Almost Never A Novel

32


He seemed like a god, it was unbelievable, by the middle of October, Demetrio had lost only ten rounds of dominoes out of the three hundred—odd games he had played at the Centro Social Parrense. At first it was the sly, perhaps sinful passivity of the game, but soon he derived frolicking fun from betting small sums, then defiantly raising the stakes to liven up the entertainment, viewing it almost as a way of life, as legitimate as going to work every day, a life Demetrio was adapting to better than most: becoming ever more skillful as night after night he employed new winning strategies, in addition to his absolute trust in his own lucky star, which meant he always drew good tiles no matter how gently or roughly his rivals shuffled them; hence every player wanted to be his partner to guarantee x amount of winnings and, to sum things up, the big guy won tons of money and daily deposits ensued … In 1947 in Parras there was an establishment that offered the services of a savings-and-loan; two years later it had become more sophisticated after moving and hiring more employees; it still wasn’t a proper bank, but people called it a bank, for none dared call it a savings-and-loan … Anyway, back to Demetrio, who we said was making hefty deposits, a total of fifteen thousand pesos in thirty weeks: just right for a more or less grandiose investment. The brakes were put on, however, in two ways: the most important being an agreement among the most frequently defeated players: a group of twenty confronted him and told him that nobody was willing to play against him anymore, especially when a juicy bet was on the table: We’re tired of losing, said the brawniest one. To Demetrio’s great disappointment he could no longer strut his stuff and had no choice but to do something productive. The second time the brakes were put on was more crushing: Píndaro Macías, the mayor, outlawed gambling, not only at that club but also throughout the entire territory over which he reigned. This was because the big boss had played and lost. He had become a (daily) gambler and, never particularly adept at that particular art, well, there you have it; he also considered himself a visionary with long antennae, and he surmised that to continue to allow gambling of any kind would inevitably lead to social decay, which would translate into an infinite number of regrettable events, so he pulled prohibition out of his hat and ushered in, naturally, the downfall of said club. It made no difference that the pair of proprietors had purchased six new pool tables and several more of ping-pong, for if no betting was allowed—what was the point? So the club closed temporarily, a reopening remaining a possibility until further notice. In consequence, Demetrio withdrew his money from the bank (the fifteen thousand pesos and a bit more of his other capital) so that he could ponder, now in earnest, his business aspirations … What would be best? At one point he even had a notion to open up a high-class cathouse, the first in Parras, for better or for worse, but …

The risk: exuberant!

Where would he get high-quality whores?

Bring them in—but from where? Too difficult!

How many permits? How many expenses?

Evaporation and a mordant grave for such an impossible and indecent idea—right? A tad of regret after the posing of many objections. Immorality as a crappy way of life … What a muddled venture!

It could be said that with money in hand Demetrio glimpsed the thicket of sex, in Torreón: undulations he well deserved, considering his stamina and despite those weekly trips, a few days each; a hypothetical plan to set in motion his underused machinery, but first let’s take note of his mother’s badgering, especially one crucial event around the middle of September, when she reminded her son about going to Sacramento: to wit: what he had promised her and seemingly had no intention of carrying out. The big guy employed no end of pretexts to sharply dissuade her: that he’d go later—okay?, later; naturally, she, for a long time already, had sensed an affective uglification, we could call it, because when questioned about Renata, the aforementioned did his utmost to avoid falling into her unbearable snare of questions and answers, mostly through churlish and curt remarks: I’ll go in October … Or: We had a little misunderstanding and I want to wait … Or: I need to feel really good to feel like going … And more shadowy means to make it stop, but the mother, not satisfied, forced from him a confession. She did it tactfully, as if she were stroking thorns; always leading with tenderness, and success like a blossom: to sit together and talk parsimoniously. She cornered him cautiously. Demetrio spoke, spoke as he moved—with Doña Telma pushing him—backward, until he reached the supposed vulgarity of the kiss on the back of the hand, and, yes, the heartfelt lick; perhaps it was the eagerness of the novice to kiss passionately what never before, nevertheless, the unexpected explosion, how strange it had all seemed to him, because her mother had also insulted him. Demetrio wanted to be as explicit as possible, so he mentioned that the day before, he and Renata had spoken about getting married, and then the unexpected had occurred, as well as the consequences that had already taken place (double-dealing Doña Luisa): the pathology of a Puritanism that served no purpose, on the contrary, it messed things up, holding out, always, the path of forgiveness, which also served no purpose. At that point Demetrio had nothing to say other than that he had gone to see Renata the following day and no, just no, and Doña Telma, herewith:

“I know those Sacramento women. I am certain that Doña Luisa and Renata planned the whole thing the night before in order to find out how deep your love for her was. Maybe mother and daughter thought you would make a wrong move because you had spoken about marriage, you might put your arms around her or caress her or squeeze her hand a little bit too hard; any of these gestures would have been normal for you, but you chose a precipitous kiss, with no bad intentions, I know, especially because of where you did it. In any case, Renata must have interpreted it as indecent and especially because of the lick—what a shame!”

“So, what’s your advice?”

