Almost Never A Novel

35


Rehearsal. So much practicing of apologies there on the bench, the ones Doña Telma and Doña Zulema were ready to offer up in distressed tones, as if for a theatrical performance. One corrected the other, and vice versa, though not the big guy, who watched them impatiently but without a single word of reproach; he also kept turning to look at the house, to see if by now, but no. It was as if the delay made the coming solemnity more robust. More and more stammers popped up during rehearsals. Each word seemed to drag; each sentence seemed pressed on like a stamp; the rest was rhythm and delirium, a mopey flow. Three hours later Renata appeared, as if she’d been quite put out, though shining like never before. You had to see her: gorgeous, though a bit submissive. She was gesturing, “Please, please, come in,” and the tense but enthusiastic trio advanced toward the site of the apologies: they didn’t go through the stationery store (strange) but rather down an ambiguous hallway. The scent of eucalyptus grew stronger inside the house: why? there was no potted plant; then, following Renata’s lead, they reached an (almost) totally yellow room; “Have a seat.” The lady of the house would be coming soon, this said with great feeling. Her predicament, the airs she gave herself, which spread and which those still practicing their apologies in Renata’s presence and in the other’s absence could interpret, under their breath, naturally! and the lass heard them, and was puzzled, until, half an hour later—playing the role of a supposedly portentous diva—Doña Luisa finally appeared. Well, well. Sidelong ironic glances. The jitters, in other words. A generic tension swirled, had to, because whose job would it be to break the ice. The lady of the house with her hint of hostility—or what? One formidable cranky one and a wee repentant trio, this the framework, but it was Doña Zulema who began to hone in on what we can take to be a categorical exoneration as she modulated each idea so thoroughly that her elaborate apology seemed to be but a small piece of a much larger anecdote. The issue of the kiss planted on the back of the hand. The lick of the damsel’s skin as an expression of profound love, that sublime surrender transferred to the tip of the tongue, you must understand the intent, a deeply felt decency that had spilled over into the saliva of that kiss. Doña Zulema had to explain several times that her nephew was a man with the very best of intentions. A believer in everlasting love and more and more such salvos, so many that who knows how, but she began to courageously sweeten the subject and thus slowly departed from her script. Her speech became a treacle tornado. His aunt was dazzling, prodigious, garrulous, until Doña Telma, with studied scruples, tugged on her dress from behind. A warning: somewhat doubtful, silent, to return to what was rehearsed, and the mother, erupting: We are very sorry about what has happened. My son is the model of paramount decency. Theater. The speech practiced (of course) on the bench: back to what was agreed upon. So that the penny would drop for the aunt, and it did because suddenly she hadn’t another word to say. Then came a vacuum, in which nobody even clicked her tongue. In any case, they glanced at one another guiltily, as if wanting to hide. The room seemed to have gotten even yellower than it had been, more infectious, sicklier, uglier.

For a while the apologies continued to proliferate, so much so that the main point got murky; stagnation formed a kind of lagoon. In fact, Doña Telma and Doña Zulema finally began to recite their rehearsed speeches, in turns, with such precision that it could (truly) barely be believed; they were outstanding, agile, though without the slightest emotional charge, without pleasantries, and that’s why Doña Luisa stopped them short: I accept your apologies, but it should never happen again … Now, the one who should apologize is Demetrio, don’t you think? It’s up to him. They threw the big guy a curveball; he was staring at the skilled craftsmanship of the floor tiles and after hearing himself alluded to, said, Me?, and then, Oh, yes!, whereat: I offer the biggest and most complete apology. My intention, when I kissed Renata’s hand, was sincerely affectionate, a tender kiss full of integrity. If I licked her skin it was because I thought of it as an act of devotion. At no moment did it occur to me that I was disrespecting her. So, I repeat my apology. Doña Luisa smiled (smugly) and Renata did too, following her lead. This is where everything should pause. Then, like an undertow, the lady’s apology, with resounding composure: I also ask you to forgive me, Demetrio, for what I said to you. I was desperate. Congratulations.

