’t.”

“So, I’ll only wish him a merry Christmas and …”

“My advice is not to write him, better to wait until he makes a move … If he really loves you he will.”

“How long do I have to wait? A year? Five years? How many?”

“One year, maybe a bit more.”

“That’s too long for me.”

“A lot can happen in a year, both good and bad.”

“Well, I want to write him and, as I said, I’m just going to say hello. I’ll remain cool, I promise … It will be my last attempt at a reconciliation.”

“You are stubborn, Renata. You’d be much better off if you had more dignity. You should follow your sisters’ example.”

“This will be my last attempt …”

“Okay, I’ll try to understand how you feel … I only ask you to show me the letter before you send it. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Hurrah! All Doña Luisa had to do was show a tad of flexibility for Renata to flesh out her scheme. Her idea at first was to fashion a benign narrative of their relationship up till then, the romantic policies, prudently expressed, or with a slow dotting of all the i’s and a crossing of all the t’s, in the guise of outlining a feeling she would then have to describe in detail (so much explaining, how would she ever), but—careful!—, in the meantime such a fastidiously elaborated rational discourse, how many ideas would be worthwhile and how many futile: would they be compressed or expanded, or how to remove fibs but retain feelings … Anyway, now Renata had two tasks: to write the laconic letter with good wishes that—bad news—her mother would read with loads of prejudice: we can take for granted the scruples that would arise during revision—an ungrateful task, the whole thing to be shredded after the maternal review, indeed, let’s admit it once and for all; whereas the other composition: profuse and secretive: a long (the original) letter that Renata would stash in her panties on her way to the post office, which had to be the good one, the only one, the one with stamps and seals, the one she would have to write with lyricism, even if without great calligraphic care or adequate segues between the ideas. It’s just that if she took too much time (prolix verbiage covering the length of both sides of five or six sheets) she would awaken her mother’s suspicions, too long this undue delay; hence one afternoon’s work, full steam ahead, for two hours, or less, a letter that she would hide under the mattress: there to be (indirectly) stashed … Ugh! and, that said, let us now turn to the phony letter, which had to be exemplary: three or four sentences, five at the most, and as a final flourish she would close with an “I miss you, Demetrio,” as well as her name at the very bottom (in stylized script), “Renata Melgarejo” … somewhat pretentious scribbles from start to finish … Anyway, once she had completed that quite prodigious product, the green-eyed gal took it eagerly to Doña Luisa, who made only one cautious correction: instead of “I miss you, Demetrio” she should put the more blatantly brusque “Cordially yours,” nothing more!, hence the (nauseating) nuisance of copying it over and … Let’s now return to: the real composition!: the straightforward outpouring of emotions: waves crashing against each other, so to speak, or fortuitous stumbles and stammers, meaning the fearless expression of variations on “Yes, I love you, but …”: pure momentum—of course! and as quick as a whip, but when she finished, it was as if she’d run a marathon, she was gasping for breath and on the verge of an infarction. Then she filched two envelopes from the shop and ran (a bit awkwardly) to her destination, with Doña Luisa’s permission. First she had to hide in the bushes in an empty lot in order to … It’s enough to assume the concise letter was rapidly rent: shreds like confetti and the even quicker removal of the real letter from her panties: the fat and bold and slightly damp one—ooh! which would surely dry out completely before it reached Parras.

After dropping the letter in the mailbox, she was left with her resulting pangs of conscience, her wish for the letter to arrive directly into Demetrio’s hands … Hmm, Renata was certain he wouldn’t be able to make out her handwriting, but it would be enough for him to read her name, writ large at the end, as well as the “I still love you, my love,” another flourish, and that was that.