“You shouldn’t give up … You should go to her. You’ll see, she’ll forgive you.”

“What a pain! really … I must admit, at this moment I have absolutely no desire to go anywhere.”

“I understand how you feel. Just remember that she is still in love with you, but she wants you to fight for her, she wants to be absolutely sure of you before she takes the next step … Hmm … I know all about those Sacramento women.”

“They are too complicated.”

“But they’re worth it. As soon as she’s yours, you’ll see, everything will come right.”

What’s to say other than that this onslaught left Demetrio bewildered. It would seem that Puritanism had unknown tentacles, arising from the most unexpected places, which had finally pinned him down and paralyzed him. He now saw that nobody he told about the incident of the kiss and the lick would take his side. Hence, to accept defeat, admit his mistake to the four winds, and thus avoid ever being squashed; and the admission of guilt—would it save him?, perhaps, but in the meantime distension to the point of obliteration, or as the chance to be dissipated to a point of satiety, and to elude his mother, once and for all, Demetrio ended the conversation like this: I’ll decide whether or not I should go to Renata. Now I need to take care of myself. Please don’t pressure me and don’t bring up this subject again. Because right now I’m going to Torreón. Just so you know, I’m going to sin! What? I’m starved for sex. I want to lose my head! I’m dying to … and … well … I’ll probably be back the day after tomorrow. Stunned, Doña Telma slowly lowered her head: “I understand him,” “I understand him,” “I have to understand him”—et cetera; she could repeat it to herself a hundred times, as if she were poking her breast with the point of a knife. A temporary setback—did she know that? And here we have the beginning of the skit: on the road, once and for all; the knot that almost came undone every time Demetrio placed his shoe on the gas pedal; the truck and the gasoline were his lively assistants that gave him a boost—right? another boost would be to whistle out of tune the whole way so he’d feel like a lad about to be initiated, for he was on his way to commit the greatest misdeed of his life, something like, let’s see: what if he hired two beautiful whores so they could take turns massaging him and doing him? That’s it, one would shower him with caresses while the other got on all fours—yes! and then the other way around, and that way, long-lasting sexual antics: the whole night, no matter how much it cost. When he arrived at a cathouse called Los Laureles—very costly—he immediately called two women over: one blonde and one brunette. However, the joint’s policy required that he order a drink before choosing. So, while he downed one shot after another Demetrio thoroughly planned his anticipated seclusion with the duo: step-by-step, assuming they agreed; at the same time, he’d be open to their suggestions, this or that change of position, more efficient arrangements, whereby nobody would feel at a disadvantage. They: concubines; they: sheaths with opinions as if they were mocking a simpleminded puppet, someone who found comfort elaborating a pleasing idyll only to grow weak before taking even the first step, because while they sat at the table he didn’t touch them once, a long way from an array of what could and should potentially be done: a thoughtful, lascivious, sinful trio, though for Cirila and Begoña, which is what they were called, what mattered was to get the client drunk as quickly as possible. Hence the mischief of shamelessly ordering mixed drinks they barely sipped, the trick made manifest: obvious to anybody who knows the ways of any cathouse, but he: how many straight shots of tequila did he have to imbibe before he became unbearable? Eight, nine at the most: an amount, once reached, that made him lose his balance, fall off the chair, and pick himself up with great difficulty, but once on his feet he said again: Let’s go to the room! I want the two of you at the same time. Oh, really? well, out with the bills already: ergo: the spender rendered unconscious, and next they called over the bouncer to drag him to the room of sin, the concubines following behind, amused and mocking. Slow motion once inside: a real fuss to undress somebody not used to drinking so much alcohol. In the end, the man couldn’t perform, not even half an erection could he muster. The worst part was that he’d paid in advance, an exorbitant fee, for these two cynics who, after seeing him impaired, called the bouncer back to have him thrown out on the street. They carried him as if he were a rag doll. A collapsed and futile mass, and: how could he drive the truck in his state? Demetrio had no choice but to ask someone to call him a taxi that would take him to a hotel, a cheap one, please. This episode entailed a long list of grievances, culminating in a long overdue explanation. The taxi driver informed him that none of the joints in Torreón’s red-light district allowed sex with any of those statuesque women until you’d first drunk torrents of booze and paid in advance with a hefty roll of bills. He also told him that if he just wanted sex he should go to the seedy women, the worst of the worst, all over fifty, perhaps some chubby young ones and, to top it off, they stank, those sitting on their rocking chairs, each one in front of the open door of her own mangy hovel. There were lots along a three- or four-block stretch. The thing was that if he wanted fine flesh he’d have to drink like a donkey and … which has already been said … money attracts money, right? as well as disgust and definitely drama. Like so many others before you, my friend, you’ve been had. After uttering this reproachful rant, he hurled at him a hail of insults, and who knows how much they affected Demetrio, for his reason seemed to be drifting like a slipstream: he heard sharp words—but which ones? The discourse was—could it be?—inebriated. The little he caught became faint in the face of fleeting memories of Oaxaca: there everything was straightforward, no sly malevolence, only direct consummation, whereas here … longings left unquenched that get reabsorbed and mess everything up … Money evaporating in proportion to aggravation provoked, knowing that if he returned to the red-light district he would have to do so with great caution: not pay in advance: duh!? Suffer, err, and top it all off sleeping in a hotel, ergo, impersonal sleep, even more so because the room was—cheap? Demetrio didn’t know how much he’d paid the taxi driver or the clerk at the … A fortune—tough luck! And there he remained till noon the next day. When he awoke he had no appetite, only pure dismay. His priority—can you guess?—: go find the pickup. His hangover had left him transfixed. But he found a taxi and, did he remember where … ? He paced painstakingly through the red-light district: four blocks; very few people in the streets; the big guy’s lucky star better start to shine soon; if only it would magically appear—now!—his vehicle, among the splendors of chance (few, many, just the right number): leaden destiny, for God’s sake! and, after walking around like an inept detective he finally found his pickup, it was all in one piece, and it even seemed to have acquired a new sheen. He took off, of course, for Parras … automatically … Well done! The magnet: sanctity—what else could it be?, or at least caution was pulling him back. The devil would pull at him later … But now let’s have a look at this:

His arrival at the house of rustic beauty. His silent mother, big like him, wanting to embrace, let us say, a distress: and: the parry: such scoundrelly persistence. Right away Demetrio’s retreat so he could pull himself together. There was noise in his head and twisted (red) threads, so to speak: confusion, unmitigated, or one obstacle after another: intrinsic, or—what the hell were they? Some kind of logjam lay in wait for this semisinful man, a logjam that threatened to drown him in one single and frantic obsession: sex, at any cost: once, again, then again and again, recondite recycling. However, when he saw all those saints in his room, porcelain beings that seemed to grow bigger the longer he watched them, he muttered this: “Demetrio” is synonymous with “nobody’s f*cking me.” And he fell asleep. His dream did him no favors. Mireya appeared, as if against her own will, shining from the jewels that bedecked her. She was the queen of the red-light district in Saltillo, where he found himself. When she saw him she said in a malicious voice: Well, well, I finally find you … You might like to know that your daughter is twenty years old—had that much time passed?—She’s studying medicine at the best university in Monterrey. I pay for her studies with my work as a high-class prostitute. What do you think about that? Now, get out of here, because if you don’t, I’ll have my men tear you to pieces. Go away! You’re a pathetic fool! Demetrio woke up with even more encephalitic din. He began palpating his temples with his fingertips, trying to soothe the internal whir. He had meager success. Little by little—thank God!—the noise went elsewhere.

What the big guy needed was a long and deep cleansing, and that’s what he got. The lathering had to be like an incursion into territory where all memories, good and bad alike, become futile. More and more beneficial suds. An inkling of a new beginning where it would be ordained that he could do whatever the hell he wanted, as long as he acted strategically, per the reigning paranoia, whenever he acted boldly. It had been a good idea to get rid of the brunette, but—Renata? that haughty yet suffering decency … hmmm … let her suffer; may her error ramify; this was the already prodigious and accepted revenge of a macho and now let’s turn to something else … See-through-sex; provocation-sex; struggle-sex. So many gradations of falsity that would soon become achievements. Then came what was not desirable: he emerged resplendent and perfumed, and his mother stood in the main hallway and intercepted him and—what do you think she said? Her indiscretion erupted … She was in such a state of anxiety …

“Demetrio, tell me please if you sinned while you were gone.”

“Yes, indeed I did.”

“How do you feel?”

“Look, Mama, leave me alone, or I’ll go away and never come back.”

“It’s just that I’m worried …”

“Well, you needn’t be, because I’ve been an adult for a long time … What’s more, I’ll tell you right now I’m going to keep on sinning … I’m very fond of all and any sins.”

How could the lady reproach him? She understood, finally, about him being an adult: it’s about time!, and the irremediable strains of maturity: his! he was beginning to rot, whereas she was better off positioning her tearful self in an unfamiliar weepy dimension, because she wept in front of Demetrio: her apron—absorbent? A shudder that hearkened back to when she rocked her only male offspring in a pure white cradle: a pink baby, a sleeping peacock, who then became an incorrigible toddler: O avid restlessness, that then led to him studying to be an agronomist, as his father had recommended, and now, tough luck! to have to see him become a flagrant sinner who walked out without kissing her good-bye on the cheek as he uttered a bitter sentence: I’m going to Torreón. I like the cathouses there. I’m going to sin. Hasty and contemptuous communication. And the pickup and the gasoline: everything ready, of course, for … He left whistling, he wanted to sing, but—what song? He didn’t know all the lyrics of a single one. So, random fragments, O uproarious crooning!, or a feeling of boldness to peel off layers of doubt, don layers of enthusiasm: free and delightful swaying over the course of miles … Happiness is always fortuitous …