Nevertheless, the thorniest part remained: the brave act of … Well, aunt and mother turned their vulturelike scowls upon Demetrio; so did Renata; not to mention Doña Luisa. They were waiting for him to come out with what all this had been aiming at: asking for her hand with cloying ardor, all he had to do was utter one well-sequestered sentence to that effect, and they would buoy up the request, elaborating point by point what it would mean for Renata to live by Demetrio’s side: the understanding, the affection, the peace, the secure economic foundation; but, well, feeling the pressure from the eyes upon him, the agronomist spoke like a good-natured person with common sense: The purpose of our visit is (ahem) to request Renata’s hand. I want her to be my wife before God and the law. And the cornered fool pulled out the box that contained the engagement ring; he didn’t open it, or rather: he walked around with it. Just imagine the gamboling up and down—how awful! Nonetheless, Doña Luisa, quite severe, threw a dart:

“What do you have to offer my daughter?”

“I have a lot of money. I have a very prosperous business in Parras. Moreover, I love her with all my heart. She will find that I am a man who is willing to make great sacrifices to guarantee her happiness and comfort. For me Renata is a goddess that deserves constant veneration. I’ll give her everything she needs!”

The previous truth-telling paragraph paved the way for his aunt and mother to enhance the petition by assigning Demetrio attributes: a good man (and rising!): a very hard worker and unflagging and with a respectability proven by a thousand small things, and good natured, with a smile perpetually hovering over his lips, prudent, and, to top it off, endowed with a spirit of progress and more progress. Or, in other words: the best of the best, no holds barred. And hence their exordium continued until dilution threatened, because Doña Luisa lifted her finger, she wanted to speak, they didn’t let her, such was the onrush of wonders, and, at a certain moment, raising her voice excessively, Renata’s mother uttered this:

“Okay, my daughter can be Demetrio’s wife after one year has passed. I give my word.”

“What?”

“Just as you heard. Wait one year. My reason is that I still need Renata’s help getting the stationery store off the ground. Around this time next year we will plan the wedding here in Sacramento.”

A long time.

A long time to perfectly preserve an illusion. Twelve months of an enlarged enigma, a superconceit, unbreakable, let’s say, that would nurture the steeliest desire. In any case there was a perfect fit: the ring, the offering; Renata, slipping it on; slipping onto her ring finger—yay! perfect. The symbolic yoking that was neither applauded nor commented upon. The trio still insisted that the wait be shortened, but Doña Luisa shook her head, girlishly, and held her ground with a little tantrum, stamping her feet in several ways. No matter: they’d won: the gratification of knowing and feeling that Renata was already Demetrio’s wife, kind of, realizing that from then on there would be a new member of the family, a long-lasting (fresh, fine-looking) flower who already seemed delighted to consider herself a wife from then on. For his part, Demetrio wanted to celebrate by giving her a hug, a decent embrace, not too juicy, but—get a grip! if they did that they would lose so much, such humiliation, so: a show of fortitude, as if they were corroding each other, theoretically; desire so corroded it was on the verge of no longer existing, so: celebrate: never! The trio was leaving, not another word to say: the good-byes, hasty, all for the best: that’s all, so little. But Renata (boldly) told her future husband: Today I’ll expect you at five in the afternoon, not on the bench but here in the house. Knock on the door, that one there, an index finger indicating which, the clear sign: knock on the door they leave by. And the trio left, trying to find a spring in their steps, but no luck. It’s just that a whole year of emotional propriety, what was already purified to purify it even more, candor and gabbing, Demetrio also understood that the billiards business would shine with success—hopefully! by that date, twelve months later, so much security, and in the meantime it wouldn’t be long for truly domestic love and to sit down confidently in a very randy (and deplorable) way in the living room armchair. Renata had given him instructions: an exciting come-hither, that’s how Demetrio probably embellished the invitation his wife had extended. He would return obediently, perhaps a kiss inside the house, one on the cheek, now, yes, but with no licking. Well, let’s turn to the trajectory where silence won out over mutterings, although Demetrio heard one sentence, very loud and it doesn’t matter who said it: No way! Now you’re trapped. He, trapped? Renata was trapped, just like him: an image of a large jail cell, subject to growth or shrinkage …

Better for us to accompany into eccentric seclusion the big guy, who when observed carefully appeared to be feverish, for at the end of the day he was able to avoid the two-woman-strong dog pack that was surely spewing endless advice. Therefore, when he arrived, violence, door slamming … A room for him alone; yes: his wish, to think to his heart’s content, for a while.

So—trapped?

Let’s not even think about their reaction, and they didn’t dare knock on the door … well, there was all that merry to-do about the wedding …

But—trapped?