Let’s watch his relapse: his arrival at Los Laureles, because he wanted to get it on with those impressive concubines: that Cirila and that Begoña, both unforgettable. Herewith the arrangement: in order to get them to come to his table, Demetrio would have to pay an exorbitant sum (a new rule) to a man with a very flat Carmelite hairdo (that is, with a part down the middle). However, the big guy refused to pay, arguing that it was very bad for him to get drunk: that he was not an alcoholic; he couldn’t tolerate all that nausea and vomiting; and the most whimsical: that alcohol would prevent him from having a decisive erection, to which the man with the very well-groomed do replied that if he wanted only sex he had to pay triple the amount: fifty pesos for each female: o-ho! such a sum was almost highway robbery, or maybe a splendidly pleasant altitude he’d have to reach, for at stake was, let us call it, an irresistible otherness, and Demetrio said, okay, I’ll go for it! Hence the pay now, play later, though the “play” part required a brief wait, whereas the pay became a proud display of bills: an insolent Demetrio under the glow of multicolored lights: mistake … to excess. The brief delay led to a further complication: the man with the hairdo called Cirila and Begoña over and they hid behind a violet curtain. The last thing he said to them was this:

“You’re going with that client from before. The guy is loaded, so you know what to do.”

Yes: they promised great things (per instructions) and, right from the start: cloying affection, handy for softening up the pseudo superman; a devilish start that led to a quick disrobing behind closed doors: a naked trio who began to eagerly grope each other … If only we could see the bare-assed outlines … Cirila gave the commands; the other played the role of the compliant slave: that is: let’s see … Begoña was the first to practice fellatio, which started at the client’s (unwashed) testicles: then crept up slowly to the glans by dint of tongue action, then the risings and fallings that began at a very precise speed, while the other, in corroboration, planted a big kiss on the lips of the aforementioned, who experienced, how could he not! a continuous nuanced bubbling throughout his entire body. Next, Begoña, following the instructions Cirila gave via hand signals, climbed on top of, what we might call, the murder victim, so he could penetrate her, followed by a slow trot on horseback. That part was easy and, man, what a delight! In addition the kissing in perfectly syncopated rhythm continued, a sublime lark conducted by the director’s right index finger. Let us here note that a hasty ejaculation by the big guy would have been quite inconvenient, for it would have spoiled their well-planned and executed plot. So: no increase in pleasure, instead somewhat extended endurance, though not in ascent, or let’s call it an opportunistic (ahem) “petty elongation,” or, to wit, the two managed to get Demetrio to close his eyes and that was when Begoña announced she was going to the bathroom for a minute to pee. The pleasure continued full speed ahead because Cirila immediately climbed on top and inserted him into her, and her movements were so beguiling and rhythmic (much better than Begoña’s) that the big guy didn’t even think of opening his eyes. Quite clever, this trip to the bathroom: a f*cking foil, for Begoña was rifling through Demetrio’s pants—could you have guessed?—: that bare-assed babe swiftly removed the man’s well-endowed wallet and dropped it into her handbag. Then the sinful kissing continued: a kiss that reopened the mouth of the man who used to be rich: she surpassed the other, in this respect, so we are now talking about sexual plenitude: the magma of the savage—and therefore ecstatic—interlacing. Then came the semenic eruption in Cirila’s lubricated insides. Whereby we can assert that Demetrio had never before experienced such almost otherworldly pleasure. The consummation waned and the sinner, dazed, was exhausted, but the concubines ordered him to get dressed right away: We’re leaving. And you, my love, can’t stay in the room alone. In consequence: a vibrant rush, the departure of the trembling trio. On the way to the salon the bewildered client assured them he would return the following day: I want to do tomorrow what we did today. I loved it! But the concubines scurried away between the scarlet curtain panels. They said neither thank you nor good-bye. When Demetrio reached the room where the music played, the man with the Carmelite hairdo intercepted him and was persuasive in the following way:

“Looks like you had a good time, but you must leave immediately.”

“Why?”

“Because Cirila and Begoña’s boyfriends have just arrived and they have to go to them. If they find out their women were with you, they’ll probably fill you full of lead. They’re gunslingers and, well, very jealous … hmm … very violent. So I recommend that you …”

“But I want to come back tomorrow. I really liked it!”

“You’d better leave and not come back. There are some pretty dangerous people around here.”

The sinner grew livid. He failed to understand such magnificent logic, but he hastened his step under the weight of an increasingly heavy suspicion. His fear, though peaking, was still fallible, for he wanted to be brave though didn’t know how: his doubt, his nerves: one feint, two, three, merely his (fleeting) intention to return, but … The world outside seemed to pulsate, and he, still under the spell of the uproar of the voluptuous, made an abrupt about-face and found himself face-to-face with the two bouncers of Los Laureles; one of them pointed a pistol at him and said: Outta here, you chump … or I’ll kill you right now! Hmm, leave—why? otherwise—death in the dumps?