Demetrio’s ideas spun in an orbit, recalling all his girlfriends as if he were watching a parade of miniatures; miniature-girls; each one, without exception, he’d done nothing more than kiss on the mouth; charm in sepia tones, perhaps, nothing worth harvesting from the past; lost loves that never involved nudity, and upon uttering that word he remembered Mireya, an unbridled fever of carnal lust; soaring sex, so rarefied, just to imagine it; everything seen through the eye of a heron who could barely shake its wings. The woman who possibly bore his child and was wantonly lost on night x; the same woman who once in a while appeared in his dreams laughing at him, calling him “poor imbecile,” what you missed out on, love like this and like that: sex as well as understanding and infinite tenderness: what more do you want, you jerk. And if Demetrio had allowed himself to be trapped by Mireya? Let’s see—what did being trapped or feeling trapped consist of? The truth is that Mireya went from being a total whore to an awesome saint. Struggling saint. Mothering saint. Sexual saint, embossed upon the always-changing great beyond. Oh, most holy Mireya, gone who-knows-where.

Then he imagined the whore rocking her baby sadly, an unlikely cooing, because in unreality it lasted an entire night. A whole night of quite sensitive crying; the cries of a forsaken single mother seen in almost floating limbo; rocking, faithfully rocking, a baby who would probably view things in a dark light when he grew up; who would always have to put up with the vexing stigma of being the son of a single mother—ooh! she, such a whore to the core and such a saint to the discerning judge. She, who but for a magical mistake would have been his wife, but a church wedding—impossible! that was the problem. On the other hand, the green-eyed gal—what a difference! She was a different kind of whore, an emblematic one because legal. And he imagined everything he would do with her once they got married. He saw her upside down performing a difficult fellatio. He saw her doing a somersault in the air and landing precisely on top of him for penetration, no pain as the cowl slid over his erect member. He saw her in a swoon of pleasure, in the middle of an orgasm, her eyes upturned and her plaintive voice pleading for more. He saw her coiled then grow unfurling, that is, her ass and breasts got bigger, large, huge—man oh man! her mouth also swelling, the better to kiss with. Nevertheless, reality, in the end, was third-rate, so abruptly reductive. When Demetrio arrived punctually for his date, Renata immediately ushered him into the yellow room. They were alone, nobody was watching them. Her mother was busy in the stationery store. Moreover, they were already spouses … though only theoretically—right? and, naturally! Demetrio tried to give her a polite kiss. They wrestled. Just one on her pursed lips, or rather a responsible adult kiss, let’s say, on the cheek, but Renata threatened to scream, loudly. Hence an alarm and thus he spurted out:

“Why won’t you let me? You’re already my wife.”

“I will be when we stand before the altar in a year’s time.”

“I love you, Renata. Let me at least hug you.”

“No, not even that. Things have to be done properly.”

“But nobody’s watching us. Come on!”

“Remember, I was well brought up, and it makes no difference whether anybody is watching us … God is.”

“Do you promise you’ll kiss me a lot once we get married?”

“Then, yes, but not before … I want it all to be beautiful.”

“So, you promise me we’ll even do dirty things when we get married?”

“We’ll do whatever you want, but you’ll have to go along with me till then. Don’t ruin what we are trying to build.”

As for the rest of it: sacred hand-holding and finally staring into each other’s eyes for the first time, or rather: rupture, daring: the brown nourishing itself on the green, and vice versa. O furtive proof.

The process of discovery, that’s what was on offer: eyes exploring eyes. To look at what’s wild in the eyes, almost the world’s toy, the color, that which opens onto and exposes the firmly rooted sunken length of a suggestion. Certainly silence abetted concentration and thus they enjoyed each other. Other details as well: the shape of the eyebrows and the distance from there to the eyes; then the shadows under the eyes, the cheekbones, all delicate trifles and, above all, good smells. There they remained for a long while studying each other’s features. Neither of them had ever experienced that. A different kind of pleasure, more detailed. Example: the lashes—phew! They viewed each other’s mouths more lasciviously. In fact, Renata was wearing lipstick, enhanced vermilion, kissable—no! but judging from the fleshy fullness of her lips she seemed ill at ease unless she was constantly kissing. A real mistake and a fantasy assessment. As opposed to Demetrio’s mouth: thin lips, for whistling, not at all sensual, but longing to be so. A deterrent. The closest and most appetizing in reality was forbidden material. Sin was on the prowl and better to create some distance, if only because Doña Luisa, always shrewd and bitter, might appear at any moment, we can see her, even just her head popping in, first, in warning, then her whole body and saying:

“So, children, are you behaving yourselves?”