It was then, while in retreat, that Demetrio patted his pants pockets. Some dark instinct propelled him to reveal a truth that, in this quite real fix, must have been horrible, and it was: because his wallet—oh no!? Unbelievable discovery, and—oh no! Plundered—when? During his sexual fervor, and through an oblique kind of reconstruction: aha! when what’s-her-name went to the bathroom … that the sign, that the surmise … Never to be recovered—needless to say!—the abrupt (and well-deserved) downfall of a simple sinner whose only recourse was to leave for Parras that late at night, because if he didn’t … a simple sardine (that’s how he felt) caught in a delicate though unfriendly net, and it was useless to ponder the what-ifs when the outcome, when all was said and done, would be the same, or worse. He therefore proceeded to his pickup in defeat. Fortunately his keys were still in his left pocket, this the extent of his consolation; but what about gas: would he have enough to reach Parras? A drop-by-drop dilemma, which would drip though not ooze, the liquid s-cum of an unforgettable sexual adventure: the ineffable delight seeping (simply) into a fiendish curse: not one red cent! And then: he couldn’t remember if he had had ten thousand pesos in his wallet, or more, though in either case his wealth had evaporated in a matter of seconds, the consequence of his nonpareil sin. So was it—divine punishment?, vengeance hurled against his perversions? It is important for you to know—unless you disagree—that his thoughts might get out of joint if he kept mulling his misfortune, which wasn’t done messing with him, because once on the road he feared he’d run out of gas. Evil shadows lurked, and, in fact, when he saw the star-studded sky he knew that something up there was speaking … If only it were astral mirth, a resounding word descending … It wasn’t long before the pickup stopped on its own, that is, deliberately. That’s what had to happen on the road to total rack and ruin. A sinister stop, in defeat, because—who would rescue him at that time of night? Every sound increased his disgrace, all to no purpose, a mockery in the midst of desolation, or an ever-widening lie … Demetrio’s only option was to sleep in the cab, though sleeping was a futile deferral, for once the new day came—then what? Delaying the solution: the infamous: a hardening, damn it, infusing further doubt … It wasn’t till about six the next afternoon that a stake-bed truck stopped and, well, let’s look at it this way: good people must show up, but not necessarily when you need them: to wit: they are the people who solve problems without asking for anything in exchange. Surely such a miracle can take years, or months, or—who knows! but herewith anew and very askew, Demetrio’s lucky though damaged star shone through, though the circumspect señor wanted to charge him for the gasoline. Which meant the big guy had to tell him what had happened from beginning to end. A story with a surprise ending? Of course, and because the señor was cracking up at the whole sexual welter and the other part: the sinister corollary of the dearth of funds. The theft—while astride a throne?! and the rest—in the mire! At a certain point Demetrio asked him:

“Hey, why are you laughing?”

“Because if I’m going to give you five gallons of gas the least you can do is let me laugh. But if you have a problem with my being entertained, then I won’t give you any.”

Then the señor laughed again, and quite explicitly explained what Demetrio would have to do if he wanted his help: he described how to plead on bent knees, joining his poor hands in dire supplication (ha), as well as a maelstrom of final flurries. No way! The guy was a reasonably good man who was holding all the cards, above all, his laughter sounded like a motorbike, though, if we are to be more precise, edged with forgiveness—so what could Demetrio do?: forbearance: scolded dog that he was! A long chiding though not very thorough, more like a drip that tickled, or, if you like, any exaggerated surmise. Let’s see if it’s appropriate now to say that the stranger’s laughter seemed to throw salt on open wounds: which lasted days, psychic fraying translated into a silence that made his mother suspicious, for day after day she watched her son in saintly seclusion. He ate little. Ever since he arrived in that sorry state, stepping out the door seemed dangerous, footfall by footfall! Colossal fear, tremors, consonant tension. And the dear lady longed to find out what horror had befallen her lamb in the cathouses of Torreón. You can trust me. Tell me what happened. I’ll just listen. Unburden yourself. This attempt at persuasion would be repeated more than five times and in different ways, and the result could be none other than his contempt: all and any way: however he wished: such as: turning his back on her, or giving her a sour pout, or muttering nonsense, or, you can imagine the rest, until … Who knows what devil prodded the big guy to blurt out his wretched story. He spoke as if he were in a hideout, avoiding anything that would shed light on the extent of his folly. In fact, he decided not to describe the sexual. With his mother he had no confessional playbook to follow other than traipsing from one surprise to the next and summing it up strategically bit by bit. Hence his opposing inventions, nurtured by the supposed innocence of a person still apt to be astonished who realizes that everything is disappointing, beginning with the cathouses of Torreón, where thieves and murderers abounded. That is, some guy stole his wallet at gunpoint. That was the only anecdote (an auspicious invention), the rest was nothing but a pile of sketchy notions, as cerebral as they were abstract. A drastic and meandering simplification so that his mother would understand only the cruelty of the theft and his attendant anguish, about which she, without holding herself back, proclaimed thus: I know how terrible you must feel, but that’s what I’m here for, to help you through this. Nonetheless, Demetrio, at some point after his confession, began to elaborate a grievance that had its origins way back when his father used to beat him; whippings for any reason whatsoever; the terror of living without hope, knowing that whatever he did would be wrong; the sense that the simple fact of growing up was a threat, the weight of which would soon crush him, as if life were perpetual confusion and he had no choice but to toe the line if he wanted even modest security. Or rather: never even attempt to stray. That’s why he studied agronomy, because his father had forced him to, because the señor owned land that his only (submissive) son would have to manage. Manipulated, though only temporarily, for Demetrio finally rebelled. He fled—when he graduated, of course!—from his house, with an ideal of freedom that didn’t—nor ever would— have any foundation. The purpose of his life revealed itself only in puffs of mist and … enough already! His glimpse of what was essential was as normal as it was overwhelming: get married, have children, work like a burro, and have not the slightest spirit of transgression. A vertical trajectory as unobjectionable as a plant that bears fruit, although being alone and doing things he didn’t like, for example: agronomy—how could such triumphs hold his interest? Demetrio had followed a script whose sequel was uncertain, if not straight-out false. By his age he should have been an opulent man, swelling with countless honors and endless pride, but … who was to blame—he or somebody else? or, whom could he rouse with the extent of his affliction, though to put a fine point on it: failure … simple failure? failure because he’d been robbed in a place he should never, under any circumstances, have been? When his mother heard that word she entered the fray: I think it is absolutely clear that you have not failed. You are a professional with a future and you also have savings in the bank. If they stole a portion of your capital that doesn’t mean you’re ruined. You must also understand that it is your good fortune to have me, I’m a widow with some money and … Such redeeming niceties and that appeasing blahblahblah were not sufficient. Enough with the harangue. Demetrio stopped her with an “I know, I know, enough,” then added that he wanted to invest and to work with great resolve, but he didn’t know at what. Nothing fit the bill entirely and, oh, such sauciness—from an overprotected fool? You like games, you could invest in a pool hall, there isn’t one in Parras, a pleasant place where people could also play dominoes and cards. You’ll do well even if there is no betting. I’ll help you. Unexpected illuminating twitch! Smiles that shine. Light that floods the scene and sketches overhead a spectacular hunch. Thank you, Mama, for … Now to come up with a name for this business. A sudden about-face: a complete change of mood … A hunch, ready to pluck! … A fluke supported by a good dose of spunk (to wit, the so-called lucky star shooting sheets of lightning) to pound the pavement every day to find a well-situated locale in Parras, large—needless to say! and with easy access. Oh, uplifting resolve, which would in turn be the recipe for shedding light on all manner of dark corners.

And, off we go!

Enthusiasm never before seen: Demetrio was so eager he forgot the dross: sex for hire: the carrion of spectral silhouettism: blurred flesh: brutalizing pleasure: enough already! He left it all behind. Vomiting. Suffocation. And then, sacred love: Renata’s green eyes observing him from afar … Decency awaiting. His thrashings: part of vile prehistory, as is agronomy. The nature of (past) ugliness that he could spit out like so much chaff, and et cetera.

Right?

Another lapse? Another attack?

To hell with it!

Another future, then.

For Demetrio, December was a month of arduous work. Much was accomplished as if by dint of magic, because, well, we’ll mention only three things he dealt with: in less than a week he found a large locale to let, located in the heart of Parras, right on Ramos Arizpe, the town’s main thoroughfare; second, and related, was the hiring of two young men quite eager to work (for all of which his mother confidently forked out hefty sums); third was the most troublesome: the purchases, the trips to Monterrey in his pickup (now with a staked bed), in which Demetrio brought back three very fine billiards tables packed in thick cardboard—strategically flattened—as well as an abundance of billiards paraphernalia: cues, cue holders, cue supports, cue balls, timers, chalk, counters, lamps, boards: and imagine the trips necessary to purchase the dozens of little knickknacks. Then: dominoes tables, tons of chairs, two (long) wooden benches. The whole business was ready two days before New Year’s Eve for the inauguration (God willing) the first week of January 1948. By the way, we’ll mention that mother and son celebrated Christmas and New Year’s Eve dinner euphorically (and with a plethora of victuals, a lot of foolish nonsense). Doña Telma received epistolary best wishes from her faraway daughters: Merry Christmas and … tra-la-la … It would have been fantastic if they could have come to Parras for the holidays: but, impossible!; but, thanks: that word was written in two telegrams sent to Seattle and to Reno; but (once again), well, they were thinking of her and that should be enough to make the señora cry with happiness.