Tiresome, this decoy, why wonder. Distrust or excessive propriety. Also Doña Luisa told them that it was time to wrap it up, they could see each other again the following day at the same time: visits by minutes, we could call it. Meet in the living room, ergo: propriety: a small love, apparently, though grandiose if interpreted appropriately. So Demetrio left mostly contented because he had finally looked long and hard at Renata’s face—what a beauty, truly!

When he got back to Doña Zulema’s house he wanted only to shut himself up in his room. He didn’t care to give even the most meager account of his date with Renata. Mother and aunt, in fact, asked, but he wagged his finger no, as if wanting to reject all their questions in a single sweep, about six stupid ones, or erase them one by one. He preferred to sink into his solitude, certainly quite cramped, rather than listen to banalities, even if all were instructive. When he did leave his room, because hunger was pressing his stomach against his spine, he preferred to go grab a bite at a tavern, and if we are obliged to expand upon this subject, there were three taverns and all three were on the verge of closing for lack of customers, just one or two throughout the whole day, not enough at all. So the food was poorly prepared at all three, à la don’t-give-a-damn, or rather pretty or a lot greasy: creaky, crackling, thundering, or who knows what, and definitely—what a racket in the kitchen! when he ordered enchiladas or fried tacos topped with lettuce. But Demetrio, we repeat, preferred that griminess to homespun clean that translated into intolerable pestering. Between one torture and the other, he chose the tavern.

Now let’s discuss in greater depth the four days Demetrio remained in Sacramento living out, as we know, his tiny but constant love with his future and sensational wife; he didn’t eat even a crumb of breakfast, no lunchtime stew or supper at Aunt Zulema’s house because, to tell the truth, he didn’t want to talk to the ladies. Though he did mix and match the taverns: that one for breakfast, another for lunch, and, well, like that, then he switched it around: that one’s better for supper and that one for breakfast, so he varied it: or rather his whimsy was an eeny, meeny, miney, mo, but what we can affirm is that none of the three taverns was any good, and also that’s why one day soon they would have to shut their doors.

We understand that Demetrio spent the remainder of his time sitting (like a big shot) on a bench, mulling over his life, a way to kill what’s killable by remembering it. True, he could do that shut up in his room, but out in the open air: advantages, the changing colors of the day, the tiny transformations—how many? That’s when he looked at his wristwatch: five more hours until his date with Renata … Only three more … Now only two … Then to bathe in the cedar tub. The mother and aunt took advantage of those interludes to interrogate him, but his refusal, as we know, the dancing hands, oscillating. To never speak, not even when he was wrapping a towel around himself, not even when he was decked out as an impeccable dandy, not even when he was perfumed. In short, he wanted everything he discussed with Renata to remain secret—but what about us—what did they talk about in the yellow living room? About children, the ones God gives us; about how life would be in Parras, which was like an oasis, with such good weather; how they’d go on excursions in the outlying areas, in the pickup, what else, for he had bought a very good one, and they even talked about politics, that all politicians were a bunch of thieves, without exception; those public servants, were they helpful, once in a while, but, be careful! you should never trust them. They also touched on several trivial subjects, like fashion, like India ink, in 1948, its multiple uses, the latest craze in Sacramento, and still growing; what’s more, they spoke about local customs, how people act in one place versus another. Renata also asserted that she was a woman of action—really? but Demetrio, one day, couldn’t resist saying something like this to her:

“I don’t know if I should bring this up, but I’ve dreamed about you naked many times.”

“Me too.”

“What?”

“In many positions, as if you were posing for photographs.”

“What did you feel?”

“Look, the truth is I don’t want to talk about it. It will just confuse me. Once we get married and receive God’s blessing, then we can talk about all kinds of things related to being naked.”

The truth is, they talked about the wedding, how Demetrio would send her money for the wedding dress; how she would arrange for the bridesmaid and groomsman pairs, de lazo, de ramo, and de arras; how he would come back in April to fasten everything that needed to be fastened, to wit: fastidious formalities; but it wouldn’t be a very ostentatious wedding—would it? what for? And then came what they both dreaded: time to say good-bye. A cold good-bye indoors, in the living room. An eloquent pressing of hands, and nothing more, how awful. To also say good-bye to Doña Luisa. How polite! Everything to smooth the way, step by step. Now we’ll reveal a question Renata asked her mother on one of those days.

“Hey, Mama, why did you put our wedding off for a year?”

And the inelegant response:

“Because I want Demetrio to suffer. My goal is for him to love you even more, and to understand that a woman like you is worth a hundred of any other. Let the scoundrel pay.”