Exuberant start to the year. A new and dandy life—hopefully! The inauguration was held on January 7. A huge crowd of future deadbeat gamers attended. It’s probably better not to think about how much tolerance was needed to allow all those haughty maidens and matrons to attend the event; the women would not play, not then, not ever, because it was frowned upon, but, hey! this was a local social event, full of splendor and general approbation. Therefore, it was packed. And, moving on to a different role for the prurient, it’s worth pointing out what you’ve probably already figured: the primordial rule: there would be no gambling, no, none of that: make-believe at the service of gentle evening recreation. Let’s mention the hours of operation: from four in the afternoon till ten at night. Finally, the mayor was responsible for taking the first shot, he missed, but … the apology and then the rejoicing. Then the stentorian toast, and onward with sinful fascination!, it’s about time; many signed up to play in the midst of the racket; the women left once this got under way. However, ten at night: that’s all: remember! The most important part of the whole affair would take place in the following few days. They queued up, along almost half a block, to play. The first to get in wouldn’t ever want to vacate their tables. So we have to consider the numerous challengers. He who lost, left: and, back in line … outside? Some played and others didn’t; or, to be precise, there was always dominoes, though: a queue formed for that, too, a much shorter one, foolish challengers, about which: well, of course! we must point out that most of the clients were there for the billiards: a novelty: ergo: carambole rather than bravado or “La Bamba”; whereby Demetrio soon realized that he should buy three more billiards tables in Monterrey. A weekend shopping trip. He went with his two young assistants. However: what about dominoes, in abeyance, and now we must picture him for real: after the three new tables arrived, the big guy had to get rid of the tables and folding chairs destined for dominoes. As a result: only pool tables!, better!, more prosperity! As far as the rest is concerned, let’s note the added attraction of the sale of cold drinks, no alcohol, no, not that.

In the midst of this unparalleled merrymaking at the beginning of the year, Doña Telma carried out her household chores with much more enthusiasm than ever before; she cleaned deeply, things that may have seemed insignificant, like each and every leaf of the potted plants. May all dust disappear completely: how many hours a day did it take her? or, how many orders did she have to give her two servants before they fell in step behind her enthusiasm? Her cleaning perfectionism was consonant with her state of grace.

Because she saw herself as an admonishing spirit who was giving her son a lifesaving solution that would hopefully hold for years, Doña Telma strove daily to bring out the shine in her own environment, matching the abundant drive of her son, who came home every night both exhausted and jubilant, full of ideas so brilliant they seemed preposterous, even if any attempt to carry them out would have to be somehow or other elaborated. More and more flashes of genius pouring into an endless spiraling eddy. Unstoppable progress, therefore, as well as money and enlightenment. The mother’s triumph resided in her conviction that Demetrio would live by her side for, hmm, and just when she started thinking about lustrums and decades, a letter landed in her hands, or rather, the lump of a letter: addressee: Demetrio Sordo, and sender: Renata Melgarejo.

Breaking one spell with another, when viewed from a different angle, led to a problematic detour, considering that Demetrio was already on his way and to suddenly stop: a whiff of love—could it be? causing momentary dis-ease, or a favorable concern to which he should give full sway.

After fondling it for nearly three minutes, Doña Telma decided to peruse all that prolix passion. A tentative trespass, however, when it came to opening it. Hesitant or eager or pressingly perverse or tantalizingly slow, and how to proceed without messing things up. Egipto Cavazos, her servant, gave her a useful suggestion, recommending that she use steam to avoid damaging the seal. The need for delicacy in the operation was obvious; so Egipto offered to attend to this detail, and, well, we can imagine his dexterity, not to mention his presumption: I’ll do it very well. Don’t worry. Likewise the subsequent resealing, which also had to be precise—of course!, but also secret … In Mexico around the beginning of 1948, there appeared a stamp that said Express Delivery and another that said Ordinary Delivery. The latter, which had existed before, though without the degrading adjective, was what the new stamp wanted to distinguish itself from, though the distinction went unnoticed, for there was none, hence the term “express delivery” was nothing more than a pretense people mostly ignored. In reality there was a difference of less than two or three weeks between one kind of delivery and the other, depending on the distance from the point of origin. In this case Renata used the new service, which was supposed to be faster but wasn’t, for the letter had taken almost two months: from Sacramento to Parras! that is—within the same state! We can imagine the journey: once the letter arrived in Saltillo—this is a guess—it was brought to a halt, perhaps a bureaucratic one, in order to give priority to the most urgent. Nevertheless, a delay of almost two months! Why? Imagine if Renata had sent it by ordinary post, how long would it have taken? One month longer at least? Conclusion: mail service was a nightmare. The so-called ordinary assumed neglect, a leaving-for-later, or merely a dead calm, or outright indifference; as for the express delivery, it was the same—wasn’t it? or maybe acting very deliberately, or imagining the postal workers watching the (ordinary) letters pile up for days in the semidarkness and feeling quite smug about not rushing around, or worse: viewed as a work of found art, or something of the sort. All we have to do is look (with a magnifying glass) at the date it was sent … Ah … We said “with a magnifying glass” because Doña Telma used one but understood little. The handwriting was so bad it looked more like irresponsible scribbles, way-too-small and illegible letters that seemed to have been written in haste and with a whole host of inhibitions. The señora, however, was able to follow a certain amount of logic through the capricious combination of several key words, such as “marriage,” “love,” “loyalty,” “forgiveness,” “children,” “kisses,” “lick,” “mistake,” “come,” “Sacramento,” “I love,” “Renata,” “Demetrio,” “happiness,” and therein potential good fortune.

A plot that abides by defensible sentimental conceits in which the more cramped and illegible the damned scribbles the better intentioned they might be.

Or perhaps it was a stern rebuke, and Renata’s forgiveness came with many demands.

Or a definitive break.

In the meantime, the nervous resealing: Egipto in charge of this challenge. Precise, so as not to spoil the stamp. And so it came to pass, and the next step came that night when Doña Telma told Demetrio: This arrived for you this morning. The latter opened his eyes wide. His surprise swelled. Just to see the name of the (promising) remitter: aha: this should be read in private. Therefore, he shut himself in his room and tore the edge of the envelope and read excitedly as he turned each page, and just like Doña Telma, he understood very little. Oh, such grief! At moments, no doubt, the big guy wanted to turn to his mother to help him read that Babel of letters penned with rapid strokes, for he knew that to attempt it alone, it would take weeks to decipher what … let’s see … perhaps with a magnifying glass … Okay!, the only favor he asked of his mother was that she lend him the tool in question, and obviously she had no choice but to look surprised: good actress: her hypocrisy worked. The thing is, the magnifying glass simply magnified the jungle of lines, but … Now it’s time to transpose this whole nuisance to a conversation between son and mother in which the former confessed what we already know and she, once again a good actress, proposed trying to read it herself to see if … Or that they should read it together … An uncomfortable solution, or what other choice did they have … Demetrio agreed to the suggestion, of the joint deciphering, and it now behooves us to sum things up, also to mention the fact that not even together could they … they struggled, interpreted, even favorably: and: the letter—blast it—: impenetrable: why?

“You should go to Sacramento.”

“What about the business … ?”

“You don’t trust your employees?”

“It’s too soon to trust them.”

“If you want, I’ll get Egipto to take your place. As you know, he has worked for me for many years; I trust him completely. He’s never stolen even one penny from me.”

“Well, okay, I hadn’t thought of that, but …”

“Go! Now! Go claim that woman.”

A heat-of-the-moment push. Spritely automatism. Blossoming illusion, leading to a hubbub of fits and starts: Egipto, Egipto!, a serious man with a brash mustache. Serious—let’s hope!—and (according to Demetrio) an honest skinflint … with a future? Faith, trust, and then a trickle of only good things; thereby AGREED, and that was the end of it … Doña Luisa’s excellent suggestion, as she smilingly caressed her enormous offspring’s arm, right along his bicep. And now let’s excerpt the most outstanding part of the conversation: knowing full well that the poor handwriting had prevented them from getting to the bottom of the sweetheart’s story, his mother ventured to make a crucial suggestion: if Demetrio resolved to go to Sacramento he could kill two birds with one stone: once and for all he could propose marriage to the green-eyed gal and on his way through Monclova he could buy the engagement ring. As abrupt as an avalanche. True, there was the ring size: hmm: he had a model close at hand: Doña Telma’s ring finger: such parity, perhaps a bit bigger or a bit smaller, for—naturally!, rarely did a woman have fingers as fat as a man’s; so no point in taking measurements, all he had to do was take his mother’s wedding ring in a box and purchase one of a similar size. The señora heard as much and immediately took off the ring, then searched among her baubles for a box. She found one right away. Ready! and: When are you planning to go?: first things first: instructions for Egipto. Introduce him to the young employees of the pool hall: Liborio and Zacarías. The daily accounts, the liabilities and the assets. Careful with the suppliers! Demetrio would be gone for a week, more or less. In addition to all that, his mother posed a large question: Would you like me to go with you?, then added that if Renata accepted his proposal of marriage, she would go to formally ask for her hand, et cetera and et cetera. We repeat: all as abrupt as an avalanche, to which Demetrio agreed with an obedient nod, for his anxiety eased when he let himself be guided. Two days of activity: fine-tuning the arrangements: at the pool hall, mostly, for Egipto Cavazos’s eventual leadership carried a certain degree of risk and for the very reason you’ve already guessed: sleight-of-hand theft, chaos, lack of authority: you choose and decide which. And now let’s turn to his mother’s concerns as far as the domestic and temporary regency of the young maid, named Gonzala. That the poor dear would receive a bundle—not too thick—of bills for daily expenses. That if she had any problems, Egipto was at hand. As for the rest: throw caution to the wind! Embrace uncertainty, not without first placing oneself in the hands of God and a troupe of saints. Then the accord between mother and son: they wouldn’t take the pickup, better to go as usual by train. Hers was an order, not a suggestion. Here too you can choose the reason why we saddled Doña Telma with this one. One reason we’d like to propose is safety. Anyway, we can already picture them seated and in motion. Nobody should be surprised that his mother spoke in torrents as if she were dictating a script to her son, all about what he should say to Renata. Then came the chore of memorization … Well, let’s state explicitly that Demetrio softened up because it served his purposes.

The purchase of the ring in Monclova, gold-plated to impress the green-eyed gal, one that really shone, even though it looked a bit like a cheap trinket.

Deceit, when all is said and done. A major expense, which Demetrio hastily paid with arrogant pride.

Next came the virgin voyage on the dirt road.

For the first time the mother and son rode the bus from Monclova to Ocampo. Sacramento was the seventh stop out of a total of fourteen towns. A distance of twenty-seven miles.

And …

“I’m certain you will marry Renata. I have prayed for this to happen as soon as possible.”

Certainty breeds generosity.